This is going to be a difficult subject, knocking the very idea of parenthood particularly into the offspring’s adulthood, but it’s something that nevertheless infects my awareness. In truth, I could extend the phrase to “Writers Can’t Stand Their Parents and Family as a Whole.” Now, you’re probably thinking I’m being something of a black-adorned edgelord from a wealthy suburban family who has never known true misery. I’d rather not answer that supposition, actually.
Anyways, getting to the point, my parents were supportive when I transitioned into writing, more or less, but they became more supportive when I finally came about with finished products. It is difficult to argue with results after all, especially when they’re so tangible. But more and more and more and more, as I find myself more comfortable with being a writer, the more I find I can’t talk about my work with my parents–or any other relation–either as a response to a question or volunteered information. I’ve become more bold, after all, in what I’m comfortable publishing, and when it was just poetic elucidation and the occasional incidence of ultraviolence, it wasn’t a big deal, but when I wrote my first kiss, which naturally led in other directions, I found I couldn’t discuss the subject in any capacity without making my parents audibly disconcerted. It’s rather like discussing your own first kiss, or your first time alone with a woman–in that respect. You just can’t discuss it with kin.
For that reason, the longer I’ve been operating, the further away I’ve been drifting from them. We still talk frequently, though we reside in different states, but as regards my work I mention little more than the status of a manuscript and the like. I hardly ever enter into the particulars.
And the truth is that it’s always difficult trying to provide summa for something you’ve written or something you intend to write. It’s best elucidated in the reading itself. It’s just ten times more miserable doing so with an authority figure you’ve had to respect since the very first moment you were cognizant, someone who can tear you apart with a stare or gesture or omitted phrase.