writing and living
I write for exactly five people. The fact that they keep reading my writing is an enormous relief. Over time I’ve come to believe writing is somewhat about putting words on the page but mostly about how I live, how I think. When someone I love likes my writing, it feels like a command to keep living—to live better.
I am spending my 20s online, and sometimes that frightens me. I make money from keeping a public journal, which can be at times a disorienting way to live. It makes perfectionism impossible.
Sometimes writing makes me feel so exposed, and sometimes I wish I could reveal more of myself. I admit that I don’t like other people knowing facts about me. C said that S is not good at articulating his feelings, but he senses from him a genuine desire to try, whereas I am very articulate but not particularly vulnerable.
I am used to knowing things about people without them having to tell me. As a result, I forget to tell other people basic facts about my experience. Over time, as my private life has become more complicated, it becomes harder and harder to answer even the most basic questions.
I am private person, a reclusive person, sensitive. I don’t even tell my friends my secrets. So what does it cost me to share myself with you? What does it mean to be open to criticism?