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.