October 1: Ashamed of It, Being a Writer, Familial Criticism

Soon after the book was published, Andy was visiting his parents when he overheard them talking about his first book.  "I don't know what you think of it," he heard his father say, "but I'm ashamed of it."

E. B. White's first book was titled The Lady Is Cold, and it was a small collection of light verse.  By the time it was published, White was already growing comfortable in his own writer skin.  He had a distinct voice and style.  I mean, the guy was a staff writer for The New Yorker, for God's sake.  He knew what he was doing.  His family, however, was, to say the least, slightly critical of his chosen profession and talent, as the passage above demonstrates.


Being a writer requires a delicate balancing act when it comes to family.  A few options are available.  First, you could avoid all conflict by choosing to never write about your family.  (This option cuts you off from some of the most compelling subject matter available to you.)  Second, you could expose all the dirty little familial skeletons rattling around in your closet, consequences be damned.  (Warning:  this option may result years of estrangement from alcoholic Aunt Gertie or serial shoplifter Cousin Crawford, if you get my drift.)  Or, third, you could play the part of the oddball in the family, thereby excusing you from the repercussions of divulging family scandal.  (A bonus with this option is being excused from tedious family get-togethers because "Oh, he's doing his poet stuff.")

Me, I chose the third option for my life.  When I write a poem about masturbation or an essay about pornography addiction, I simply get looks of pity and, at times, wagging heads from family members.  I am oblivious to most familial criticism at this point in my life.  While I don't go out of my way to upset the people in my life, I certainly do not shy away from difficult subject matter.  I simply try to remain sensitive to people's feelings.  I change names, genders, ages when appropriate.  And, if I still think I may get myself in hot water, I give the person I'm writing about an embarrassing physical defect--excessive flatulence or a small penis, for example; nobody will then lay claim to that character.

In the end, however, people will get upset.  Expect it.  I simply don't care anymore if I overhear a family member saying, "I'm ashamed of his new poem."

Saint Marty will wear that criticism as a badge of honor.

Open the door and let some out...