The other day, I was trying to explain to my sister what a wonderful transformation the internet had wrought in me, by way of giving me a forum for my writing. That it had provided an opportunity previously undreamed of by me and so many writers, insecure in our talent but driven nonetheless, chained to the art of the written word.
Sister was unconvinced.
"Even if I wrote something, I wouldn't want anyone to READ it!"
What?
"Wouldn't that be like painting a picture that you never wanted anyone to see?"
Blank stare.
She. Does. Not. Get. It.
Which may be the reason why I have NEVER been able to beg, cajole, or PAY any member of my family to read "Coming to Terms..."
Are they nuts? Or am I?
And how could I have come from these people?
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You were left by the fairies?
ReplyDeleteSeriously. I'm the only one in my family that writes. And once I got started, I can't stop. I'm the one with three shelves of books I'd really rather the fundies didn't get a look at. I'm the one that would rather hug a tree or listen to the geese fly over on Sundsay (or any) morning instead of being stuck inside a building. I'm the one that seems to hear a song that no one else in the family does; mom comes closest I believe.
We're a lot alike that way I think. If you listen closely you can hear the stars singing.