Yet we do it.
There’s truly a sense of exibitionism that imbues the organs of a writer. To lay bare the bones of your very existence for the world to see and to judge and then perhaps to be rejected by the established judges of the profession. Sadomasocism at it most acceptable.
Hours spent mining the cobwebbed corners of your psyche. Days suffering over revisions… Did I use that word too often? Is that verb to passive? How do I show the violence life subjects me to in so many supple sentences? How to bleed on a page without bleeding out? It’s vampirism, pure and simple. I am a gimp for the masses, though they don’t yet want my blood. Still I do try to bleed for them.
I hack at my veins with my pure white Mac, dribbling bits of myself into the cup that is Microsoft word. “Drink me,” I proclaim to the editors sifting through the slush pile that must be gelatinous and rank with the devotions of so many writing Renfields.
Some have tasted my prose and declared it to thin for their hearty appetites. Guess I should eat more iron with my verbs.