Confessions Of A Writer #11

Is anyone listening?  Or should I say, reading?

That is the question which constantly runs through my mind as a writer.  Is anyone out there reading this blog, my books, anything I have written?  What do they think?  Wait, I don’t want to know.  Wait, yes I do.  Oh, no, I don’t want to know.  But…wait…

Sometimes, okay a lot of times, I feel my writing is like a table at a holiday craft fair.  People look, a few might even stop by, but then they move on.  Meanwhile, the person who needs a refresher course on paragraphs is getting more views and more hits than I am.  Oh, and the book they wrote where they also need refresher courses in both basic grammar and Writing 101 (as in, not mixing up your characters’ names)…yeah, that book is one of the top 100 books in the genre on the Amazon Kindle Store.  Meanwhile The Hunted and Darkness Calls are…well, I won’t go into it their sales ranks but let’s just they are not presently in the top 100.

I try.  I tag the crap out of these posts in hopes to get more views, likes, and followers.  I tweet.  The only social media outlet I have not yet reached out to is Facebook, and that is mostly because I do not want my cousins and aunts asking me about my writing at family get-togethers.  I don’t know what it is, but I always get uncomfortable talking about my writing face-to-face with a person.  I think a part of this awkwardness is because I feel like I don’t deserve to because I am currently not a bestseller or have a hotly popular blog with hundreds of followers and loads of attention.

But an even larger part of my weirdness over being open about being a writer is because when I write I expose myself, metaphorically speaking.  It’s one thing to communicate with someone electronically; in a way, the computer screen acts as a privacy screen.  When that person is standing in front of you, however, there is nowhere to hide.  You are standing there, raw and exposed and feeling like you are back in high school reading your English paper to the entire class, the paper where you had to choose your own personal symbol and why you think it symbolizes you, and the cute jock boys are sitting in the front row staring at you because out of all the times to finally pay attention to you they pick when you have to share personal information about yourself.

That’s the odd thing about being a writer.  On the one hand you want people to notice you.  On the other hand, you are terrified.

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