Yet I have all the same feelings as a normal human being.
When I am writing, I am using all of my senses. I am the receptive to everything the universe sends me.
When I read my work publicly, or when I publish it, I strap on my armor to steel myself to the reactions. I keep telling myself, “I don’t care what they think.”
I don’t buy it when people say, “I don’t care what other people think.” I’ve never met anyone of whom it was true and I am glad. Such a person would be a psychopath.
People often get the impression from me that I don’t care what other people think. That is not true. I care intensely what other people think. If you prick me, do I not need bleed? If you rub my tummy, do I not stand tall?
So, yes, I care what you think. What separates me from most people is my separation from most people. Perhaps my isolation allows me to publish my thoughts so recklessly? Or, perhaps, while I care intensely about what other people think, I care even more about sharing my thoughts with the world, about aggrandizing myself?
