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….