Playing with Myself


I read all these posts from authors, talking about the solitary life of a writer.  It’s true.  If you are a career writer, being alone is something you must get used to.

Non-writers don’t quite understand what it takes to come up with a story, make it flesh, and put it down on paper.  It’s a soul-rending process (that might be a little dramatic).  It requires one to live inside their own mind for extended periods of time.

You give birth to something.  It may not have the pain of labor, but you bring that story into the world and it is as sacred as a baby.  You’re only desire is to nurture and protect it.

Talking to people about your writing is like talking to a group of mothers.  They feel competitive- whose “baby” is further along in development, whose “baby” has the best grasp of grammar and word usage, whose “baby” is most lyrical and literary.  I don’t like this feeling. So I stay to my group of one, loving my “babies” just the way they are.  I give them everything I have.

Now that I’m releasing my babies out into the world, I feel a pang in my heart.  I’m no longer playing by myself.  I must share my stories.  I have to let go of my self-consciousness and allow others to play with them, interpret them their way.  It’s hard.

Hard, but needed.  I need this step to come full circle.  Like an empty nester, it’s finally time to let my “babies” fly.



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