Your Own Worst Critic

“No, I can’t. I just can’t do it.” Nicholas says quickly, standing up from his chair and walking gingerly away from his desk; where a large yellow envelope containing his finished manuscript and typewriter sits. 

His room is spacious with navy colored walls. Simple white painted doors that open out to a small balcony, can be found directly behind his desk a few feet away. On the other side of the desk is his best friend and roommate, Julie Ross. She lays on his bed, which is set against one wall on the left side, as she reads a magazine. On the right side of the room is a rather large bookshelf and the door to Nicholas’ room. She looks up slightly over the top of the page she’s reading, peering at Nicholas’ jittery frame. She frowns slightly and sighs, sitting up in a quick motion and laying the magazine down behind her. 

“Nicholas, don’t do this to yourself. It’s wonderful. You’ve done millions of edits at this point, I’ve read said edits and I think… No, I know, this needs to be read.” She says firmly. 

Nicholas offers a small smile in return, but quickly closes his eyes and shakes his head slightly; as if to shake her words of affirmation away. This is it though isn’t it? Nicholas thinks to himself. He’s been waiting and working for this moment. He has been a writer since he was twelve, going on twenty-seven now. He became engrossed with the art of prose early on. With the vivid stories his parents would read to him as a child, or newspaper articles he’d slip out of his father’s bag, or the books full of creative world-building he would sit and read in his room when he should have been sleeping. 

Reading and writing gave Nicholas three special things that no one and nothing else could give him. It gave him an ear to listen, a voice, and an escape. There was something about taking a blank piece of paper and filling it with words, that seemed welcoming and safe to Nicholas. He started with poems written on scrap paper or napkins, whatever was nearest the moment a line appeared from out of the tangle of words in his head. He gradually moved on to composition notebooks filled with smudged black ink and cross-outs in the form of short stories. 

“What if it’s not good? What if no one likes it?” Nicholas whispers, walking toward his bed and sliding down to sit against the side of it. Julie moves toward him, laying on her stomach and running her hand through his hair. 

“Nick, stop it. You’ve been working for this. All those years of reading, prompts, of classes, of writing and rewriting. Submitting your poems and stories. Getting accepted, getting rejected. Of reading and more writing. You’ve spent so many years building this world, these characters. This one story that means something. Don’t be selfish with it now, share it. Send it out Nick, someone will want it. I know it.” Julie says with conviction and warmth. 

Nicholas lets out a long breath, he leans into Julie’s hand and closes his eyes. His thoughts drift to his book, he imagines his favorite scenes and a light smile comes to his lips. Then his thoughts drift to the countless rejection emails or letters to his poetry, short stories or article pitches. He frowns and shakes his head, a sign for Julie to remove her hand now. She sits up on her elbows looking toward the balcony door, noticing droplets of rain on the glass.

“They won’t like it. All this time, and they’ll probably just think it’s stupid or something. I’ll just get rejected again.” He says into his lap. He can’t help but think of all the “Thank you for considering us when sharing your submission but... however... unfortunately..."

“Rejection is a part of writing Nick, you knew this when you started. It makes you better. It makes you want it that much more. You know all the best stories now, were rejected a bunch of times at first. Lord of the flies, Carrie, I mean Nick, Harry Potter was rejected twelve times! And you’re in love with that story. So many people are. Who would you be without them? What if she stopped going for it?” 

“She can write.” Nicholas mumbles.

“Yes. And so can you. Don’t be coy.”

Nicholas rolls his eyes but gets up to walk back toward his desk. He walks around the side of it and sits down, the yellow of the envelope glaring like a light being flashed in his eyes. He picks it up, measuring the weight of it in both hands. Heavy, at close to four hundred pages he knows they are an almost pristine white, not a crease or bent corner in sight. Black ink has settled into the pages, pages full of words and heart and creativity. 

“I just put so much of myself into this one. I really took the time and I loved it. I do, I love the story. I love the characters. My story and characters. It’s taken me so long to get here, to become this writer. I never thought I’d be able to write my own story Jules. To create my own magical world, develop characters that you laugh and cry with. That you get angry at. But… What if it’s not enough? All these years, what if… Jules, what if I actually haven’t progressed at all? What if my work is mediocre?” He says slowly, almost as if for the first time the words are being dragged out of him against his will. He places the envelope back on the desk, gently laying both hands on top of it. Silently relishing in its bulk.

