It's a shame your father didn't encourage and teach you instead of the response he chose.

Keep writing, and let the rest of us see it now, for pete's sake!

I began writing after a serious accident, I injured my right leg. I've written a bunch of short stories and some poetry but kept it to myself until recently. Dad's can be pretty harsh sometimes. Maybe he wanted you to keep trying. I wish you all the best.

from November 1, 2010. I write between 2500 and 10,000 words a day and post at fan fiction. I think I am approaching 4 million words now. It sounds like, oh crap. One of those stories but it isn't. I am editting it now but actually, I think I surprised myself. My readers love it and two of them told me they didn't commit suicide because they don't know how the story will end.

Truly.

It motivates me to write every day rain or shine.

All hail writing.

un supportive parents into supportive ones.
The question in my opinion is how bad do you need to get the inside out of you.

I'll tell you one thing about life if not about writing. It is that the act of telling a father or a mother if that is the case, what a sonovabich they were when you were young is more therapeutic than writing a thousand books on the subject. Some times that shit, and what your father did was shit, will cripple you for life, and you will try to achieve in his eyes when the only true judge of what you do, is you.

And I am all for writing. Writing is the poor man's psychoanalysis. People can't hardly write a line without seeing their souls. Your mental condition will be revealed to you and to the whole world so you better be able to keep it hidden or put a sweet shine on it. I don't know why your people stood so large in your estimation. I too soon saw my parents as human, and not all that kind. Judged against other parents I obviously did fine, but still it is too bad that what you could share was not shared, and that library of your mind was locked shut with shades drawn. I knew for a long time that I had something to say in my own condition. I wouldn't let anyone put a cork in it.

We can stand mute against the injustice of life and as soon be swept away. What have we against the pain and dark that waits on us but our own soft mews. There is so much frustration in life, so much futility, vanity, injustice, pain and failed relationships. Let me mew then against this beautiful raw deal of life advanced and taken with interest. Hemingway talked of the toilets of Paris, and saw they were unsanitary. Life is unsanitary too. You need dirt under your nails and blood on your knuckles if you are going to write worth reading. People can tell if you know the truth, and if you know it that is your start, your middle and end.

I don't know how old you are, but learn to type. Write double and trash half. Spill your guts and open your mind. Written with pen and ink means read by no one. No one has the time, speak when it is your turn or hold your peace. There are times I don't know that my finger tips are not going to bust through this key board and break through the table beneath. It is naturally passion that drives me. I love a good declarative sentence. I love a good conversation with articulate people. I love to communicate and communication is truth. And I can't tell you the first thing about my language, but how to use it. If writing were music I could not read it. -If you got something to say, just spit it out. Write like you talk. Pen on paper is writing in sand. The internet is sky writing. People you may never meet or get to know can be touched by your words, and that is a triumph, more of a roar than a mew.

Sweeney

She is a gifted visual artist. She writes constantly, but shares very little with the world outside her friends. She reads my work...she is an excellent voice, telling me what doesn't work and what does. I can count on her to tell me the truth.

You never know the impact of your thoughts until you ask others to read them...