Tammy Letherer I was telling my friend about my latest blog, excited about how it came together, proud of the ideas I’d wrestled into words. He listened, and then said matter-of-factly, “I’m not going to read your blog.”
Not as a criticism. Just as a statement of fact. Like I should already know this. Like it was obvious.
And I thought: Should I have known that? Why isn’t he going to read it? And why did I assume he would?
The uncertainty hit harder than the rejection. It felt weird. Off-balance. I’d assumed without realizing it that if someone loves and supports me, doesn’t that mean they should love and support my work?
Turns out, it doesn’t work that way.
The People We Write For
When I work with writers, I always ask about their audience. They usually give me broad answers: “Women over 55 who love memoir” or “Anyone interested in family dynamics” or “Readers who enjoy literary fiction.”
But what they won’t say—what they probably haven’t admitted to themselves—is who they’re really writing for: their mother, their sister, their college roommate, the people who lived through the story with them.
I know this because of what they cling to. They’ll fight to keep three pages about Uncle Henry even though Uncle Henry has nothing to do with the central story. They’ll insist certain details stay in because “that’s how it happened,” even when those details bog down the narrative.
The giveaway is always the specificity of what they won’t let go. The scenes that matter desperately to a tiny audience of people who were there—but mean nothing to readers who weren’t.
I get it. I’ve done it too.
When my memoir came out, I waited expectantly for feedback from the people who knew the story. The friends and family members who’d lived through it with me. Of course they’d read it, right? Of course they’d have thoughts.
Crickets.
The people I expected to read it didn’t. Or if they did, they said nothing. And the silence felt louder than any criticism.
Why This Hurts
Creative work feels like an extension of who we are. An expression of our essence. So when the people closest to us respond with a shrug—or worse, with silence—it feels like they’re shrugging us off.
“I don’t read that type of thing.”
“I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s great.”
Oh. OK. As if you didn’t just pour your heart and soul and probably years into creating this thing.
We want the people who love us to celebrate our work. To read it, cherish it, tell us it matters. When they don’t, it stings.
The Flip Side: When They Do Read It
I’ve learned from working with writers that sometimes it’s worse when loved ones do engage with your work.
They can’t be objective readers. They’re too close to the material. They’ll read for accuracy, not artistry. They’ll focus on “that’s not how it happened” instead of “does this work as a story?”
They’ll say things like:
- “You can’t say that about Aunt Susan, she’ll be devastated.”
- “That’s not what Dad said. He said [exact quote that’s far less interesting].”
- “You’re making our family look dysfunctional.”
- “Why didn’t you include the part about [detail only they care about]?”
With the best intentions, they’ll try to protect you, protect themselves, protect the “truth” as they remember it. And writers, wanting their approval, will pull punches, make bad decisions, and dilute the work trying to please people who can never actually be pleased because they’re not reading for the story—they’re reading for themselves.
Sometimes they’ll even give up.
I recently worked with an author who canceled his publishing contract after extensive edits, right before production started, because one of his kids told him not to publish. I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve been part of this, but it’s not. And it’s devastating to see writers who have worked so hard and come so far only to shrink back into themselves. It’s like watching a kid freeze at the edge of the diving board and climb back down.
So let me tell you something gently, on this day of love:
It doesn’t matter what they think.
Your actual readers aren’t the people who already know your story. Your actual readers are strangers who need your story. Who will find themselves in your words. Who don’t care about Uncle Henry but care deeply about the universal truth you’re excavating from the particulars of your life.
Family and friends already have their version of events. They already have their version of you. They don’t need yours.
They can love you deeply and still not be your readers.
My friend can be my biggest supporter as a person without being a fan of my work. He can believe in me, cheer for me, be proud of me—and still not want to read my blog. That’s not a failure of his love. Someone can love me and not love my genre. Someone can support me and still not engage with my creative output. And that’s okay.
Seeking validation from the wrong source keeps you stuck.
When we write for the people who already know us, we can’t write freely. We’re constantly editing for their reaction, softening the edges, protecting feelings, or explaining context that strangers don’t need.
The real vulnerability—the real courage—isn’t in sharing our work with people who have to love us. It’s in sharing it with people who don’t.
What to Do Instead
Grieve the fantasy. It’s okay to be disappointed. It’s okay to wish your loved ones were your biggest fans. Feel that. Acknowledge it. And then let it go.
Find your actual readers. They’re out there—people who will resonate with your work in ways your family never could.
Create boundaries. You don’t have to send family members your manuscript. You don’t have to ask for their feedback. You can love them and still protect your work from their well-meaning interference.
Remember why you write. For the work itself. For the stranger who will find themselves in your words. For the truth you’re trying to tell.
Separate “being loved” from “having my work validated.” These are different things. You can have both, but you don’t need both from the same people.
The Liberation
Once you accept that your loved ones might never read your work—or might read it and respond in ways that hurt—you’re free to write for the people who actually need it.
Your loved ones don’t have to be your biggest fans. They just have to let you do the work. (And maybe bring you coffee and walk the dog for you.)
You just have to show up and do it.
So, on this Valentine’s Day, may you write with passionate abandon!
Until next time,
