Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Hiding Under the Bed

A friend told me about his eight-year-old daughter and how she writes stories.  She hides them, coyly hiding her notebooks filled with intricate stories and pictures.

I used to do this, too.  When I was a child, I filled notebooks with silly stories and pictures.  And I hid them.

Many artists hide their work.  Certainly, many others share their work openly and unashamedly, gladly.  Keith told me once that when he drove cab, people would see him typing away, and they would ask him about it.  He would tell him he was a writer.  

Funny, I haven't changed much since I was a little kid hiding my silly stories.  Why do we do this?  It has to do with being misunderstood and rejected, but I think there is more to this.

My writing is my world.  Logically, I know that others write and others are talented, but opening myself and my writing to the world allows others to take it away.  I have to let it go--I know this--and allow it to not be the world in my head.  It can be in someone else's head.  Maybe the world becomes bigger and more wonderful going out into the world in someone else's head, but then it's not in my control anymore, and I may not understand the world that I created.  

That's scary.

I created my world.  It's mine.  I won't let it go.  

Do you hear the eight-year-old hiding the notebooks under her bed?  

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