I already wrote this once and it hurt and then it didn't publish right so I have to do it again. The title had a story I kept on the first try but it's not worth retelling. I'm keeping the title though.
While watching the video in seminar, I saw myself in that romantic kid with the hat and white spots on his front teeth. He said, "Writing has to feel a little bit romantic; it's feeling love. It's not about making cash or getting a grade, it's for yourself." (It might have been a different kid who said that last part.) Sister Morgan then asked us who we identified with, and the air around my temples became hot and humid. I began to blink faster and roll my lips into my mouth. A light tremble shook my hand from the inside. Looking around me, Ivor and Stephanie and Brittany's faces pointed forward at Sis. Morgan and not at me. I rubbed the tip of my thumb and the crease of my fingertip together; both were wet. Fear.
Sister Morgan stopped talking. A sense of honesty swelled up in me and I half raised my hand. "I really related to the romantic guy at the end with the hat and sideburns and really white teeth. I just see writing as an art... and... it's like I'm not a painter or anything but I can create something by writing like he said about the sunset thing... and... yeah." The thought, long felt and embraced, attempted to poorly articulate itself for the first time.
"We'll come back to your comment in a minute," she said. I felt my soul’s clothing ripping from underneath my skin. Vulnerability and fear, honesty and exposition revealing itself. Emotions, giant, hiding behind my eyes and being pulled from their hiding place. It holds on by the fingertips as its arms are stretched and slowly slipping free into the naked open, like a child being pulled from a swingset.
I don't know why I was afraid. Why would I not want to finally expose the artistic nature I keep quiet and secret, more intimate than anything else about me? I trust these people as much or more than I have ever trusted anyone and I even define myself as an artist. Still, I recognized the new fear of complete and absolute exposure of my most private self and it held me painfully tight in a strong, balled-up fist.
When Sis. Morgan ended seminar, I sweat a breath of relief and composed myself. I do not remember when I shook like that, deep to my soul and farther than I thought possible. I do know, though, that an honest force pulled at that self to rip it into sight; it failed, but a time comes soon when I'll gather the courage to completely be free of the fear of violating expectation.