I’m a turtle. I cherish the thick, hard shell that protects me from the world. Why the hell would I crack it off and let that world see the soft, easily-damaged flesh beneath?
This is what caused me to start and stop writing a memoir about my writing career so many times. A ridiculous number of times.
Even now, with the book ready for final revisions, I’m asking myself why am I doing this? Why am I putting my experiences and my crazy emotional ride on display? It feels a bit exhibitionist, to be honest.
Maybe it’s because it has finally penetrated my thick, hard shell that life is short and keeping my experiences and feelings locked in a closet isn’t really living.
Turtles only pull their heads and appendages inside their shells when they’re under threat. Otherwise, they’re walking about, enjoying the sunshine.