A Writer’s Life in the Open

Sometimes I’d like to retreat into a shell, to be that boring, unintimidating person in the corner.  No one bothers to come near.  No one questions my intentions.  I like to see myself as bland, but deep down I know that’s not the truth.

I struggle to keep myself underwraps.  Not that I’m a dangerous person; or in any way a danger to society.  No.  It is my thoughts that I try to hide from others.  I’m afraid that others may find me a bit “off”.

I can’t write happy, frilly tales of kittens, and apple pie, and other sorts of fluff.  It’s not me.  When I try to write about sweet stuff it comes off as just plain corny.  Others can write about it, but not me.

I need to write about the gritty, raw aspects of everyday life.  Ones with the scars; open, festering wounds.  The ugly side of humanity.  We all know that life is not always pretty.  Perhaps our upbringing was far from Ozzy and Harriet.  Maybe it was cold, lonely, and abusive, and left us wondering what we ever did to deserve such resentment.

We could be facing serious addictions – drugs, alcohol, food, and even sex.  Life can be messy.  Sometimes even downright dangerous.  But we keep trying.  Trying to get ahead.  Trying to better ourselves.  Trying to succeed.  Trying to survive.

That is what I want to write about.  The dark underbelly of society.  About the jealousy, burdens, fears, and heartache.  The unknown factors.  Life.  Death.  And everything in between.

My husband used to say that my writing was ‘poetry to commit suicide by’ since it was so dark and depressing.  Perhaps it stemmed from my teenage angst and pain of rejection from my peers.  I just wanted to be real.  Like life itself.  No false pretenses.  No sugar-coating the truth.

I am a writer.  I need to write like I need food, air, and water to survive.  Yes.  I am even miserable when I don’t write.  It is my addiction and my balm.  And I need to write honestly about the things that float around in this brain of mine.  Tales of passion, violence, deceit, and grief.  Reality.

So you have been warned, dear readers.  I can no longer hold these thoughts inside.  Either release them or I’ll explode.  Maybe I don’t want to be judged harshly by my peers.  I don’t want others to question my sanity.  To question my faith.  I must write what is in my heart. I have to write.  I love to write.  It is my passion.  My joy.  My lifeblood.  Follow me on this journey, if you so choose.  Welcome to the madness and the fun.


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