Roughly two-and-a-half years ago, as the pandemic was really starting to take off, civil unrest sparked by economic ruin and police brutality (among many other things) hit every major city in the country, and social media was full of the worst takes on the situations known to man posted by people I loved and revered, I decided to wipe my existence off the internet with no plans of returning.
To quell the worries and fears of the people who would notice (by then, my instagram had over 3,000 followers, and I was known for posting amature nature photography accompanied by cute little captions under the pictures), I promised that I would return after a few months. Well… it’s been two-and-a-half years since I got the fuck off social media, and I am not interested in returning. At least, not to keep track of what high school peers from five years ago are up to, or to look through family photos posted for the world to see.
If I return to social media, it will be from scratch, using a pen name (that I will also publish my writing under). What that pen name will be, I am not sure. When it comes to names and terms, I am terrible at them. I can hardly come up with names, let alone commit to and remember them. When I get closer to publishing my shit, I’m gonna need some help with coming up with a pen name, remembering it, replacing my real name with my pen name in my writings, and sticking to it.
Why do I want to publish under a pseudonym? For one, I like my privacy, and I also want to give my family privacy. After all, I share a last name with people who… let’s just say, I don’t write too nicely about in my memoir (and rightfully so). But, that doesn’t mean I want to set fires in their lives that I really have no business setting. I hope that makes sense to those who know what I’m referring to.
Also, I don’t want my memoir to be used as a weapon against people and places that have severely wronged me in the past. The dust from my past settled years ago. I have no interest in going after people who hurt me, even if they deserve it. That’s not the point of my memoir.
The point of my memoir, in my eyes, is/was to process my past, based on what I knew and remembered. It’s not to roast people at the stake for wronging me in some way. It’s not to burn bridges and ruin people’s lives. The memoir was (and still is) just a way for me to make sense of and heal from all that I went through growing up. Considering how I am doing now, I’d argue that writing not only saved me from getting addicted to something far more detrimental. But it also saved my life many, many times.
And, to be entirely honest, I also hope that by becoming a published author, I will become financially stable and independent more quickly than if I entirely rely on graduating college and getting into a 9-5 career. In other words, I want out of my mom’s basement, and I’m sure she does too. So, why not use my writing to do just that?
However, the thing about things going public is that it’s… well… public. And publicity (and just attention in general) fucking terrifies me. But, I’m starting to realize that, if I’m gonna be successful at basically anything in today’s world, I better get used to being in the public eye on some level.
No, I don’t plan on getting famous, nor do I want to be famous. If I end up getting famous off my writing, not only will I be shocked, I will probably panic and drop off the grid for another two-and-a-half years, at least. But, if life’s taught me anything, it’s that literally anything and everything is very possible, especially because of the family I have. Obviously, I love my family to bits despite our disagreements and different views on the world. But, my family is also full of super-connected-loud-mouths, and I don’t know how to even begin to think or cope about that. Let alone, how to… protect my writing (for lack of a better term) from that… if it’s even possible.
Now, what do I mean by “super-connected-loud-mouths”? Well… my mom’s a real estate agent of over fifteen years on the verge of launching her own real estate company, and my dad’s a construction businessman who has owned a couple of small companies throughout his career, and is currently on a mission to become one of the “big dogs” of the construction business. Don’t ask me for details, because I don’t have them. But, just based on what little I’ve been told by my family (and the fact that my mom wants me to contribute to her business using my camera and attention-to-detail skills), things are getting a little… uhhhh… scary.
My family probably isn’t gonna become like the Kardashians or Robertsons (at least, I hope to God not), but I can’t deny their rising influence and affluence. Don’t get me wrong, I am very grateful for the privileges and opportunities I enjoy thanks to the connections my family has. But again, it’s just… scary… to me, that people like Dr. Francis Collins and Boomer Esaison know who I am by name, and there’s a very good chance that both of them (and many others like them) have some of my art (my mom loves to send my art to people she knows and works with, with my permission, of course).
Plus, I’ve had many awkward conversations with people who seem to know everything about me, down to the speeches I had to give in my college speech class, when I have literally no idea who they are. There’s nothing quite like doing everything I can to avoid one of my mom’s get-togethers, only to come home early to find a state representative in my dining room.
Do I try to talk to them? No. Do I try to sneak into my bedroom before anyone can notice that I’m home? Yes. Does Penny always rat me out the second I stomp up the concrete steps to my front porch? Of course. Do I ever say anything intelligent while around lots of strange adults who are apparently very powerful members of the community and want to get to know me? Absolutely not.
My public speaking skills are pretty...uhhhh... rough, especially when it's completely impromptu. Hell, half the time, I can’t even say what I want to say when I’m around friends and family, because my mind-mouth coordination is pretty terrible. It’s another reason why I write to express myself and convey my wants and needs. Because, if I didn’t, I’m willing to bet that most people would think that I’m borderline illiterate, considering how often I stutter and misspeak, especially when I’m interacting with people I haven’t known for at least three months.
Anyway…
This has become one hell of a disjointed ramble. I honestly can’t recall when or why I started this piece in the first place, other than the fact that I’ve been trying to figure out what might happen if/when I become a published author. And in doing so, I’ve come to realize that, whatever I publish, will likely be much more far-reaching that I really want it to. Which, as I’ve reiterated a bunch already, scares me to death. And, I need to get over that fear.
To get over a fear, one must first admit it, then write about it, then talk about it, then write some more, then talk about it, then write some more, then dip your toes in it, then write about that, so on and so fourth till the fear is manageable. At least… that’s what works best for me.
