It’s no secret that I think I’m the best writer named Andrea Staats ever. Just ask me! I can tell you all about what a great writer I am.
Sadly, I am lacking in self-discipline, and therefore not exactly prolific. I decided to take a writing class, in the hopes that a deadline and a grade would force me to produce, and lo and behold, I have written three short stories. Three great short stories. Just ask me! I can tell you all about how charming and clever they are. And maybe if I ever finish editing them, I’ll post them here.
Except maybe I won’t, because this week, we turned in our classmate critiques, and here’s what somebody had to say about my work: “The beginnings of her narrative are executed well, but remain unimpressive.”
Unimpressive? UNIMPRESSIVE? Ouch. That one hurt.
This very harsh critic didn’t put his name on the critique, but I know exactly who it was. Everybody else put their names on the critiques, so his attempt at anonymity backfired.
I wrote nice things when I critiqued him. Here’s what I left out: I had to read your story three times because I kept falling asleep. I’d rather read the instruction manual for my toaster oven or the Burger King employee handbook. Seriously.
P.S. It was unimpressive.
There are nine other critiques that have all kinds of nice things to say about my writing, but I’m letting my feelings get hurt by one sentence. I realize that’s silly. I realize that this is not an opinion that matters, frankly. He’s not my professor. He’s not an agent or a publisher.
It still hurts my feelings. If I’m serious about writing, I need to develop thicker skin, I know. I’m off to drown my sorrows in ice cream and Judy Blume. I wonder if anybody ever told her that her writing was “unimpressive”. I don’t know, but I do know that Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great will definitely make me feel better.
