As a writer, just starting out and afraid to tell anyone I was writing, I couldn’t imagine having anyone look at the title let alone the very essence of the story I had so painstakingly laid upon the altar of paper. I could have easily been living in a vacuum of space, a gap in reality if you will.
But my writing was this offering of a part of my soul, and the thought of having someone make comment on the secrets I’d wrenched from the hidden places of my mind sent shivers of fear coursing through me. (can anyone say ‘a little melodramatic’ here?) I loathed the idea that I’d be judged unworthy based on the imperfection of not my words but my heart. There was this impossible idea of separating myself from my work, and I resisted having anyone read what I’d written.
It took a lot…
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