A Rant of Jealosy

I am pleased to share a blog by an author buddy of mine.  I can so relate to this rant.  There is a reason my author picture does not show my face; until I make enough writing to do it for a living, some degree of anonymity is critical.  In fact, I took inspiration from Ann’s Facebook profile picture when shooting my own. So without further ado…

Guest post by Ann Livi Andrews

ann's image

I’m jealous.

No intro. No buffer.

I’m jealous of people who live their lives openly and honestly. No filters. No masks. No holding back. No holding in.

I romanticize musicians who can scream out their hearts, souls, and emotions into the air around them until their voices are exhausted, artists who can shine light upon the nightmares that plague them and the daydreams that elude them, and dancers who can close their eyes and let their bodies express emotions that their mouths cannot pronounce.

I expected to be able to do this as an author. I thought I’d be able to spill the hurt and joy that I’ve kept bottled up for 30 years without repercussion or judgment.

But there’s fear. Fear of hurting those I love, and even those I don’t love. I don’t want to offend. Never want to insult. Between being raised in an extremely conservative environment and allowing those who know me knowledge of my work and pseudonym, there’s enough there to keep me from ever being 100% honest. But add to that an ever rising sense of political correctness that ruins more careers than saves hurt feelings and I begin to wonder if it’s worth it.

By not writing what my pen truly wants to scribble am I being dishonest? Somehow contaminating my work?

When I created Ann Livi, I was giving myself the opportunity to be myself. But she’s only a step closer to fully exposing my heart and soul—my inner core. I hide behind religion. I hide behind familial obligations. I hide behind censorship. I hide behind political correctness. I hide behind the people I’ve been told to be and the people I’ve been told that I am.

I’m increasingly angry at my superficial writing, scared to pick at the wounds I very much want to rub raw. My fear of rejection is kept well hidden beneath this self-serving idea that by holding it all in, I’m helping others.

And so I’m jealous. Because words fail to express what I see in art, feel in dance, and hear in music.

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