I went to a workshop on memoir writing today run by a nationally known memoir writer.
During the morning break, I went to the hotel lobby to grab a cup of coffee. The woman running the workshop was there and started a conversation with me.
Her: Sounds like you’ve done a lot of work.
This is where I should cut my losses. I am a terrible conversationalist. But I felt compelled to continue.
Me: I find that the more that I write, the quieter my inner critic becomes.
Her: Really? Well, that’s good to hear.
This is where I should grab my coffee and run, Forest, run. I’ve hit my limit. I’m 15 words into this conversation, and I need to stop. Nothing good can come from me continuing to open my mouth.
Me: Because I pretty much think that everything that I write is brilliant.
Whaaaaat? Where did that even come from? I certainly don’t think my writing is brilliant — amusing and thoughtful at times — but not brilliant. I think I meant it to come out in a sarcastic manner, but even I don’t know and I’m the one who said it.
I don’t hear her response. I’m too busy stumbling over the hurdles in my head left behind by my stupid, stupid words.
In the end, this is why I write.