Not one bit.
I am not afraid of who I am.
Yesterday, I was asked about the difference between writing what I believe to be the truth versus writing something that can be independently checked. I absolutely think there are differences between personal truths and facts. I also think that there is a line between dramatic embellishment and wilfull lying (which is where Frey and others have erred). My truth doesn’t have to be scientifically accurate or verifiable, that is part of what makes it mine alone. So much of our day to day life is a subjective experience
My heart races when Neruda talks of how he sees his lover, how his passion evolves because of her. My heart aches when Neruda shows the profound depths of his depression, how his dark internal world could be. He writes of the world he is experiencing with passion and he does not cloud the essence of his experiences with easy phrases or lofty metaphors. The result is breathtaking. He once stated that he always returns to his work, “to the blank page which every day awaits us poets so that we shall fill it