Beautifully Frightening

I recently published my second piece. This is just a small one, a non-paying online magazine that specializes in super-flash, but I'm happy and proud nonetheless. It came out today and I lazily drifted over to see it.

There was already a comment posted, a strange man who wrote, "This is simply beautiful." And it IS beautiful, at least to me. But suddenly I felt dreadfully naked, somebody that I don't know reading my work. Which is the goal of being published, isn't it? Letting others read your work? It's silly in a way. And serious in another. Do I write to be read? I never really minded it. It is a pleasure to hand your story to your friend and to talk about it later. It's thrilling to hear your character's name on somebody else's lips. But.

I read this man's work, what he had up. And I kind of like it, I kind of don't. He vaguely reminds me of somebody that I miss. And I guess what is bothering me is the whole "stranger" thing. I want to say, "Hey, you and I and everybody on earth that we don't know, we should all sit at the counter and order Cokes. I need to know you." And then perhaps it wouldn't be quite so jarring.