When I began writing on WP years ago, I was an open book. The words may have been blurred and some pages stuck together, but mostly I poured out my soul recklessly and with fevered anticipation. Now, I analyze every letter and nuance I ink. My delete button has become faded and soft with overuse. The voices in my head are angry and disappointed in me. I have stolen their stories from them and locked them away from others and myself.
At work I am confident and daring. But alone with my passion and thoughts, I cringe with self-doubt. Not only about writing, but about being a mother, a friend, a lover. I fear exposing myself to others. I fear not reaching out. I fear my words will betray me. I fear this is not where I belong. I fear this is where I need to be.