Shame v. Embarrassment

Wow, so, uh, reading a book that you write yourself is daunting.  I suppose it's a bit like taking a mirror to your genitals.  Maybe some people totally dig that.  Personally, it's not high on my list of great activities to undertake.  Is that bad to say?  Am I a prude?  Fuck it.  Go stare at your genitals.

Back to my point.  This book.  It's long and I wrote it.  I mentioned that previously.  I'm happy to have constructed a semi-coherent story in a probably plausible world inhabited by potentially believable people.  At least, I'm hopeful.

Now, I have to read it, rewrite it, revise it and this first step, the reading step, had me wrinkling my nose for four days.  My stomach knotted in the same way it does when I'm reminded of junior high, offered mussels or asked to stand for a picture.  It isn't that I'm ashamed; this is embarrassment.  Two very different things, I'm discovering, as shame, I think, requires some knowledge or suspicion of the crudity of a subject, while embarrassment could be shame's little sister who hasn't quite discovered the need for a bra.

I'm not averse to a fair bit of self-reflection, and I like to think that I've uncovered, addressed and repaired or accepted a decent share of my idiosyncrasies.  But reading something that has unfolded silently and surprisingly over eight months had me worried.  Would this be like time-traveling to my first months in New Zealand, when the sun traveled low and fast across the northern sky and never for a minute overpowered the strength of the wind?  Would this be like reviewing a failed attempt at a power grab over my subconscious?  Would I hate it, and therefore start to hate myself?

Well.  As it happened, I plugged my nose this morning and started to read.  I'm a third through it.  Thirty-five percent, actually, according to my kindle's curious progress bar.  And, I didn't puke.

It ain't perfect, not even close.  But it didn't drive me to drink as the apprehension of the read did last night.  Instead, it was clarifying, instructive and even surprising in parts.  I recognize some sentences with the same appreciative welcome that I would use to greet a friend I met only once in another country long ago.  Other sentences, I would french kiss if I could.  And then there are those that deserve a rusty machete right through their weak hearts.  The good news is: I totally didn't die of embarrassment.  Which is a silly prospect, I know, but hey, that's what shame advises its admiring sibling.  Thankfully, my naked embarrassment started to feel pretty good when I let the sun get to it.  Now, to put my top back on and get to work.