christinas-world-c1948Growing up in my family, the biggest insult by far was:  What are you?  A crybaby?

I spent last week organizing my head around a possible story, jotting notes and possible scenes on long yellow paper and tiny torn white scraps, thinking about a structure, the questions that need answering, trying to find the story in the situation.  If there was a story.  I spent this weekend, from 5 am both days, splicing it all together, digging a story out of the scraps.  And since I had writing group today, I spent this morning reading it out loud to myself, to see if it made a lick of sense.

And then I cried.  Whoa.  Where in the hell did that come from?

I kept reading.  Got control of myself.  What are you?  A crybaby?

And then I went to my writing group and, in a room of all men except for me, I read my story — for their critique — and could hardly finish.  Three pages from the end my hands stared shaking and I had to lay the papers on my lap for control; two pages and my voice started shaking, the words gone blurry, choked; the last, long paragraph was — and I am not even remotely exaggerating here — barely audible.

Oy.

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When was the last time you wrote something — or read something — that made you cry?

 

 

 

 

 

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