Vulnerability of Writing

It's strange. There is often a tension I feel with my writing between needing to share it with every person I know and wanting to crawl in a hole and cry before anyone ever reads it. 

I don't feel this with all writing. Academic essays, for example, can feel a tad scary to share, especially with my peers whom I (unfairly) place on a pedestal of academic success and intellectual thought. However, I usually hold far less intimate relationships with my rhetorical analysis or honors essay than I do with more personal writing. There is some creativity and a piece of me that exists in these pieces, for sure. But the form of academia seems to remove a layer of vulnerability, and the content tends to stem more from a required prompt than from the wonders of my soul. 

But there are other kinds of writing...the vulnerable stuff. The honest stuff. The stuff that I wrote from a very real experience–in the middle of tears or angry questioning. 

I finish writing this kind of work and it is like a woosh of air rushes into my lungs. Almost like my breath held itself as I furiously typed words onto the computer to articulate my thoughts. Usually, this writing only comes when I suspend judgment for a moment. When I decide this writing never needs to see the light of day. It is private and I am writing it because I need to write, not because I have been required to write. 

Yet, there is a sense of writing to others because these are words I wish desperately to express to people instead of keeping them trapped in my head. 

There is something intensely vulnerable about this writing because it comes from a place of honesty. Because I have suspended judgment and pretended for a moment that this writing is only for an audience of people that will never read it, I can risk writing whatever, because there is no risk at all–no one is going to read it. 

But then...I finish it. I take in that WOOSH of a breath I referenced earlier. Maybe I close my laptop. Maybe I nap. But later I return to the writing and it is like a piece of my soul and experience is captured in the words on the page. 

And some of it is really crappy writing. Some of it makes no sense. There are lot's of grammar errors to be corrected. 

But it is also deeply vulnerable and honest. And suddenly I realize that even though I said only my eyes would see it, I have a deep need to share this experience with the people in my life. 

But that is truly terrifying. 

I am simultaneously drawn by a gravitational force to say, "hey I wrote this thing, please read it! It will tell you what's been going on up here" as I point to my spaghetti noodle brains. 

And yet, I am also screaming at myself, "DON'T do it!!! Don't let them read it...then they will see you..."

Then they will see me. Really see me. 

Broken parts and all. 

The way I lose a grand vocabulary and am suddenly left with nothing but swear words to express what I feel.

My beliefs or questions that when read, could result in being judged as things I am not. 

My desires and longings. 

The ways in which I struggle to trust God or I get swept up by the emotions of life. 

They might see me. 

As I am writing, one particular piece of writing is coming to mind. Last Spring, after an emotional evening I found myself on the couch of my apartment, physically unable to sit down and write an assignment for my Musical Theatre class until I wrote about the things I needed to say. 

So I pulled out my laptop. 

In acting, my professor has often said when looking for monologues, we should look for the 'words we need to say.' 

So that's what I did. 

And it failed utterly. 

My furious search of the internet only brought up more things that caused me to explode. 

So I opened a google doc...and I wrote. 

I wrote for five pages. And I wrote 'My Own Damn Monologue.' These five pages documented my experience for the past year and a half of being unvaccinated and receiving very hurtful discrimination and slander for it, especially from people who didn't know me. 30 or so minutes later, the angry questioning and desperate pleas turned into a very hopeful wish for something different and better. A wish for our society to learn how to disagree. To have conversations about our differences, and to seek to learn from one another. 

This piece of writing documented my experience. It didn’t shy away from the shittiness I felt. But it also turned into something hopeful and redemptive. God was still present in that experience, and that reflected in my writing. 

Recently, I have been thinking back on this piece of writing. It was the first time I had written something in a long time (other than my normal journaling) and it sparked the desire in me to start writing again, much like I do on this blog. 

I have felt a desire to share the words I wrote, maybe in an edited form, maybe not, with others. 

But also...that terrifies me. Vaccination is a very tricky subject for a lot of people. 

I am afraid of being judged or hated. And I am afraid of my own judgment on my writing. 

I am afraid of what people might think of this moment of Sophi 'losing it' and starting the monologue off with more "f" words than I ever say in my day to day life. 

I'm afraid it won't make sense. The grammatical errors would be too much. That my story and vision in the piece won’t be seen by others.

And I'm afraid to edit it. To need to revise it to make more sense, because in my mind that writing should be frozen in time. 

This wrestling I am experiencing with sharing this piece of writing encapsulates the struggle of the vulnerability of sharing writing. 

Writing is very personal. It contains pieces of us. It is often rooted, sometimes explicitly, and sometimes imaginatively, in our experiences. 

And often when we share it with others, we will receive feedback. Judgements on our work. Suggestions. And possible reactions to our stories. 

That can be terrifying. But it can also be very rewarding. 

Sharing my writing with others has thrived the most when those reading it have created space for failure. When they have expressed a suspension of judgment on my person. When I know someone will not hate me for a belief I hold, and instead judge me for my heart and actions, then I am so much more able to freely share my writing. When there is room for mistakes and failure, both in content and form, and the tone of the writing workshop is to help each other grow and communicate more clearly, I have experienced fruitfulness in allowing others to read my writing. 

It can be so scary and vulnerable. And when feedback is given hostilly or with the expectation of perfection, the sharing of writing can be miserable. But when feedback is given with grace and room for failure, it can create a positive experience of learning. 

Even writing this, I feel a little terrified to share it with you all. After all, I have no way of guaranteeing who will or won’t read my writing, or what your reaction might be. But I hope you will hold space for grace, and know I am very imperfect. In my writing, and as a human. 

Sincerely, 

Sophi