“Are you ok?” worry infusing each word.
Perplexed, “I’m fine”.
“Well, I read your blog.”
Mind racing, screaming silently, “What alarm was triggered?”
“Oh, that was just….” and I provided context – the trickling, incessant daily minutia eroding joy, its rubble blocking light and air.
For years, scribblings have been furtive – stashed in drawers, boxes, guarded, inaccessible. Judged inadequate, self-indulgent, and valueless by author and reader wrapped into one.
And now, this.
Exposed (published !?) on the web.
Outing myself as wannabe writer.
Trusting that this part of me – only recently witnessed by my one love, friends, and strangers – will not wither in the light.
Fearing that my judgments of inadequacy are accurate.
Praying that such damnation is wrong.
Scribbling furtively and furiously, still.
No worries, I won’t quit my day job.
© CMD 2015