The Urgency of Writing

This week, I submitted the first three chapters of a novel-in-progress to my Writing Workshop. The basic structure of our workshop is that two writers submit each week.  (There are 12 of us, plus our professor, Nick.)  The other students are given a week to  read the pieces, evaluate them in terms of style, theme, characterization, narrative, cohesion, plausibility, clarity, etc etc....asking in the end, "Does this piece work?  And if not, what can the author do to "fix" it?" 

Each of us are asked to put our thoughts to paper.... writing up a response to the author (one-page minimum) that includes the good and the bad.  Responses should be well-balanced and tactful, highlighting the strengths of the piece, but focusing on potential areas of improvement. 

(In more novice workshops, people have a tendency to just blow smoke up each others bums in fear of hurting feelings or looking like an a-hole, but as I learned in my first MFA workshop this past Monday, this ain't your Grandma's Hug-and-Kiss workshop.)  And it shouldn't be! When the writers are skilled and the editing eyes are keen.... the comments are heavily constructive.  This is what I've been waiting for!  Having 12 readers/editors who are also extremely talented writers.... giving my humble novel all of their attention.  

"This is exciting!  I've been waiting so long and it's actually happening!  I'm so lucky!" I thought to myself. 

So toward the end of class, after discussing two awesome stories by my classmates Nawaaz and Tricia, I handed my piece out to each student.  I felt so proud!

"Thanks, Nania.  Looking forward to reading it!" one of my classmates said.

"Cool!  See you next week!"  I smiled. 

And then something happened.  After the last copy was handed out, my stomach got a little knotty, like I'd eaten too much chicken vindaloo (extra spicy).   

And, the back of my neck started to get a little itchy. Had I fallen to the bed-bug pandemic??  No way.  I follow Martha Stewart's "Rules for Tidy House and Home" to a T.  After walking over to the Thayer Street parking structure, where my car was parked, and giving my friend a lift home, my upset stomach started to turn into.... urgency.  (That's a medical term.  Bowel urgency.)  

I picked up my speed.  Jeepers (my 11 year-old Jeep) halted momentarily at she changed gears.  A thin veil of sweat arose on my forehead, nose, and chin.  "Oh, Dear.  Oh, Dear.  Nania, calm down.  You do not actually have to use the facilities.  You are just having anxiety."

I have some difficulty with anxiety, by the way.  Even when I was little, I'd wake up in the middle of the night to double and triple-check my assignment book, ensuring that I'd done everything I needed for school the next day.  

Anyway, all I'll say is... with the help of my trusty Jeepers, I pulled into my parking lot, parked, flew up the stairs to  my apartment, really tested the strength of the deadbolt on my front door, and..... I was right.  I didn't have to "go."  (I'm sorry if you're upset by the intimacy of these accounts.  Really.  The last thing I'd want to do on a lovely Wednesday morning is read about you feverishly racing to the can.)  But alas, perched upon the can, I thought to myself.  "That was weird."  

(Chronological bathroom narrative omitted).... and then I washed my hands.  

That night, I slept 2.5 hours.  "What the heck??  I AM EXHAUSTED.  Nania, GO TO SLEEP.  NOW.  GO! TO! SLEEP!"  (That never works, by the way.  Ordering yourself to sleep.  Take it from an insomniac.)

So, alas,  I wait until next Monday.... to be in the hot seat. To receive a flurry of responses in our intense 90-minute discussion, and to take those 12 response papers home and get cracking on revisions.  And yes, yes, I know.  I should not be so worked up.  I know I'm fit for this workshop and that I'm a good writer.  But I think the event of being a decent writer and letting other good writers read my writing for the first time... let's just say, I'm on house arrest for the week.  Because the "urgency" is too much to bear. 

-NL