Before blogs I was happy to write in my journal and pour all my feelings into it. My first journal was a cute little yellow diary with a lock and I always wrote Dear Diary at the top, because I felt I was addressing a friend and it would be rude to not at least say hello before you got really personal about all the things you were thinking and feeling. I mean the diary was listening and so it was my respect thing, my way of being kind before monopolozing the conversation.
Now I have this impulsive thing to post on a public forum those same kind of journal entries. This kind of open and raw writing was my process for creating the first two books, The Wicca Cookbook and The Teen Spell Book, and it worked really well. I felt good and pregnant in the first book and I healed years of pain with the second book. They are still the best selling at most festivals and fairs out of the seven I've written.
But now I'm scared to be that honest. Now I'm entrenched in a story, sometimes he said, she said. Sometimes it's about fear and money. Sometimes it’s about belonging. Sometimes it's about worthiness.
And I'm resisting the impulse to talk about it all so viscerally. I'm labeling it as narcissistic. I'm calling it pandering. I'm saying it's some kind of sacrificing Lady Godiva thing. Like I have to be naked to be a true artist. I'm putting it in boxes and I said I was going to stop doing that.
I gotta let go and trust I know how to fly.