She held the pen in her fingers, undecided. Should I let it out? Should I hold myself back? Should I word this as a fictional piece so that I can pour unto this paper all my thoughts unfiltered and always say “well this is a fictional story”. The guise of fiction sounded tempting.
She hadn’t always been like that, she wrote what her felt, her experiences, thoughts, anger, pain, laughter, love, she poured it all out. Her candid thoughts and direct style of writing is what her readers loved about her and had made her famous. But fame is always at a price.
Writing was a hobby, a passion but not her profession and she intended it to be this way. She had a lucrative job and a career which she did not want to give up on. But her writing had almost threatened to destroy the career she had so carefully and painstakingly built.
Thats when she started to hold back, rationalise, think twice. After all, its not my writing that will put bread on the table. Her writings took on a different style, plainer, diplomatic, not the real she.
But today was different, she ached to talk about her story, the betrayal she had endured so that more women do not fall for the same thing she did. She did not feel like wording it as a fictional story. This is my story and I do not want to hide it. I made mistakes but I was true in this relationship. Sharing my story will soothe those who are going through similar pain and will give them strength. But what about people at my workplace who are sure to read it? Do I want to put such intimate details of my life out there?
As she searched for these answers, her early days as writer, that first post she wrote , the first comment, the first troll attack, the first trending blog, the first award, everything flashed before her eyes. She knew what she had to do. She had a long night ahead but a worthwhile one it would be.
This post is linked with Fiction Mondays hosted by Vinitha