Last year I got burned badly by my family who I never thought would do that to me. Being an author is not typically an accepted career as I’ve come to find out when your family isn’t necessarily “creative”. My mom’s side is completely different we’re all nerdy and creative one way or the other. We just had a conversation about what Harry Potter characters to dress up as when we go to Universal Studios. I’d never have a conversation like that with anyone on my dad’s side of the family. They were also completely supportive and accepting of my career choice. They asked the right questions and never doubted I’d be capable of fulfilling my ambition. Meanwhile on my dad’s side I was often compared to my cousins in my age group and what they were doing. Or being told to do something normal and maybe go back to writing. Emphasis on the maybe. Writing for me isn’t just my job but the very thing that saved my life. My characters were born during a traumatic event and saved my life before I could self destruct. I was so attached to my family that I craved that approval. I was forcing myself to work harder than I needed and to no avail. I was going to have a party for my first book and no one showed up. It sent me into a relapse that soon forced a decision. It resulted me in cutting out 90% of my family that freed me. Writing my recent book helped through the betrayal, the anger, and bitterness. The process of publishing (I’m independent so I do everything myself) was so much easier than before. I’ve come to the point where I don’t care if you don’t approve of my life choices. I will choose my characters first and if you want to pick what pets of me you wan then you will have none of me. I’m not happy that I’ve had to cut so many people out but I’m much freer because of that.