One of the most difficult things to contend with is to feel passion for something and yet have one of the most influential and important people in one's life show complete disinterest. That has been the sort of relationship I have had for most of my life with my father. It's been that way for as long as I can remember and it hurts as much today as it did when I was eight and had my heart set on being an author.
I use to write books when I was a child. Not stories but books complete with tables of content. I would spend endless hours sitting at my off-white French Provencial-style desk writing in notebooks that I would buy at the local five and dime. I would write in pen, pencil, marker - whatever writing instrument I could find. I clearly remember one summer evening when I was in my bedroom scribbling out a story and my father entered my room to check up on me. He asked what I was doing and I proudly said that I was writing a book. He asked me why and I told him that I wanted to be an author. He laughed. And when he finished laughing he said "do you know how hard it is to be a published author? It's not likely to happen". He said that I should stop writing and go play with my brother. So I did because our parents are supposed to know what is best, right? I believed him.
The writing continued but it became more secretive. I pretended that I was working on a school project or on a report for school. A few years passed and we started to discuss future plans for me. He asked me what field I wanted to pursue. I said once again that I wanted to be an author. His reaction was similar to the last except this time there was the addition of the phrases "you still haven't gotten over that idea? What did I tell you about that?" But this time, things were different. I became so upset that I gathered up all of my journals, notebooks, scraps of paper in binders and tossed them in the garbage bin outside. My bedroom bookshelf was virtually empty with the exception of a few books from "published" authors. How could my dad possibly be wrong? I stopped writing for many years after that. I enjoyed writing research papers, poetry, creative writing for classes when it was necessary but beyond that, I pushed any thoughts of writing aside.
Several years passed before I even entertained the idea of writing again (although I used to have recurring dreams of winning a Nobel or Pulitzer Prize for literature and my father FINALLY realizing that he was wrong). In fact, I was in my early twenties before I considered the idea again. I made the decision to move to Austin and perhaps dabble in screenwriting. My mother was supportive of my decision and continues to be one of my strongest supporters (she managed to rescue some of my early writings from the trash collectors). My father on the other hand, was less than enthused but I moved anyway. And I have been writing ever since.
My writing has taken on many different incarnations since moving to Austin - screenplays, book manuscript, blogs, journal entries - but I love them all for different reasons. My father knows that I am writing again and that I am involved in many writing groups in my city. He thinks it's a waste of time, doesn't take an active interest in it and has never read a single blog or script page I have written. And I'm fine with that. It still hurts and probably always will. I may never win a Pulitzer but that's okay. I'm doing what I love and that is what matters. Knowing that my words touch SOMEONE out there makes me happy. And that is the most important thing to me.
Smiling,
V~
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