Peering through my fingertips.

I have every intention of writing something of substance on here at some point. Well-crafted texts don't just pour out of me like a faucet, though. It takes time and great care to bring them forth. I currently have neither an abundance of time, nor the energy to intensely care, thus that point is not right now.

Right now I'm just a little bit happy, and I also feel like shaking my head at myself a little bit.

From my experience, writers can be rather fragile people. (I think I'm not the only one, right?) As my job description right now says that most of what I'm required to do is write, I offer myself up to be broken and pummeled quite often. Sometimes I do it with a straight face and stern gaze, daring anyone to challenge me and win. Other times I hide my face in my hands, and only take them away long enough to barely push my work out there, then swiftly put them over my face again, bracing myself for an attack that I know is going to break me.

And sometimes I do a mixture of both. In fact, I'm quite often a vision of both Jekyll and Hyde simultaneously.

Recently I've been living with my hands over my face. A while ago, in my 19th Century American Lit class, we turned in our first papers. The Tuesday before spring break, which would be approximately a week and a half ago now, those papers were returned to us. I love my professor in that class. But I knew she was going to grade firmly and comment about every sentence I wrote. I couldn't handle it. As soon as I got the paper, I put it in my bag, and postponed looking at it.

The rest of the week flew by. Spring break began and I bolted out of town. After six days, I came back home, and I remembered that paper sitting in my notebook. It wasn't imperative that I look at it yet. I had other work to do. And I didn't want to be distracted about her comments and my grade while I attempted to do other work. It could wait.

Until today. Just thirty minutes ago. I said, "Okay, enough Emily. Just do it. Get it over with. If you need to rewrite it, you need to know that sooner rather than later, and not put it off until the night before it's due, then panic because you don't know what you're going to do." A boldness arose within me, and I pulled my fingertips back from my eyes just enough to sternly gaze with one, and quiver with the other.

I began at the top of the first page, and made my way through the comments. Oh, cringe. Yeah, you're right that was awkward. Oh, hey, she liked my thesis! Yeah, that phrase was high-schooly. You're right, I was over generalizing. Yes, that was vague. Oh, she thinks that sentence was beautifully constructed! And she's using smiley faces. But yeah, those commas are off. And I quoted that incorrectly?! What happened to my intimate knowledge of MLA? I'm a senior in college, and I look like I don't know what I'm doing. Remind me to not write a paper in three hours again.

There were some delightful moments, but it was overall a grotesquely face-contorting experience. Time to flip to the back and look at my grade. I know, that I know, that I know, that she's not going to have a grade on it, but rather a big "REVISE!"

.......wait.....I made a B-??? Really? But some of my paragraphs were really watery, and I didn't tie them to my thesis well at all. And my transitions were abysmal. You dissected my paper into small pieces and found much of it lacking, how can you give me a B-?

But wait.....I made a B-.....what are you nitpicking over, and worrying about, silly girl? You should have just sucked it up and looked at it when you got it. B- or no, is the grade you make on a paper really going to affect you that much? You act like you're going to die. You're not known for drama, why are you being dramatic now? Just stop.

Like I said before, I'm kinda happy. Grades above a B- are always hoped for, of course, but this is still pretty good. And I'm kinda sheepish. Acting like it's the end of the world, and cringing at a paper worthy of a B- doesn't cast a graceful light on me at all. Oh well.