Scary sharing

Gary's a writer. A real writer. Has been since before I first met him when we were not long out of university. Just look at his profile and you can see he's written - and written across genres too; poetry, non-fiction, biography, fiction – during all those years.


Me, I'm a pretend writer. Or that's what it feels like. Three and half solo novels plus two thirds of a collaborative novel do not a writer make. Not in my eyes anyway.


When will I be a real writer? When I've published something, obv. Validation by publication. The sensible, objective, adult voice in my head rejects this (as well it might). Gary hasn't published anything (very nearly, but not quite) and he's a real writer, so why aren't I? Because the sensible, objective, adult voice in my head is a lot quieter than the scaredy-cat voice that clamours 'Fraud! Imposter! Fake!'.


I'm pretty certain I'm not the only one. Three friends and I meet occasionally to sit in the same room, write, and then take turns to read our work aloud. It’s bloody terrifying. So terrifying that, when the time comes for her stuff to be read, the normally fearless Dr F sits with her face buried in a cushion occasionally emitting a tiny moan. So terrifying that our little group is called ‘Eek’ – because ‘eeeeeeeeeeeek’ is the overriding feeling in the room.


It's not that we're horrid to each other. Oh my goodness, no. In fact, we're almost sick-makingly positive when giving feedback about each others work. For my part, I don't want to give bald feedback in case my mates think I'm criticising them, instead of commenting on their writing. I think it's because I can't separate my writing from flabby, needy me. I don't have this issue with work. I can take any amount of comment, feedback, even downright negative criticism when I'm there. I can apply, improve and then move on without a backward glance. It’s only work, after all, I’m not emotionally invested.