It’s the aftermath you have to worry about, the inevitable explanation, the awkwardness. I’ve opened doors that can’t be closed, but it’s okay, I keep telling myself it’s okay. And it is. The worst thing a writer can do is hold back—it stifles creativity, silences the voice and leaves the reader with a mediocre version of the written word. You use everything: pain, anguish, love, sorrow, trauma, anger—all these emotions are at our disposal waiting for transformation. They long for transcendence, a purpose, an artist’s kiss to turn the frog into a prince.
But I’m still getting the knack for this, honing in on the voice and writing style needed to carry out my agenda. I don’t want this book to be a vague recollection of my unique childhood, nor do I want to scare people away with the material. It’s the Goldilocks syndrome. I have to find balance, which is why I created this blog, to get a feel for it, get a sense of the writing, get used to being out there—the exposed and vulnerable writer in search of an audience, in search of acceptance, in search of kindred souls. What I don’t want is pity. Eggshells, brooms and rugs are officially banned here. I mean to tell the truth, whatever the cost. I mean to become the fearless writer.