So I know I promised to write a post on critiques, but first I'm posting this. Because this is already written, and the other post is NOT (great excuse, no?). This was an in-class assignment wherein we had to write about our own personal self-doubts about writing.
I didn’t want to open the door. I had just settled into the rented cabin and I was finally ready to start writing. And yet there came Beatrice, my know-it-all big sister, down the icy dirt path, up to the thick oak door, and rapped on it with all her might.
“Let me in, Sharon!” she demanded. “It’s freezing out here!”
I sighed. No help for it. I got up from my warm cushioned chair by the fire, walked across the bare wood-paneled floor to the door and hauled it open.
Beatrice charged in at once, her waist-length blonde hair covered with a snow-frosted shawl. I shut the door behind her as she looked around.
“This looks nice and cramped,” she observed.
“What are you doing here, Bea?” I asked wearily.
“I’ll have some coffee, thanks,” she answered, walking over to my cushioned chair and sinking into it, dripping melted ice onto my blank notebook.
“You realize this little escapade is totally pointless, don’t you?” she asked, pulling off her gloves and dropping them onto the floor. “Even if you can get a lot written out here, you won’t get it published. Do you realize how hard that is? You’re still learning, after all. And if there’s no hope of getting published, what’s the point of writing?”
“For myself,” I murmured, plugging in the coffee machine and getting out two chipped mugs.
“You’re just ostracizing yourself,” Beatrice plowed on. “Writing isn’t a career. You never see your friends, you never spend time with the family—“
“That’s not true!” I exclaimed.
“Well, you don’t even have a boyfriend, your job sucks, you need to spend more time on those things before you go gallivanting off to the mountains to spend time on a hobby—“
I dropped one of the mugs. It hit the floor and broke with the satisfying sound of shattering pottery.
The sound made Beatrice pause and look. I marched over to the chair, my chair, grasped her by the elbow and hauled her to her feet.
“Sorry, I don’t have time for visitors just now,” I told her. “I believe I made that clear when I left.”
Hustling her to the door and ignoring her protests, I added, “I have a lot of work to do. See you in two weeks.”
I hauled the door open; a gust of freezing wind hit us in the face, drowning Beatrice’s angry retort. I pushed her out, slammed the door, and lowered the bolt.
I turned back to the fire, sat in my chair, and picked up my notebook.
Perfect writing conditions.