A few things about myself. I enjoy writing. I enjoy other people reading what I write. People have told me they enjoy reading what I write. All of this is well and good, right?
But… (There’s always a motherfucking “but,” isn’t there?) … I’m not good at writing for myself. I don’t do it. This means that almost everything I write outside of my daily journaling gets published in some shape or form. There’s this site. There was an old site, one that I can’t remember the name of anymore. (Probably a good thing.) There was/is @verytinytales, a Twitter account I used to write and post microstories to. For some reason, I never deleted it, never got rid of it. Some of the stories are good. Many aren’t. Most are at least interesting. A bunch are pretty dark. I think I’ve kept it open because I’ve always considered going back to it and then pulling the stories together into a book of some sort, but when Twitter decided to increase its character count limit I lost interest.
Why do motherfuckers need to be so wordy?
Why am I saying all this? Because after some time thinking about all of the above, I’ve realized that I have a bit of a problem: I’m a good writer, but perhaps I’m at my best when I’m writing about my fears, my challenges, my insecurities. When I open myself up and let myself bleed onto the page. Or the keyboard. Or whatever it is I’m using to write that day.
Unfortunately, what this means is that all the things I write and then publish online uncover a bit of my soul.
Fuck, just that sentence above exposes me. I can peek into a person’s head right now: Look at this guy, going on about how emotionally vulnerable he is. What a goon.
Before going deeper, let’s get this one thing straight: We’re all emotionally vulnerable. Each and every one of us. We might show it in diverse ways, might express that vulnerability differently (or not at all), but we all can find ourselves feeling paper thin and ready to tear at the slightest bit of added stress.
We’re all fucking fragile.
My issue is, in order for me to be at my creative best, I have to tap into that fragility, that vulnerability, put a fucking needle into it, and then let it flow onto the page. And then to make it worse, I have to put it on display. Let the world see it.
Let the world see me, with all my flaws. Or at least the flaw I’m talking about at that moment.
It makes me wonder if this is a good thing. I mean, is it? I don’t know. Is this what you’re here for? To read about someone else’s vulnerability? To know that you’re not alone? That someone else is going through shit, too?
I’m no self-help guru. I’m not an expert on self-improvement. I don’t have any special insights or training or anything else that makes me qualified to give advice. And that’s not what I’m really trying to do. Instead, I’m just writing about my own challenges and insecurities, and then choosing to share my thoughts. That’s all. If it helps you, good. Great, in fact! I’m glad.
Does it help me, though? It must, because I keep doing it. But this whole post is one big question mark: Am I doing a good thing?
Seriously, let me know. Leave me a comment. Send an e-mail. Shoot me a text or a message on Insta or Facebook if we know each other via one of those platforms. I’m honestly curious about your thoughts on where I’ve taken Villain Complex.
Until next Tuesday, friends.