In November of 2023, a short story I wrote was accepted for the 2024 Sigma Tau Delta Centennial Convention. My piece was to be read aloud at a panel at the convention in April, followed by a Q&A session about my work.
My story was about a modern-day siren who eats people, and I was slated to read on a panel dedicated to the themes of folklore, deception, and realism. I felt like an idiot for having this story to share. The other people from my chapter had poetry and prose about friendship and loss. I wondered if I wouldn’t be taken seriously, if this was the sort of work at the convention.
This then spiraled into a greater insecurity surrounding my writing as a whole. I always freak out whenever it is my day to present in my workshop class. I always walk in thinking that this is the instant that everyone else realizes I’m a freak or a fraud. My hands shake, my voice wavers, and my heartbeat races. I read my pieces quickly, with a small voice, the crushing feeling in my chest telling me that my writing, one of the things I attach my identity to, is awful. That everyone in the room hates it.
I thought this convention was going to feel the same way. I read my piece to myself and to my parents. My parents liked it, but I found myself explaining away their praise by concluding that they’re biased due to being my parents.
When these feelings started to ebb,I read my story aloud in the hotel room with two of the people from my chapter.
They loved it. I was shocked. Both of their works were more grounded and serious than mine. If they had liked it, I started to wonder if the people at the convention, who chose to attend my panel, would like it, too.
The day of my reading arrived. I spent the first half of the day listening to other writers read their works and answer questions. It was amazing to see other student writers with such unique voices and well-written pieces. It made me nervous to present my own work, but it also, strangely enough, started to boost my confidence. I felt reassured. The usual frenetic shakiness I feel whenever I present work began to slowly ebb away. It was replaced by a burgeoning confidence, which steadied my hands, and bolstered my voice. I was…getting excited to read my work aloud. I began to think people might actually feel a similar appreciation toward my work.
When it was time for my panel, I was terrified. I was slated to read second, and the girl who read first had a very wonderful story, also about a siren, but a more traditional sort of siren story. She also read it very well.
My turn to read came before I knew it. I then thought that it’d serve me to throw every thought in my head out the window. All except for the memories of the people from my chapter, and my parents, telling me how much they liked my story, and the initial feeling of elation that came with seeing my work accepted for the convention at all. It was proof, after all, that I had a place among all the wonderful writers I’d already listened to.
The presentation went well. I didn’t mess up at all. I read slowly but surely, and people clapped. When the panel asked questions, they told me how much they appreciated the narrative voice I used for the piece, citing the chilling coldness of my siren as compelling. It was nice to hear, since I’d been worried the siren wouldn’t hold up as a serious, grounded threat due to its mythological nature. liked my story. When I explained my inspiration, that I like to see real-life dilemmas and events through a lens of fantasy, people were receptive. They didn’t think of me as someone not serious enough to be beside my peers, and it validating. There was even a question dedicated to the whole panel about how everyone read so well and if we had any training for it. Every other kid on the panel had theatre experience. I just found some last minute confidence t.
Or had I?
The rush of confidence I had in the reading, and during the questioning felt like the result of a realization long-time coming. Whenever I complete a workshop (after pacing outside the classroom before worrying that everyone’s going to think I’m a disgrace to the creative writing major), people always tell me how much they love my writing. After two years of various writing classes, it never sank in. Now, however, I finally got it. This experience really showed me something I could’ve and should’ve learned in my workshop classes.
It’s a wonderful thing to share your work. To hear feedback, yes, but to hear people say they like your work. To get questions from people who are so invested in your work and want to know more about your thoughts, your inspirations. There’s nothing like the feeling of knowing that you’re good at something you love.
