I have a cousin who enjoys writing just as I do. She has actually turned her tales into books that have been embraced by a faithful following of readers who enjoy her stories of romance. She deals in fiction. I deal with life as it is for me and the people that I know. Opening my heart for all the world to see is sometimes dangerous because there will always be people who never quite understand why I think and feel the way I do. 

Each of us reacts to life differently. Thus if I lean a particular way politically or choose a certain way to do things I run the risk of alienating someone with my honesty about my likes and dislikes. If I had created a character to speak my words or spread my message I suspect that I would win more friends and influence more people. Fiction is a powerful vehicle for touching hearts and minds. The make believe world if composed well creates the possibility of opening honest discussions without the element of judgement. 

I sometimes wonder if I should take a page from my cousin’s playbook and let some beloved character speak my words rather than ascribing them to myself. I run the risk of sounding preachy or like a broken record but a well crafted heroine can be both humanly flawed and beloved at the same time. Somehow we tend to be much more forgiving of an invented person who makes mistakes or has quirks than we are of real people who admit to their foibles and failings. Memoirs can so easily be misunderstood. 

I understand that when I use real people and actual events to express or illustrate my feelings I run the risk of alienating those who overlay their own experiences onto my thoughts. Because I am real, not make believe, they are more likely to experience deeper connections that may or may not include the actual intent of what I have written. In fact I have learned in my years as a blogger that many people think that my honest assessments would best be left unspoken. They feel uncomfortable reading personal details of my life or my thoughts. They are of the mind that some things should never be openly discussed. They believe that there is something quite selfish about airing emotions in public. 

I do not deny that they may be right. I sometimes rewrite sentences or paragraphs lest they make someone who reads them feel uncomfortable. Words on a page are so permanent and they do not have a two way connection that allows me to explain when “that is not what I meant at all.” 

I have lost the following of some of the people who at first enthusiastically encouraged me to write. In the earliest days I was fearful of being honest so I forged lighthearted essays designed to make people feel good. I hid pain in comedy and only exposed the good parts of my journey through life. I did not want to reveal my feet of clay or the wounds on my heart. I was afraid of being misjudged and so I held back my deepest fears and cloaked my beliefs in lighthearted scenarios. I suppose that in some ways I was creating fiction without even realizing it. 

I have always been drawn to biographies but even more charmed by autobiographies in which famous people tell their life stories with transparency. As a child I read about the saints, realizing that even in my youth I preferred to emulate the souls who were the most imperfect. I found them to be more real and likable because I knew that I was certainly never going to be thought of as a saint. The thoughts rolling through my head seemed to insure that I was far from reaching perfection. I literally celebrated when I learned that Mother Teresa was often filled with doubt and anger. Her imperfections made her more dear to me. She was one of us, an imperfect human with all that being so implies. 

I suspect that we each carry different ideas about how we open we should be. I do understand those who feel uncomfortable with total honesty. It can indeed sometimes sound whiny or even like a betrayal. Knowing how much to reveal and how to portray the most difficult situations can be tricky in nonfiction whereas a fictional character can generally carry the same messages with far less impunity.

I read Harry Windsor’s autobiography with an open mind. What I discerned from his tell all story was that he had been traumatized by the death of his beloved mother. His suffering defined so many of his missteps and unfortunate behaviors for much of his youth and early adult years. In telling his story I believe that he was attempting to show us how unlike a fairytale his life as a prince had been. He was imperfect and so were the people around him but many of them insisted on continuing to pretend. I think he realized that all of the pomp and circumstance and stifling of truth that defined royalty had destroyed his mother. His brutally honest telling of his story was in many ways a homage to her that some of us embraced while others viewed him as a traitor. That is the dilemma that almost always happens whenever anyone steps forward to reveal their personal truths. 

I love people and generally accept them as they are. I sometimes forget that not everyone is as generous in their judgements. Nonetheless my goal in writing as I do is to touch hearts. If I manage to do that now and again I am satisfied. I have grown too old to worry about what others may think of me. I no longer want to hide the person that I am nor do I wish to engage in arguments about what I believe. I am very much of the mind that we each have so much value along with so many shortcomings. This is the natural way of life. Perhaps if we were all more willing to quietly talk to each other and support each other’s ways of coping with an often hostile world life would be better for everyone. I will continue to share my wins and my losses while knowing that I will probably be judged. It is my way of attempting to help our wounded world. I don’t want to pretend to be anything other than who I am.