Image via Pixabay
For years writing has been a refuge of mine. A place to think and ponder, to explore, to play with language. When the world gets weird or too much, pounding away at a keyboard offers comfort and clarity.
I’ve always felt like a little kid learning to do something new but basic.
Look at me! I can take a baby step!
Here I am, walking!
Holy shit, now I’m running! Can you believe it?!
Except, you know, as a writer. So I guess it’s more like…look at these words I used that I can’t even say out loud (like cunt). Or…I finally wrote a metaphor instead of simile! My favorite is always…wow, that turned you on?! Awesome! *insert fist pump here*
Basically, I’m ridiculously (meant in a good way) proud of myself for the things I discover, learn, and try. That feeling of wonderment the first time someone read my work still exists to this day. I get weirdly giddy when I know someone enjoyed or connected with my writing. Creating new (and good) turns of phrases or describing an old thing in a new way fill me with delight.
As much as I love it, writing has always felt like peeling back a curtain and giving readers a peek into my brain, something I’m usually intensely private about. As much as John Brownstone bears witness to, some stuff is hard to say out loud, even to him.
But give me a keyboard and let me pretend the audience is completely anonymous (after all these years, that’s no longer true), and I can tell you almost anything.
A brain I no longer trust? Let’s chat.
Orgasms that happen…or don’t. I’ve got things to say.
Kinky fuckery, my place in a relationship, as well as love and heartbreak? Pull up a chair, we’ll be here a while.
I don’t feel brave for allowing people to see my soul. To me, brave is being able to say it out loud, to speak your truth without hiding. And until John Brownstone, no one ever really came close to hearing my innermost thoughts. I always had my secrets. Things I didn’t say and things I couldn’t say. Everything was kept close to the vest. Almost nothing was shared beyond the niceties and pleasantries of being a human.
But here, it almost feels weird not to say something.
Except old habits always die hard, and I wonder why I offer up so much of the mundane and personal (that’s not, ya know, particularly sexy). I worry I’m not writing enough of the stuff people want to read (even though this has and always will be my personal space to say whatever the hell I want).
It’s why, when I feel those weird soul-baring insecurities flare up, I retreat from social media. I step back and bury myself in work. When you’re used to keeping the curtains open and the stage lights on as I have become (because I love it, don’t misunderstand me), it feels strange to go quiet. As if I’ll be forgotten, left behind, no longer wanted.
When I think those things, I wonder if I do this for some kind of weird approval. But approval of what? I write what I want to write and say what I want to say. Except when I say nothing at all, which is still a choice only I can make.
It gets weird and convoluted in my head, and I don’t know what the right answer is. Or if a right answer exists (probably not).
Am I an attention seeker who writes what I write so people will know I exist?
Or is this the safest place I know to say the things I couldn’t say out loud for so long?
Does it really matter as long as it’s real and true? Or at least as real and true as I can make it and am willing to share?
I have not a single answer except this…
Pull back the curtains and peek inside, if you’re curious. Whatever you see here is real in some sense or another. Either it really happened or I really thought it or it’s really me, whatever version decided to show up that day.