sorting through the box

Am getting set to do a reading of my fiction at my college tomorrow. A colleague approached me last week and asked me to read something as the scheduled reader (a highly-published children's author) had to cancel at the last minute. I can't figure out what to read as so much of it is full of fuck, and in spite of the fact that they're adults, I'm a bit hesitant to say fuckityfuckfuckfuck in front of my students. I'll do it in the end, and like so many moments, it will never be as nerve-wracking as the anticipation of the moment.

But fuckityfuckfuckfuck, the anticipation is a killer.

Funny, though. I was flipping through the decaying pages of my journals a few weeks ago and found the fragmented beginnings of my novella. It amazes even me, perhaps especially me, to see how far I've come and how far the writing has grown in the past few years. Why is it so hard for me to be proud of what I've accomplished?