Fear? Terror? Friends, you have no idea! Me, a grown man, with two daughters and one son, college graduates all, I quaked in my Reeboks. Cold sweat poured down my sides. Breathe, Richard, breathe; you idiot. Me, the guy who talked oil companies into spending millions on drilling prospects. Idiot? Right. Who with full faculties would bare their soul and face a critique circle of writers? My thoughts, my brainchildren about to be dismembered? Augh-hh! At the Whiteside Recreation Center, I faced a closed door. What, no sign, no blood-dripping plaque warning, "Abandon all hope ye who enter." Someone's hand turned the handle to the chamber of pain; don't recall whose. Late, of course, just not late enough. Eight people sat around a long projects table listening to one of their members speak. Now dead silence. The proverbial dropping pin hung suspended in mid-air. All eyes turned toward me. Okay, just like public speaking: think of them sitting in their underwear – Couldn't. A large fellow got to his feet. "I'm Steve." He extended his hand. "Are you a writer?" How could I answer? Forty years of writing fiction for the audience of one, and... Now Steve moved behind me and closed the door. Dungeon barriers never clanked so loud as that single click. "Did you bring something to read?" he asked. "Uh, well--" Ten sheets of double-spaced typing rustled in my grasp. "We read your work aloud, and then offer comment." No way. I couldn't breathe, let alone read my work to the group. "It's all right," the looming giant said, as he took the pages from my grasp. "So your ass wants to grow an extra pair of feet and march you sideways to the door. It happens." Ah-h. I took a breath, said my name, and admitted I wanted to write.