|If you aren't reading PeanutTweeter.com, why not?|
I was cooking dinner, and we were chatting nonchalantly about my writing for Patch.com, and he'd commented that he didn't understand how I could write like I do, writing has never been his thing. (That's not the profound part, calm yourselves.)
I casually replied that I'd always loved writing, it just comes easily to me. I'm the girl that could pull off a 12 page term paper in a few hours, and STILL get an A. And I told him that it was my life's ambition to be one of those women in the coffee shop who just sit in the corner and write all day, working on a novel.
"Why don't you?"
You could have heard the record skip in my head. I turned to look at him, thinking he must be joking. Nope. Dead serious. He wasn't even being snarky. He continued:
"I'm serious. I've always thought you were a brilliant writer (Yes, my dad said BRILLIANT!). I've always thought you should do something with it."
I blinked a few times, grateful that the sauteing mushrooms on the stove needed my attention as I absorbed the compliment. My dad. Likes my writing. And told me about it. My dad rarely likes ANYTHING about my life; we argue about how I live my life more often that I'd care to admit. But...he likes my writing? Which means he actually READS what I write? I...I'm utterly in shock and honored that he's been paying attention when I slide bits and pieces of my work his way. I just figured he glanced at them and pushed them aside.
And I'm...proud. Like, blushingly, heartwarmingly, proud.
All this time, I've been telling myself I didn't need his approval.
Guess I may have been wrong about that, because this feels pretty damn good.