Today was a lousy day in general, but what started it was an event so terrible, so awful that it makes me want to hide in a corner just thinking about it.
I wrote a terrible story. And by terrible I mean "why-does-this-story-exist-and-why-did-I-show-it-to-fifteen-other-people-when-it-should-burn-in-a-pit-of-fire" kind of terrible.
Somehow, I came up with an idea for a futuristic, totalitarian short story in my head. It involved a world were nobody read, so nobody really understands emotions and love, ect. There was also a love triangle.
The prose was fine, but the plot? Dreck. Rotten eggs. Dog poo. Yet I sent it off anyway to be critiqued by my classmates, thinking at the time I had written a piece that was good.
The whole week before my critique day, my classmates kept coming up to me telling me how much they liked my previous story, and how they couldn't wait to read my next one. They could only think of one nice thing to say about this story.
I'm fine with criticism. What I'm embarrassed about is the fact that I wrote this horrible story in the first place, that I messed up so drastically it made me want to go hide in the corner and never come out.