After reading “Looking In,” the essay I posted yesterday, one of my students asked me via email if I hadn’t been afraid of writing it for fear of being judged, of exposing such a personal time in my life. She was even nervous to ask that question and said she would have never asked me in person.

I welcomed her question, but told her no, I wasn’t afraid of others judging me, that it was a long time ago that I was writing about, before I remarried, before I had my son. No one’s perfect, I said, and some of us are less perfect than others, so no, I wasn’t afraid of what people would think of me. If we writers aren’t writing the truth, then what are we writing?

That said, there are essays I will probably never write because they could expose more than the people I’d write about would want exposed. Those are experiences I may one day fictionalize, But essays, no.

I did worry a little about publishing “Looking In,” worried that those I was writing about would become unhappy with me. In the end, I figured that the person who looked worse of all was me, and if I was willing to put me on the page, than everyone else would be fine. I was wrong, though, and I know that there is at least one person unhappy with me because of writing it.