My brilliance has turned into folly. I brilliantly supposed that my sons and daughter would be interested to read what I wrote, so I emailed a passage to them.
Never again. None replied. Not one word.
My daughter clued me in.
“Mom, we don’t want to read or hear your old stories and poems! It’s as if you’re trying to persuade us and yourself that you are a great writer.
At least I’m writing, I amended.
“By the way, did you know that toward the end of his life, Dad emailed us his poems?”
(I get it. You think I’m drawing close to the end of my life if I share a few stories with you because that’s your experience with your dad.)
“I didn’t know that! Now I do.”
I’m keeping things simple. Putting limits in place. I share my written output with a writing partner who’s interested in my point of view. As soon as I accumulate two hundred pages or so, I’ll sign up with an editor/teacher to assist me to shape those pages into a book that somebody will read.
Meanwhile, I continue to read at my local Open Mic Evening where writers, dancers and musicians gather and I’m interested in what others express and they’re open to the sensations and ideas that I communicate.
Thank goodness this plan isn’t brilliant, just a straightforward.