The other day I suffered a blow to my fragile artistic ego. I called my mom to chat about a reader's response to my blog only to discover she had no idea which posting I was talking about.
Why? Oh, because she hasn't been reading it lately. At all.
Writing is my thing. My shtick, you know? It always has been. I enjoy it and I like to think I'm reasonably good at it. I know my blog isn't exactly the greatest modern work of the English language (YET!) but it is mine. Whether it is bullshit or brilliance, my mother should be my biggest supporter, right?
Apparently, not so much.
(aaaaaaand cue indignant comment, phone call, or email from mom who is now - or so she says - back to reading my blog on a regular basis)