I'm writing a book. Quite plainly, it is simultaneously exhausting and wonderful. Looking back on past events and then writing about them is comparable to seeing a therapist for an hour or more everyday. The difference is that you are talking to yourself but there is no one there to listen, which is just as crazy as it sounds.
I can't believe how motivated I am. I don't feel conceited in the slightest by wanting to write about my own experiences, rather I hope that my story will help someone else. I hope that when this is all said and done there will be a stranger who reads my words and finds courage to talk about things. Our society lacks true honesty. It's ironic that we demand honesty from everyone around us, yet we refuse to be honest with ourselves. The only reason I have gotten so far in the past year is because I've made a extremely difficult choice--to be honest with myself and everyone else. It's freeing.
Despite how exciting this is and all of my motivation, I can't help pondering what people might think of me. What happens when my words--all of those things I've kept hidden in the bindings of journals or buried deep inside of me--are printed across a page? What happens when people don't like my honesty because the reality of things is too difficult to hear?
