Today, at my critique group, I read that my protagonist--I still don't have a name for her-give me some suggestions--was unsure of herself, felt that she was always doing the wrong things, or perhaps not doing the right things. Two of my fellow writers said, "I feel just like that, that I never know what to do."
I didn't tell them that when I got to Carol's house--where the critique group was held--that I realized my shirt was on BACKWARDS and that I had to stand in the living room and take my arms out of my shirt and turn it around, before going into the kitchen, where everybody was.
Yes, my protagonist and I are one and the same. Maybe I should just call us Klutz and be done with it.