You should write some peer advice. I think you have things you could teach your fellow writers.
The words glared at me from the brightness of my computer screen.
What? Me? Who am I to give peer advice? What would I say? On what topics could I possibly share any advice? I’m no one. Who am I?
My stream of consciousness denied the words in front of me. You should write. Peer advice.
What makes me better than my peers? I’m just like them, ambling my way through the written word, putting down the stories that fill my head, shushing the pandemonium of too many loud-voiced characters in my head. Who am I? What could I possibly say?
My eyes scan the emails once more. Something that makes you quite remarkable… keep up whatever it is you’re doing, because it’s awesome…so much feedback that my writing is good.
Peer advice. Mentor.
Nah, too scary. How could I explain my process anyway? How do you explain, “It just comes to me”? Wouldn’t that make people mad/jealous/insertnegetiveemotionhere? Who am I to tell someone else how to write?
Yet, I do it every week. I fumble my way around on Bloggy Moms Writer’s Workshop. I post a prompt every week. I encourage feedback and constructive criticism. I offer help. I refer to links—but they are informative writing advice posts someone else has written.
But when its crunch time, and I visit those who’ve linked up, and I know they sincerely want my feedback, I offer it.
Exactly who am I to do this, again? I’m just a novice still learning my own way.
Why is it so hard for me to accept the good feedback that comes my way? Me?
Yes, me. And someday, soon I hope, I will learn to accept it.
Am I enough writer to offer advice?
The jury’s still out on that.
