I’ve been told not to expose my weaknesses to anyone, lest they use them against me or think me a weak fool. I’ve been told I should make it look like I’m perfect, and everything is always well.

I believed them, for a long time. But I realized something recently:

I am an author.

I write in blood and tears.

My soul is already exposed in ways that sometimes I don’t even realize until I return to the page months later during an editing session.

I am not weak for prying open the dark parts of myself and rummaging around to examine them. This is what authors DO. For centuries, authors of all kinds have done this. Maybe we authors are a brave bunch, or maybe we’re foolish, or maybe just weird for wondering how the universe ticks.

But the one thing we are NOT is weak. It takes a strong constitution to be willing to stare into the blackness of men’s souls and try to make something of it.

I also realized that in shaming me for having emotions and frustrations and struggles, the people doing the shaming are in effect making me censor myself.

As a proponent of free speech, I think I’ve had enough with the self-inflicted “societal expectations” muzzle, thankyouverymuch.

So I’m going to go ahead and speak my mind from here on out. If you don’t want to hear about me dealing with depression as an author or writing about my possibly overly convoluted opinions about AI or rambling about the philosophy of storytelling, your browser comes equipped, free of charge, with this magical little “back” button than instantaneously carries you away to more interesting things.