December 3, 2003

Features ¢ the other press ©

 

Secret Scribblings

 

 

 

Carly Reid
OP Contributor

Why do we writers obsess about sharing our writing with
the world? Why do we write if not to have others read
what we have written? What causes us to hoard our work,
become misers with our words?

One reason is the inherent solitary nature of the pur-
suit. Certainly, this depends on the kind of writing you
do and the context in which you do it. Some documents
are obviously joint efforts, but these are not the ones that
writers have trouble sharing. The difficulty is in exposing
to light a piece you've spent hours hunched over in some
dark corner of the house. If you’ve had no input along the
way, you have very little idea how others will receive it.
It’s a product of you—only you—and that can be fright-
ening. The feeling is similar to that of holding a secret for
so long that it grows, and becomes, in your mind, black,
grotesque, and unmanageable because you've lost all per-
spective and have had no rational, objective input.

Some writers even see their writing as their child, a
reflection of themselves and their own qualities—a
source of much pride. In sharing, the writer sends this
child out into the cruel world where those who don’t love
her as fiercely won't hesitate to rip her apart.

And yet, in every writer's life, this moment of unveiling
must come.

My own moment was involuntary. Friends and family
had always asked to see my writing. The more |
demurred, the more curious and insistent they became.
One day, my mother caught me red-handed as I com-
piled poems into a binder.

“Oh, can I read those?” she asked innocently.

“Yeah, sure.”

I tossed the binder into her hands and ran from the
room. Deep down, I was dying for someone to read my
poetry, but I was petrified of revealing so much of myself
and of the reaction that act would incur. So I fled.

I needn't have run off. The whole episode was much
less dramatic than I had envisioned it would be. The rest
of the family ended up perusing the poems, and I was
relieved by their low-key reactions. I was also surprised
that my sister, whose primary reading material since she
outgrew R.L. Stine has been /nStyle magazine, actually
made it through the whole binder and followed up with
comments! Perhaps, I realized, I was not as complex and
indecipherable as my writer’s ego had had me believe.

 

Perhaps I wasn’t giving my audience enough credit.

For writers, this realization—while humbling—is also
liberating. Moreover, the accompanying rush of nervous
energy resembling a high often leads to the need to show
writing to others again and again. The less bold may start
by leaving sheets of writing casually strewn in strategic,
highly-visible locations, but each writer has his or her
own approach that may evolve with time.

In any case, whenever we share our writing, we are raw
and exposed. The writing may be misconstrued, disliked,
criticized. Some of us personalize these reactions. We feel
safer with our words pressed tight between the musty
pages of some secret book we lock up in dark places,
which not only ensures we are safe, but static, as well.
Sharing is an integral part of the writing process. The
written word is dynamic, changing with context and
interpretation, and, although reader feedback can be
invaluable, the greatest satisfaction lies in simply know-
ing our words are out there, refreshed with every reading,
and part of the constant motion of language and com-
munication.

 

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