“This is the song that doesn’t end…”

Yesterday I had my first uncomfortable writer-life-meets-personal-life experience since I was a wee thing and declaring I wanted to be a writer was (in my mind) a great act of rebellion.

 

Stuck between my grandmother and my new boyfriend as they meet each other for the first time, all I can think about is how much I want another cup of after dinner coffee. It’s been a long, tedious evening, but just one more fix of caffeine and I know I’ll be able to put off destroying everyone in a massacre 300-style. At least for another ten minutes. But before I can get to the coffee pot, to the carafe of chocolate truffle goodness calling my name, I hear these interesting words…

 

“…Yes, [Darcy] doesn’t tell me anything about her writing these days. She used to show me all of her work, but the last word I got to read was eight years ago…”

 

And she just kept going

…and going

…and then there was more

 

What do you do in situations like this?! I haven’t given my grandmother samples of my work to read because I highly suspect she’d find it distasteful. It’s not even about the smut factor! Aliens in spaceships, zombies, and dystopian themes aren’t her thing! But it comes across looking as if I’m embarrassed and I’m NOT!

 

I’m a writer. Deal with it.

 

But really, what do you do in situations like that? I need help here, people. In case this ever happens again.

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