There is an inside of me. She has bad days and feels self conscious about her frizzy hair. She gets impatient and cranky, she cries and complains and questions herself far more than she'd like to admit.
You may look at it and want more. Or find me extremely tiresome and dull. Maybe I don't have the best camera. Maybe you're measuring me by the snapshot, that I don't look like the other girls or have the cutest clothes or the best body. So I leave you an image that's a little fuzzy on the edges. Maybe it will make you squint and keep you from really seeing me. Because I'm scared, dear reader. Scared that you won't like me, will find me fake or corny, or worse yet- a bad writer.
But I realize, if I can't go out on a limb for this, what will I ever go out on a limb for?
And then I see that you can't judge me, because you don't know me, because I won't let you. If I let myself truly care for you, I will allow you to see me as I am, even on the bad days when writing feels like pulling teeth. There will be comments that hurt. You may decide you'd rather stop reading and move on. There will be people I've never met who suddenly know random facts about my life. (I'm an extrovert, but extremely private about my life outside of friends and family.)
I am edgy and offensive, sweet and sour, sure, shaky, brave and timid. But it's time I start showing you my full hand. Before you can write me off, I need to let you know me.
The real me, flaws and all.