Tonight I attended my first meeting of a writer's group I recently joined. I really enjoyed it. The people seem supportive, and the stories were really good. My big (and only) contribution was telling the group that someone stealing a candy bar from a grocery store wouldn't get arrested.
When I was in college I took a creative writing course. When we had prompts, I wrote some decent short stories, but I struggle with writer's block when it comes to completely original stuff. We had to write two stories for review, and I wrote mine as thinly veiled recounts of my own experiences.
Most of my feedback said that there was some good writing, but then went on to comment on the obvious mental illness of the protagonist. I mean, yeah, so, maybe my "character" "threatened" "her" sister with a "screwdriver." But does that mean she's mentally ill? Maybe the sister was really on her case and didn't respond to other forms of communication? There's really no way to know.
Anyway, that class led me to believe that I wasn't so good at fiction. So I started "blogging" instead of thinly disguising my neuroses--and now I'm an artist, not a psychopath.