The Second Hardest Thing

The only way I know to do something is to simply do it!

My methods haven't changed all that much from the beginning of my memory until now. Not that this method has been a necessarily good one, or fool proof one. It has gotten me into some trouble here and there, but that doesn't seem to change anything. Not really. I have come to accept it is just a basic part of my nature.

And so it is that I sent my new book's rough copy to a friend to read. Terrifying! It shouldn't be. If anyone knows me inside and out it is this person. Perhaps that is why it is so frightening. I know the critique will be honest. I wouldn't want anything else, but what if it is really bad?

Writing, even fiction, is like baring my soul for the world. Plain old editing I can deal with, typos, paragraphs, spelling. These things are marks of carelessness and I don't mind being humble, admitting I missed them. It is the content that leaves me vulnerable. This story is part of me, if it is not good enough, I need to rethink a bit chunk of who I am, what I do.

All sorts of thoughts pop up. What if I shouldn't write this kind of story? What if. What if. What if. Ultimately the only way to know, if I am gong to keep on writing like this, is to toss it out there and find out. Strangers generally don't want to read someone's manuscript and even if they do, who's to know if their response will be accurate. It has to be done by a friend and the closer the better. (Unless I had an editor!)

Now I do the second hardest thing.

I wait.