I called on myself to be brave this past weekend and took step out of my comfort zone. I asked for a favor. Now I’m feeling limp and stupid. My confidence vanished the moment my request was spoken, a wish became an action and that action has left me fraught with self conscious worry. I handed my manuscript to a very accomplished writer for critique.
I’m trying to talk sense into myself – that very accomplished writer is my very dear friend, she and I go back twenty-five years. Although we only see each other once a year our connection is rekindled in a matter of minutes every time we meet. Sometimes it feels like we share an angel. I have the confidence to share my thoughts and feelings with her, to laugh or cry in her presence, so I’m surprised to find myself so insecure right now.
The manuscript is comprised mostly of blog posts I have put out into the world for anyone to read. I was brave enough to do that. I was brave enough to revisit the rawness of those posts as I assembled the story. I was brave enough to tell my truth. And yet here I sit putting my own spin on ‘shaking in my boots’ as I await her review. This friend will be honest, this I know for sure, but she would never be hurtful (this I know for sure-er). I know the manuscript isn’t polished enough for publication as it is, this is why I’ve asked for her help. What I want is for her to see potential, I want my words to be relevant.
My manuscript was never intended to tell a tidy story of a woman surviving grief nor was it written to offer advice. Mine is a messy story. My hope when I wrote that messy story was that it might resonate with someone living their own messy story, that it might help that someone feel less alone, less weird, less guilty when all that messy-ness showed up.
The hope now is that my messy story is written well enough to take it’s next step into the world. My friend has offered to help me find out – I have to be brave enough to let her.