I struggle with how vulnerable to be here. Let’s face it, vulnerability earns readers. If I posted every family skeleton I could find, tossed in all my motherly failings, and shared way too much information about my relationship with my husband, there are people who would just eat that stuff up.
And vulnerability does have its good sides. I’ve seen writers change lives. They share their struggles when they are ready; they shine lights on the dark places that need to be known.
I’m just not always sure where I fit in on the vulnerability scale. Heck, I’m not even very good at being vulnerable in person. For a long time I buried my opinions and emotions so deep that even I didn’t know what they were. These days I’m practicing being real with myself and with others. I share more, but there are definitely those times when an overshare sneaks out of my mouth, and I awkwardly creep back into my turtle shell for a bit to sort out the emotional turmoil.
There are stories I want to tell, and pictures I want to paint with my words. But they aren’t always my stories or my pictures to share. It’s a heavy choice, at times, to write or not write.
