A Writer In Relative Paradise | Part Two


At the end of the Writers In Paradise sessions, everyone got a chance to present a refined version of their submitted work, or a new story they were working on.

Everyone got five minutes. No critiquing. Just listening.

I was determined to write something that'd hook a reader and leave the room breathless.

I was so angry and so confident. Cocky? 


For all I knew in that moment, it was going to be the very last story I'd ever write.

I was damned sure it was going to kill or be killed.

When my turn came up, the enormity of what was actually happening took effect.

(Of course. It's always right before you have to stand up in front of a bunch of strangers and present something you reviewed once because you were afraid your obsessive compulsive approach would ruin it if you looked at it any longer beforehand.)

The podium was simply a flat wooden surface attached to a stick-like piece of wood, supported by a rickety wooden base.

It looked like something I would've made in high school shop class. Something you hurriedly get through at the last minute to avoid failing, but just enough of a submission to pass.

Hardly anything viable to hide behind, that's for sure.

I put my four printed, numbered, one-sided and double-spaced pages up on the podium. The podium to shift slightly.

Oh boy, I thought.

"Hi everyone," shakily crept from my lips. "I'm Sara Eatherton and I'm going to read the first mini-chapter of a piece I'm working on."

Quiet. A few smiles peeked from the crowd. I don't know if I expected some A.A.-like, "Hi, Sara" or what. But the silence was deafening. 

...to be continued...

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I'm Sara. Mompreneur of 3, wife to super-awesome Brian, business coach, infopreneur and printable product creator.