I met some people this weekend that let me into their private little worlds. We met each other for the first time in an university classroom, sitting in a circle in hard plastic chairs attached to small table tops, which acted as desks. They unabashedly revealed the effects of suicide, the repercussions of fighting in the Vietnam War, the painful disclosure of a half sibling, and the ache of locked-in syndrome. I sat listening and amazed at the degree they could open themselves up to me, a complete stranger. They were not concerned with being judged or thought of as unbalanced beings. I was privy to such information as one classifying himself as a loner and one being on antidepressants. All was disclosed casually and with great ease. They simple wrote and spoke about their lives. That’s why we were there, to participate in a creative writing workshop.
I’m used to an academic setting. The debate over characters’ motivations, the writer’s intentions, the infusion of literary theories, and the social implications are all familiar topics of discussions for me. However, this type of classroom setting was drastically different and I couldn’t find my place. Sure, I participated and commented on their writing, but I just couldn’t bring myself to share my story, face to face. Maybe it was too soon, maybe I wasn’t ready, or maybe my writing was just garbage that day and I knew it and didn’t want to embarrass myself. Some may say, “But you write and put it on the Internet for any one and everyone to read.” To me though, that is different. Being visually present as my prone-to-stutter voice unfolds the story and feeling everyone’s eyes on me is one step beyond comfortable. If I let people read my work I don’t see their expressions, their emotions and judgments coming through, as they feel my words.
I realized during my weekend that everyone has felt judged or embarrassed by something they said or did. It’s the ones that persist and say, “So what?” that find admiration at their doorstep.
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