Expression and Being Heard

Enough politics for a bit…. I've been a writer most of my life—nonfiction and fiction. My primary forms are short stories and poems. I never had an audience or really sought one. A newspaper article I wrote was published in the local paper in high school after I sent it in at my mother's urging. My college art magazine accepted and published one of my poems and one of my drawings, which I submitted in a single, unusual moment of exhibitionism.

From the age of thirteen, I wrote erotica and prayed that no one would ever find it.

My writing skills served me in my various jobs. As far as "artistic" writing, I wrote purely because I was driven to do so. I wasn't one of those people who dreamed of being a published writer, I always assumed that in the vast ocean of authors, I wouldn't be anything special.

In the early 2000s, I stumbled one day upon slash fanfiction during an internet search about one of the Lord of the Rings filming locations. I was shocked and intrigued. I clicked, I read. At the time, there was really only one archive and some budding Yahoo groups. I found amongst the many less interesting works, three writers whose work I was compelled to read. I waited, anxiously, for their new postings.

And then I became inspired. I wrote, I posted. Within weeks, I had hundreds of fans and torrents of comments--nearly all of them compliments, and nearly all of them written with thought and care. I'm certain that's a peculiar experience few writers in the literary world enjoy. Surprisingly, most comments were about the literary quality of the writing as well as or rather than commentary on the erotic content. That gave me strength. I started my first novel, which took me over five years to finish.

The anonymity of writing fanfic under a pseudonym was freeing. I discovered that with an idea in mind, I could write and edit rapidly. I discovered the wonder of having a beta reader, and learned to accept sometimes very personal constructive criticism. Forums and archives were springing up (and disappearing), and my work spread across the internet and the world. I enjoyed popularity for the first time in my life. It became somewhat dangerously addictive. Getting that back in balance might be a topic for another entry.

Parallel with fanfic, I was writing original stories. In 2014, I had enough for a collection, and I decided to self-publish because of some of my fanfic reader comments about how I had touched their lives. It made me feel meaningful. My strange little stories about love, sex, loss, and coping would be out there in the world, floating in the ether long after I'm gone. If even a handful of people read the stories and are affected, finding greater acceptance and happiness, how cool would that be?

It has been an odd journey. Under this pseudonym, I have no fans or followers and only one goodreads friend so far—a dear one, one of the writers who inspired me in the first place. I'm not in a position to network among friends, family, colleagues. The tree is falling in the woods and there's no one to hear. I knew that would be the case when I decided to self-publish, and it is okay. Lack of an audience hasn't stopped the flow of words. Although I have little time these days to write, I show up to the page when I can make that time. The discipline necessary to keep up fanfic works in progress taught me that. Ultimately, I write because I must; whether or not anyone ever hears what I have to say, the expression itself is a necessity.