I have trained myself, through example, to shrivel up a bit inside whenever someone says something a bit out of place, a bit too open, a bit too unguarded.
The only place that I actually feel open to really feel shit is probably when I am confronted with media. Not social media or the news or the things everyone uses to escape from the humdrum chaos of their own minds. I’m talking about cinema, music, books, a really, really good joke, or an unforgettable performance.
Sweeping melodies, heartfelt speeches—oh God, I could fling myself off a metaphorical cliff for a good speech.
The other day, I saw a clip of Neil Gaiman talking about what it takes to write. He said you need to walk down a street completely naked. Not literally (thankfully), but stripped bare.
And for six whole minutes, I thought, Hell yeah.
I thought about all the messy, awful stories I have, the kind I’d share with a stranger just to fill the silence. I was so sure I’d sit down at my computer, pour all that vulnerability out onto a page, and become a total rockstar for how raw and open and honest I am.
And then I remembered: consequences exist.
I realized maybe there are other ways to get at the kind of nakedness he meant—ways that don’t involve shocking GamGam. But honestly, this isn’t new.
I have flights of fancy like this all the time. Big ideas about how I’ll share my genius with the world. And then I remember I’m just one of the rabble, and if cold calling makes me physically shake, I’m probably not built for any of it.
But still.
This year, I’m leaving space for melodrama. I’m not going to shrink from what stirs me, even if it feels ridiculous.
It kinda is ridiculous.