Two things are true.

The desire to write fiction is affecting my ability to show up here. It’s locking up the gears. Suddenly, my pen had no ink. I’m giving a silence when I’ve been called chatty my whole life. My voice must have started a game of hide and seek without telling me, and turns out to be a skilled hider.

But I keep thinking about all the stories I can tell. With fiction, I get to wonder and make believe who I want to be. Getting to wear a mask of sorts, a game of anonymity. I can reimagine scenarios and try on different reactions and emotions. I can pull from me or you or from thin air, and no one would know the difference. There is such magic and power in that. I can camouflage myself or play dress up as someone else and leave the reader guessing at which I’m doing. It’s a practice of indulgence and submergence. Exploring paths untraveled, decisions not made, the what ifs, and the could have beens. It’s a freedom only limited by my imagination. It’s safe, all under the protection of being made up. A story crafted from my mind. I’ve always loved how novels have the fiction disclaimer on the publication page- “This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.”

I refer to this as the fictional get-out-of-jail-free card. This disclaimer allows authors to shed insecurity and let it all show. It allows for risky choices, ambiguous morals, and space to explore all the different people that might be within your soul.

So, writing fiction is a little scary for me because it’s new. But newness is liberating. Step Brother’s reference- “There’s so much room for activities” in the world of writing fiction. However, newness can cast a shadow over what we already have, losing sight of the beauty of what was.

I started as a private journaler. I would’ve rotted in a grave sooner than let anyone read what I put in my notebooks. Yet, I read, and I grew. Devouring the stories of others illuminated the voice in me waiting to break out. This led me to this blog. Here, it’s all me- baring and sharing things that make me shrivel. It’s all my truths, on a stage, solo, brightest spotlight blinding me as I expose myself. I am opening myself up for judgment and not even attempting to paint a pretty picture of my life. I’ve never been much of an artist.

The vulnerability is terrifying.

But there’s a supercharged magic in vulnerability. Vulnerability comes in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes she’s corners, others she chases, but she’s always watching and giving me the opportunity to face her. Every time I look her in the eyes, I’m lighter for it. A kind of lightness hiding could never offer.

I am a firm believer that two things can be true. I will find myself 100 times over in infinite ways in the stories I create and tell. But hiding within my stories will never free me in the same way as owning it in my own voice does.

I don’t want to give up this outlet to hermit in make-believe. I’ve come too far to only come this far. I am an aspiring novelist and blogger. Two things are true.