On coming out of the closet

Anyone who knows me is probably a little interested. Excuse the probably inappropriate analogy.
Let me explain.
I joined a writers' group here in Indianapolis, and I was little terrified--no quite a bit terrified. I imagine these horrible and humiliating scenes. My mind always seems to jump to the worst situation imaginable as I'm drinking too much coffee on an empty stomach and spilling coffee all over one of the stately gentlemen there (oh, wait, that happened already): they laugh at me, they think I am ignorant, they think my ideas are banal, and all the rest. I can usually imagine pitchforks and black hoods in this scenario, but, well, I did read quite a few gothic horror novels.
Last night was not nearly as bad as that. It was quite encouraging actually (and I am going to be cagy and illusive about this as always), but I admitted to one of the other men (yes, the group is primarily men ten to perhaps thirty years my senior) that I have written all my life but have had a difficult time admitting that I am a writer.
"I'm still coming out of the closet," I told him. "I have been trying to come out of the closet for the past year or so."
When I imagine the group of writers yelling and chasing after me with pitchforks to tell me how much they disapprove of me and how ignorant and banal they think that I am, this may not be too different from actually "coming out," if you will excuse the metaphor. I feel like my life is different, like I'm not hiding my true self, like I'm finally starting to live my real life.
Hmmm. I will be following this post with another entitled, "On being a single, homosexual woman."