My dad doesn’t get what I do.
Those are words I think most artists of some kind can say, unless their father practiced their art. And really, what parent doesn’t want their child to go on and get a financially stable career? For every success story you hear about writers, you read about six more who are just trying to make ends meet.
My dad doesn’t read much. His work takes a lot out of him and he likes to watch sports to unwind. He read the Harry Potter books, to my surprise, but that’s the only thing he’s ever read on his own account as far as anyone can think of. So the likelihood of my dad sitting down and reading one of my books is really, really low.
That being said, he doesn’t get why I sit at my computer for hours every day, why my bed is literally covered with books and papers with just a tiny space for me to sleep, and why my notebooks are taking over the living room. He just doesn’t get it.
But he loves me anyway. That’s why we celebrate father’s day. They may not get what we do, but they support what we do, in their way, and that counts for something.