Do You Understand “Perceived Reality?”

Christmas: a time of celebration and joy. It was fantastic this year, so much calmer than last year’s hectic dashes across Texas.

Yet again, though, I was faced with one of the most difficult things about writing. I am very open in my pieces about my feelings and impressions. I firmly believe that a writer should never change what they want to write just for someone else. That belief has gotten me in deep water and I’m not sure whether I’m treading or sinking.

Some of my stories on BookRix (excluding the longer pieces) and most of Freedom From Chains contain bits of my life. I won’t take them down and I won’t deny the way I felt when I wrote them, because I’m tired of people telling me that what I felt wasn’t real. A perceived reality is still a reality, so they remain. I published Freedom knowing that many people in my family would either be upset or would use it against each other for the simple fact that they were part of my past.

I am frustrated. So, so frustrated… I almost want to put a tagline on each of them saying, “This is the writer’s interpretation of events” but that is such a petty thing to do. There are about 20 people who would take this the wring way and most of them haven’t given me a second glance. Only a few are, and I refuse to cater to a few for a book that should be allowed to stand on it’s own. It is a work of art. In the same way that I refuse to skip over the sex parts in my books because my mother will read them, I refuse to censor my impressions because my family and close friends will read them.

At the same time, I find it rather adolescent for family or friends to nit-pick through those pieces searching for dirt on either myself or my parents. While most of you do not know me personally and will never meet my parents, know this: they are amazing. I don’t think another set of parents could have done a better job. I am healthy, smart, and passionate about things in life because of the values and lessons they taught me. I have skills most of my friends and co-workers lack because of their parenting. I was not an easy child, and they did a great job. I have short stories written about the love I have for both of my parents (although those are mysteriously forgotten). For someone to look at my perceptions of the world seen through a teenager’s mind and judge myself or my family is beyond me. On top of that, my struggles are out there to give solace and encouragement to others. To dig through those pieces just to point out my flawed ideology is hurtful. Mistakes are mistakes. Choices are choices. Consequences happen, but they do not define us. Our attitudes and the decisions after do define us.

Life is life. Every person has a point where they struggle to find themselves, and often during that time they fall and make mistakes. It’s part of growing up. I chose to write during that time, and it kept me grounded while I waded through insecurity and loneliness.

So please, if you’re close friends or family and you’re reading any of my more personal writings, remember that it is filtered through my perceptions and mine alone. Do not blame anyone for what I write and do not judge me for my honesty. Enjoy the piece and stop to think. Maybe you’re reacting not because Stevie has written something scandalous. Maybe you’re reacting because you’ve felt those same feelings of fear or wonder or longing or emptiness. Look past the time frame of high school or college and see the universality of it. I didn’t write these to throw heaping coals on my family or to air my dirty laundry. I wrote these because if I felt it as a person, someone else did, too. Note the word “feel.” It’s all relative.

If you’re a writer, do you struggle with this, too? Or do you stay away from anything liable to blow up in your face? If you’re a reader, do you appreciate honesty or find it easier not to know the writer? I’m not even sure someone I know personally can read anything I’ve written impartially. What a depressing thought.

My apologies for a much more heated post than I usually put up, but this has been bothering me for a while. I sincerely hope I am the only writer struggling with this, because it almost makes me want to keep thoughts to myself. Almost.


About S. G. Ricketts

I am a dreamer. This page holds all of the dreams and desires and hopes and wishes of the first of my two dreams: to share my imagination with the world. For those of you who have read a book or written a book, these stories are not merely words on a page. They are living, breathing creatures, worlds so compellingly real that you can smell the sweat and feel the rain. This is what I want to share ...with all of you. Yes, becoming rich and famous would be fabulous. I won't deny that. However, it would be so much more satisfying to see my book in the hands of someone on the bus, hear my book talked about at a restaurant, see a cluster of fan-art. I want to inspire the mind to imagine different worlds and different situations. If I can achieve that, I will have achieved my dream.

Posted on December 25, 2011, in Musing, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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