Recently, my editor of Hope Whispers anthology asked all her contributors to submit a blog entry about what inspired them to write such uplifting pieces, to tell the story behind the story. I was thrilled with the idea, one, because it was something new to try for a virgin blogger like me and two, because it would help promote future sales of the anthology as well as create interest in my writing.

I sat, fingers poised above the keys of my computer, thinking this would be a simple task, only to discover I’d come down with an acute case of stage fright. Not writer’s block but actual bashfulness about revealing more of myself. I wasn’t sure how much more about me I really wanted to share with readers, some perfect strangers, some friends.

My poem “Intervention” concerned subject matter very close to the bone, very personal. So close, I couldn’t dwell on it long enough to create a full-length essay. Instead, I boiled it down to its bare essence, hit raw, emotional, salient points and moved on. I couldn’t dwell among the endless adjectives and metaphors reflecting the dark turmoil in my psyche.

But then sometimes, a poem couldn’t do justice to a specific topic. Therefore, to get my point across in “A Sincere Letter of Gratitude,” I was obliged to delve into a lengthy essay touching on three or four significant points in my journey through grief. I revealed small bits of my abusive past life, not to evoke pity or shock in the reader, but simple to provide hope to those who have walked in my shoes, those who were afraid to take a leap of faith and start over, those who couldn’t see life changing for the better.

My hesitancy, my shyness about blogging or not, in this case, was because I would be forced to expand on intimate circumstances. Some people found it easy to share their private thoughts on social networks like Facebook or Twitter, from comments about the weather and what’s for dinner to requests for three flattering words to describe them. Some used it as a platform to further their personal views on sexuality, and politics, and some use it as a sales tool, or as a forum for posting happy hour pictures. I was shocked at what people would indiscriminately disclose to searching eyes. Reading their diatribes was like slowing down to gawk at a carwreck, searching for blood but secretly hoping I wouldn’t see any.

My innermost thoughts, the real me, were carefully hidden among my words. I had a manager once say to me, “Carolyn, it’s what you don’t say that is so important.” His insights were keen because it  was so true. Publishing the real me would be like turning the tiny key in the lock of my little red diary and laying it open for the world to peruse. Thoughts could be taken out of context, misunderstood, unfairly judged.

So I stared at my blank computer screen, my blog yet to be disgorged from its safe hiding place among my personal thoughts. I didn’t want to disappoint my editor so perhaps I’d just blog a few juicy yet innocuous tidbits and hit send.

Hope Whispers is available at whisperingangelbooks.com, Amazon.com and BN.com along with most most online booksellers.