There are days when I would like to clear my writing history and start over new, but the little voice inside my head says DON’T! I’ve spent the majority of my life filling journals with stories and passing them along, warts and all, to my friends to read. I had no shame in letting people I trusted read my darkest thoughts even though they were complete fiction. But never did I really have the guts to pass it along to a stranger.
I had the hardest time in school letting teachers read my work. Ninety percent of the time, I was embarrassed that my dyslexia would show, and they would think I wasn’t smart enough to be in their class. There are days when I feel like that with my site. I wonder who would want to read the ramblings of a crazy person trying to write a novel with as much detail as you would find on your TV screen. Sometimes I get nervous that my stories are lost in translation, and the readers cannot follow. I want them to be an active audience, not a passive one that will forget the story the moment they put it down.
I want people to read my stories and tell me they were terrified. One of my mother’s co-workers told her that she would never reread my writing, and it wasn’t because she saw a typo or a misplaced comma, but it was because it gave her nightmares. When I heard that, I literally (and I do mean literally) jumped for joy. That was the best compliment I have been given. The second best was a co-worker who read my work said I was fucked up. Usually, that could be considered a bit harsh, but he was expecting princesses and bunny rabbits without the blood, guts, and gore. They really gave me a push to keep writing and to keep sharing.
I love writing dark and twisted stories that will haunt the reader long after they’ve put down their tablet. But the only way this is going to happen is if I keep up my old stories, no matter how much I might cringe. They might not be the best quality, but everyone starts somewhere. Eventually, I won’t feel like they are scars but stepping stones.