Being read - being watched

Lots of people commented on my writings. Some liked it more than others. But I did not expect the effect it would have on my other writings.

My writings started on a personal note. A play of mind, an outlet for thoughts of sorts. An intellectual and psychological steam vent: once it is on paper, it is out of mind, making room for more steam that in my case seems to be akin to breathing. “Why do you think so much” they ask me some times. “Because I breath” I think in reply.

So I write my thoughts down, in a way running a coolant through the engine of my existence. No other intention. As such, there is no expectation of the rightness of form or contents.

Once you let many people read it, it all becomes less personal. It becomes your face more than your mind or heart. There is then, the knowledge of being judged, an onus to be responsible for your thoughts, at least on paper.

Some artists say they don’t care what others may think, but they do oh so very much. If they really did not care they would not notice the judgements.

I used to write whatever I wanted, and paint the world any colour I like. Sometimes the blacker the better – would be letting it out of my system. Other times quite abstract, or inconsistent, or subjective – like any personal writings are. Yet other times the muse would pass by, and some beautiful thing would happen on paper. But I would never see any of it: I was too close to it.

The first story about coffee in Toronto was written for myself with no regard to what it might be seen as. I had no idea that negativism would be shining through in that piece. I thought it was humorous. At least three people commented on the darkness of it. They saw it through their own prisms. The humorous part was that they were actually right. I long for home.

So now I write constantly aware that someone will be reading this, someone who I might even not know. Not that I am worried about being judged or misunderstood. It is more like being watched. Like having security cameras that may or may not be on, but you never know. Every muscle in your body becomes aware, every muscle stiffens slightly. Same now with my writing: every thought is slightly tenser – I am being watched.

The next piece about the snow was an effort with a smile. The feedback was accordingly.

Now I am faced with a judgement dilema. Bad reviews would be bad but simple to deal with. Good reviews are tougher. Good reviews from family and friends are lovely, but clearly they are in the context of these people knowing me. Then there are comments from people who know me very little. They are politely nice.

The implications of going public are logical in retrospect, but somehow it is a revelation at the time. If you flop, then that is just that. If you don’t, then there is an expectation of more. You feel obliged to make an effort. Then you make an effort and at best come up with a Hollywood quality something: technically impressive, but little or no inspiration; at best a flawless diamond that just does not sparkle.