I really feel identified with this. My mother was one of the first and few people that read some of my work and encouraged me writing. Others refused to read me including my children because to their eyes my work is sad, cheesy, self centered and borderline pathetic, in other words, a self pity fest. But if I wrote anything else and more cheerful thing or dedicate myself to paint I would do a lot better. Some of these things have being said to me by few family members and friends, others simply laugh, and few believe that I waste my time writing, have to much of an odd imagination, they rather read my old sensual poems and critics of that sort. But I know every writer goes to hell and come back for one reason or the other and that is what make us good writers….
Being ill and possessed of a somewhat foul temper today, I’m being reflective and somewhat bitter. Being grumpy about family issues, primarily. As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been writing for almost thirty years now, beginning with bad Mario Bros. fanfic at the age of 6 on a purloined typewriter from my dad’s closet and progressing to D&D knockoff fiction before finding something resembling my own style, voice and subject matter. That’s fairly common knowledge. Also fairly common knowledge is that I’m a trifle manic depressive, suffer extensively from “I’m never good enough” logic and a lack of self-esteem.
One of the roots of those, at least as it pertains to my writing, is my parents. I know, everyone’s got an axe to grind in that department, and I typically have little to no sympathy for those who blame all their life’s troubles on “Mommy didn’t love me enough, waaaaaaaah.” But…
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