Page 77 of Loathing My Boss
But then the workshop starts when Crisis says: “Can…I go first?”
Chapter 28
?
Vulnerability sucks.
Crisis
My heart lives in my throat now. It’s a terrible experience, but I’m learning to deal with the thunder it creates in my ears. I don’t know what compares to the feeling of multiple eyes on my writing while I sit beside someone who I know will have nothing good to say about it.
I’ve never opened myself up to judgment like this before. Not intentionally. Of course, I’ve gotten unsolicited comments tons of times, but willingly putting myself out for slaughter?
That is new.
Every time a pen moves, I want to vomit, so I’m maintaining a dedicated interest in my hands, tangled together on my lap. The moment my mind wanders, I’m done for.
Yet curiosity nags.
So my eyes flick toward Viktor.
My sample work rests before him, untouched.
The top of my head burns.
Dragging my attention up, I find his eyes—wide, stunned, fixed on me, blazing with a dozen questions he can’t ask in front of everyone.
I glance at my pages, then look back at him.
His throat bobs, but he clicks his red pen open, adjusts his reading glasses on his nose, and pours his focus into the double-spaced lines.
When his hand moves, my chest tightens.
A mark. The first of many, no doubt.
Except, it’s a…check?
The first thing he noticed was somethinggood?
Heart rate picking up, I stare, hanging on his every motion. Another mark. Another check.
Is he only picking out good things because he’s trying to woo me? I’ll lose all respect for him if that’s the case. I can’t trust a man who gives that sort of special treatment only to the people he’s attracted to. Respect and honesty are for everyone—even if that honesty is harsh. Curbing his critique now would mean heknowshe’s being cruel when he doesn’t soften the blow.
If my work from ten years ago before he met my childbearing hips was garbage and now suddenly it’sno notes, I’ll know every nice thing he’s said is a lie.
He circles a paragraph. Writes:Transition? Check pacing.
I bite my lip.
He underlines a sentence. Writes:Excessive description.
Given that I saw what happened to the other pages he critiqued last week, I’m counting the number of markings on mine as a major success by the time he’s reached the end. In the white space below the final paragraph he writes:Why didn’t you tell me you were a writer?
Because.
I’m not.
I gave up on doing anything with my writing ten years ago, in the face of a few simple, professionally dismissingparagraphs.
