I've had some odd experiences with my family relating to writing.

One of my nieces has become an art historian, and sent me some things she's written. They were flawless, and I told her so in an email. I was very specific about her strengths as a writer and the way she built and supported her argument. Some time later I was talking to her father (my brother-in-law), and he said, "Your opinion meant a lot to her because she knows you're a good writer. And when she said that, it made me wonder: Have you written anything lately?"

Another brother-in-law (I have several) asked me the same thing. And my wife and daughter have wondered why I don't write.

Of course, I bite my tongue -- none of them know that I've written a fair amount -- all of it TG-related, and all of it here at BC/TS.

It's discouraging to have written all that without being able to show it to anyone I actually, physically know. I would love to be writing in the mainstream again, things that anybody could or would read.

So, last summer I decided to write a plain-vanilla romantic comedy. It took several months to work up a situation and a plot, and I was pretty pleased with it.

My daughter kept asking how the story was coming, so one day on a long drive I gave her the broad outline. When I finished, we were sitting at a table eating lunch.

"What do you think?" I asked.

She sighed and made a face. "It's okay, I guess," she replied. "But I really wish you'd write about when you and Mom were in that cult."

Well! That took all the air out of me. First of all, it wasn't really a cult. It was cult-ish. I sort of touched on it in Tabula Rasa, and she's right: I *should* put it all down in black and white. She was very small when we were involved, so it intersects some of her earliest memories, and it would explain (to her) some elements of her own life.

Second, I wish she'd told me earlier. I'd been talking for nearly six months about what I was doing, and we'd had several conversations about it. If she wanted me to write something like that, it would have been nice to know. I don't think I would have changed my plans, but at least I wouldn't end up feeling that the rug was pulled out from under me.

However, I *can* understand that she might not have known her own feelings until she actually told me. Maybe it was a vague, not-yet-articulated sensation that didn't come together until she was listening to me natter on about two imaginary people who stuggle through a series of misunderstandings and end up in love with each other. While she was listening, the feeling was probably taking more definite form and ended up as Why is he telling me this bullshit about these people who don't even exist?

Third, telling her the story made me see some pretty serious defects with the plot and missing motivations.

Anyway... I've been blown back to square one, but with a little difference. I still wish I could write something mainstream, something fun that would make people laugh and all that shit... something I could say to anyone yes, that's mine but my daughter is right: there is one book that only I can write, and it might be the only thing I could write that would make any difference to her.

And I have to tell you: I had no idea that I'd finish this blog entry feeling that way. I thought I'd just bitch about how my book idea got a flat tire. Instead, writing about the flat tire made me see it differently.