Or so I thought.
Because this evening I sat down in the workshop I decided to sign up for thinking what the hell was I doing? The past couple weeks I have sat and listened as others shared, as we commented and took notes. And each week I counted down til this very night.
The night it would be my turn to hand out my work, to listen as people-who resembled big kids really- criticized my stuff. And believe me I was pretty sure they were going to rip it apart. It hasn't taken long to figure out if you didn't know them ahead of the class, well they weren't going to like what you had to write.
And so I entered the room, took my seat and fidgeted in it until my name was called. I read. I waited. Nervously as they digested the words written across the single sheet of paper. I waited for the words that never came. In fact, what I heard was the quite opposite. They couldn't believe the quiet one in the corner produced the work they read. I am pretty sure I just about fainted when they praised it. Amazingly so. Loved it, craved more of it. For twenty-five minutes they went on, I was not so used to anyone calling me brilliant, and poetic. Even more so when they informed me my work was one of the best of the evening. This coming from the pair of young ladies who would have slammed everyone's who piece isn't one of their own.The groups discussions regarding my piece lasted well beyond my time allowed. Flowing over even as I was walking out the door.
I do not boast much about things, but I have to admit, the compliments, the feedback? Well it felt pretty amazing.
As I was packing up, the professor turned to me and gave me one of the best compliments one could hear.
'Well Aleisha, for someone who doesn't consider themselves a poet? I hate to break it to you, you my dear a poet you are. And according to the others, a pretty good one at that.'
Perhaps I stand corrected.
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