Apparently, according to my mother, I write filth.
My parents were talking about books today with one of my ten-year-old sisters friends, and how her mother caught her reading something naughty. Then my stupid dad had to bring up the fact that I write, and suddenly what I write is filth…
The worst part was that the last line I wrote before I had gone through to the lounge was the following:
“"That you really want to fuck her." His voice was just loud enough to be able to carry itself to her. "Probably until she's so filled with orgasm that she can't move anymore."”
'I’m just so good at characterization…it’s not really me writing it. It’s the characters thinking it.'
That’s what I’d tell anyone who found out that a fifteen year old wrote this shit, an excuse of sorts.
As soon as I’m legal, this won’t seem so weird…even if I’m getting less than no action myself, the thought is there. ‘Oh, she’s sixteen, she could legally experience this stuff, she can legally think about doing it, that is legally okay…’
I like to tell myself that anyway.
It didn’t help that their eight-year-old son could tell that I was lying when I denied writing about sexual intercourse. I mean the whole story of These Lives I Walk revolves around the fact that Sienna was a hooker.
Dear god.
What would those that I know think about if they read this?
‘Oh yes, that’s Sam, she likes to write soft pornography even though she’s a complete everything virgin, SHE’S UNDERAGE!’
I’m not sure why all these imaginary quotes are starting with OH…
Though; it is such a versatile sound.
Shocked, surprised, inquisitive, suggestive?…just use an OH. It covers everything. From ELEPHANTS appearing in your wardrobe to getting a boner in a history lesson…if my parents see this, then I am D@@MED. (Those @ are black holes, to emphasize my doomedness)
Those critters can be so nosy on top of the embarrassing factor.
Only today my mother said ‘Instead of sitting on there all day, you could finish that painting. If you set your mind to it you could get some good money, and for doing something you enjoy.’
Of course, I felt like screaming at her because I was doing something that could effectively earn me something in the future, something that I like BETTER than art.
To her my writing is nothing.
Then again, that’s just human nature. We don’t see potential in things that we’re forbidden from seeing. People become a little bitter. My mother isn’t exactly the most mature person when it comes to her not getting what she wants.
Though, it’s been like four and a bit years...you’d think she’d be used to it now.
Just they wait. In a few years, when I get published…they won’t get a mention in the acknowledgments. Take that bitches!
…Of course, that’s all reliant on the published part of deal…
Well. It’s the thought that counts.
