Butterflies and The Pickup

So I posted "The Pickup" to my writer's group today. I'm actually a little proud of it because it's the SHORTEST story I've ever written. So short, in fact, it can actually be legitimately considered a Short Story, rather than a novelette masquerading as one (think: blue whale in a bikini)

Of course, even before I hit Send, the butterflies are raging up against my collarbones and kamikaze-ing themselves into my ribs. I actually had to talk myself into it. The dialogue went something like this:

The Writer: Come on, it's ready, go for it.
Me: Are you sure we shouldn't read it outloud one more time?
The Writer: SURE? Are you out of your mind? No, if we read it again I'll be out of mine, now push the button.
Me: But the ending. And the title. I don't like the title.
The Writer: You NEVER like the title. Now shut up and push the button.
Me: Don't be mean, I just want to make sure we haven't missed anything.
The Writer: What are you talking about, we ALWAYS miss something, that's what the group is for. Now quit babbling and push the goddamn button.

So that last passage officially marks me as a drama queen. He he he.

The funny thing is that submitting something new to the group revived a lot of very good yet very scary memories of writing at CW. I realize it's been almost a year since I've produced anything remotely new in the short story department. At least anything I'm willing to brave the Butterflies to let anyone else read. Rewrites don't take half the guts to submit as something entirely new.

Confession: I'm convinced I will never really get over the Butterflies. I'm convinced that the trick is to get learn to ignore, or at least turn the music up on the little buggers. I actually really like getting critted, but that period between the polish and the crit is the most nerve wracking time of my life. Every single time it happens.

Having that distinction helps. I'm not afraid of heights -- its falling that scares the shit out of me.

So it goes.