Naked in Church

Fiction writers face all sorts of fears: fear of rejection, fear of success, fear of failure, fear of the blank page, fear of running out of ideas, fear that this internal something that drives us to create is destructive, because all we've managed to put on paper so far sucks so bad we may as well have created a black hole.... The list goes on.

Recently, I've realized one of the biggest fears I face in fiction writing is what I call "the naked in church fear." The nightmare reportedly is a common one: There you are on Sunday morning, filing into the sanctuary along with everyone else, when suddenly you realize you aren't wearing a stitch of clothing ... and everyone is staring. "Oh my," you think, blushing scarlet from head to foot. "I know I was wearing something besides my birthday suit when I left the house. Of all the places to be caught in the nude: in church? I'll never live this down."

Most dream interpretations attribute the naked-in-church nightmare to fear of exposure: as a fraud, as wanton beneath a prim exterior, as someone who harbors dark secrets. Psychologists often say the dream is an attempt by the subconscious to inform the conscious the dreamer is being disloyal to himself or herself by hiding something.


In our daily lives, writers employ the same self-protective mechanisms as everyone else: We erect walls around our most private selves in order to protect the most sensitive parts of our inner beings. In other words, humans pile on the layers of clothing before they head out to church. Regardless how emotionally close we are to friends and family, there are just some things we won't share. However, what makes good fiction phenomenal is the writer's ability to "bleed" onto the page; to open veins and let emotions and visceral experiences flow through our characters in order to move readers with the same force they moved us. To do that, we have to peel off the outer layers.

Sometimes we surprise ourselves with how well we're able to accomplish the feat. The process can be cathartic, but the end result often is frightening on a very personal level. "Oh my. That's a particularly raw representation of love/hate/insecurity/etc. What will my family/friends/critique group think of me when they read it? I'm Ms. Capable/Pure as the Driven Snow/Analytical Not Emotional. Readers will be able to see some embarrassing part of me I'd prefer they not know exists."

In order to be true to ourselves and our craft, writers must force themselves to attend church naked — to stand there in front of the minister, the congregation and God himself with their white-as-a-fish belly skin, flab and distressing scars exposed for all to see. It's not a comfortable experience, but it's necessary.

It helps, in those moments, to remember how brave one must be to face one's fears. (It's not particularly helpful to remind oneself of the now-discarded New Year's resolution to join a gym.) Like our characters, writers must surmount the hurdles that confront us in order to grow and change, or our stories — the ones we commit to paper and the ones we live daily — won't be worth reading.

Force yourself to enter the sanctuary naked. Run up the aisle, arms spread wide, and invite the stares of those around you. Perform jumping jacks on the altar if the spirit moves you. Learn to live with the embarrassment. You'll be in good company, and who knows? Perhaps you'll start a trend.