“It's entirely possible that my parents know how I fuck, but not how I pray.” Don’t mind me, just crying over the weight of this (deeply relatable) tiny poem 😭
The first time I sold a story, I was OVER THE MOON. But as soon as my mother found out it was erotica she passed judgement and ceased being excited with me, I clammed up and never spoke of it again. She is immensely anti-sex (due to traumatic events in her own life and religion). To this day, I never talk about my writing career with family—save with my little sister.
“For years, the idea of writing anything that could potentially ricochet back onto my mother, especially, kept my jaw locked up tight. Here I was in my thirties, at my desk in my New York City apartment, thousands of miles away, still as dedicated to keeping her secrets, keeping her safe, as I was when I was seven years old, throwing myself in between her and my father over and over, trying to keep his hands off of her.
If I didn’t protect my mother, who would? Wasn’t that my job?”
This is so effing real. For me, writing about queerness when I’m not out to my fam has been vomit-inducing at times, but I console myself with the fact that none of them like to read and none of them like the genre I’m writing anyway 😭 I just hope that doesn’t change lol
“It's entirely possible that my parents know how I fuck, but not how I pray.” Don’t mind me, just crying over the weight of this (deeply relatable) tiny poem 😭
The first time I sold a story, I was OVER THE MOON. But as soon as my mother found out it was erotica she passed judgement and ceased being excited with me, I clammed up and never spoke of it again. She is immensely anti-sex (due to traumatic events in her own life and religion). To this day, I never talk about my writing career with family—save with my little sister.
“For years, the idea of writing anything that could potentially ricochet back onto my mother, especially, kept my jaw locked up tight. Here I was in my thirties, at my desk in my New York City apartment, thousands of miles away, still as dedicated to keeping her secrets, keeping her safe, as I was when I was seven years old, throwing myself in between her and my father over and over, trying to keep his hands off of her.
If I didn’t protect my mother, who would? Wasn’t that my job?”
This passage is a gift. Thank you. 🙏🏽
This is so effing real. For me, writing about queerness when I’m not out to my fam has been vomit-inducing at times, but I console myself with the fact that none of them like to read and none of them like the genre I’m writing anyway 😭 I just hope that doesn’t change lol