Confessions of a Closet Writer

I have a confession. I am a closet writer. I’m an aspiring author. I’ve written two first completed first drafts, currently on my fourth draft of one of my six novels. I write poems. I write blogs that I hesitate to put my name on and I journal.

I’ve belonged to writer’s groups, critique groups, gone to endless writing workshops and conferences, stalked my favorite authors and read countless books on how to write. I create what a writer should be, should do, or should write in my head. I hold to the rigid, tangled weave of messy beliefs that validate the inner critique that tells me to keep my words to myself. Hidden. Secret.

All the while the closet writer in me is bursting to break free and blaze out into the light.

Why do I hold myself back? Why does any writer? I’ve asked myself this question a lot over the years. The inner critique hammers me with self deluded questions, inserting its insidious beliefs. What if I’m not good enough? What business do I have writing? What if people don’t like it? What makes what I have to say so important? Oh God, what if my relatives read my writing? That would make for an interesting holiday dinner.

As a writer, my words are my guts. The inner workings of my fractured psych, a peak behind the curtain. My characters represent the flawed, crystal facets of the little, broken pieces of me. My conflicts are an expression to my perceived traumas and insecurities. My words are clues to the emotions stored deep within my hidden depths. And to release my words into the world would make me vulnerable. Oh, so vulnerable.

They would make me be seen. Splayed out on the proverbial cross, a crucifixion of my soul. Not only would it allow the masses to pick and prod through the skeletal remains of my hidden depths, but then I might have to take a deeper look. At myself. At those hidden depths I’ve camouflaged so well wrapped in excuses, rewrites, edits and the voice of my inner critique.

Which brings me to the biggest predator of all, the one that stalks me relentlessly.

Fear.

Fear is the great deceiver, the controller of the masses, the stunter of growth, the depressor of creativity, the adversary, the chaotic voices and thoughts, the creator of viral beliefs. I let it control me, inform me, hold me back from stepping out of my closet, my comfort zone. Is it fear of me seeing myself? Of holding myself accountable? Of allowing myself to be vulnerable?

When I truly think about it, writing has always been my sanctuary. From the very first diary I owned at maybe eleven years old, I could express the barrage of words kept tightly contained in my little body. And I remember that diary. It had a black velvet cover with a silver unicorn standing on its hind legs guarding the front. It was a gift. All the things I wasn’t allowed to say, to express, that wasn’t safe to share went behind that unicorn in the form of words.

And it wasn’t until my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Weir, who gave us the creative writing assignment to write a poem, that I realized I could create worlds with words. Mr. Weir wasn’t my favorite teacher and up until that point I didn’t really think he noticed me. I turned in my assignment. My poem described an owl at night, hunting for its prey, a mouse, under the full moon. Mr. Weir was so impressed with it, he actually contacted my mother to share my creative endeavor. I didn’t think he thought much of me, the skinny, quiet little girl keeping her head down and staying unnoticed in the back. And it kind of confused me, because couldn’t everyone use words to describe something they’d imagined? That was my first taste of “being seen.” That was the first time I understood the power of words.

I believe the act of writing is powerful. Words are a gateway into our pain, our hopes, our beliefs, our histories, our deep sovereignty, our truth. Words create worlds, characters, retell age old stories, teach and inform. Words have brought me through the tough times, given me hope, became my friend, taught me about who I want to be and what kind of world I want to create. I’ve clung to the words of others like a lifeline. I’ve poured out my words of pain and joy onto the paper. The silent therapist, the great observer, the quiet listener.

And perhaps this is a first step to come out of the closet. My barefoot poking out of the darkness of that ajar door, into the lighted hallway, with this little blog article. Perhaps there are others out there, too, who are closet writers. Others who hold tight their words, their power, behind closed doors for fear of the light, or being seen too.

So here I am, taking this step. Maybe it will be the first and only step. Or maybe, just maybe, it will be the first of many steps, creating a path of empowered words. Maybe I’ll do it alone. Or maybe, just maybe, others will share their words and come out of the closet too.

Word from the author: I've come a long way in the last year, stepping out of the closet. Vocal Media being just another step to putting myself out there. This was originally posted on one of my website's blog here in November 16, 2020. Please like my article if you can relate. :)