I’ve been thinking about Cyn’s recent post about how she writes her life, on her blog and in her fiction. It seems like most of my life goes undocumented. Most of my life doesn’t seem to warrant documenting, however. Does the world really need to know about my compulsive visits to the grocery store or about my altercations with bookstore security personnel? (Don’t worry. Nothing was hurt but my ego.)

Perhaps it’s a lack of writerly confidence. To write fiction, or such types of nonfiction as memoir, seems to require a combination of narcissism and bravery. I think I have the narcissism part covered well enough. I find that I enjoy few people’s company as well as my own.

I also have some bravery. The thing some writers seem to fear the most is a rejection letter, and perhaps I do too. I admit I’ve sent very little material out, but that’s usually because I have none ready. Besides, rejection is better than no response at all. At least that way you know you’re not still sitting at the bottom of the slush pile.

There’s a second kind of bravery, though. The kind that’s willing to present one’s ruminations on the mundane details of life to an audience. Some writers, particularly humorists, have made lucrative careers off of daily minutia. However, it takes a certain kind of confidence to foist such rambles onto the public. I seem to lack that type of bravery (but perhaps it’s just in my closet next to the vacuum I never use).

Fortunately, I don’t believe my affliction is permanent. I’m sure one day the little details of life that have been hiding in the shadows will come forth. Until then, I have the details of biology to write about, and I doubt I will ever exhaust them.