When you get to know someone, it gets harder to expose yourself to them. Strangers, you can flash ’em and run. You have emotional distance. You can stand in front of them naked easier than you can in front of your brother, sister, father, mother. To clarify things a little, I’m not really talking about flashing people. I’ve never done it and wouldn’t know the first thing about it.
It’s just this new snippet of a Marilyn Manson song (Killing Strangers) got me thinking about writers. How they, we, seem to have such an easy time showing our hearts and minds to strangers. Flashing them with every post, little samples of soul. Hoping they’ll want more, but not terribly hurt if they don’t. After all, they’re strangers, so who cares if they don’t like what they see.
Family and friends though…
What would they think, you know?… what would they think if they could see it all.
What if the ones closest to you got a look into the depths of your soul, and they ran? That little fear is probably still alive somewhere inside even the most transparent and open of us. In that sense, the man (or woman) walking down the street in nothing but a trench coat, waiting for the next opportunity, the next victim to expose themselves to, is a fitting symbol of the writer.
A symbol of any shy artist, actually. The best of us? The massively successful bloggers, the bestselling authors? They’re more like strippers and porn stars. So, I just sexualized writing.
You’re welcome 😉 .
(Originally published on October 27th, 2014)