I’m flashing my boobs in public.
Literarily speaking, that is. (No, literarily’s not a real word. But it should be.)
It’s a little weird for me, honestly. I adore this particular publication, and have submitted time and again there, only to have two accepted pieces. (Both of those are here, for anyone who’s interested.)
And I’ve always sworn by writing what you feel, not what’s comfortable, so there was no oddity at all in my submitting a piece that deals with secret breastfeeding habits that I picked up casually, remember fondly, and don’t tell anyone about because it’s probably kind of gross.
Submitting things like that has never been an issue for me at all. Reading poems aloud about private sexual experiences or my personal failures and embarrassments has happened more than once, in groups from five to twenty. I’ve gotten shocked looks, offended a few folks, and been congratulated for my honesty–sometimes even all at the same event.
I’m not shy with my words.
So why does seeing this particular poem, which isn’t racy, controversial, or even remotely written in blue language, suddenly making me feel so squirmy? Is it because my step-kid is now old enough to be able to follow a link on my blog and see it? Is it because it’s gross, and not at all sexy?
I don’t know.
But there’s a poem about my nipples at Literary Mama, I’m flinching as I write this, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.