Writing

Last week I suffered a critique during my writing class. Personally, I understand how vulnerable writing is, it exposes my mind. It is my consciousness regurgitating itself onto a page with nothing to hide behind. So, when these film and TV majors go in on my writing, it really festers. I know I make it worse by ruminating, but what am I going to do, not think about it constantly? Comments during a workshop should never be coming from a place of superiority, yes, I’m talking about you Tisch girl; you’re no Greta Gerwig. It is so treacherous to produce interesting or entertaining writing. I must scrape the bottom of the barrel of my soul in order to create something that I am proud enough to send out into the universe. My words are my babies, and I am the creature in Barbarian, hiding them from the light of day until they murder me to escape. This is not to say I am some brilliant writer. I’m incapable of writing fiction, which means everything you read here is true—and it is true—but only because I am the world’s worst liar. My face betrays me; everything I think is written in my eyes, mouth, and especially my eyebrows. And this may make my writing more “authentic”—whatever that means—but it also makes it more vulnerable to attacks. But one last thing and then I swear to god I’ll shut up about this forever, I’m really sensitive, so please don’t talk shit about my word babies.