One of the things that makes it so hard for me to write–even though in writing I find an avenue of peace, of life–is that I am totally bound up in a consciousness of other people. Other people think things, after all, and what if they think of me?
As far back into my life as I can remember there has been a sort of fretfulness, an intensity of worry simmering right at the surface of all the creativity and personhood, kind of like scum rising when the contents of a soup begin to boil. One ought to scrape it off, surely, or one ought to let it boil out; but my usual response has just been to turn down the creativity and walk away. I hide, that way. Like the proverbial talent buried in the ground, or the light securely fastened beneath a bushel, I turn down my voice and cower lest something naked in me be seen.