If writing is your release, you can’t completely let go without anonymity. I don’t care what anyone says about honesty or transparency. Any person who cares even the slightest bit about at least one other person has a few things they feel but will never say.
Even with anonymity, I don’t think I’m there yet. I don’t know if I’ll be there in a year. Why? Pride. Even a few days in, I’m proud of some of the things I’ve written here. I’m not proud enough to think any of my work is going to become an overnight sensation. I don’t entertain any delusions of unexpected wealth (and I’m obviously trying to avoid fame). But I do want to be able to share what I’ve written with my family one day.
Knowing that will happen –knowing I’ll one day invite them in –is it possible for me to really ‘let it all out?’ If so, will I have to lie? “Oh, I embellished a bit. It just makes for a better story.” Is it selfish to even ask? Am I more concerned with hurting their feelings or that they’ll be angry and upset with me?
Must I create a cellarsubfloor? Do I need an outlet for only my deepest and darkest thoughts? What if one of those stories ends up being a masterpiece? Can I smother my pride and carry the secret to my grave?
Even now, I realize how proud I sound. How presumptuous of me to think my family and friends will care about my work –the things I think about them at their worst –at my worst.
In reality there is, perhaps no one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive and will every now and then peep out and show itself; you will see it, perhaps, often in this history. For even if I could conceive that I had completely overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility. – Benjamin Franklin