I can't even get my adult children to read what I write.
When I've told them and other people in my life that I write, they always ask for a link to whatever it was that took me hours to cough up, edit, and publish. They tell me that they can't wait to read it. That sounds like interest, right?
Turns out, it never works that way.
When I first got started, I fell for this deception. How was I supposed to know that they are filthy liars? That they meant none of it and will likely never read anything that flows from my nimble hands? And how did I become privy to this information?
Because I can see from my stats on other platforms that they never even looked. And they never responded when I asked for feedback. It's like I had disappeared from the face of the earth after sharing my work with them--at their request, no less.
I think I have finally come to terms with this tomfoolery. Though I would prefer that they simply tell me that they have no interest, I cannot expect them to act like my one friend who was this honest. ONE! He said he thought it was great that I was writing, but that he wouldn't read any of it because he wasn't a reader.
I have to admire that kind of refreshing directness. It's like telling someone, "It was good to see you, but I'm lazy and don't like to get out much, so...BYE!" That never happens. It usually goes like this:
"Let's get together and have lunch," but they don't mean it, and when I hold them to it, they act like I'm the asshole for keeping them to their word. Or really, to their fake promises.
Because of this experience, I decided to start this blog and tell no one about it. They can just continue on as they always have, uninterested as always.
I will be fine with that.
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