In fiction I can reveal myself. I long for the freedom that lying offers. The place to take risks, to open myself and stand naked in public hidden behind the conceit of make believe. The raw truths glittering like the flash of sunlight caught in a rock.
I write my fiction for a collector just as Anais Nin once did. The truths I scatter out in the sunlight to turn leathery. The fiction is posted and hidden away and will be unearthed one day and gathered and even though it is fiction, it will seem more real than the shiny veneer of real life.