I just submitted a new piece for a creative writing workshop class. It’s bad. I’ll work on something for days and this piece specifically it was weeks, but now that it’s out of my hands I feel embarrassed about it. It’s a nonfiction piece about not letting your surroundings define who you are, but as I read it now, the piece is just a bunch of vague comparisons. Ever since I’ve read Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, the fact that my workplace puts Andy on my name tags instead of Andrew has always irked me. I compared this to a moment in my life where I was using an extra copy of short story to light a wood stove at my parents house, and at the top I saw my full name on the story. I want to do something with it, but this anxiety is killing me. I just wish I could go back in time and take out all the details about me eating too much, and how awesome my sister’s cat is. As cool as those things are to write about, they didn’t really help the focus.
Right now I’m reading Thorton Wilder’s Heaven’s My Destination. It’s about this character George Brush who lives a devoutly faithful life, and unfortunately is surrounded by a world of sin. It’s only over a hundred pages, but definitely a good read.
Stage Fright 