Baby Steps

Something new happened in my life.  It happened three times.  Each time it happened I felt very uncomfortable.  I feel uncomfortable now. 

But I know it needs to keep happening.

I would say that 99% of the people in my “real life” don’t know I write.  The other 1% have known I enjoy writing but don’t know about the publications.  NOBODY IN MY REAL LIFE KNOWS ABOUT XTX.  When I have had small successes with my book, or the fact that I HAVE A BOOK, I could not tell anybody.  Have not told anybody.  NOBODY WHO LOVES ME OR WHO I LOVE KNOW ABOUT MY BOOK OR KNOW ABOUT MY CHAPBOOK OR MY EBOOK OR THE NICE BOOK REVIEWS I’VE GOTTEN OR COOL STORIES I’VE GOTTEN PUBLISHED IN COOL PLACES OR PUSHCART NOMS OR BEST OF THE WEB NOMS, ETC.  I just keep swallowing it all up and jump around in silence asking myself what the fuck am I doing and how long am I going to keep doing it and feeling like a double-agent or some shit.

I know I need to begin to merge my “two lives” so I’ve gradually begun slowly “sharing” tidbits about my writing with real people in my life.  Usually it’s when I’m drunk.   I only offer it when I’m talking the ‘down n dirty’ with true friends…about “life purposes” and “soul-fulfillment” shit.  Then I let it slip out.  I WRITE.  I AM A WRITER.  Then they go all drunk-batshit on me and I immediately back away from those statements. I make them very small and insignificant. Almost like, “just kidding” because when you tell people you are a writer, I am finding, they get very animated and start asking you a shit ton of questions you are not prepared to answer. Or, at least questions that EYE am not prepared to answer.  Some questions I can’t answer. 

One time I just pointed off to the corner of the room and went, “Look over there!” and then I skittered away. (escape plan win!)

Twice last week, during such an exchange, two different people asked me, “What do you write about?”  I did three things in response: shrug my shoulders and shook my head while making a gah-gah-um-uh-ber-neer-neer-uh sound.  Surprisingly, people don’t accept this as a real answer.  They want a real answer.  They keep asking and I keep doing that same awkward response.  Seriously, these two people were practically in my face FORCING me to supply them with an answer.  (they were also a bit drunk, so let’s give that to them)  They started throwing out suggestions to help me: “Werewolf vampire love stories?”  “World War 2 stuff?”  “Horror?”  “Romance?”  And the more I heard the suggestions the more I realize that the literary world I live in that sometimes has writing that cannot be classified so simply like a section at Barnes & Noble is such a different world that the people in my life aren’t familiar with and it’s hard to explain to them without getting into a long discussion that I’m not prepared to have. 

I eventually just said, “nothing you’d want to read” and “weird stuff.”  Oh, and I said, “sad stuff.” 

One guy strong armed me into sharing some of my writing with him.  He begged and begged me telling me he wanted to read some of my stuff so I finally broke down and emailed him a few word docs.  That was on Wednesday. 

My mom did the same thing.  “So when are you going to let me read some of your writing?”  I printed out a few stories, handed them to her, said, “Read them when I’m not around.”  That was last Sunday. 

I haven’t heard anything from either of these fine folks. Nothing. Nada. Silence.

I guess part of me feels relieved I haven’t heard anything.  But part of me fills in the blanks with all the negatives; “They think I’m weird now.” “They don’t like my writing.”  “They hate it and don’t know how to tell me.”  Etc.  But part of me wants to get an email that says all of the opposite of that stuff. No I don’t. yes I do. Alkdsfja;ghj FUCK IT! I DON’T CARE! GAH!!!!!!

These exchanges make me highly uncomfortable.  I am not used to sharing my writing with people in my real life.  I know you guys “get it.”  I am comfortable with the internet knowing I am a deviated, wacked-out, sexually fucked up, weirdo.  But having my writing “evaluated” by people that have known me for decades, well, it’s a whole new ballgame.  Like, I feel so naked and exposed.  And like, there are no blankets nearby that I can grab.  Or I grab for them and they are all the size of napkins.