Me a “writer,” who after releasing words to “the public,” often has writer’s remorse. The more vulnerable the sharing, the more transparent, the greater the “What have I done?!” feelings that are likely to arise. Will this always be?
I recognize the roots of this in my childhood when I was shamed and ridiculed in school for being me, so different from the rest: the non-native English speaker of immigrant parents. The Yiddish words for things were always hovering over the English ones and often when I most needed a word, it wasn’t there in either language.
Then there were the feelings—especially the impermissible ones like anger at the teacher and my parents—that were swallowed before they could be clothed, let alone expressed, in words.
Now, I write about feelings a lot, if not predominantly. There is no obviously menacing outer authority dominating my life. But there is an inner patrol threatening me with shame for speaking up, especially in a self-revealing manner. The guards at the gate of my throat want to slurp the words back that have been carelessly released, i.e., let go as if without a care.
I have so many words lining up all the time ready to march or dance or stumble into the world. No gatekeepers manage to restrain them. But, once the words (vessels carrying my thoughts and feelings) have made their public appearance, the fear-inflated inner authorities indict the fool I have made of myself.
A nobody special blog tucked away, with zero search engine optimization and few visitors adventuring here from cyberspace, makes speaking freely like I am this moment less consequential. Hence, more fun. I still may encounter criticism (my own) of what I am writing. But in this venue (potentially public but rarely so), the inner patrol is less likely to overpower the release of my take into the world. In relative obscurity, there is a sweet spaciousness and relaxing of the guard.