Several years ago, I published my third book — Have We Been Screwed?/Trading Freedom for Fairy Tales. It's part autobiographical part philosophy of life. I discuss my upbringing in a religious cult and what it was like living in a closed society. I also spend an equal amount of time talking about how after leaving the religion at age eighteen, I soon discovered that to belong to the civilian world also required conformity. I explore in the book how my past experiences affected my perception of cultural expectations in general. I refer to myself throughout the book as a self-appointed myth buster by trade. I still think of myself that way. Although religion was the easiest myth to bust, every culture on the planet is based upon thousands of accepted myths that determine the tribes perception of the world. All are manmade constructs.
I have a rather large extended family, but chose to disclose that I'd published the book to only two members.
I didn't feel the need to draw everyone else into my sphere or create division. Recently, I discovered that my sister-in-law's family was passing the book around amongst themselves. My sister-in-law wasn't one of the family members that I told about the book and I have no idea if she's even read it. I've not met most of her family, but apparently, they're all reading my book with some relish and enjoying it to a greater or lesser degree.
While the book tends to be a bit controversial, in general, all of my books have been better received by total strangers not family or friends.
I rely on the kindness of strangers to support my writing. I suppose, however, that my sister-in-law's family qualifies as strangers since I've never met most of them. Right? Ahem, right. Still, I was caught completely off guard. Why is that?
Well, the life of a writer is a surreal existence.
We sit alone for hours in a room exploring our own thoughts and then try to share our scattered perceptions with written words sprinkled across a piece of paper like salt and pepper. The spoken word might be a better way to get our point across. At least we'd have tone of voice, facial expressions, and gestures to accentuate meaning. Writers understand that even though words may be the best method of communication, often they fall short of effectively sharing what we're thinking, imagining or feeling. We stay the course, however, welding words together into a string attached to another string of words while sitting in a room behind closed doors reading, rereading, writing and rewriting. All of this effort spent without a single promise that anyone else's eyes will see the end results. In fact, we can be pretty certain that the vast majority of what we produce will not be seen by another human being. Isn't that fascinating?
I'm told that most people dread public speaking, but I think most people also avoid writing.
It's such an arduous job that to write more than a paragraph is considered cruel and unusual punishment. People avoid it at all costs. Therefore, because they've had such limited experience with writing, they have even less awareness of what goes into writing books, essays, plays, and stories. Writers are left alone to play with words and if someone finds out that they've written a book, even family members, friends or acquaintances, they are only momentarily aware of the finished product, but totally unaware of the hours and hours of blood, sweat, and tears that made the book possible.
I've become quite protective of my work.
Those who know me best or are related to me aren't the ones that I share my writing experiences with as a general rule. The quick brush of the hand and unfulfilled promise to read the book became such a common reaction that I eventually chose to leave them out of the loop. Every writer that I've ever known tells me that they, too, have experienced similar responses. The Internet has made it possible for me to share my words with strangers all over the world, however. That's something that modern day writers have at their fingertips that writers in the past lacked altogether, a platform to get the attention of readers who might choose to read our words.
So you can imagine how I felt about sharing a book that discloses a bit of my past that wasn't always very pleasant.
Not to mention my point of view about American culture that defies the social expectations that the majority rarely question. I hadn't given it a second thought in well over two years as to whether my family or friends had read any of my books. That is, until I found out by chance that my book was being passed around amongst ALMOST family members. Almost family, mind you. Still strangers at the most basic level, but almost family through the accident of marriage. And, they're enjoying it. They're actually reading my book and enjoying it. As much as I like to tell myself that I don't need the support of friends and family, I was surprised at how it made me feel. How did it make me feel? Gratified. Enormously appreciative. Pleased as punch.
I guess I'm not as self sufficient as I once thought.
