I mean, really, why? Isn't that the whole point of fiction? To be read, that is. I think it's most of the point anyway. And yet, especially on the first few readings, I always get nervous when people read what I've written. Why? Will they discover something that can destroy me? It's quite possible.
But I don't think that's what I'm afraid of.
Now if I were writing a diary or even an autobiography, there might be a good reason to be nervous, but it would be obvious. With fiction, unless it's superficial and...well...obvious not much is literal. Perhaps it's that somebody might figure out a way to translate the funhouse mirror reflections into something that approximates reality, only providing a slight distortion, but distorting in such a manner that it makes me appear elongated in the detriment to society category and squeezed together into a fatty approximation of my positive qualities.
If you think about it, though, even if that happens: so what? People might think I’m a “bad” person and people might be “right” within certain definitions. Once again, so what? If Dr. Madd manages to invent a machine capable of analyzing fiction to the point that it separates everything out into neat piles of author attributes, which can be compared to a rubric that will indicate where I fall on the bell curves of sloth, selfishness, prejudice, and so on. This information, in turn, can be handed over to the secret personality police, who may be dispatched to bring me back to headquarters for reprogramming.
Of course, there’s a good chance none of that may be true. But I’m afraid that if it’s analyzed, it will be apparent to all just how messed up I am.