I'm Unsure About This One

Because writers might on occasion grapple with insecurities, Alex J Cavanaugh started an Insecure Writer's Support Group for bloggers. We’ll post monthly, exposing our insecurities and/or offering support. Check out his link to join the group (sit by me, please!) and/or to visit others’ posts. It’s popular already, with many exceptional writers and authors. My first insecurity piece follows. 

Interruption, Special Report: I went over to Just The Cheese for an interview today. I think I embarrassed him and myself. It was fun. I hope you go pay him a visit.

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Blood surges erratically between every two points of my insides. My heart pounds with the ferocity of Conan. Drenched in anxious sweat, I attempt to breathe. But the walls are closing in on me. We’re all sitting in a stupid circle. Cold faces stare me down like I don’t belong here or anywhere, for that matter. God, I hate support groups!

Alex, our competent facilitator, says it’s time to introduce ourselves.  Crap! I have to talk? Inhaling, I try to remember my name.

“I’m Fluke Insecurity,” boasts the smarmy rude-ass to my right. “I relish in telling Robyn her every writing success is a fluke and won’t ever happen again.” He peers at me with haughtiness. 

“Her two small publications, ha!  Fifteen years apart. We’re talking a decade and a half. Don’t quit your day job, girlfriend. It hasn’t happened since and won’t happen again, at least not for another 15 years. The last publisher said she liked Robyn’s writing so much she waved the submission requirements. Yeah, right. The girl didn’t fully research the publication or send a query letter because – get this!—she hadn’t heard of such a thing. It was a mere act of pity, a fluke of the worst kind. And her acceptance to write for a reputable national website? Fluke! They just needed more writers in Chico, that’s all. It’s a small town. And her over 400 blog followers? A fluke. All of them, flukes, just there for the return follow.”

I’m boiling with rage and can’t hold it in any longer. “Well fluke you!” I get up and reach over to choke his smarmy-ass neck. Alex calmly intervenes and I begrudgingly sit back down, still fuming .

“As you can see, I’m much needed here,” the next jerk chimes in. “I’m ‘I Don’t Know What The Hell I’m Doing’ Insecurity. Check her out. I mean, her grunge attire and explosive temper aside, she hasn’t a clue. She writes short pieces. So what? Robyn has no idea how to write a full story, find an editor, deal with the cover and illustrations, get some CNN or ESPN number or something.”

He faces me to emphasize his point. “It’s not the same as a little blog post, lady.  Give it up. You don’t know what the hell you’re doing!”

“I’ve had enough!” I roll up my sleeves and prepare to kick some – Alex stands up and offers a hand, full of Valium.  The effects are immediate and I begin chanting “Let There Be Peace on Earth.” Soon all of my insecurities are humming along.

The last bastard breaks the mood. “I’m Page Fright. Robyn named me. She hates me. The feelings are mutual. I love getting between her and the page or computer screen at important moments, like when she decides to write an article about sex and relationships (personal things that embarrass her). I really have fun then.  Sometimes, she considers sending her work out, and I’m right in her face then too. It’s a blast. That’s all I have to say. Your turn, lady.”

Alex gives me a nod.

Peace warming my heart, I introduce myself. “Hello everyone. I’m Robyn.” 

The bastards stop humming to respond: “Hi Robyn.”

“My birth name is my pen name, Robyn Alana Engel. I’m a writer. Thank you. Can I go now?”