Exposed

I froze, paralyzed by the sound of pens scribbling furiously across paper.  It wasn't just any paper that was getting inked, it was the story I'd submitted for critique to my new writing group.

My thoughts flashed back to my senior year of high school, when I'd just given an oral presentation and my classmates were writing their assessment.  Our teacher, while preparing us for the assignment, had suggested the presenter picture the audience in their underwear. After all, how intimidating could someone be if they were wearing only their underwear?  What Miss Senaga had failed to mention was that strategy may work when you're the one presenting, but when it comes to the critique, you're the one sitting in your underwear.  I survived that day, but vowed I'd never willingly put myself in such a vulnerable situation again.  And yet, here I sat, exposed and intimidated.   

I glanced around the table.  Everyone's heads were down, focused on my story.   

What was I doing here anyway?  All of these women had a postgraduate college degree. Most of them were educators.  When these word masters talked about the prose style of literary giants and used descriptors like anaphora, juxtaposition, and allegorical, I sat quietly.  Unlike these women, I'd entered the full-time workforce immediately following high school graduation.  Since I hadn't gone to college, I didn't speak the language of literature and hadn't been formally schooled in English Composition. The only thing I knew was I loved to write—I felt called to write.

The seconds were slowly counting down on the timer.

Several of the women in the group are longtime friends.  We'd walked through difficult valleys together, tearfully prayed with one another, and shared each other's burdens and joy.  So, why were my palms sweaty?  Why was I feeling so…less than?

I thought about some of the women I'd encountered during my 41 years in the workplace.  The women whose only goal had been to climb the management ladder and be in charge. The women who didn't hesitate to step all over you to get to the next rung.  Who threw you under the bus to get you out of their way.  Who withheld information so you'd look foolish.  Who continually blew out your candle so theirs would shine brighter.

I stole another glance at my fellow writers.  They weren't here to flaunt their superior knowledge and precise writing skills, or to be better-than, they were here to hone their craft.

I glanced at the clock.  Soon, the oral critique would begin. I struggle to breathe.

It wasn't them. It was me. Me and my childhood insecurities. Insecurities I'd battled my entire life.  A battle that is best described as a perpetual game of Whack-A-Mole, where I wildly swing my mallet, desperately attempting to beat down the taunting not-enoughs that rear their ugly heads.      

I fidgeted.

These were amazingly gifted women, but none of them had stood in the midst of the hundreds of file cabinets in the FBI's headquarters, reviewing classified files as part of an investigation.  They hadn't planned naval changes-of-command or prepared for high-ranking dignitary visits. They hadn't written naval directives, internal processes, or contractual statements of work.  They hadn't hooked a hose up to a hydrant on a fire scene. They hadn't climbed into a crumbled vehicle on the interstate in the middle of a thunderstorm. Nor had they done CPR in the back of ambulance on a sweltering summer night.

I wasn't less than, I was different than.   

The timer went off and I swallowed hard. 

Even though I knew the feedback would be constructive and seasoned with grace, it was the moment of truth. The words I'd spent hours writing were about to be judged. My words aren't just black text on white paper, every character is an outpouring of my most inward thoughts and deepest feelings.  And, at that moment, I felt naked.    

No one at the table knew I'd stopped believing in my story.  No one was aware I'd lost my passion—my fire.

The evaluation began, and within ten seconds, I realized I'd been anxious for no reason. Every comment was insightful and encouraging.  Every suggestion was helpful.  Relieved, I exhaled.

As I was driving home from the gathering, I realized something significant had happened around that table. I had willingly put my naked self out there—and now I was clothed in hope.      

The women in this group?  They aren't just wise and experienced word weavers, they're candle-lighters.  In a matter of minutes, they'd relit my burned-out candle and rekindled my passion. They inspire me. They believe in me. They believe in my story.

And now I, too, believe I have a story worth writing.

So encourage each other and build each other up, just as you are already doing.                                  - 1 Thessalonians 5:11