“You have quite the internet presence,” the woman said during my second interview for a part-time therapy position.
“You’re exactly what we’re looking for—except… well, this is complicated.”
She hesitated.
“I’m not sure what I think of what you write. The topics you explore, you know? Granted, it’s not fair to judge you based on your writing. The other applicants don’t have the same visibility. It’s just—I’m more comfortable hiring someone whose beliefs and ideas are unknown to me.”
I sat there, feeling naked.
I had purposely exposed myself to the world through my writing—and now someone was judging those parts of me that, at the time, had nothing to do with my clinical career. I was shocked, to say the least.
And I did the unthinkable: I stopped writing. No writer should do that. You would not like me when I’m not writing. It’s in my blood. It’s in my soul.
Years later, while running my private practice, the urge returned—louder, deeper. And with it came the question:
Am I prepared to get naked again in front of friends, family, clients, the whole world, by picking up the pen?
I thought I was. I wrote two novels. And then… I let them sit. I was terrified to send them out into the world. Maybe I wasn’t ready to face that vulnerability after all.
Would I lose something—too much? Would total strangers stumble across my blog and turn away?
Screw it.
I self-published those novels—then looked over my shoulder.
People bought and read them. No angry mobs, no torches. But I still felt exposed. I didn’t market them. Fear had crept back in.
Then came the saga: a historical fiction rooted in supernatural folklore and local legend. I poured my soul into it. Polished it to death. And again, fear gripped me—this time because I wanted to try querying agents.
Talk about nakedness.
I gave the manuscript to my parents. They’d seen me naked before (literally), so it felt safe. They gave positive feedback. Of course, they’re my parents.
And still, the manuscript sat. Maybe it needed read-through number fifteen.
Eventually, I checked out agents. Wrote a query letter. Created hooks, taglines, back cover blurbs. And then I hesitated. I needed a web presence again.
And that same old fear of being naked returned.
I fought it. Damn you, fear.
I built a website. Shared my work. People responded positively. I even sold a few copies of those old books. But still—every keystroke felt risky. Any moment, someone might show up—someone I know, someone unexpected—and say, “I don’t like you naked.”
Well—too bad, buck-o.
I am who I am. I write what I know, and what stirs my curiosity. If that’s not to your liking, as one of my loved ones would say:
Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.
I sweat just typing that. Ha. I can be such a wuss.
But seriously—there’s nothing wrong with being naked. Get out there. Do what your soul tells you to do.
(Just… make sure it’s legal.)
Deborah Sickle Hill 