Question time. Does anyone in my family read my books?

I often find myself pondering the age-old question: Does anyone in my family actually bother to crack open one of my novels? Honestly, I highly doubt it. It appears that my stories, which frequently draw inspiration from real-world events, may be a little too personal for them. Perhaps they fear reliving past experiences, already know the plot twists, or are terrified of uncovering hidden truths about yours truly.

With a family tree that’s more like a shrub, I can confirm that my two aunties do have copies of the books. But whether they have actually opened the book and read the pages remains a mystery. I suppose I’ll have to sit back and wait for the day when they finally decide to give them a go or to let me know what they think.

One of the greatest challenges of being a published author is convincing your nearest and dearest to take a gander at your creations. It’s a peculiar phenomenon that strangers show more interest in my writing than those who share my DNA.

I find it quite amusing that my parents have divided the book: my mum tackles the first half while my dad takes on the second half, and then they come together to discuss. It may seem a bit peculiar to me, but hey, whatever floats your boat. 

(Sorry, Mum and Dad, I love the teamwork.)

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