In my family, no one talks more—or louder—than Uncle Leonard.
He’s the self-published “author” who can’t go five minutes without reminding you of it.
Every family dinner turns into a one-man show where Leonard lectures us on writing, storytelling, or whatever else he thinks will make him sound impressive.
For the most part, I’ve stayed quiet, nodding along and rolling my eyes when he isn’t looking.
But this time?
This time, he pushed too far.
An Author in the Family
When Uncle Leonard published his book two years ago, the whole family was proud.
We gathered in Grandma’s living room for a little celebration. He handed out signed copies and told us all about the “incredible journey” of writing his first novel.
At the time, we didn’t know that journey involved cobbling together a collection of chapters from his old fan fiction series and slapping a cover on it through a self-publishing website.
But hey, a book is a book.
He was beaming that day, and honestly, I was happy for him. He’d always been a little dramatic, but his excitement was infectious.
We all clapped and cheered as he read an excerpt aloud, though the story—something about a rebellious pirate queen—wasn’t really my thing.
That was before the bragging started.
By the next family dinner, Leonard had transformed into “the author of the family.”
He wasn’t just an uncle anymore. He was an authority. He critiqued people’s word choices mid-conversation, made backhanded comments about grammar, and reminded everyone how “difficult” it is to create real literature.
“Words matter,” he’d say, wagging his finger. “They’re the tools of our craft.”
At first, I tried to be supportive. I figured he was just excited about his book and needed some time to let the ego settle.
But two years later, Leonard was still holding court at every gathering, turning every topic into an opportunity to talk about himself.
And the thing that really got under my skin? He loved to tell people how fan fiction was a valid form of literature.
He’d say things like, “Fan fiction is where creativity thrives,” or “Fan writers understand the art of storytelling.”
It sounded noble on the surface, but what he really meant was, “Fan fiction is valid because I wrote it, and now I’m a published author.”
I’ve been writing fan fiction for years. I started in high school, posting stories under a pseudonym on a popular site.
It wasn’t something I bragged about. Not because I was ashamed, but because it was personal. It was mine.
Over time, I’d built a little corner of the internet where my stories thrived. By now, my account had hundreds of thousands of reads and a dedicated fanbase that left glowing comments on every chapter I uploaded.
But I never told my family. It wasn’t something they’d get, and frankly, I didn’t need their approval.
Until Leonard pushed me one step too far.
Criticism from the Couch
Dinner was the usual chaos of loud voices, clinking plates, and the occasional bark from Aunt Sue’s tiny dog under the table.
Lucas and I sat in the corner of the dining room, talking quietly about a new sci-fi movie we’d both seen. He made a joke about one of the characters being “cringe,” and I laughed, launching into my own rant about the cheesy dialogue.
That’s when Leonard’s voice cut through the room like a teacher scolding a misbehaving class.
“Cringe?” he said, setting down his fork with exaggerated flair. “What kind of word is that?”
Lucas and I exchanged a glance, bracing ourselves. Leonard turned his full attention to us, looking mildly horrified.
“Do you two have any idea how lazy your language sounds? ‘Cringe’? ‘Cheesy’? You’re young adults. You should be speaking like it. Words matter, you know. They’re a reflection of who you are.”
I wanted to groan, but Lucas beat me to it. “Oh, come on, Uncle Leonard. It’s just a casual conversation.”
“Casual conversations are where habits form,” Leonard said, launching into what I knew would be a long-winded lecture. “The way you speak shapes the way you think. And the way you think shapes the way you create. Frankly, it’s embarrassing to hear such uninspired language from my own family. Especially from young people like you who have the world ahead of them.”
“Noted,” Lucas said dryly, clearly over it.
But Leonard wasn’t done. He launched into a spiel about how young people today lack creativity, discipline, and appreciation for the finer points of language.
“You have to elevate yourselves,” he said. “Set a higher standard for your words. It’s unbecoming of the family of an author to be so… unimaginative.”
I gripped my fork tightly, resisting the urge to snap back. For years, I’d let Leonard’s arrogance roll off my back, telling myself it wasn’t worth the fight.
But something about the way he said “family of an author” struck a nerve.
Lucas must’ve seen the frustration on my face, because he leaned over and muttered, “Please, let me tell them?”
I glanced at him, my grip relaxing. A small smile crept onto my face. “Go for it.”
Lucas turned back to Leonard with a carefully innocent expression. “You know, Uncle Leonard, I think you’d really appreciate Sophie’s writing.”
Leonard paused mid-rant, his fork hovering in the air. “Sophie writes?” he said, his tone somewhere between disbelief and condescension.
I shrugged, keeping my voice light. “A little.”
Leonard chuckled, leaning back in his chair like he was settling in for a good story. “Oh, really? What do you write? Poems? Little essays for school?”
Lucas grinned. “Not exactly.”
Leonard’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What kind of writing are we talking about here?”
I sipped my water, letting the moment stretch. “Just some stories I post online. For fun.”
Leonard laughed, a deep, theatrical laugh that made several relatives glance our way. “Online? Oh, well, that’s… nice. Social media stories, then?”
