When I was growing up, my parents were generally good about giving me “space.”  If my door was closed, they usually knocked before coming in and I don’t think they listened in on my conversations on the phone.  Or, at least, if they did, they never told me.

And, yet.  I remember a particular instance when my mom found a note from one of my friends that had some questionable content in it.  Like, you know, multiple uses of the “f” word, something about a boy, the usual stuff.  She very calmly placed the note in front of me, and said, “Who is this?”

I was mortified.  And then, I got angry.

“That’s MY note, mom, you can’t just  read other people’s stuff without asking…” I raised my voice ever so slightly  in an effort to really push across the indignation I felt at this obvious violation.

“I do not read other people’s stuff, but I will read your stuff.”

“What about my RIGHT to privacy?”  I saw the look pass across her face.   The one that I had seen so many times before… Oh, lovely, here goes my American child again going on about her rights…

I assume that this was a cultural disconnect because every time I tell my husband some version of this story, he reacts as though I’m telling my mother that I’m a Martian who has come to Earth in order conduct experiments on the human race.  In other words, a fourteen year old talking to her mom about privacy rights is just plain crazy.

But, back to my story.

“In this home, your privacy is not a right.  It is a gift, remember that.  You should know that whatever it is, I will know.  You might not know that I know… but I will know.”  To this day, that sentence was said with such conviction that, twenty years later, I still shudder at the idea that there are things that she knows that I don’t know about.

She wasn’t done.

“Also, you should remind your friend,” she gestured at the note, “that words are eternal.  Remind her that what she writes and gives to someone else can be seen by anyone even if it’s intended only for you.  Her words matter.  People will see them.”  And, then, in her classic style, she left the note laying on my bed, walked out and softly closed the door behind her.

Her words matter.  People will see them.

Again, this lesson resonates with me until this day, to the point that I always think twice before I hit publish on anything.

Who is the absolute last person I would want to see this?  How would they react?  Am I willing to pay that price?

And, yet, I’ve had the inevitable conversation with more than one person, “was that post/update about me?”

It’s a difficult question to answer.  I mean, sometimes, it’s a yes and a no.  I think people have a hard time understanding this because they don’t fully understand the creative process behind writing.  Something happens to you or you observe something that someone has done, and it sparks a range of thoughts in your head.

Some of those thoughts have nothing to do with the original situation or person.

I wonder if people understand the distinct difference between a writer intending to exact vengeance and a writer who has simply been inspired to write about something they’ve experienced.  I imagine that only the writer knows, and, interestingly, only the reader can decide.  (Unless, of course, they blatantly ask).

The consumption of any kind of literature generally necessitates that the reader look for themselves or some semblance of what they know in the words before them.  It’s almost narcissistic, yet I argue that if that search for one’s self to some degree comes up empty, the person will simply stop reading.

So, in a way, yes, it is about you.

But, for writers who have the purest of intent, the intent to express and create and tell the truth as they see it, it’s not about you in the way you think.

Something to keep in mind.