from Read and Die, Nbook #7
I wish I knew someone who shared my love for writing, someone who understood the need for time to write. Obviously my mom isn't that person. She's like, "What notebook?" whenever I tell her I need to write my notebook entry. I mean, she should know. She's my mom. Moms know that kind of stuff. Besides, I've been writing in notebooks like this one since last September. September seventh, nineteen ninety-eight, to be exact. That's nearly a whole year. She knows I want to write children's books someday. Besides, all writers keep notebooks in case they come up with a really good idea for a book. Doesn't she know that? I guess she doesn't. She also said that writers don't make much money. I don't think this is true. I mean, I've seen pictures of authors in the book after the story and they don't look like they live in poverty.
This just...amuses me. The family still doesn't completely understand, but at least they accept it more. I found this when I was fact-checking my literary autobiography. It's almost finished; I'm just typing it out now and got sidetracked along the way.
(cross-posted to history_of_me)