As long as I can remember, it has been one of my biggest dreams to become a published author, to write my stories and have people read them and love them. It may be surprising, then, that one teensy little aspect of being a published author escaped my awareness until recently: Real people will read my stories if I am any sort of successful.
No, really, I never thought of that. I never thought of the reality that real people, who I have never met, who don’t know me, will read my stories, will know my characters. It wasn’t until I first started writing this blog that I realized that. At first, it scared the heck out of me. There is something so personal about writing. These stories, these characters, are a part of me. They come from the deepest part of my soul. They are like my children, who have grown inside of me, some of them for more than twelve years, whom I have nurtured, who I have watched grow and develop, face adversity, encounter challenges.
It scared me silly that potentially thousands of people will get a glimpse deep into my soul by reading my stories. I almost stopped writing this blog, because it creeped me out.
(Incidentally, did you know that “creeped” doesn’t register with my spell check? “Creep” and “creeper” do, but no “creeped.”)
Then I realized that I was being crazy. I realized that having strangers know the stories of your heart is intrinsic for being an author. I realized that this has been an unspoken part of my dream since the beginning. And then I realized that it’s okay. I’m not going to freak out about it. I’m going to keep writing.
Because I have stories to tell the world.