On a Sunday afternoon of 2011, I was tremendously proud of myself. I just put down my first poem and it was beautiful in itself. But it didn’t last long
It wasn’t a masterpiece but it sure was mine, something I’ve created from nothing but words and thoughts of my own. I felt pure magic. I was 19, so no surprise that the poem was about love, more like a broken heart.In the course of time I lost that poem (sad I know), but I have this memory burned in my brain still.
Who do you first share your work with? Family. I did the same. It was an innocent fictional poem of a heartbreak, they were supposed to see the work. Instead, I got accused that I have an affair I am hiding from them.
I was reminded of this because I posted a short story, Unreceived Apologies on this blog recently and the response was tremendously positive and supportive. I fail to understand why my family couldn’t see it as my work and creativity rather than a secret I was hiding.
That accusation must have been a mere doubt for them, but it killed the switch to share my work with family forever. No one in my family knows I am writer, or that I have this blog that I am getting good at. I am at a point of not caring for their praise anymore, I found more acceptance in strangers than family and friends, and I believe a lot of people feel the same.