I did it. I shared my work in public.
And surprisingly, despite the sixty pint-sized people staring at me expectantly, I wasn’t even nervous. It just felt right.
The energy in the room was amazing; these children didn’t care that the book I was reading from wasn’t published. I was a writer, they trusted me. And thanks to their generous enthusiasm, I learnt to trust myself.
I’d been feeling a little jaded. This term on my MA has been tough. There have been a lot of lows, as time after time, I was forced to look at my work through the eyes of the critic. To face the harsh reality that if I want to see this book in a bookstore I need to do more.
It is pretty common for writing students to have doubts as they get further into their studies. That greater awareness of how you can improve your work is both a blessing and a curse. You have the technical knowledge to really perfect your writing, but you lose your spontaneity. You lose yourself.
Yesterday, when I shared my work with the children I had written it for, I found myself again. I heard my voice loud and clear. I also heard that this was a voice the children liked. They totally entered my world; a world I had created with words.
I am a writer.