I KNOW I’m vague about my unpublished work–which is all of it. I know I don’t share much personal information about myself. I know I freeze up when someone I’m not familiar with sends me a DM on Twitter. I know I sometimes sound like a buffoon and other times I sound like a know-it-all.
I know I have mood swings–that I don’t have a firm grasp on my emotions. I know some days I’m overly friendly and other days I ghost everybody. I know I’ve had difficulty forming and maintaining new friendships in the real world.
I know my need for privacy conflicts with my desire to be heard–to be read, more specifically. I know it’s silly not to show my face, or use my real name. I know my anxiety is crippling, my paranoia is watching me, and I have “invasive thoughts” that can instantly ruin the happiest of days.
I know I’m just a drop in the bucket–one given to the occasional cliche. I know I’ve found comfort in a vast and loose community of fellow writers who are at once cohorts and competition. I know I’m not the best writer nor the worst. I know nothing makes me more nervous than handing my work over to a beta reader. I know I share that fear with a lot of other people.
I know I’m trying to be more open–more honest, let’s get real.
I know I try to be mysterious.
I know I deflect.
I know I project onto you the questions I wish someone would ask me.
I know I’m not unique.
I know I can be annoying.
I know I can be dramatic.
I know odds are I’ll never be a famous author.
But I know I’ll never stop trying.