The things we feel most deeply are the things we find hardest to share. I feel safe making that statement because I know I am not alone. For years I found it very hard to show my faith, to express my beliefs, because they are the most private, personal things about me. It is the same with my writing, and has been for a long time. I didn't share it at first--ever. Writing was my secret; it was something that was wholly and completely mine. Something that no one could take away. And in a time in my life when everything else could be taken--my sense of self, my freedom, my safety--I guarded it with my very life.
Sharing came gradually, and it became habit. I would share everything I wrote with my closest friends, a practice that once literally saved my life. By the time I turned 18 sharing my writing became so normal I had several poems published. But still I was keeping back the most precious, private part of my works.
In my youth, I developed a world separate from my life. I could escape there; I could live there and express my truest self. And I protected it. The process of outgrowing that world took years. And several edits. My world and I grew apart. I found safety in real life; I found security and love and protection. The distinction between fantasy and reality grew clearer and clearer.
And, finally, I could share it.
I'm pretty certain I won't be a NaNoWriMo winner this year. My train of thought was not only sideswiped it was derailed, fell off the bridge and sank under the torrential Atlantic waves. It was a spectacular crash; I'm sure I'll share it sometime in the future when the raw hurt has dulled to a mild ache. It will probably come in some form of my writing that will leave my readers weeping for the suffering of my main character. It is how I express. It is how I share.
Writers, like most artistic types, are sensitive creatures. We feel deeply. We see clearly. And sometimes the two intermingle. So, for just a little while, I'm going to be sensitive.