Somewhere along the line, I’ve developed a fear of writing. Or maybe more realistically, a fear of critique. A fear that when I let my slightly damaged, and a little convoluted writing out into the world, that I won’t be able to handle the comments received when people don’t get my writing. That as I try to fix that writing, that I’ll make it even less understandable. That I’ll lose the story I tried to tell beneath the story that others want me to tell.
But I finally opened a file and started to write. Not for anyone else, just for me. This is something I started a long time ago. It’s even on the blog buried in the archives. I loved it then. The piece was one of my favourite things I’d ever written. It has this broken, haunted voice–not that I have any idea why–and an air of deep mystery. And it received the most severe criticism of anything I’d ever shown my writing group.
But this story kept haunting me. I still like it when I read it. There are question I want answers for. And that’s how I read. So for once, I’m off to try to to write like I read, not how I think others would want to read what I write (yeah, that sounds complicated when you write it–should have been a hint that it wouldn’t work!).
Wish me luck. I think I’m going to need it.