Writing with Parents
Parents, I know you’re reading this.
That thought hovers above my shoulder, whispering in my ear, while I write. It didn’t use to. In elementary school when I would lock myself in my room after a long day, pull out a notepad and write for hours, I wrote to entertain myself. Later in college, I wrote what I suspected my professors wanted to grade, to read in the bathtub late at night only to drop our papers in the soapy water (long story). Now, with the possibility of each word being published, I am frozen with anxiety. What will they think? Will I hurt their feelings or their perception of their only daughter with these words?
How can a person be honest with thoughts like those? How can I write what I feel? I thought my days of recklessness ended the day I was married, but it turns out that they began again with that chunk of Roquefort; that Real Simple essay. There are too many things I can do wrong, and I wish I was stronger. I can be stronger. I will be. Just watch.
