It’s difficult to put ourselves into our work. Lay ourselves bare. To bleed for our pages.
Peeling back the cracked and crusted over scabs and scars to reveal the putrid gaping wounds underneath. Dipping our pen into the blood and using it as ink on the page.
It’s difficult to relive those moments of pain. To dig down deep and find those times of traumatic emotion, dredge them up and use them as fuel for our passion, fuel for our creative fire. To bring all of it to bear.
The risk, too. The risk of being scorned. The risk of being rebuked, of being rejected. How could anyone love us once they’ve seen who we truly are through what we produce.
Honesty finds a way of making it all clean.
As long as we’re honest, love sees through all of that to the quivering, naked, human buried deep inside.
So there’s hope for us all.