Naked in Public

I used to think strangers would be my salvation (when it came to my art) because the people who already know me, already have expectations of me. Expectations that I might have to shatter in order to truly be seen. But the idea of shattering anything for anyone makes me uncomfortable.

Before I ever started writing, I used to dream about working titles for books. Titles like “Naked in Public,” because that’s what trying to be authentic in my art truly feels like. Or “Things I Learned the Hard Way,” because from the outside looking in, my life should be so easy, but from the inside looking out, it feels like everything I do is a challenge.

Sometimes, I read work by other writers and I think, my god, this is shit. I’m hard on them, because I’m hard on myself. And I’m afraid of being judged by others the way I judge them. And I use that as fuel for the fire that stops me from writing.

Sometimes, I read work by other writers and I think, there’s no way I will ever be this good. And I reread my own work and think, my god, this is garbage! And I use that as fuel for the fire that stops me from writing.

And then I think about the strangers — the people who don’t know me — who might find value in my work. And I think about the pen names I’ll use to protect myself from being seen as the artist I am. I never call myself an artist. I never claim to be good at what I do. I play small and I stay small, because maybe I am small and I just don’t know it. Maybe I am small and I just refuse to see it.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and meaning can be found in anything-and-everything when the right eyes see it, when the right mind perceives it, when the right soul feels it…

And maybe my writing will be like that for someone. Or maybe it will only be that way for me. But damnit, I matter too! So isn’t that enough? Aren’t I enough? Surely I must be enough.

And yet, I haven’t written in ages. I haven’t published in ages. I see the pages and pages of unread work. Of unvalued work. Of unloveable work, and I think, this is because I am not lovable. And so I stop trying to be seen. I stop trying to be heard. I put my head down and I push through each day pretending that the word artist is not deeply rooted in who I am. Pretending that the title of writer is just a fantasy that I don’t truly believe in. Pretending that none of it matters when really, it’s everything.