I do it alone

There are writers whose words will never be published, never read, never discovered by eyes other than their own. The words will drift from mind to page secretly, like a whispered prayer for no one else to hear but God. And for some, that's the way they want it.

But this is not about that writer. This is about the one with the desire to be read and recognized for that, which she does alone.

The brave writer splays herself, reveals her inner workings, leaving pieces of herself to weather if the machine is not perfect.

But the machine is never perfect and if you know that, believe that, live with that and write with the mantra, “it will never be perfect,” set on repeat, you are a writer. Read, unread, we are a strange breed of pack animals with pages for minds and keystrokes as synapses.

What sadder is there than a singer whose voice brings embarrassed laughter, a painter whose masterpiece hangs unnoticed upside down or a musician whose instrument is called cheap and out of tune? Practice bridges ability and talent left wanting, to learning. The unread writer is the saddest of them all because she is the instrument, the painting is of her, the aria is sung by her voice.The stage is the greatest classroom.

I am amazed by the amount of writers who have shared their fear of being read. Judgment, rejection, the, I am not worthy, not good enough voices are echoes best left to travel on forgotten winds. Write, read, share, splay, reveal, be brave, step forward, learn, what you have to say are keys for all of us, to leave in doors for others to open.

I’m a writer, I do it alone.

My greatest fear: two words, anonymity and aspiring.

To be an unknown, aspiring writer negates the years I have spent sewing words into the hems of the garments I wear. For those of us who have been published we are only as good as our next byline or next title page.

Are you afraid of being read or of being unread?