So one of the reasons I started this blog was because I wanted to talk about things that no one really wanted to talk about with me. I wanted to talk about my frustrations without bothering others and I wanted to talk about my passions without any expectations for the listener to also be passionate.
Does that make any sense?
Literally just a second ago I was talking with my mom and brother about my plans for next November’s Nanowrimo. I already have a cast of characters set up and I’m really proud of them and I wanted to share them.
My mom interrupted me to ask my brother a question about chicken.
Chicken? I’m telling you about my passions, here! This could be the story that pays for my college education! This could be the one I finally publish and you would rather talk about chicken?
Anyway I continued after that and when I finished I waited to see if they would have any comments. I still didn’t have a name for one of my characters and part of the point of me telling them about all of them was to see if they had any ideas.
They said nothing. Nothing at all. They didn’t even acknowledge that I had been talking.
I guess they don’t really care.
And if my own family doesn’t really care, then who will? Should I even bother writing this novel?
Those were some of the thoughts that ran through my head before I realized that neither my mother nor my brother enjoy writing novels or coming up with characters and they have helped me countless times come up with names and are probably sick of it.
Writing isn’t their passion. It’s mine. And just because they aren’t as excited about my nameless, fourth wall breaking, drunk character as I am doesn’t mean they aren’t excited about me or what I can do.
This blogging thing is very theraputic.