Zero Confidence (None, Nil, Nada, Zip)

I wrote this piece about three years ago. The only thing that has changed is that now I am forcing myself to stare down the beasts of self-doubt, insecurity, low or no esteem as I pursue dreams in the world, not just in my head. In part, because my son and my husband are my best, most persistent cheerleaders, pushing me to follow my passions at this not-too-late stage of my life, as I have always encouraged them (and still do). So much easier to support their dreams than follow my own...but I am trying. :-)

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So, I went to this writing class Friday night. They call it a Write in. They give you a topic and you get 15 minutes to wax poetic. Then you can read your story or not and the others tell you what you did well. No negative criticism allowed. It’s a feel good fest that is topped off with a social in the middle of the two hour class at which time you can drink bad wine, with delicious cookies and rice crispy treats (or healthy vegetables if you prefer) and talk to people you don’t know about things you don’t care about in an effort, perhaps, to feel some connection to the world you don’t necessarily feel on a daily basis. Or to get an idea for your next story.

I am not very social. I find it physically painful as I grow older to actually have to make small talk with people I don’t know. I think I had so many instances of being excluded over the years – childhood through adulthood – I kind of went some place I couldn’t be hurt. Inside. I don’t get out much.

But I like to write and I haven’t written in a while, and I got an e-mail about this Write in. I had taken a class years ago, Just Write, where we would get various topics each class and write about them in 8-11 minutes depending on the teacher’s mood. I loved that class. I found out I was funny there. And in pain. I stopped going.

So, I went to this class Friday night. The first topic was The Skinny. I wrote for the full 15 minutes and was pretty pleased with my story. “So, what’s the skinny on the new dude?” was my first line. I loved it. I thought I have a hook, there was some back story, there was a twist. And then the guy next to me read his story. I laughed hysterically at the images he painted with his words, the character I could see in the few lines he’d written, and turned my story over.

I remembered the other reason I stopped going to the writing class: there are so many good writers out there. Like actors and athletes…in addition to talent and good connections, being a writer requires a thick skin and confidence. I lack both.

Then the second woman read her story. The Skinny Bitch. Even the way she read it was hysterical. I laughed and confirmed that I would not be reading that night. Her story was chock full of “what the fuck” and things I could never say out loud never mind in a story, but it was real and made us all laugh. Although I did physically flinch the first few times it was said.

I just can’t do that. It’s not me. I was even inclined to write f*** instead of the word as I described the story…but to be true to The Skinny Bitch, I had to suck it up and say it. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Wow. That was liberating.

And then there was the penis story. OMG. Yes, the penis story. It was double over, hold your stomach, I can’t breathe for laughing so hard funny. Absurd yet believable, with insights from an adolescent protagonist that rang true and real. But when the penis story got to penis, I buried my head in my arms. Fuck and penis in the same class? What the h***?