I'm not safe and neither are my characters.

No, I'm not going to physically hurt you—that I'm confident on. I’m as gentle as they come. 

But mentally, I have hangups. 

And those hangups can be damaging. Safe is one of those words that can hold many connotations. I daresay it's even subjective. Yeah, safe means secure. But safe can apply to both physical and mental security. It's not just being in a sound environment, it's being in sound company. 

And if I'm to be frank (which is the plan), then allow me to own up to something unflattering: I’m not safe. 

I'm insecure. 

Broken. 

Sensitive

I get in my head FAR too often. 

And allow those voices to influence me. I don’t need anyone to break me down, chances are I’ve already done it myself. 

Ladies and gents, allow me to introduce you to my anxiety. 

It unravels me in ways no one else can. 

And then words come into play. And words are powerful creatures. How we use them. Withhold them. Wield them. Hear them. It’s a wild concept. Something we use daily, often with little forethought and effort—yet they remain crucial to how we build relationships. 

Or tear them down. 

And if the person projecting those words is in pain, destruction can happen in mere sentences. 

Powerful stuff. 

Small moments with big impacts—because words can never be unsaid.  And their message goes far beyond the physical, they are insidious and deep and unlike a physical wound, time doesn’t always heal. 

Sometimes they grow stronger. 

And I’ve unfortunately been the giver (and receiver) of harsh words. I’ve also been the deliverer of good ones too.

The former breaks me. The latter heals. 

So now that I've owned up to being unsafe, allow me to digress—I’m also pretty great when it comes to kindness. 

I love with all my heart. I’m quick to compliment and bestow as much good as I can. I smile at strangers. I stop to rescue dogs. I’ll find a penny facedown and flip it over—so the next person to find it is bound for good luck. I hold doors and put my shopping cart away. 

Nurturing joy is kind of my thing. 

But I'm still me, and even amidst all the kindness, I screw up.

My characters do too. 

They say the wrong thing, they misinterpret tones, they are both heroes and villains within their own story. 

They're like me. 

Flawed and real. 

A mosaic of moments and words. 

I will never write the perfect character, nor will I ever aspire to. I will always write what suits me. 

And that's honesty. 

And ugly. 

With lots of words ... even the unsafe ones. 

©J.M. Muller