So I'm considering doing another novel in a month in either July or August. My friends are behind me, but my family's against it.
It's understandable I suppose... I'm rather the 'black sheep' of the family. Nothing I like coincides with their point of view and vice versa. It's caused a lot of conflict over the past few years, and it's getting quite tiresome.
I often wonder how they think... and more often than that, I wonder how it's supposed to make sense. They get upset with me for spending so much time on the computer writing, but when I give in to their pleas to spend time with them, they use that opportunity to pick apart anything and everything I've ever said or done. It doesn't seem to occur to them that I spend so much time writing precisely to get away from all that. I'm certainly not about to willingly subject myself to such belittling.
When I write, I can escape into another world. A world where a deadly virus that levels anyone in its path is the least of my characters' worries. A world where a young woman is kidnapped and discovers she has a brother who's been missing since before she was born. A world where time travel is possible and Pac-Man can be threatening. A world where the clouds are pink, the skies are lavender, and a lost necklace hidden in a parallel time is crucial to the future of the inhabitants.
Granted, most of the plots I come up with are depressing, but at least I have control over it. At least my characters don't berate me for every thought I have, even if it spells their demise. I know I shouldn't be bitter, but wading through contradictions every time I have to associate with my relatives is frustrating.