(This is not a story about the whiskey of the same name. I have a story about that, too, but it’s hardly appropriate here).
A while back, I joined a local writing group. A good friend who is aware of my writing here, but who does not share these interests, recommended me to them, and I doubt I would have joined if I didn’t feel quite so much loyalty and gratitude for him for his sponsorship.
I cannot share these writings with them, nor do I have any desire to stop writing here. While the critiques will help me grow, it comes at the expense of a double workload.
And, more than anything, I need to remember how to write normal-people things.
I didn’t think I could. Then again, I didn’t think I could write spanking stories either. I remember the struggle when I started here, tears and frustration and curses. There’s still plenty of that, but there is also faith that this is worthwhile, and plenty of feedback and encouragement and friendship.
It is difficult to start over.
It is shaking my confidence, disrupting my sleep. There is stress. There are tears, and I suspect for the same reasons I spoke of last week. I want to quit, to declare that I am not a writer.
I also want to declare I am not a spankee. It hurts, and I do not like that. I want to stand up off his lap, correct this misconception.
But I don’t. I’ve learned that the pain is just a passing thing. Unpleasant, but necessary lest the experience loses its potency.