Waiting

Waiting for feedback on a manuscript is not sexy.

I masturbate, as always but it is habit. It is just to pass the time. I am distracted from the act and I am irritated by the men and the women who are starring in porn. I cannot settle with them. I see their fakeness, their lack of performance skill in so many ways. Is my work like that? I wonder. So fake? So clumsy.

A busdriver mounts the curb when turning a corner and the bus thuds down onto the road and I wonder if my writing style is this clumsy. I wonder if a reader ever thumps down into the text of my book, suddenly aware of the driver taking an inellegant turn.

I read an awkward book and I know that I am awkward. I read a gorgeous book and I feel inadequate. I am being watched and I know therefore that I will be found ugly. This is the problem I face. My insecurities excavated and laid bare.

"Just tell me!" I shout at the wall when no one is around, "Just tell me how much you hate it. Just tell me how clumsy I am with my work."

I want them to rip the protective bandage off quickly. I want to feel a sharp pain and then know that it is over for a while. My own failings are glaring and sharp as an open wound. I am not the best writer that I could be. I am not even an adequate writer.

I just want you to tell me now so that I can have more time to heal later. I have no patience for the waiting.