My last post – about writing fearlessly and honestly – generated a few concerned emails, including one from my mom. And, folks, that’s exactly why I’m afraid to write fearlessly and honestly.
I’m certainly no Izzy, and I have no personal interest in the kind of life she leads (subtext: Don’t worry mom, I’m a good boy). I only appreciate her willingness to reveal everything. Compared to her, I’m practically a churchmouse (same subtext). And yet I still stop shy of full disclosure and honest reporting.
For one thing, I work for a living, and there’s a whole lot I’m not actually entitled to say about my job – the clients I’m working for, the projects I’m working on.
On a more personal level, if I describe someone who makes me laugh, for example, I’m afraid it will come off as condescending. If I talk about one aspect of someone’s character, or a friendship, or a relationship (like my recent reference to unhappiness), I’m afraid it will be taken out of context or seen as my bottom-line assessment.
I see the world in shades of gray, and I’m afraid of being viewed in black and white.