WRITING

Why Don’t Friends and Family Read My Work?

I’m trying not to get a complex

Most of the people I am closest to, don’t read my work

I’ve been a writer over twenty years. All my friends and family know this. I haven’t kept it a secret. At social events and family functions, they always seemed fascinated by it. I’ve always gotten questions about what I’m working on and where I’ve gotten published last. My work as a freelance fiction editor was the next topic they’d ask about. They loved hearing about my clients and their projects.

Still, there have been only a select few who have read my work. For a long time, it stung. What gives? It took a while to realize the other writers in my huge family haven’t gotten read either. It was only after digging around that I realized why and learned to accept it and move on.

My Mother

My mom has always been one of my biggest fans — in theory, not in practice. She’d tell anyone who listened, her daughter was an author and an editor. I’d love to eavesdrop if the conversation got deeper. If anyone asked my mom to refer them to some of my work, she’d be dumbfounded.

In the beginning of my career, I would be stunned when I’d send her links or clippings and learn she “hadn’t had a chance to read them yet.” The woman read several books a week. She couldn’t carve out five minutes to read my article?

I felt a little better when my cousin, who grew up two houses away and my mother babysat, had written (at last count) twelve romance novels. Mom prominently displayed them on her bookcase in the living room, bindings still intact.

In the debut novel, Mom learned of a scene that I think sent her moral compass spinning. It was when two gal pals planned a big day of female bonding. One of them got her privates pierced. I saw Mom’s face pale when other’s were relaying it to her and laughing hysterically. I don’t think my prim and proper mother got the joke. I presume she was scared to read what else her “sweet, little niece” came up with to fill 250 pages.

Then, Mom’s sister wrote a memoir about growing up with polio. Mom went to the book signing, bought the book, and took pictures. Still, she mentioned she didn’t understand why all their family business had to be public knowledge. And then the book sat on her coffee table for months. Untouched. I’m pretty sure she ended up reading that one, though, because she knew she was in it and wanted to know how she was portrayed.

So after that, I stopped giving Mom grief about not reading my stories. I’m not sure she’d appreciate reading a sex scene written by “her baby” or laugh at my irreverent humor. That’s a line she doesn’t want to cross. Hadn’t she raised me better than this?

She never minded reading dark, edgy, or bawdy books by other writers. They were strangers. Their twisted minds were not formed by her. She had no culpability for what they’d put on the pages.

Friends

My friends and I have shared secrets and laughed our hardest together. They’ve probably been dying to read my work, right? Not so fast. They’re also the people who have known me through my best times and my worst.

They’ve never thought of me as literary. They’ve seen me dance on tables, roll down steep hills in a 50-gallon drum, and go on booze cruises. That made it hard to take me seriously as an author and editor.

But really, I think many were afraid I’m not any good. And then what? Would they have told the truth? Or lied and said they loved my work? A lot of them didn’t want to be put in that situation.

I have dated a lot of contractors: roofers, carpenters, landscapers and the like. I’ve known the fear of caring for someone who really sucks at what they do. It would be an embarrassment. Oftentimes, I’d hold my breath when a friend or family member would hire a guy I just started dating.

Please … please … please … let him be good!

Speaking of the men in my life

In my vast and sordid relationship experience, none of the men I’ve dated ever wanted to read my work. When I’d offer up a story or a novel manuscript, I’d get one of the following responses:

• I don’t want to read all that! Can’t you just give me a summary?
• I’m sure it’s great, but I’m not into chick lit. Note: I don’t write chick lit.
• Hey, looky there! Thanks! I’ll read it when I get time! *Manuscript yellows and curls with age and neglect*

When I said all the men I dated, I exaggerated. My husband has read everything I’ve written with genuine enthusiasm. For the past four years, he’d come home from work, had dinner, and then asked to see what I’ve written that day. I’d hand him my iPad as he put his feet up and sipped his wine. Then I’d watch him as he internalized every word. He has laughed out loud at my jokes, gotten emotional with my vulnerable pieces, and admired plot points of some of my more twisted tales.

My heart thrummed every time and still does.

Well, who will read my work, besides strangers?

If you’re a writer looking for feedback, surround yourself with writers. We understand each other.

My writing friends are my sounding board, support system, and cheering section. They inspire me to dig deeper, experiment with styles out of my comfort zone, and challenge me to build my writing muscle. Some of them will be reading this. You know who you are. You are invaluable and truly appreciated. *Sending big hugs*

Takeaway

Your devout Aunt Tilda probably isn’t prepared to read your essay on the glories of hedonism. And that’s okay. You don’t like the crocheted wall hanging she sent you on your birthday, so there! Doesn’t make you love her any less, right?

And you know your nephew who just earned his cosmetology license and is dying to highlight your hair? Makes you a little squeamish, doesn’t it? What if he does an awful job and wants you to be his first regular client? Doesn’t sound so fun, huh?

Cut your friends and family some slack if they don’t want to read your work. Remember, it’s nothing personal.

After this story was published, Tracy’s mother and sister came to visit. She told them she won a T-shirt for writing a 50-word story. Both were excited and supportive. Neither asked to read it. Reminder: It was only 50 words.

For more of Tracy’s work, please keep reading: