My mother told me not to write that.
Mom’s only lookin’ out for me, but — seriously — back off, mama!
Is it any wonder that the title of my senior project was: Stories My Mother Told Me NOT to Write. My creative writing professor thought I was kidding. No, really Professor Pierce, she would definitely not approve.
And it’s not that she doesn’t like my writing. It’s more like she’s got this image of me on a firing line facing all of my religious relatives shouting, “How could you write that, Amber? Don’t you know you’re going to hell now for sure?!”
So my last post makes me cringe a little. She told me not to write that, what if your aunt reads it, blah blah blah. I just can’t help myself. If I allowed myself to get caught up in what other people might think or say or feel, I wouldn’t write at all — not to my private self even. And really, I said all that I needed to say. If my aunt didn’t want me to write about her, she shouldn’t have behaved so freaking odd around me. These things interest me. Human peculiarities astound me, and I want to write about them.
So read it, love it, hate it, cherish it, berate it. Whatever you do, don’t tell me it’s not okay to write that because of how it may possibly affect others. Isn’t that what life’s about — affect?