Writing, when done honestly, strips the writer of everything they put on when “going out into society.”
Flaws in their thinking, gaps in logical processes, and blurry understandings become apparent – and if one publishes their writing, publicly so. The clearer one writes, the clearer such shortcomings are; the more concisely a point is communicated, the easier it is to tear it apart and prove incomplete, insufficient.
Sometimes readers forget that writers are human. They read a written piece, and assume that the author still thinks and feels the way they did; they assume that, since the writer is expressing themselves, what they have created is part of them. Readers perhaps try to be kind by doing so, giving the writer the benefit of the doubt when what is written falls short of perfection.
This does no one justice, not even the words themselves. The stark nakedness of the writer is still laid out, with all its glaring imperfections and potential for evolution. No insightful interpretation, no thoughtful response, no well-meant review could offer the most meagre undergarments to cover its glory, its shame, its being. Readers explore, probe, and stare promiscuously, their own selves clothed and protected behind the playacting of external and sophisticated examination.
Sometimes I’d consider an opportunity that’s more visually revealing, discuss it with my family, and have them ask me if I’m sure I want to go public in that way. A moment of hesitation later, I’d decide to keep videos and pictures of my physical person offline (save for a precious few), and step away from the video or photo shoot.
But then a nagging whisper tells me I’ve already gone further than that in baring my mind and soul to the casual glances of people I’ve never met.
It frightens me.