When anyone takes the time to read any of the things I write, it’s thrilling. I’ve finally gotten out of the delusion that I have to “be”, “sell”, or “do” anything outside of writing to be a writer. Similarly, I’ve learned I don’t have to do anything more than be alive to be successfully living. But, I don’t think anyone can ever not enjoy sharing their art, whatever it is.
If I need a job description, “mom of three” feels more than overwhelming. Instead of beating myself for not enough writing, it’s actually pretty freaking cool I do it. Admittedly, the deep understanding that not writing puts me in mental hospitals is far more of a carrot then wanting to be the next Stephen King could ever be. I just needed to realize it by hanging at mental hospitals a few times.
The most used words people have described my writing with are “raw” and “real”. It never made sense to me because when I write, I’m just being me. If anything, the most anyone could ever know me is in my writing. I often find the only way I can make sense to myself, at least, is in writing. I’ve always viewed my writing as me desperately trying to become me. To somehow let the skeletons chattering in my head go somewhere, I suppose.
But it’s hiding, all the same. It’s easy to be anyone you want when backspace is a click away.
Just today, I realized how much more the person I am and the person who writes are becoming the same. They never were. I often felt like a kid grounded in their room watching the other kids play. The only time I felt like I came out to play was throwing text on a screen – whether it was AOL or Facebook.
It’s still pretty much the same, but different. I don’t feel like I’m hiding anymore.
I don’t know what, if anything, that means for me or writing. Except to wonder what happens when writing ceases being a crutch or a mask? What happens when I stop taking it seriously and actually play for the sake of playing?
Mah Butt Itches 
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