On why I don't tell people I like to read/write

Me: I loooove reading and writing.
Random teenager: Oh, so you pretty much like to do school stuff.

>.<

I think when an adult claims he or she wants to be a writer, people typically respond like it's a cute idea. Like it's not a legitimate dream. Like somewhere the wannabe-writer's parents went wrong and that person received improper guidance as a child.

When a teenager claims he or she wants to be a writer, other teenagers typically respond like a) they think when someone say "write" it means essays analyzing various rhetorical devices and detailing the use of symbolism or b) "Oh yeah, that's cool. Maybe I'll write a book someday."

To be fair, option B probably applies heavily to both adults and teenagers.

But yeah. This is why a lot of people don't know that I like to read or write. Others rarely understand what it really means to me and I don't feel like I need to explain myself to anybody or justify the appeal of reading and writing.

Please note that this is a simple opinion and definitely a generalization. I used the word "typically" to indicate that these responses do not happen every time. I do not think all people who do not want to be a writer are incapable of grasping the concept.

And just for funzies I leave you with this:

A Piece Of My Soul 1

Here's a little excerpt from something I'm writing, AKA me displaying a little piece of my soul. I would really love some CONSTRUCTIVE feedback, be it positive or negative. 

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The dinner proceeds in a typical and uncomfortable fashion. Mr. Aarons and my father make negotiations with business lingo that is nearly indecipherable. Mrs. Aarons has receded into herself, only nodding her agreement when the men speak. Luke is holding my hand under the table; not in a possessive way or a demanding way. He’s just listening to the businessmen’s conversation, holding my hand. This is the way things used to be between us, years ago, when we first started seriously dating. Luke would always hold my hand or wrap an arm around me or kiss me just because he liked touching me. It’s little moments like these that let me know somewhere, lurking in the depths of his being, there is real love for me. And it’s little moments like these that cause me more pain than any sort of physical damage Luke could possibly inflict.

Once appetizers have been picked at, miniscule dinner entrees devoured, and napkins set atop plates, Mr. Aarons stands with a very charming, very schmoozing grin and announces a smoke break. My father and several suited men accompany him to the back porch. I am shocked when Luke jumps to his feet and follows them. Luke has a lot of flaws, but smoke makes him sick. As he shuffles out the glass-paned French door, Luke quickly glances back at me, forehead creased. 

Mrs. Aarons beams at me from across the table, ignoring the few businessmen that decided to remain. I don’t get why she’s so happy-happy-joy-joy tonight. Usually she hides inside of her little shell until every last stranger has driven away. But all of a sudden she has emerged from it, eyes twinkling. The easy assumption would be that she’s drunk, but Mrs. Aarons never drinks. At least, not in front of others.

Nobody speaks, and I feel extraordinary awkward because Mrs. Aarons just keeps looking at me and grinning. 

Call me queen of observation, but I think something is going on. 

Several minutes later, the men file back into the dining room. Luke exchanges a look with my father and his. They return to their seats. Luke does not; instead, he approaches me. Any concern he may have been wearing earlier has vanished, replaced with a slight curve of his lips. Gazes cling to us from all around the table and the only thing I can do is swallow my wonderful What The Hell face and smile, like surprises from Luke are my favorite. 

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So, opinions would be nice! If you have anything on your blog that you would like feedback on, feel free to let me know! :D