Since I began writing creative non fiction with purpose, I’ve noticed that one thing from my blogging has remained intact. I am a serial confessor.
As I work on these essays I am confessing, I’m telling on myself not because I feel guilt but often because I feel joy. I feel joy in survival. I feel joy in looking back and understanding how key certain events in my life have been.
I can tell the entire internet what color my pubic hair is but this process still frightens me.
I find my terror electrifying and a sure sign that I am going in the right direction. If there is no fear in my process I’m not being honest and I don’t like that.
I just saw this on facebook, one of my favorite artists Hazel Dooney posted a link to this watercolor study and it very well puts a visual for me on this feeling. Go look here then I will explain.
The explanation. I told her on FB that this piece makes me feel gleefully terrified. See, I’m terrified of birds. Birds freak my shit right out. I am at the point now to where I can have birds near me-ish but they still scare me. And yet I’m fascinated by them and occasionally delighted by them.
This work makes me feel like I can let out these things that are so terrifying and the anticipation of those things coming out of my mouth is delightful. I call her posting this serendipitous for me today.
Before I post a tidbit of the essay I’m working via twitter I found out that the always excellent Nobilis is editing a new anthology. Check it out here. It looks like it will A.) be really good I love the theme and B.) be something I may be into submitting to if I can get my shit together.
Now under the read more thing a tidbit of the essay I’m working on.
We chit chatted for a bit, she showed me her beat up guitar that she had just purchased at a pawnshop. She was so proud of it, so proud that she had saved up seventy-five whole dollars to have a guitar of her own. She played a little for me, she stroked my face with her calloused fingertips then she took my hand and held it softly like a small animal.
Her fingers stroked mine, she outlined the tips of my badly manicured nails and she looked awed. She told me that I was every feminine thing she wanted to be but didn’t know how. She kissed the back of my fingers and I blushed.