“I will make mistakes. I will write hideous chapters. I will post said chapters without knowing how hideous they are. I will manage to insult someone. Maybe lots of someones. I will show an appalling lack of judgment.”
That’s what I reminded myself, over and over, before I started writing under my own name. I knew all those things wouldn’t happen all the time.(Or, hopefully, all at once.) But I knew each one was a possibility. Hell, all of them happened back when I was writing under pen names! Now they would happen again—and this time everyone would know the real person who screwed up.
But I really, really wanted to write under my own name. I was tired of hiding. (Not that everyone who uses a pen name is hiding! Let me make that clear; I’m just talking about me.) Anyway, I knew I had to make peace with this fact—the fact that I would make a fool out of myself—before finding the guts to say, “Hey, look! This is the real me writing this stuff.”
I’ll be honest: it’s an uneasy peace. But I’m glad I did it. I’m glad I came out of the writing closet. And if I do screw up—if I offend someone, if I type in anger and repent at leisure, if I post a really, really bad story—the real me might as well be accountable.
No one’s ever going to mistake me for a perfect human being. I’m starting to be okay with that.