Today I read an article about stories; more specifically, whose story is whose.
I stand firm in the I own my story camp.
I used to worry; I used to wonder. I do still ask the people I know if it’s okay to share pictures here.
I’ve admitted to you that as much as I’ve told you, I haven’t shared my story here.
But when I do share it, I will share it. Because it’s mine: my life, my story, my words. I don’t worry about losing people over it. Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.
I own my story. It is mine to tell.
It does feel slightly hypocritical to say that. Anne Lamott‘s statement “if people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better,” correlates so perfectly with the attitude toward government surveillance that I cannot abide: “if you’re not doing anything wrong, you have nothing to worry about.” It feels unfair that I can tell everyone what good and bad you’ve done, but heaven forbid any authority figure claim the same privilege. Feelings aside, there’s still a huge chasm between the two.
No one is going to watch himself all the time. We all slip up every once in a while.
Writing about someone’s involvement in my story is like seeing them pick their nose behind the wheel at a red light. I happened to catch them. They slipped up. Nobody judges another person when they catch them digging for gold.
The Man putting a camera behind the windshield to catch you exploring your nasal caverns means that being caught is a virtual assurance. You can’t ever risk it, because someone is always watching.
I might not be watching.
Or I might.
Either way, if my eyes are involved, it’s my story, so pick at your own risk.