Okay so this is sort of in the territory of Tragic Backstory but it is really relevant to who I am today as a person as a whole.
I had a pretty rough childhood as far as it goes and basically no parent figures. So when I eventually moved to another country and lived with my dad for the first time I really wanted him to like me because I was so terrified of him ditching me at a roadside.
I've always wanted to be a writer. For context, for show and tell in year 1 (UK for like, 5 year old school) I brought what was essentially Jumanjii fanfiction that I'd written over the week. It was a whole study book worth. I've always been writing and always loved doing it.
So when I tried to impress my dad and get him to like me I wrote books. Between the ages of 9-13 I wrote fourteen novels. I still have them. The first 5 are more like, long short stories (10k words) but the later ones got to around 60-70k and one even got to around 90k words. Basically I was obsessively writing constantly. I was be so happy when I wrote one that I'd print it out in my school library, go through it, draw a book cover, try and get it properly bound, and hand it proudly to my dad. He'd put it in a draw and all that and I'd think that he was reading it.
I did this 14 times until I finally realized he was never, ever going to read it. He didn't even open them. When we moved I found all of them at the back of a cabinet. He'd literally not even tried.
So there I was, at 13, realizing that I'd spent 4 years writing books for someone who just wasn't interested in me as a person. And as a way of deferring that pain I just stopped writing for six months. I had to reevaluate why I even bothered in the first place.
When my writing took off and I was doing freelance my dad (in an effort to get closer to me because he started realizing I didn't like him), asked to read some of my work. I refused and my sister told him the plot about a lot of my books, in which I always either make the dad evil, or I kill them off early (he's really into freud and all that psychology stuff). And he took offence to this!
The entire situation was incredibly heartbreaking for me as a kid but I grew past it and realized that Hey! If I'm not writing for me, and for something that I care about then ther's no damn point writing at all.
Sorry it was a long read! It came up in therapy last year and it's been on my mind for a while.