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I have a certain family member who I shall not call out by name or identify in any manner because said relative has asked me not to talk about them in my writing.
Let’s call this family member Tom.
Tom is a great writer. Tom taught me to write.
Tom used to read poetry and stories to me, precocious and advanced stories that he would lovingly pick out for me. His voice was soothing and sweet.
Tom writes some. He is in a writer’s club and calls me now and then to read his work.
It’s always very good.
But Tom does something that drives me absolutely bonkers.
Tom sits on his writing.
He doesn’t post it, sell it or share it, except for with a few people. No one gets to really see Tom’s writing except for Tom.
And that’s Tom’s choice. It’s his writing, after all.
But I think Tom is afraid. Afraid people will love it too much, or hate it, or start to read it and then mid-story, stop and go do something else.
I’ve never had Tom’s challenge of sharing my writing.
