Every Thursday night this semester, my heart breaks a little. I sit down in the circle of chairs and pray. Pray that my teacher, a critically acclaimed author in her own right, will love me, love my work. Instead, my affections are spurned and self doubt about my life, my work, my talent, even my marriage creeps inside me. I wave my heart at her, begging her to love me, and there is no joy, no happy denouement.
Every Thursday night, after class, I sit in my truck and rest my head on the steering wheel. I cry and shake. My tears just come I want her love, her approval so badly. I have lost my faith in my work and talent. I dream of the director of our program, coming into that class announcing that there is a fraud among us. Someone has been admitted into our program by mistake, and must be removed before they do further damage. She calls my name, and tells me to get out, get out of this room, this circle of writers. I sign my name in my own blood that I agree to a contract written in a language I don't understand. Gathering my things, I rise from my seat while the whole class points and laughs at me.
That's when I awake.
