Okay, so I spent this last week gardening. It was hard work, and the inside of my house suffered from the lack of attention. A good friend asked to see something of my husband's and he led him into the dirtiest, most unkept room in the entire house, which also happened to be our bedroom. I was humiliated. Martha Stewart I am not, but I still like having things in order. And this room was anything but.
When my husband asked why I was so angry, I said, "Go run down the street naked, and then come ask me why I'm mad about being exposed like that." Maybe the analogy was a little bit of a stretch, but still...
So what on earth does this have to do with writing? Well, sometimes I feel like letting people read my manuscripts is exactly like showing somebody the messy room- or running down the street naked. It reveals a part of me, a part that can be personal, imperfect, and occasionally downright dirty.
I guess authors get used to being exposed. There's simply no way of keeping personal feelings and perceptions out of your writing. And if there was, would anybody want to write (or read) that stuff?
That's all I have to say. Nothing too profound-- just a little thought I had while wallowing in my humiliation.
I feel better already.