Take heart, Josh - my brother faintheart once described what we all go through:
A library, somewhere in America...
The room is dim and seedy. Overhead, one of the fluorescent lights is
just beginning to go, causing an almost subliminal flicker; not enough
to register visually, just enough to make you uneasy. Unpadded metal
folding chairs are arranged in a circle, and off to one side is a table
with a coffee urn and an empty box that once held donuts.
Men and women make their way inside. They avoid eye contact, even
though they know everyone else is here for the same reason they are. So
great is their guilt and shame that they turn away even as they feel the
urge to reach out to each other. This group is not advertised, no
handbills or flyers are ever posted, yet somehow the word spreads, and
they all know exactly where to come.
They settle down more quickly than most groups, taking their places in
the circle. No need for small talk here. A silence falls, and for a
long time nothing happens. Even though they know they're all here for
the same reason, each is reluctant to be the first to admit just what
that reason is.
Finally, a brave soul stands, bumping his chair backward with the
backs of his legs, the scraping of its legs on the floor loud in the
silent room. His glance flickers around the circle, as if hoping that
someone else will leap up and speak first. He opens his mouth, but
nothing comes out. He has to clear his throat before he can speak, and
even then the words are harsh, harsh as the knowledge of the sins they
have all committed; "Hi, I'm Bob, and I once read Piers Anthony