(no subject)

I am a writer.

I am not the best writer in the world, but I am most comfortable expressing myself through the written word, and I do it pretty well most of the time.

I love my mother.

We have our issues and some of them are from the past and some of them are from right now, but I love her and appreciate her and think that, in general, the world at large and my world in particular are better because she exists therein.



When my father says to me, "For your mother's birthday, you will write her a letter about how much you love and appreciate her, one page minimum, and yes, you're on deadline, and by the way, both your older sister and I will be calling you every two days to remind you to do this," suddenly I find myself writing stiff, cold, completely insincere crap which, frankly, I do not want to be bound into a book for my mother to treasure always; I would like her to have a better version of my love to look at.

On the other hand, it is two days past the deadline.


Family.