I suck at being vulnerable in person. I hold my cards close to my chest in the presence of all but a very few people. Yet, when I sit down to write, I let fly.
It’s certainly more comfortable for me, as an introvert, to be vulnerable whilst home alone in front of my tablet screen (when I get my book sold, the first fruits of the sale shall be invested in a decent laptop). It’s still not easy to allow you, dear reader, into my head. It’s uncomfortable like a thong that’s a size and a half too small.
But there’s a method to my madness; a reason for laying it all out for anyone who cares to click and read.
I’m an idealist. I envision a world that accepts, holds space, and is kind. Universally. It’s troubling to me that the world I envision contrasts so sharply with the world that exists. Keeping my idealism to myself won’t change that. Living out my ideals in the world will change a little, but it’s not enough.
So I write. I write in hopes that my words will engender some small change in one heart, somewhere. I write in hopes of a butterfly effect, that the gentle movement of flapping my tiny wings will create a stir in my immediate vicinity which rustles the leaves and grows into a wind which changes the weather pattern globally. It’s a grand notion, but just maybe, if a few other dreamers flutter their wings too, that quiet wind of change will blow.