My Parents Have Never Read a Single Word I’ve Written
And I hope to keep it that way.
My writing is a very personal act — one that I am not comfortable sharing with either of my extremely conservative parents for fear that they will discover the depths of my depravity.
I can admit that I’m envious of my friends who have parents that actively absorb their artistic offerings, no matter how risqué, and are still able to maintain a normal relationship. I’ve made peace with the fact that this is not my reality.
When it comes to my fiction, for example, I write dark, violent subject matter with — ahem — sexual themes. I am absolutely certain that they would not want to read my epic about a woman in a sexual relationship with twin brothers at the end of the world while pregnant with Satan’s baby.
Did I mention that they are both very religious? For context, I’m still patiently awaiting their birds and the bees talk. I’m 34 years old.
It’s not that I think they would disown me, I just want them to forever think of me as the awkward, asexual bookworm they depended on to get good grades and floss between her braces every night.
To give more color to this aversion, I should mention that I once worked as a cocktail waitress in my small town casino. My father didn’t talk to me for the duration of that short-lived career choice because casinos “are dens of iniquity”. If he couldn’t take me peddling drinks to glassy-eyed gamblers, he definitely can’t read my story about a kindly murderer with a drug problem and super powers he uses for ill.
My dad asked to read my latest manuscript, and I literally changed the subject like a teenager in a prime-time drama who doesn’t want to talk about her period. After that round of acrobatics, I opened up the “Writing” file on my computer and tried to find something that would be G-rated (or even PG-13- rated) enough to send to him. I came up empty. I continue to dodge the subject, or worse yet, promise to send it with no intention of ever doing so. I’m awful, I know — but dammit it’s for his own good.
It’s a little easier with my mother, she’s charmingly self-absorbed so the content of my writing never comes up. She thinks of my writing endeavors as a hobby at best, a life-ruining obsession at worst, and although it veers more toward the obsession end of things I let her think that its this nebulous act that I am half-assing for a bit until I return to a cubicle (or worse, an open office setup) to waste away to nothingness.
So, with all of this in mind, I submit my many manuscripts, articles, and blog posts with a wince as I consider what will happen if I ever gain any sort of visibility — hoping that their apathy and moderate computer-illiteracy keeps them away from the reality of who I am. Deep down, however, I know that if they ever come across my work they’ll see themselves in the dirty corners of my writing, and therefore never mention that they’ve ever seen it at all.
That’s what I call a win-win.
