I have spent a good many YEARS since – too many, I think – being ashamed about what I write. I think I was forty before I realized that almost every writer of fiction or poetry who has ever published a line has been accused by someone of wasting his or her God-given talent.
If you write (or paint or dance or sculpt or sing, I suppose)
someone will try to make you feel lousy about it, that’s all.
People read some of my stories and wonder how much of “me” is in it - did that really happen? Is that how I really feel about this person or that situation? Other times, people read my scarier stuff and look at me with sidelong glances, nervous about what’s going inside the mind of the “normal” looking person standing next to them.