I’m having trouble deciding what to bring to the writing group I recently joined. It meets every week and I signed up to bring something this week for folks to look over and provide feedback next week.
A part of me wants to be practical, to share writing for one of the upcoming Patreon reflections for BE Budget Explorers. Then I could get feedback before posting, which would be wonderful.
But I also really want to share some of my fiction writing. The problem is, I haven’t written much, if any, fiction in the past couple years. I haven’t read any of my fiction pieces for probably at least a year.
In short, I am embarrassed, though I probably still would be even if I wholeheartedly embraced the idea of sharing one of the BE posts. These people invited me in, shared a part of their souls with me, a stranger. And the writing has the sort of unfiltered authenticity that lately I’ve mostly seen relegated to a #nofilter tag on Twitter or Instagram, but even more so because the manner of presentation leaves no doubt that it is not being shared for the public but for individuals, and it is not merely to be seen but to be understood. The tingling of the raw nerve is only barely covered with the words; the feeling is as close to the real thing as words will allow.
I am in awe of the vulnerability.
What part of myself will I share? Part of the current dream that still harbors the stowaway fear of failure? Or part of the dream that got away, the dream of “being a [fantasy] writer”?
Either way, I think I’ll try to follow my own advice, and see the dragons.
Falling for Knowledge 