A Writer's Dilemma
I have a problem as a writer. No, it has nothing to do with having nothing to say. It's about sharing work with people I know. Now, I realize this sounds strange coming from a writer of a publicly mounted blog, but it's not about the entries I make on here. As most everyone knows, I, along with many others, keep these entries at least private enough in nature so as to not betray any real confidences or identities of those individuals I'm speaking about. Also, it's easy to see that I go to some lengths to keep any pertinent facts about myself concealed from the masses, which in and of itself sounds awful self-congratulatory in that it's highly unlikely that more than two or three people read this forum regularly. Regardless, you get my drift.
What I'm faced with now, though, is the request by two frequent commenters, and friends of mine, on this site to share with them some of my other writing, specifically some poetry I've amassed over the years. Now, when asked about it, I had absolutely no qualms about sharing them, especially the select packet that I gave a classmate at my undergraduate school to read. It's these select poems that I feel are the best representations of what I write about, and I've earmarked them as the ones that I'll be giving to these individuals. However, I'm troubled by this, not because I'm afraid of criticism, but because the very nature of a good portion of these poems are made up in all regards. Very little, perhaps none, of the passages I've written are directly applicable to my own life and experiences, which leads me to the quandary I'm in presently.
Why I'm bothered by this aspect is due to the fact that I know these people, and I know them well enough and vice-versa that it will not be easy for them to read these poems without any sort of detachment that differentiates the writer from the product. I would like to believe that writing is an accurate portrayal of one's personality, at least in many cases, but in this instance, these works don't fit into that same category of work. I realize that some writers are nowhere near the type of personality that they portray in their works, but others are incredibly embodied in their creations. They are physical manifestations of their words. It sounds odd, and maybe a bit pretentious, but that's the way I see writers and their writing.
Now, how do I resolve this situation? It's odd that I would feel so strongly about this because as an undergrad I read most, if not all, of these at a coffeeshop open-mic to people that I knew just as well, if not moreso in some instances. Nothing was ever said at this point and time, and I really don't expect anything to be said now, but I have mixed emotions about it nonetheless.
One reason I can think of is that most of the writing is old, many years old, which may or may not say anything to anyone. Work can persist the tests of time, but when I read these works I still feel some sense of pride in them, but I also feel some sense of detachment and distance from the, as if they're from someone else entirely. I know that I wrote these works, and I don't want to imply that I'm going through some sort of crisis regarding age, and creative drives. I think many people, especially other writers, can relate to this notion, a sort of mishmash of nostalgia and mid-life crisis if you will.
I'm resolved and committed at this point to sharing this work, and I won't renig on that, but I'm curious as to what will come of it. In fact, now that I think about it, I'm more curious than worried about the ramifications of what might occur, perhaps nothing but also perhaps something.