When I was little, and I wrote, my mom encouraged me as much as she could. She wasn't into my writing (though she encouraged me to write, she said things like "I hope you'll never show this to anyone—they'll think I'm a bad parent!"). But she did suggest that I send copies of my writing to my grandmother, who worked as an English teacher—and I did. I collected these stories in my Garfield document
Family reaction to my writing has been mostly nonexistent. My youngest sister does not read my writing. Hasn't read a single book. She says it's because she thinks my writing will disturb her—she's probably right. My father has also not read a single book of mine. My other sister has read one book—Things Said in Dreams, which she reviewed positively to me and passed around to her friends in New York
My mom has also read one book: Things Said in Dreams. She read it when it was published and I gave copies to my family. My uncle read it and gave it 3/5 stars on Goodreads. My mom read it and said it was "hard to read in some places but good writing. Definitely well written." My aunt refused to read it (I guess based on the fact that she doesn't read books). And my grandmother—the English teacher—picked up a copy, attempted to read the first page, put the book down, asked what a fluffer was, and on hearing that defined made no further plans to read my book
My grandmother was always built up by my mom as such a word person. Someone who might be interested in my stories. I sent those stories to her placing something valuable in her hands. Spoke with her afterward to ask her what she thought—she gave pleasant, vague compliments
When I was in my 30s, I stayed with my grandmother for a while. They said the room I stayed in was a haven for travelers throughout the house's history. It didn't work for me, though. That house was a haven for right wing Christianity, Republicanism, alcoholism, gambling, and bad communication. While I was there, my grandmother was going through her stuff to get rid of things she no longer needed. She handed me a shoebox of my short stories and, chucking, said I sent her these throughout my youth, that she never understood them, never read most of them, and could I take them back