I’m holding my breath right now. I’ve been holding it since I uploaded my long poem on Saturday for my university class to critique. I will be able to breathe again when fifteen other people (and a university professor) tell me whether or not they liked my submission.
It seems, in addition to becoming addicted to needing consequences for not writing to motivate me to write, I’m also addicted to feedback. But I have to just start writing for myself, and for the joy of it, not for feedback from classmates and obsessing about what a potential agent/publisher might think. My story longs to be told, and I want to tell it by finishing my second novel. And here, I thought my first book would be the hardest.