Apparently, I’m Terrifying

Apparently, I’m Terrifying

The other day, I said I don’t write to gain a large following, which was true. I want people to read what I write, or why would I publish anything publicly here. Or course, I want my words to be read. But was I honest about having a following and wanting to be noticed?

No. But also, yes. No, I don’t crave a huge following, and I don’t need fame to feel accomplished as a writer. Writing is truly just for me in almost every way… mostly. But also, yes, I wish I had more support as a writer.

I am a writer who explores all different avenues. I don’t strictly write in the classic novel form, tell stories, or write only poems. Sometimes the words that I write are the experiences that I have lived through. Sometimes I structured my writing more like something you might read in a magazine rather than a book. My words might seem to pour straight from the pages of my diary. I write my thoughts; these are my words, my perspectives, and my life.

And this scares people. It scares my people.

My family. My friends. My husband. My husband’s family. Everyone knows I write. But they don’t consider me a writer. They don’t dare read these pages. I hear those real writers are published by big companies, have leather-bound books in libraries, and can be bought on Amazon… so I hear. To them, WP and this blog fabricthatmademe.com is not a place real writers go.

Plus, they just might read something that they can’t handle. Can’t deal with it. They can’t wrap their heads around it. It’s not a safe place for them. They might become offended; it’s too great a risk. It’s too terrifying. After all, these are my words. This is my voice, and that’s not acceptable.

It doesn’t matter if it’s the story of Sweet Vera making her way to America, a creepy fictional story, or the mysterious life of Emma. It doesn’t matter if my heart pours out in a Bible devotion or poetry. It could be my thoughts, feeling, or the depth of my imagination in a strange diner. It is all apparently too terrifying to support, acknowledge, and take a chance reading.

Some have chosen to recruit others to also not support my writing. Join them in the fight, believing I am not here. But secretly, they have minions reading my words and reporting their falsehoods. They take pure things and make them ugly because they are ugly. Misery loves company, I suppose.

Others read but pretend they don’t. They say nothing about posts at all. They don’t say “good job.” Or “I like that last post you published,” or even “I didn’t understand your last post… can we talk about it?” They say nothing about it all. They pretend they didn’t see it, that I didn’t write it. But I see them, and I know they read it.

Then there are the ones who say they are the most supportive. They love my creativity but NEVER read a single post that I publish. They aren’t interested in what I am doing, what I am researching, working on, or what I have published. They say they are, but they are not. They make zero effort to read anything! The only time they read a single post is to see if they can read between the lines… because if anyone wanted to know anything about me, they would read my flipping blog.

I am an open book.

Apparently, that’s terrifying. To be so open. To tell everyone the truth as I see it. To be honest and vulnerable. That’s scary. It’s scary for the writer to relive and share but terrifying for the reader, who is trying to pretend it’s not real and never happened. That’s it’s still not happening.

I see it as freedom.

My writing isn’t brave to them. It’s annoying and untrue. My written thoughts are therapy, a way to process in real-time. But they don’t see the freedom and beauty in that. Those things should remain hidden in the closet, private in the dark. No one wants to be embarrassed, after all. They do not respect the work and effort I have put into creating this blog and how my writing has transitioned over the last 6 years on this platform.

Those who know me know that I’ve been a writer ever since I was very young. How do they not see the strength and growth in my writing over my lifetime? How could they see how far I have come when they pretend I am not here doing this incredible thing? When they take no interest in what interest me?

I am here. I am a writer. And I write about all things, terrifying things. Terrifyingly beautiful things.

Sk

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