“Not quite,” I said. Calmly, I set down my glass and pulled out my phone. “Let me show you.”
A Careful Setup
I scrolled through my phone slowly, savoring the moment. Lucas leaned back in his chair with a smug grin, clearly enjoying the tension.
Leonard’s smug expression hadn’t faltered—yet. He still thought this was just a little hobby of mine, something inconsequential that would never compare to his “serious” work.
“So, Sophie,” Leonard began, adjusting his posture like he was about to deliver some grand piece of advice. “What exactly are these stories about? Romance? Fantasy? Or is it, dare I say, fan fiction?”
There it was. The condescension practically dripping off his words. I glanced up at him, meeting his gaze with a calm smile.
“Actually, yes. It’s fan fiction.”
Leonard blinked, taken aback for a split second before recovering. “Well, I suppose that’s a start. Fan fiction can be a decent way to practice storytelling. When you’re younger. Of course, it’s no substitute for real writing, but it’s a fine steppingstone for someone like you.”
Lucas coughed to cover his laughter, but I didn’t even flinch. I knew exactly where this was going.
“Funny you say that,” I replied, my voice steady. “Didn’t you get your start with fan fiction?”
Leonard’s chest puffed up as if I’d just given him a compliment.
“That’s correct! And I turned that into a published novel. But you see, Sophie, the difference is that I moved beyond fan fiction. I reached real readers, real audiences. That’s the mark of an author.”
Lucas leaned forward, his grin widening. “And how many readers is that, Uncle Leonard? Five thousand? Ten thousand?”
Leonard beamed, misinterpreting Lucas’s tone entirely. “Closer to five thousand. But that’s quite an achievement for self-publishing! As I’ve always said, an author’s impact is measured by how many people read their work.”
I couldn’t have asked for a better segue. Calmly, I turned my phone around and slid it across the table toward him.
“Well, here’s my profile. Feel free to take a look.”
Leonard glanced down at the screen, still smiling, but as his eyes scanned the page, his smile started to falter. His brow furrowed, and he leaned in closer, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
On the screen was my profile on a popular fan fiction site. Next to my username was a number: 738,452 total reads.
Below that, hundreds of glowing comments filled the screen, readers thanking me for my stories, praising my characters, and begging for updates.
The silence at the table was almost deafening.
Lucas broke it with a cheerful, “Wow, Sophie, that’s a lot of people. How does that compare to five thousand?”
Leonard’s face turned a deep shade of red. “This is… well, I mean, this is… different,” he stammered, trying to regain his composure.
“Oh, absolutely,” I said, nodding. “It’s fan fiction. But didn’t you say fan fiction is valid literature? You were pretty clear about that earlier.”
Leonard opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked like he was trying to decide whether to double down or backtrack, and the indecision made him squirm in his chair.
“And,” Lucas added, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, “didn’t you say an author’s true impact is measured by how many people read their work? So by that metric, Sophie’s doing pretty well, wouldn’t you say?”
The room erupted into laughter. Even Leonard’s biggest cheerleaders in the family—like Aunt Sue—were hiding their giggles behind their hands.
Leonard sat frozen, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, completely unable to respond.
The Second-Best Writer at the Table
Leonard’s face stayed red for the rest of the meal, but he clearly wasn’t ready to give up just yet.
“Well, of course,” he said finally, his voice a little shaky, “that’s impressive, Sophie. But you have to admit, fan fiction readers aren’t exactly… discerning. It’s not the same as publishing a novel.”
I tilted my head, feigning curiosity. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve had a lot of readers tell me my stories inspired them to start writing themselves. And I’ve gotten fan art, spin-offs… people seem pretty invested in what I create.”
Lucas jumped in with mock innocence. “Wait, you got fan art? Like people made art based on your stories? That’s awesome! Hey, Uncle Leonard, have you gotten any fan art yet?”
The table burst into laughter again.
Leonard glared at Lucas, then at me, but there wasn’t much he could say. Everyone could see how badly this conversation had backfired.
Mrs. Thomas, one of the older relatives who usually humored Leonard’s antics, leaned forward with a warm smile.
“Well, Sophie, I’d say you’ve done an incredible job. It sounds like you’ve made quite the impact.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling back.
Leonard tried to steer the conversation elsewhere after that, but no one was really paying attention anymore. The rest of the family kept bringing the focus back to me, asking questions about my writing and marveling at the sheer number of readers I’d reached.
Lucas, of course, couldn’t resist throwing in a few more jabs.
As we cleared the table, he clapped Leonard on the back with a grin. “Don’t feel bad, Uncle Leonard. Five thousand readers is still pretty good. It’s not seven hundred thousand, but hey, who’s counting?”
Leonard muttered something under his breath and shuffled off to the living room, where he spent the rest of the evening sulking on the couch.
As we left that evening, Lucas nudged me and whispered, “Best dinner ever. I’m framing the look on his face.”
I laughed. Uncle Leonard might still call himself an author, but one thing was clear: he wasn’t the only one in the family anymore.