Last night was the fourth Lit Club and the second time we had to read out our own work. I'd had a lot of ideas for this piece, but the one I went with as personal. It felt like I'd wrote it for someone else, to teach myself something that I still don't completely understand.
Now I feel a bit empty whenever I think about it or remember last night.
The night itself was great. Everyone's pieces were awesome, especially Mel's. Maybe that's what made mine seem worse. I don't know. Now I want to write something amazing, or do something to redeem myself.
Do I just care too much about what all of them think? Probably. Kind of ironic really.
York is only 3 days away which is crazy. Vic and myself went into Manchester today to grab some stuff and tie up a few loose ends at Uni. Thinking about last night has kind of burst my happy bubble. Damn inferiority.