The first time I can remember ever sitting down at a typewriter and pecking out a bit of fiction. True, it was unduly influenced by The Empire Strikes Back, but it was an honest attempt. Certainly, if my kid were doing something similar I'd have snatched up the final product and put it up on my fridge (or some other place of honor). But that's not my (single) mother's style.
There was little-to-no encouragement in my home. There wasn't even discouragement. I've worked at being a writer because I liked it. It filled something inside of me. Not many people have told me that I'm good, though a lot of people have told me the opposite.
When it comes to writing on this blog, I'll admit, I don't fret over it as much as I do my "clean" writing. On here I write from the gut. I don't spend a lot of time noodling on draft after draft after I've written the first. For better or worse, what you're reading here comes right from my head onto the page. One reason for this is to avoid self-censorship. I'm exploring things here that I don't normally allow myself to contemplate. It's a mental purge.
Knowing that I don't put a whole lot of effort into the stories on this site -- not rewriting, outlining, et cetera -- I shouldn't expect a lot of response, good or bad. Yet, I absolutely crave and thrive upon feedback. It's the insecurity flooding through. Years of living in a vacuum coming back as an embarassing need for response.