KEEP CALM and TRUST THYSELF

Last week, I had my first paper due for my fiction class. We had to rewrite a folk/fairy tale, and I rewrote Little Red Riding Hood. I thought my paper was good, if I do say so myself, but I'm never capable of thinking that someone else-- particularly my teacher-- will like anything I write. Especially if it's fiction. The day it was due, she had a few people read theirs to the class. Of course, the only people who volunteered were the ones who loved theirs SO much that they thought everyone else would love them too. Which meant they were all ridiculously good. But they tried to hide their confidence behind false modesty, whereas I did not volunteer to read mine because my modesty-- okay, insecurity-- was real. Anyway, none of them were all that similar to mine, so naturally I became extremely nervous that I was a failure of Titanic proportions.

When I got to fiction today, I saw what I was hoping I wouldn't see until next Monday. A stack of papers on the table in front. Clipped with one of those Clips of Doom that tells me they are graded papers, about to be handed back.

Only my teacher did not hand them back. Instead, she instructed us all to write a 10-word short story, a la Hemingway's "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Commence slightly visible panic attack, because I don't know yet if she thinks my writing is any good. Hence, I automatically assume she thinks it's bad. Which means my 10-word short story will be bad. I have no ideas. No ideas, no ideas. Writer's block. Oh, writer's block! My 10-word short story-that's-actually-8-words then becomes, "She had writer's block, and then she didn't." She made us read our stories out loud in alphabetical order, so at least I had time to decide whether I really, truly wanted these to be the words I read to the class. Unfortunately I still didn't really have a choice, because my name is smack dab in the middle of the alphabet. So I read it. People laughed (with, not at); my teacher raised her eyebrows and did that face people do when they say "interesting," and said, "interesting." In other words, it went over pretty well. I mean, it didn't win the "contest," by which I mean that nobody nominated it to win the contest, but that could just be because nobody in the class actually knew my name before today [which is another story entirely, but one centering yet again around my own insecurity].

Anyway. This vaguely approbatory reaction probably should have given me confidence but, in fact, inflicted more anxiety. My thoughts went as follows:

What if she just felt badly for giving me a horrible grade on my paper and wanted to pretend my short story was interesting to make me feel temporarily good about myself?

That girl used really awesome words in hers. God, why can I never think of awesome words when I need them? You only get 10 words; why shouldn't they be awesome?

That kid used a sentence written by someone else. Why didn't I think of that? Oh, she just disqualified him. But still, it was a great idea. I should've done that.

Mine was so lame. Lame lame lame lame lame. Okay, maybe I kind of like the idea of it, how it's circular and makes you think about the process of overcoming the writer's block by writing about writer's block, but I DIDN'T USE ANY AWESOME WORDS.

I suck. I suck I suck I suck.

And then my teacher asks for nominations for the winner and it's not me, obviously, and we move on. But the thing is, I'm still thinking about that stack of papers on the table. I am literally, physically shaking, the way some people do when they meet famous people. Why do I do this to myself? I liked my paper. I thought it was good. But here I am, unable to write clean notes because my hands are shaking with the fear that someone else didn't like it. I'm sitting cross-legged, with my feet pointed up so that the people sitting across from me in the circle (our class is always in circle formation) can't see that I'm wearing plain white socks with my moccasins. Not that they actually care about what's on my feet. But I'm trying, and my foot starts shaking because it's difficult, and then I have to shift, and this occurs like six times throughout the class, and my face is hot because the door is closed and it's probably 78 degrees in the classroom and I'm wearing pants and a long-sleeved shirt, and now I'm self-conscious because my cheeks are probably turning red and GOD WHY AM I SO INSECURE and finally, finally the class is over. She makes us sit and listen for our names to be called to get our papers back, and then physically walk up front (do my knees still work? I don't know) to take them.

Once again, my name's position in the alphabet does nothing for me. I don't have the relaxing knowledge that mine will be the last one handed back, but I don't get it back first either. So I sit and wait (does an aaaangel, contemplaaate my faaate...). I see the grade on the last paper in the stack, which she's holding in her hand, and it's an A. Ugh, now I'm going to feel even worse about myself when I get less than an A.

I don't know this little girl or own these pictures, but I was, in fact, crossing my fingers.

She calls my name and I walk up and take my paper. She barely wrote anything on the paper itself, so I'm forced to go straight to the grade. A. Along with a note thanking me for such an *interesting* version of the story and talking about how she liked the change in the main character's defining characteristic, and so on. So interesting IS good after all.

Basically, I got myself all worked up over nothing. I GOT AN A!! I AM CAPABLE OF WRITING FICTION THAT OTHER PEOPLE ACTUALLY ENJOY.

Conclusion: I should probably start trusting myself a little more and maybe stop thinking that everyone else is so much better than me at everything. If I think something I wrote is good, chances are it probably is, because I'm a pretty harsh critic. Especially-- obviously-- of myself.