Excerpts From My Life, Circa 2020

Should I?

I sit on the floor of my dorm room, phone in hand and my eyes on my phone. Nothing new. My roommates are sprawled out around me. They’re discussing something, some event or another happening in school.

I’m not interested so they’re talking over me. I’m not sure they’ve noticed that I’m so still.

Water splashes on me from somewhere to the side. I barely notice it until someone mumbles an apology. Still, I don’t move. I say nothing.

‘Are you ok?’ someone asks. I feel myself nod but my eyes never lift from my phone.

I’m facing a crisis.

My thumb hovers over the Instagram publish button.

This is no ordinary Instagram post. This is my entry into the WFH Instagram writing contest.

Should I post it?

I read over my story again, cringing at every unnatural ‘I’m’ or ‘He’s’ but the contest limit is 400 words so I bury the outrage. Short stories have never been my strong suit. I talk too much. I always have.

I read it again and again, somehow expecting the words to change. To become better, maybe even contest winning good.

But in the end, it is still my story.

My silly, mediocre story.

I sigh. And power off my phone.

The weekly contest banner was eye-catching. White and yellow with orange highlights.

Even so, I had passed over it every week for two months without thinking to try. Short stories weren’t my specialty so I was content to leave it to those that considered it theirs.

But there was something about this week’s contest that called to me. The moment I saw it, the words rushed to my finger-tips.

But I discovered as I always do, that the writing is only half of the work.

Building up the courage to share it is the truly hard part.

The inner critic, that voice that feeds on a writer’s insecurities, is a vicious thing. My own inner voice has been especially loud these past few days.

I originally intended to publish my entry anonymously on a dummy Instagram page where I have no followers. Anonymity meant no risk. If I failed, no one would know.

But the contest guidelines said to post on my personal Instagram page. 400 people will see. They will read my words and laugh. I just know they will. I can already hear them.

‘

Haha, she calls this crap writing?’

‘What the heck is she trying to say?’

‘I really don’t get this story.’

I shut my eyes, focusing on the mindless chatter around me, hoping it would drown out the voices.

No such luck.

The voices only get louder.

I don’t want this. Any of this.

Since I was eight years old, all I’ve wanted to do was write stories. Stories about kings and queens and thieves and paupers, stories that inspired and intrigued and transformed.

But this pressure. I wish I could escape it.

This fear, I wish it would it stop.

Here I am. A writer who has written a story of a wronged son that no one will ever see. No one will cry for the mother he watched be killed. No one will mourn the childhood he lost.

No one will know the extent of his vengeance.

All because I’m afraid.

I open my eyes and fix my gaze on the peeling, mould stained ceiling.

Where does the fear come from? I’m the first of my siblings. That in itself should bring with it a dose of courage.

Where is that courage now?

And when did criticism become the 7 headed demon at the gates of hades? When did the fear of it replace the childlike desire to write and tell stories?

Somehow the voices of my story people, their pleas to be heard by the world have become drowned by my desire to remain unscathed.

But battle scars are important, aren’t they?

I power up my phone and tap on the IG icon.

There the story of Rumi, the son that had lost everything, waited. His 15 years of sorrow squeezed into 400 words.

Am I a coward for not wanting to risk criticism?

Do I want to be a coward?

I run my eyes through my story once more. my thumb hovering over the publish button.

This is not about me.

This is about him. This imaginary person that I have given life. I stripped him of his father and his mother, of the life he knew. I sent him on exile for 15 years.

The least I can do is share his story.

I hit publish.

I still.

I don’t feel anything. Not the yellow carpet beneath me. Not the bustling of my roommates. Not the air moving between my lips.

There. I did it. No going back.

I’m completely and thoroughly exposed.

Slowly, feeling returns to my body. I power off my phone, sit up and then jump into discussion with roommates.

Someone says something funny and I laugh. They toss pillows at me and I run around shielding my face.

I feel…normal.

Yes, I’m exposed.

But I’ll be fine.

At least until the next time I have to publish a piece.