Julie gets up from the bed and walks over to Nicholas. She walks around the side of desk, mimicking his earlier moves. Once near him, she leans against the desk. He hesitates to look up at her but when he does, he finds a soft smile waiting to greet his eyes. 

“These are your words Nick. How could they ever be mediocre? It’s natural to be scared. Natural to worry. This is a piece of you, and sharing pieces of oneself should not be considered lightly. But this, it’s an amazing story Nick. I love the characters. I’ve cried with them. I’ve lost and loved with them.” Julie stops speaking for a moment, looking down at his typewriter. The one she's seen him pour himself over night after night after night. The one she places tea next to and snacks when he’s too into his writing to get up for something to eat. 

“Nick, I’ve watched them grow from notes of quickly scribbled chicken scratch because you were afraid your hand couldn’t write as fast as your brain was churning out ideas; and you didn’t want to lose it all," She looks him in the eye to let him know she's telling the truth, “To amazingly fleshed out complex characters. And when this gets picked up, you’ll write your series, ah ah don’t interrupt me.” Julie laughs, lifting her hand to silence Nick once she sees him open his mouth to disagree. He glares at her and she laughs. She decides not to speak for a moment. Trying to find the right thing to say.

After a moment she grabs his attention and keeps his eye level with hers, “You have so much to say. And these characters, this story, they do too. This is it. It’s what you’ve been looking for. You’ve written amazing dialogue Nick, your characters are really saying something, even if the world is fictional. You’ve gotten so much better with description too.” 

Nick nods his head, not breaking eye contact with Julie. After a moment though her eyes move to his hands resting on top of the envelope, almost protectively and affectionately. She lays a hand on top of his as well. He relaxes into his seat, a moment later his hands slip from the desk and he places them on both sides of the chair handles. Julie keeps her eyes down, lightly tracing her hand along the publishing address Nicholas has written in clear neat ink. 

“Send it Nick, just do it. What’s one more rejection? It means another no, but it doesn’t mean never.”

“What’s one more rejection?” bounces around Nicholas’ head in large dark letters, the question stamped on images of his previous letters of rejection like a watermark. It's nothing, because I love writing. But it sure is a drag he thinks to himself. He shakes his head, and remembers the few pieces of poetry he has gotten published. Or that one short story that was accepted into the Young Writers Anthology when he was twenty-four. 

“What is one more rejection?” Nicholas muses with a nod and Julie smirks. Placing her hand on his shoulder and squeezing, before walking back toward his bed to grab her magazine and her bag.

“Let’s go mail it now, then we’ll grab something to eat.” She offers.

Nicholas doesn’t move at first, Julie pretends not to notice, worried he’s changed his mind again. She moves toward the door and opens it, hearing Nicholas get up and scrape the envelope against the desk as he lifts it up along with himself. He walks toward her with the manuscript tucked under his arm like a football. 

After they leave their apartment building, they walk down the block to their local post office. Nicholas enjoys the wet glistening trees along the sidewalk, its recently rained and the clouds are slowly parting. A short line with three people awaits them once they arrive. Nicholas looks down at the envelope in his hand while they wait. Julie squeezes his free hand and pulls him along as the line moves. He resists a bit but moves with her.

All too soon, Nicholas and Julie are up next. He doesn’t make a move to set the envelope down, so Julie places her hand lightly on it and tugs. Nicholas loosens his grip slightly and it falls into her waiting hands. She hands it to the clerk who adds some stamps and gives Julie a receipt. She pays before Nicholas can pull his wallet out, grabbing his hand to quickly leave the office.

Once outside, Nicholas breathes in deeply and is delighted to the smell of nature after it rains. He looks up at the branches of the trees outside the post office. He smiles slightly, noticing how the slight breeze makes the leaves look like they’re dancing just a little.

“I think they’re dancing, maybe that’s a good sign.” Nicholas muses to himself. Julie looks over questioningly, but shrugs her shoulders and pulls him to walk toward their favorite Italian restaurant a few blocks away.

Though “What’s another rejection?” hasn’t stopped bouncing around Nicholas’ mind. Where it goes in like a taunt, now it comes out like a challenge.