It's my fault, really.  I'm the one who took off my clothes.  Left them in a big heap by my front door.  Yelled my name out loudly to anyone who could hear me.  Here I am, I said.  Look at me.  Take a good look at me.

They had my address.  They knew how to find me.

I guess now the only thing I can do is hide.  Change my name.  Find a new identity.  If I don't want to stay naked, that is.  But maybe I don't care.  After all, what do I have to hide?  It might not be a pretty picture, but who cares?

It all started when I received my first Editor's Pick.  Whoopie, I said to myself.  I was a newbie at OS, with no writing experience, and thought I had won the lottery.  I emailed all of my friends.  I got an Editor's Pick, I said.  Go check it out.  And they did.

Then I wrote a story about my dad.  My husband said you should show it to your sisters.  So I emailed them.  I wrote a story about Daddy, I said.  They read it, and forwarded it to their children, in case they were interested.

Then my nephew died.  I wrote about him on Open Salon.  I emailed everyone I knew.  In my grief, all I could say was read about it, here's the link.  They read it, and then they read the two follow-up stories.

Now I am bare.   Naked.  Everything I write is open to everyone I know. 

I guess it's not so bad.  Sometimes it feels free to be naked.