Yesterday, I was sitting at the table, working on some school assignment and struggling to get through it without a panic attack, when I decided to check my inbox. (Productive procrastination is all the rage ’round these parts.) Besides the normal junk emails, like the ones telling me that it’s not too late to apply to some college that I have no interest in going to, there was one from my father with “feedback” as the subject line. I thought, Oh dear. I don’t think that I’ve done anything that would have caused feedback. I haven’t touched anything in his recording studio in a month. Maybe it was because I messed with the speaker system in the study.
But I was wrong! (And Dad, I’ll fix the speakers. Promise.) It turns out that he sent one of my short stories, the one I posted at the beginning of the month, to a writer that he’s friends with through work (he’s a publisher), and she liked it! Here’s what she said:
For this past semester, I’ve been sitting in on an undergraduate fiction class, observing before teaching my own next year. It’s composed mostly of sophomores and juniors and I can honestly tell you that very few of them produce writing on the level of Ella’s piece. Its prose is poised and filled with thoughtfully chosen details–of both internal and external states. In other words, especially for something a seventeen-year-old produced of her own volition, it’s pretty damn good.
I’m feeling a little more confident about my writing capabilities. And confidence, for this girl, is hard to come by.