Why do you write?
I don’t know how many times I’ve been asked this question. Default answer was always because it’s therapeutic. It’s a way to release emotions or thoughts that nag your head, all the time, begging to be put out in the open.
Another answer is that I write because I have so many ideas in my head–those alternative scenarios to actual events you’ve seen happen, or a reaction to something you’ve seen or read, or just that eureka moment when you thought you can own the world with something in your head. That one idea.
So I write. And I put it out here for the time being, while I still try and try to finish my eureka idea and turn it into something worth publishing.
But you know what’s weird? Is that I write, and I post it, and I link up this blog to my Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter, but still I get shocked when people would tell me they read my stuff. Actual people that I know. People I work/ed with or people I went to college or high school with. RELATIVES (this is the one that makes me panic the most). And when they tell me that, after that split-second bliss that hey, people still read nowadays, and I am one of the stuff that they read, is that feeling of privacy being invaded.
I know, I know–hey, I put them online, so whatever stuff I write is for the public to consume. But it just feels like they can see me, like see me kind of see me. That they already know a piece of my soul, that they have peeked into my deepest darkest secrets because they read the things I write. Like letter by letter, word by word, a tidbit about me is revealed to them. Like I’m there, laid bare in front of them, as they read each word, paragraph, and story. And I panic because I’m scared that they might not actually like what they see. And when they tell me that they read my stories, I want to hide. Or delete everything on my blog and then start a new one under a pseudonym.
HA. Weird, I know. Hashtag: me being me.