You're writing? BWAHAHAHA...!

Last night I returned my parents call. When they asked what have I been up to, I mentioned I've been working on my novel.

"You're what?" Mom asked. I said I'm working on my novel.
"Haven't you been writing for the last seven years?"
"Yes. Intermittantly."
My mom yelled to my dad and both laughed. I could guess what they were saying.

It's interesting what I felt. Amusement. As I later told the story to R. and my sister (who were both horrified at my parents' reaction) I know my mom and dad. Neither read for pleasure. Thus, it's ironic that my sibs and I love to read despite the parental figures' discouragement during childhood. Knowing this fact, I never even conside their opinion on the written word like I would with R.'s or my friends Greg, Clark, and my ex-co-worker Debbie. Putting such emotional investment would be as wasteful and useless as trying to convince a fundamentalist of any faith to admit their deity may not exist, for example. As I said to R. and my sister, "they're Mom and Dad. I'll always love them and I never expect them to understand. And that's okay."