Don’t Read Me: A Writer’s Plea for Freedom (and Maybe a Glass of Wine)

I’m dead serious. Please, do both of us a favour and avoid my scribbles at all costs.

Red ink sinks into the paper. Words, no, entire sentences crossed out, circled, rearranged. Notes and remarques slithering their split tongues towards my face — unsurprisingly, they found their place in the margins and footers of my pages. Spitting their poison, slithering slithering...

A mockery in the shape of my mother’s writing — I never found it elegant or beautiful as she always rushes to scribble her thoughts on anything that seems to be in the nearest proximity when inspiration comes — napkins, receipts, ideally, of course, notebooks. She sometimes even slams her own writing on top of my stories — if there’s anything more literal than a slash to a writer’s face, then by all means, please let me know. But that’s more or less what it means to be read (or not) by this woman.

I used to think my dad was harsh — he never truly took the time to read anything I wrote. Not sincerely, not deeply. But I guess he never took much interest in anything — that’s his way of living, incredibly introverted and passing through life as if no one and nothing is ever significant.

Some find it insulting, yet I find comfort in his steadfast indifference. Many years later, I very much prefer my father’s attitude in comparison to anyone else. Sure, no constructive feedback, no critique — no dialogue or room for improvement. But there’s silent support. Dad’s green eyes always flicker with an exciting shimmer to them as he says “You want to be a writer? Go on, then, write!”

Mum sighs in annoyance as she believes he doesn’t care. I beg to differ — he just wants to silently support whatever and however, I want to do. In contrast to her discouraging critique — which decades after is still as harsh as when I scribbled my first ever essay! — I prefer cold and silent support.

Because it is, in fact, support.

Or at least the flexibility and freedom to interpret it as such.

I succumbed to a life that was laid in front of me — discarded beautiful wishes and dreams, and followed the path that made the most sense. “It’s going to ensure a bright future,” they said, “Art will fail to pay your bills and one day, when you’re wiser, you will regret it as memories of your seniors teaching you how to live come back to you.”

Well, didn’t that come back to bite me in the end? Life lesson: people may share their wisdom, but in the end, it’s our life to live and our mistakes to own up to. Who knew that when all is said and done, you’re left alone to clean up the mess someone else advised you to get into?.. I would very much appreciate that red ink in the margins of my life now. No one? Well, the joke’s on me then.

Years later, I find myself empty and confined to corporate slavery for a job (oh, pardon me, a dream occupation that people would kill for!..). And still very much writing.

Yet some things never change.

Red ink does not stain my scribbles and Dad knows better than to open his mouth when it comes to my writing. Yet others replaced them — colleagues and friends and eventually, my husband. The first group is rather easy to avoid — a pen name is a true lifesaver. Husbands and wives, on the other hand, are difficult to manage.

Come Christmas we paraded around the city — corporate events, team dinners, cozy gatherings with colleagues and work buddies. After a few glasses my ever-so-loving husband realises someone at the party is a published (and quite successful, at that!) author. Off he goes to boast how his wife is also a passionate writer, completely misrepresenting my genre and topics of interest.

Embarrassed I squeeze out a warm smile and try to explain how I diversify my writing and tap into a variety of topics. I wish the earth just swallowed me whole — I think as generous waterfalls of liquor wash down my throat. Minutes later I’m scrambling to the kitchen, desperately hoping that the host might use an extra pair of hands...

To add insult to injury, afterward, I had a brilliant idea to share some of my writings with my husband. I suppose it was naive of me to imagine a neuroscientist might appreciate fantasy writing... After examining his puzzled look, I decided a few essays here and there might be a better way to go. “What is this?”, “Did you write that?”, “What am I reading, even?..” — his face was white as paper and I felt anxiety in his voice. I could easily tell — there’s no approval, much less appreciation there.

But having lived that red ink throughout my pages and slithering words from every margin, I’m one resilient being.

It’s fine.

It’s fine if family and friends don’t understand or don’t approve of our writing.

It’s fine if it doesn’t connect with their being.

Heck, it’s even fine if they hate it.

I suppose it’s difficult to accept — as an artist one would expect the closest people to support them, to be the cheerleading squad. Should it happen, I’m sure: it would be an incredible feeling. But if I have to choose between flat disapproval and indifference, I very much prefer the latter.

Dear family and friends, please don’t read me. I don’t expect you to understand or connect with my writing. Don’t get me wrong — it would be wonderful if you did. But I’m realistic. I accept — all of us are different and have our interests, world views, and values. Don’t force yourself to understand something that is not meant for you — I write because of myself, in the hopes that it might strike a cord or two for someone out there. It’s fine if it doesn’t, but it hurts when you try to pretend it could.

Do all of us a favour and read what you enjoy. Support the authors you love and adore the paintings that speak to you. Art is a two-way street, there’s no need to waste our efforts on a one-way conversation.

Dear Authors out there, I hope you are comfortable with the scribbles you send out to the Void. I hope your family and friends are supportive and appreciative. And I hope inspiration fills your essence every single time the nib touches a piece of paper.

Wishing you all an abundant and creative 2024!

My scribbles dive into a variety of topics. The thread of thought can be unpredictable — inspired by places, people, experiences, or the occasional earworm on the playlist…

I often weave my cloth of writing unsure where the threads will lead — or if the final tapestry will hold.

Yet whether I scribble fantasy or horror, highly opinionated or research-driven pieces, I hope it leaves you with something to ponder: makes you feel better (or worse?..), strikes an inner monologue (hopefully, voiced out in the comments!) or simply gives you something to chew on, inspiring to keep the creative ball rolling.

Thank you for reading!