I am a good writer.

And I am a writer who no one wants to read. Not even my friends, the people closest to my heart.

At this moment, what does a writer do?

I have opened the work to those whose opinion is most important to me; the place where one had hopes that the acceptance lived.

One thinks, sometimes, that one offers the self in a place where honesty dares not tread. That we have asked too much of those who are closest to us. Perhaps our friends cannot, by the expectations of our very requests, say “this is not what it might be. This is not something that interests me.”

One by one, those trusted resources fall away. The people with whom you have entrusted your truest heart no longer wish to be part of that part of you. Because we have failed to interest them. And if we have failed even in that, we have failed at everything. If one can’t even interest one’s friends in taking part in your work, you are left with absolutely nothing. Your worst fears are realized.

I’m not sure where to go, now. The isolation that one breathes as daily creative air is isolation for real. If we can’t share our word-cooking with those dearest to us, we are truly alone. And asking anything else but a true reaction is a falseness.

You hear, “You are a wonderful writer.” And yet we hear the unspoken other half of the statement, “but I just don’t want to be part of it.”

If we are not that thing that we have filled our lives to express, the thing that we have set in front of us as our avatars in a crueler world, what are we?

Have we been fooling ourselves all along?

Do we give up?

Do we say “nice try, move on”?

I don’t know. At this moment, I don’t know.

If the work in itself is not enough to propel the interest of a friend, what hope does it have? And without that work, what are we?

To those loved ones whom I have burdened with such persistent and needy requests to read what I’ve written, my apologies. I won’t do that again. Ever. And I thank you much for your past indulgences.