“Vulnerability is the birthplace of connection and the path to feeling worthiness. If it doesn’t feel vulnerable, the sharing is probably not constructive.” -Brene Brown

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been questioning what I am trying to accomplish with my writing and couldn’t come up with much of an answer, other than to not write seems impossible. Writing has become a necessary part of my existence.

Ten months ago, I embarked on the journey to become a “professional” writer. I now have, a blog that I pay for to avoid any ads, business cards I haven’t given to anyone, a website that I barely maintain, and a published book that I have no interest in promoting. While I do write every day, I feel more like an unpaid intern than a professional writer.

The pragmatic approach is to promote my writing and then ask people to pay for it. Simple. However, if I was pragmatic, I wouldn’t be a writer. The struggle of the “starving artist” makes sense to me now. To promote oneself to the masses means one would have to understand the masses, which I most certainly do not. And if I did, I’m not so sure I would want to cater to them, even if it ensured financial success.

The vulnerability that comes out in my writing, isn’t meant for the masses. Nor, is it meant to be kept secret in journals and diaries. There is a liminal space where my writing belongs, at least for the time being. In my unpaid intern writer role, my only aim is to write my truth from a vulnerable place. If I can do this, the rest will take care of itself, however that may be.

Today, I will focus on being vulnerable both on paper and off. When I feel stuck, I will remember that the goal is in the creation, not on how it is received. My words are my paint brushes that mix, spread, shade, and fill, the canvas of life that surrounds me. I am only responsible for the art of it, not how others will view it.