I love to sing.
So, so much.
Yet I was extremely bashful about doing so for the first–oh–seventeen years of my life or so.
I still get self-conscious if I know people are listening; if I’m put on the spot I usually clam up and my voice sounds smaller somehow, slightly pinched. I sound my very best when I’m alone, singing the harmony on the top of my lungs, letting the notes ring out like bells.
I think I sound good.
I suppose I can say the same for my writing; it’s in me, dying to get out.
Stephen King says that writing is a form of telepathy, with its ability to transport thoughts, images, and ideas to another person without so much as moving our lips.
It’s a kind of magic, really.
I have always tried to pay attention to detail in my work. Even if it’s only on this blog, which may go unnoticed and unread, to be buried in the depths of the interwebs, I want it to be right.
So I read it.
Is this what I mean to say? Is it completely whole? On-point? Worthy of being read?
Just as I sing out–sometimes sounding shaky and small–once it’s out of me, it’s out of my control.
And this scares the shit out of me.
Because as I’ve told you before, I am terrified of being misunderstood.
But I also recognize a writer’s responsibility: to think, draft, reflect, and experiment until the message is ready.
Leave it in the oven, then let it cool, but go ahead and give it a slice and serve.
Because no one hears the songs that remain in your head.