Hiding My Art

Work - May

There’s something about conceiving and the high of orgasm between two ideas and then there’s a pregnancy that’s so private, intimate and personal. You don’t want it to end and yet it has to end, at some point. Success is delivering the baby and letting the world enjoy it too.

It makes me think of my own ideas (although I hate calling ideas, babies. I find them to be equals rather)

I’ve been in pregnancy for so long. Wanting my words to be as protected as possible. I didn’t want to be told what’s considered good or not in writing (still don’t)

I’ve heard it for far too long. ‘This is the way to do it’, ‘This is what success looks like’

Didn’t want to hear it anymore.

Now I’ve been wondering how long to be pregnant for? What if I show you my babies (still cringe) and you bully them? What if you like them so much you want to own them?

Questions that keep me awake at night.

There’s no win. I’ll cry if my writing is hated, I’ll cry even harder if it’s loved.

Making me wonder. Why do I even bother? If there are so many fears tied to it, why continue?

I don’t know and maybe one day I’ll put the pen down.

I’ve never bothered to find out where writers go. They seem to be those hidden figures in the art world. The awkward ones that would rather be unknown. It’s the singers, actors, pop stars, painters .. that see the red carpets.

Writers hide.

So I follow suit, always searching for private spaces to express thoughts and yet feeling the hunger for them to be discussed publicly. But then I wonder, are they even that important for public consumption?

How would I know, when I’ve never dared to explore?

So I sit here with babies I’ve been hiding in the basement for decades. Now it’s even harder to show them. The basement has definitely made them weird.

We hide even more. It’s safer this way.

Thembeka