Writing in the dark

Stars of assorted colors falling from a jar

I’m just playing with things today.  Mostly I’m wrestling with myself.  So far, I’m not winning.  It’s one of those epic battles that never seems to resolve itself. And yes Adam, before you ask, it did involve beer, the Underworld and a sword.  

I had a thought today that with our new information-age lives we were becoming increasingly suspicious of one another and increasingly compartmentalized in the comfortable silos that we make for ourselves.  My silo is not what I would call comfortable, but it is familiar and I feel safe, whether that is a true perception or not is a post for another day.  

Back to compartmentalization. I know this isn’t an original thought. As a matter of fact, I know that I have had this thought before, and that I have seen other folks write on this topic. 

Today’s ‘ah-ha’ moment related to my own search for success as a writer and anonymity at the same time. I’ve written before that if you want to make it in the writing game today it seems almost a granted that you will have a web presence, a twitter feed and a facebook page. You’ll be reachable, accountable to every single person who may ever read a word that you write. If you want to be found. Otherwise you’re kind of writing in the void 

In a way, a very real way, that terrifies me. I perceive the internet as a place that is 80% rational, and the other 20% is just really messed up. It might actually be higher on the messed up percentage. I do tend to travel through some pretty tame areas.  Not that I think anything of mine might ever spark outrage, but you never know. And that, is part of what’s killing me. You never know. Until, of course, that moment when you look at said feed or page and the entire world is telling you what a terrible person you are. 

And that leads me into a great many things that I am just not ready to say on the internet. 

What I am willing to say is this, and I’ve mentioned this before, I have a history of depression. Not “oh I feel blue” depression, but serious, “I wonder if I nicked the artery would the blood hit the ceiling” depression. I’m on meds. have been for years. I’ve tried to come off once or twice and gone – right back on.  My family is an onion that I am slowly peeling away the layers. And understanding isn’t the same thing as forgiveness or healing. I know I have a long way to go some days. 

So how do I balance the wanting to be a *gasp* paid writer, an author, with being seen. I’ve been anonymous in my own life for so long I’ve found myself not wanting to play the seemingly required “Game of Tomes”?  (Just had to go for it) One thing I know is I will keep writing, but will I be writing in the dark? 

But, as a small act of courage, this piece will be posted. Will it be seen or merely turn into one of the many flecks of confetti in the void?

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