Posted by: Judy | January 11, 2012


You find yourself in conversations of “remember when…” And you find yourself silent, unable to contribute anything, not without worrying about traumatizing someone.

The other day I was playing on FaceBook. The conversation began with a current incident but quickly dropped into remembering old television shows. That isn’t too bad, except that it was all in association with family members. So and so’s grandmother loved this show, and so and so’s mother loved that show, and so and so’s dad loved another show. Happy memories of laughter and love shared within a family.

I couldn’t contribute. I didn’t want to rain on the fun, and if I’d said anything I would have. I want to be a blessing. My past simply isn’t.

This tied in with working on my author bio. I mention that I was told I’d never succeed, and believe it, so boxed away my dreams. One of my friends wanted me to elaborate. I only had 30 words left. There wasn’t enough space, but I think it needs to be said:

My parents told me I could never be successful at writing, but I was also discouraged from writing in elementary school. I wrote pages and pages of horse stories and read every horse story I could find, repeatedly. Then my teachers told my parents I had to stop reading horse stories. They wanted me to try other books. I stopped reading. I had a teacher who would taunt me by setting up scenes for the class to write a short story, and then looking at me and saying, “Let’s see you make a horse story of that.” I did, and she graded me down. She wanted something different. I was informed I had to stop writing horse stories, so I stopped writing, until high school, where I had a teacher who told me to pursue my writing. My parents said, “No.” My parents still don’t know I write, let alone have a contract with a publisher.

At this point, I have no intention of telling them. I know there are those who think I’m mean-spirited and holding a grudge. Believe what you will. I know that I’ve tried to share things that matter to me, and it’s a mistake I’ve learned to stop making.

If I tell them, they’ll be thrilled, and tell everyone they’re thrilled, and then the inquisition will begin: How much money will you make? I don’t know. Will you be able to support yoursel? I hope so. You need to make sure you can support yourself; you should do something else just in case; we’ll help you. Then will come: Only a few people can make money as a writer (implying I’m not one of them). Then will come the comments and “encouragement.” Have you heard from your publisher? How many books did you sell, today?

How do I know all this? It happened with my last job, and the job before that, and the job before that…

I’ve finally learned my lesson. If I could go No Contact, I would. For now, that isn’t a possibility, so I am as low contact as possible, living in the same house.

Please God, protect me from the insanity, and strengthen me for when the battle is sure to ensue. Help me to continue to be a blessing.


  1. Wouldn’t it be nice if you really could fly the Coo-coo’s nest? I am still so happy for you. 🙂

    • Someday…. Thank you! 😀

  2. I have a similar past, and know that awkward feeling way too well, when others start to reminisce I just get quiet, not ready to burst their bubble. I am not ashamed of who I am – any more – but it doesn’t seem fair to bring up too often. I want to read more of your blog. Blogging is where we can have our voice.

    • Welcome rootstoblossom. Hate saying that, in a way, because I really wish you didn’t understand, but I’m so glad you’ve found your voice.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.


%d bloggers like this: