The problem with writing is that you’ll write about anything. The problem with writing about anything is that sometimes you write about complicated, secret things. And sometimes you write these things well. And you’re a writer. This means that you’re a little bit of a shameless hussy. It’s OK. You have to be.
If you write something, you might want someone to read it. Especially if you write it well. And so there you are, revealing it all, because you nailed that section. It was so good it couldn’t stay in your notebook. And then there’s the fallout. Shit.
But then you get tougher because somewhere in your writerly heart there is the cool observer. And the cool observer knows that that shit was fantastic. The observer knows that someone out there will read it and it will connect with her. And so you forget that your mother might read the piece as well. Writing is meant to be read. Just not by your family.
I once sent a girl a poem. I sent her the poem, partly because I wanted her to know how I felt. But I swear I sent it also because I knew it was good.
Tell me I’m not the only one.