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