Writing Group week 2: Return of the emotional mess

I was feeling pretty good as I drove down to writers group. I remembered how the first time I do a new thing, like a new school schedule, it always knocks me flat. But the second day is always better. This was my second writers group, so I walked in expecting to feel more comfortable. I did.

The critique of my submission was first. Every comment was encouraging. Even the comments that were telling me about problems still made me feel good about my skill as a writer. I was talking and interacting and having a chance to discuss my story with people who liked it. I was relaxed and having fun. Unfortunately, one of the other things I was doing was arguing with the critiquers about what they were saying. The point of submitting for critique is to listen, not to try to convince everyone else that I’m right. I don’t think I was bad or blatant about it, but I was definitely arguing. This issue is a hot-button for one of the other writers. He finished his critique by pointing out what I was doing and how it made the people critiquing feel. (Should note that he later apologized for saying this in front of everyone else. In fact, he apologized twice.)

I wanted to crawl into a hole. I’d though I was doing well. But suddenly I knew I’d been breaking one of the unwritten rules of a writer’s group. It wasn’t my fault. It is a common newbie mistake to make, but I began second guessing everything I had said and done for the whole evening, trying to figure out if I’d done anything else wrong. To my alarm, my eyes began to water. The last thing I wanted to do was cry in front of my writer’s group. If arguing is a newbie mistake, then bursting into tears is definitely one as well. I tried to bottle up the emotion to deal with later. I tried to focus on the task at hand. It didn’t work. My eyes kept leaking. So then I did the classic hide-behind-the-hair technique that is one of the benefits of having long hair. That didn’t improve things much either. I was crying and I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t. It only took me a few minutes to realize that I’d definitely passed the threshold where no one else noticed. It is hard not to notice when someone four feet away from you is hiding behind their hair, sniffling, and wiping her eyes. I fled to the bathroom.

Mortified is a good word to use here because it implies that the embarrassment is so severe that one wants to die. I mean the word has “mort” right there in it. I didn’t want to die, but the veneer of being a stable, capable, professional writer had surely shattered and died. I might be able to pick up the pieces and glue it back together, but it would take days. I did not want to go back out into that room. I wanted to go home and curl up into a tiny ball. But if I went home I knew that putting myself back together would take much longer. This was a get-right-back-on-the-horse situation. Also I was certain that the other people in the group were feeling variously uncomfortable knowing that I was hiding in the bathroom crying. They kept going and critiquing. I could hear their voices in the other room. I was so glad they kept going, that my little outburst wasn’t derailing the event for everyone. Besides, in order to go home I’d have to go to the room with all the people in it to get my car keys.

One way or another, I was going to have to face everyone. I splashed cold water on my face. Seeing my own face in the mirror made me want to hide a little longer. Why is evidence of crying so hard to hide? Red-eyed or not, I had to get back out there. So I did. And it was fine. I think I contributed some useful commentary. I didn’t do any more crying. But I did continue to second guess every word that came out of my mouth. It was this little cycle of needing to contribute, then speaking. Then wondering if I’d said something wrong or if my joke would be taken the wrong way and retreating into silence. I wanted to make jokes and break the tension I was feeling, but humor is sharp. So often it requires someone to bleed so that everyone can laugh. I did not want to make anyone else feel bad or hurt. I did make a couple of jokes and then worried that they’d been too sharp. Sometimes other people made jokes and the room filled with laughter. That made me feel glad and more comfortable.

When the critique time is over, the group sits around and just talks for awhile. I knew I had to say something. Trying to pretend that I hadn’t broken down would not help me figure out why it happened and how not to do it again. Besides, my break down was an elephant in the room. I was the only one who would dare to mention it, but I suspected that everyone would feel better if the elephant was discussed openly. I knew I would. So I started by apologizing for making everyone uncomfortable. We then had a good discussion about the purpose of critique groups and accepting and giving critiques. There was lots of good information there which I hope I’ve now absorbed.

Then it was time to go home. I finally got to curl up in a ball and cry. I cried for embarrassment. I cried because I’d been weak in public. Surely I’m old enough now to not need to flee to a bathroom and cry. I cried because I felt like an idiot. I cried because it was stupid for me to be so upset over such a small incident. There were other things too. Lots of little things that I apparently had to cry over separately. Fortunately I have Howard. He makes things better.

I’m going back to the Writer’s Group next week. I’m not convinced that a writer’s group is the right choice for me. I never have been. But I can’t tell whether that opinion is just my fear speaking, or if it is actually logical. The only way for me to find out is to keep going to a writer’s group until it is like comfortable old clothes. Then I can decide on the value of the clothes to me. I could not find a better writer’s group than this one. I would be an idiot to give it up. I will get comfortable eventually. Once I do, I don’t think I’ll want to leave anymore. The only way to get there is to take the next step. So I take a big breath and keep walking. Even when I want to curl into a ball.