Questions, questions...

You may be aware, dear reader (for surely, the abyss has yet to wave back...), that i write sometimes. Or sometimes write. Whatever.
This question has been occupying me for days. Nay, weeks, in fact. How much of one's self should one reveal, if one be weaving a fantasy? And how much of that fantasy should one ask it to reveal of itself? Surely the mystery is what keeps one hooked and begging for more?... Should all be laid on a plate? Or should there be coy fluttering of fans and dispensing of crumbs only?
It's a tricky one.
I am a strange mixture of wanting to throw myself open to the world, and being painfully mortified at the thought of what the world will find there.
But. I am actually beginning to realise that, well, (whispers and tries so very hard not to cry) maybe, just maybe, possibly, (oh, god, i want it to be so much that i can barely write it in case i jinx it) what if i really *am* a writer?... P.s. Failed at not crying. Extraordinary.
Suddenly, i'm messaging and corresponding and blogging (a bit), and i feel like G've been trapped in a box for a decade, and some kind soul has opened the lid and shown me sunlight and flowers and the summer breeze for the first time in years and years.
Need to stop now, i'm crying again.