I've been trying to rewrite the memoir for a few years now. Before I knew that people would be interested in my writing, it was easy to post a chapter per day. Now every word is met with hesitation, embarrassment, vulnerability, and self-consciousness. I spent thirty years unaware that I did anything well, and I still haven't adjusted to the information.
I suppose it's not that I didn't do anything WELL, per se, rather I wasn't extraordinary. Do all of us long to be extraordinary? Do we all have a need to be special? To either have a special talent or feel special to a person?
What snaps my little turtle head back into its shell aren't necessarily the criticisms in life; people are usually very kind and supportive- of which I am overwhelmingly grateful. It's the confusion that frightens me. Life is full of mixed messages that I can't navigate. A few times, women have said that they admire the personal strength I show in my writing, then unfriended me on Facebook when I set boundaries. As far as mixed messages by men... I've learned that I can get the stalkers to leave me alone by simply dating them.
My goal is to finish the memoir while I still look like a soft-core librarian in my teal jacket so that if it does well, that can be my "look" on talk shows.