Getting feedback on a creative endeavour is always fun. No wait, it’s the other thing. Horrifying. Nevertheless, as a writer and no matter how much any of us would like to deny it, we crave audience responses (provided that they’re overwhelmingly positive of course). And as I sit here, scribbling away with a large cup of tea in hand trying my very best not to represent some sort of tired stereotype, I have little choice (because there aren’t exactly many other thoughts rattling around inside my tiny mind) but to reflect on things that have been said to me.
It’s my dad you see. Believe it or not over the years I’ve come to know the man relatively well. I’m not pretending that I’ve made a concentrated study of him or anything, that might end up coming across as pretty creepy but one way and another you pick up one or two things. When pressed to disclose any posts of mine of late that he’d particularly enjoyed (I feel compelled to mention at this point that he really did bring the subject of the blog up. I don’t just go up to various members of my general acquaintance and demand to know how well they’ve been keeping up with my writerly exploits. It’s a spot check that no one’s going to come out of particularly well) I ought to have been able to predict the response. He liked the one about somewhere local and another that mentioned him.
Why do I struggle so to recommend things like television programmes to him? I’m fully aware of what he finds enjoyable. All I need to do is find a gritty show that makes an least passing reference to teaching and is set in the general midlands area or better yet, Wolverhampton specifically. That he also happens to be in. Get on it BBC, I’m counting on you (the boxset would do very nicely as a Christmas present – it’s a small box of crystallised fruit otherwise).