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I just realized why I have such a hard time publishing my writing that isn’t technical documentation.
I hate making nonfiction work public because it inevitably portrays others. Usually in ways they won’t appreciate, or it wouldn’t be notable.
I hate making fiction public because any story worth hearing has characters who are offensive or situations worthy of a content warning.
Put another way, I don’t care about making silent readers happy enough to deal Twitter threads and YouTube comments.


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This amazes me, because I write almost every day, but post nearly nothing publicly. I’ve never been able to figure out why I find it so hard to “finish”
a piece for others.
In many ways, it’s not just that I suffer criticism badly, but not by rejecting it. Instead, I seem to adopt a solipsistic spite. “Fine, if you don’t like my cooking so much, you can find your own dinner.” As it were. I’ll happily just cook to my own tastes and enjoy it alone.


And as frequently as some folks suffer under mansplaining, the spiritual equivalent of “not all men” seems to come from every marginalized group to which I belong, every time I share what I’ve experienced or used to cope with challenges. I’m not jewish, catholic, atheist, poor, rich, chronically depressed, physically disabled, or queer enough for my lived experiences to be those of the group. Maybe not Dolezal, but Modern Warrior’s quote on “passing” feels often unsaid.

by : j@fabrica:~/src; :t_blink: ;


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