My Audience is Growing, I Am Scared
On being exposed and vulnerable as an introvert, new writer
70 followers, yup. Not 700, not 7k.
Only 70 at the moment, and I am already freaking out.
I woke up with an email last night –
“ xxxx + (plus) 1 followed you.
A few days before that — -
“You have a response from xxxxx.”
“You are now added as one of our writers…”
Oh my God, they do reply, clap, comment, and follow. So, these are really real, legit people?
I am aware that not all followers necessarily read or appreciate one’s published articles. But checking my stats and realizing that a few indeed, even just one other human being read my posts made my heart skip — I felt like a kid with cones of strawberry ice cream in both my hands.
I am new to Medium; a middle-aged, low-tech, introvert who is trying to go back to writing after decades of responsibilities and life experiences — to seek shelter, joy, and expression in the magic and power of words.
My country is not qualified in Stripe, I am blessed to be gainfully employed so although monetization is a delight, it is not the main motivation. I am here because I enjoy reading and learning from the stories of others, and I love the sound of the keyboards scribbling my own tales.
Yes, I did ask to be a writer in some publications that I feel suit me.
I have also been following and clapping for writers — amazing talents who bravely share themselves with the unknown.
My attitude in the past few weeks — “hey, no big deal, I am not even a tick in this humongous Mediumniverse. With the hundreds of popular, top-earning wordsmiths here — no one will notice me. I will be safe and unknown in my insignificant little corner….”
Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity. It is the source of hope, accountability, and authenticity. — Brene Brown
But then my followers began to rise, very slowly, from zero, and so does my serious concerns about being open and exposed to a world of criticisms, judgments.
Can I handle this? Am I ready for this?
I mind less the ripping of my innards to strangers, but my pieces reaching family, friends, and acquaintances make me edgy. These are the people in my small world — most of them may identify themselves in my stories, and a few may not be pleased.
At a family gathering last week, I received various feedback from loved ones about my “new hobby.”
“Be careful what you write about- you may be offending some people who do not agree with your insights and narratives. There are the kids, our family, your relationships, and people reading you who know us”, my Mom reminded me after she read my last article, sipping a lukewarm jasmine tea on a humid Sunday evening. I felt her restraint in trying not to scold me, but she meant to reconsider this diversion I have landed on. To stop this, to end this, to reroute and find other activities that will not endanger our privacy or shake our associations.
I told my Mom I have not purposely invited nor shared my page with anybody in our circle, not yet at least.
Raising her eyeglasses to me,” Well, would you, in time?” I did not reply. Putting down her teacup in silence, she knew that she cannot restrain her most stubborn daughter on the matter.
“Diche, (elder sister in Chinese) … English is not even our native tongue; we have a national language and our regional dialect. Are you sure you can give justice to your stories in a foreign vernacular?” a niece asked me.
I understand these concerns. Ours is an Asian nation of sensitive people, everybody knows everyone in a community, relatives are close-knit, families are clannish, and people talk about every other household in the neighborhood. Public reputation and social image matter down to the least kin and the last generation, washing our dirty linens in public is seriously discouraged, never corrected, and never forgotten.
My sisters have different opinions —
“It is time for you to get out of your cave, write and flourish. You have long been cocooned, buried in your cage….”
“Many will learn from your experiences; use it to be a torch so that others may learn.” to those who are like you.”
And so, I must take a stand.
“It is in your moments of decision that your destiny is shaped” -Tony Robbins
I came from a secluded family, and a dysfunctional one too. I am the second of five fatherless daughters, raised in our grandparents’ house in the suburbs. I was a young wife, a teenage Mom, and a single working parent. I have a small farm, but I live alone and work in the city. I have been broken and made whole, I have been lost and found, and I have miserably failed and won in the evolution of my existence.
“You have been very quiet all these years, and you are very private, Ma.” My daughter told me. We were at her swimming practice, paddling by the poolside, sharing our days during a short, lazy weekend.
“You hate visitors at home. You avoid neighbors. You don’t attend parties and events. You do not have a core group of social circles, much more people outside your work and your sisters.”
Why write, and why write just now?”
It is accurate, my daughter’s remarks. I am not usually heard or seen in public. I am only on Facebook, and I start trimming down my friends’ list once they get to 500. I am a recluse, an introvert; solitary and alone for most of my adult life.
Before that afternoon was over, as I was watching over my daughter taking on her 3km target lap, I grasped an answer to her question.
“I have been in a heavy, deep, and long gestation”, I told my daughter. We were having our snacks by now; tall, icy-cold milk teas and cheese-full tacos, distracted only by the rowdy toddlers in the kiddy pool wailing for their mothers.
“As much as I was given the compulsion to write, I first strayed far from the time and opportunity to do so. Instead, I was played by life in many directions, thrown to the abyss of darkness, pulled to the light, the process repeated, and so on- so I may observe and watch, grow and learn. I was in incubation, being harnessed, being polished, so that when the time has ripened — my expansion shall be aligned with the purpose that the Universe may have in store for me. That is, how I see it, why I should write and why now. Maybe, just maybe?.… .”
“Oh, profound, Ma. You were being taught what to write about, and you were made to remember them all, I get it”, my daughter replied.
“But you do not have to use your real picture nor your real name”, my daughter added, seated beside me in our car this time. We were slowing down and stopping in heavy traffic, passing through a big shopping mall along the way, going home.
“Well, it is not like I am going to be famous, not at all, I guess. Also, if I want to go out and write, however small I may be, I might as well be the real me — the authentic me, where I am, who I am, right now”, I thought hard before I replied.
I felt my daughters’ hand reach out for mine, then clasped my shoulder tightly, before putting on her music headset while road congestion was raging on.
Although I have not professionally published any work, I have been a writer and an editor during my school days. The passage of time has made my bolts and knots dusty and cranky; I do have so much to learn, but I think I have the basic tools to commence, to begin again.
I have something to write about.
I love writing, I love reading.
I may be scared, but I know I can write.
As women, we have given much of ourselves for the service and benefit of others. Our youth, our time, our talents, and our resources — we have offered to our family, to our work, to our community. It is expected of us, conditioned in us, we are born and raised to be nurturers, regardless if we are acknowledged or not. Our role is to offer comfort and support, to give up our needs, to ignore our wants, and to disregard our dreams for the sake of our loved ones. Going against the grain is frowned upon, telling our versions and standing up to our bench is not always approved.
Well, I have paid my dues and delivered my duties. I now deserve my voice, my bliss.
I cannot think of what other people think of me anymore — this has to end.
For friends who will be lost, good riddance.
For relatives who may disown me, goodbye.
For schoolmates, acquaintances, and townmates who will gossip about me- please enjoy.
For the villains in my stories — as long as I am modest and gracious, love and light to you.
For my conservative, traditional Mother — be proud of the courage a daughter is trying to become.
And so, I am deciding to continue writing, I will write my Truth as long as I find peace and pleasure in doing so — with no intention of damaging the names and identifiable details of others.
I will write my stories whether or not they are read, appreciated or not. I will write from my heart, from my soul, at my own pace and rhythm — and if another human being finds resonance, seeds of wisdom or nuggets of inspiration from them, then let those offset the ones I may have displeased and add them up to my absolutions.
Wherever this endeavor of writing may take me — I will submit to the journey, honor the path laid ahead of me, take the small steps in front of me, listen to my instincts moving on, heed the whispers of the Universe, and follow my fate and destiny.
My followers are slowly growing — I should not be scared anymore. Bring it on.
