I have this brother. This brother who, for the past oh, ten of fifteen years has pretended he doesn't have a sister. Namely me.
Now for the most part I've learned to live with this well, as he's not necessarily my type of person. In fact he's a real jerk, but he's still my brother so I "Love" him. He turned on me during the darkest part of my life, the blackest time a human being could go through...he turned and walked away.
He has met my son twice.
He lives in a vacuum.
He chooses his path.
I must honor it.
Yesterday, in an attempt to pursue my "Gift" of writing, I emailed my brother asking for some help networking. He is in the industry, and has built an impressive business on his own. In the email, I gave him some history, some personal information regarding my circumstances...
His reply was cold and pathetically uncompassionate, as powerfully successful males usually are. I was hurt deeply by his remarks concerning my life, hurt by the subtle comparison he made between ours, but hurt mostly by my own stupidity and lack of self care.
My brother is the only family I have. Had. Now I go forward, not nearly as concerned about how my actions, and words might affect his career. Now, from this point I go forward alone, full with a writers zeal, unwilling to restrain my pen or tongue. Now, perhaps, the full words can form pregnant sentences without his shadow rampant in my head.
Censure is a writers cancer. Censure, whether self inflicted or otherwise, can bastardize the most humble of prose. Censure can only fertilize failed marriages, angry children, dead-end jobs, and uncompassionate, powerfully successful males.
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