The best of intentions usually go awry when never asked for.
In January of 1989, I started a K/S newsletter called The LOC Connection. Newsletters back then were intended to be published on a regular schedule and snail mailed to the subscribers (no internet then). Fandom publications historically had a horrible track record at staying on schedule, because they always took a backseat to "real life".
Well, to me, even though I had a job, fandom was my "real life". I published that newsletter sixty consecutive months -- five years -- without a miss or even being late. It was my pride and joy, and I loved putting it together -- it consisted mainly of feedback on stories mailed in from fans -- finalizing it, publishing it, and mailing it to the 100 or so subscribers eager to receive it.
Back then, it was a "big deal" to talk to someone on the telephone long distance, because it was so much more expensive then local calls. But I freely gave out my phone number and did have a few phone conversations with subscribers and fellow fans.
Once, a subscriber called me out of the blue, and it was someone I'd only had minimal contact with before. She was an older lady, one I thought of as an intellectual, serious literary type, and I remember her telling me about her travels and she especially loved the people of Egypt. "They are so friendly. They'd give you the shirt off their back."
The other thing I vividly remember is her telling me how I could be more efficient in publishing the newsletter. Personal computers were still somewhat new then, and she was telling me about some sort of technique that I was unfamiliar with, that would make it easier for subscribers to send their feedback submissions. I don't recall exactly what it was she was talking about (maybe simply sending feedback on the old 5" floppy discs), but I do vividly remember my reaction. I felt cold inside, but I couldn't say why at the time. It was as though something very precious to me had been lost. I loved producing the newsletter, and knew I had dozens of readers that loved it, and now it felt that someone was telling me that I was going about it wrong and what I "should" do instead.
Of course, in retrospect, I know that person only meant well and thought she was truly being helpful. She didn't realize she was coming in on my turf, so to speak, and that was all the more disconcerting to me since I hadn't invited her into my world of newsletter production. Her unsolicited interference had such a strong impact, if only because it felt so sudden and unexpected, that it's still one of my strongest memories when I think back on my years of producing The LOC Connection.
When my older brother was perhaps 14yo, and I a year younger, I came in his room when he wasn't there to get his clothes for the laundry, which was my responsibility. I noticed that there were typed pages on his desk. We both had typewriters that we used for school work and other things, but I was the family member that had ambitions of being a writer. And here I found pages on his desk -- seven or eight with single-spaced lines -- that, as I browsed through them, was obviously a story. Some kind of story where he and his best friend were in the Air Force. I was amazed. Who would have thought that my brother had this kind of fantasy within himself?
So, when my brother came home, I confronted him. "You're writing a story?" I asked with amazed delight. He confessed that he was. And apparently felt he had to give the full confession. He told me all about what was going to happen in the story -- complete with his getting shot twice and still heroically able to save the day.
A few hours later -- perhaps to put away the newly clean laundry -- I went into his room and saw those typed pages in the trash can. I was crestfallen. When I confronted my brother, he muttered something about it "being a stupid story anyway." I felt I must have something to do with him abandoning it, but I couldn't understand what.
Now, I realize that, in addition to his "giving it away" by telling me all that he intended to happen, that I had stomped all over his wonderful little project, simply by knowing about it and demanding that he share with me what he was doing. It was no longer something precious to him, because my well intentioned interference had dirtied it.
If my brother ever did any other writing, I never knew about it. He committed suicide at the age of eighteen.
When I lived with a boyfriend, who had been my high school teacher, we both enjoyed the horse races -- beyond merely betting on them -- and also enjoyed betting the dog races. After breaking up, we stayed in touch. At one point, after I'd resigned from my job without having another to go to (and six months later, ended up starting my own business), I decided I wanted to try my hand at being a professional horse racing bettor, betting from my computer (which was still a newish thing in the mid 90s). I advanced some money from a credit card and decided that once that money was gone, I'd declare the experiment a failure and move on to something else.
I had bad days, but also some ecstatically wonderful days. Since I focused on longshots, when I hit, it was often big. Exactas -- picking the first and second horse -- usually pay around $15 or $20 for a $2 bet. I hit one for over $1300. A few more in the hundreds of dollars. I'd phone the ex and tell him my success -- if he hadn't already called me first to check in to see how the day went.
A few weeks into this endeavor, my ex told me he was coming over. Fine. But I was puzzled when he showed up with a bag of groceries. As he was putting the groceries into my refrigerator, he started dictating to me the strategy WE were going to set forth, as WE pursued this endeavor that I was having above-average success with.
I felt as though I'd been punched in the gut. I know he meant well and he couldn't help himself -- he'd been a high school basketball coach and had owned his own business, so it was instinctive for him to come into a situation and try to take it over, with the most sincerest of good intentions. But dammit, this was something **I** was doing, something **I** was somewhat successful at, something **I** had been enjoying immensely, without needing anyone else declaring to me how to go about it.
In short, his bulldozing interference took all the fun out of it. A few days later, I lost my bankroll, and I felt nothing but relief in informing him that my days of trying to be a professional bettor were over. I was grateful that I no longer had to try to figure out how to tell him that this wasn't something WE were doing -- but I was doing on my own -- and deal with the hurt feelings.
In an old Father Knows Best episode, the older daughter is at college, and the mother decides she's going to take some college courses and ends up in a class with her daughter. The daughter is angry about it, and the mother doesn't understand why.
When the mother is washing dishes, she sees out the window to the backyard that her youngest daughter is playing at being a make-believe actress. She's all by herself in the yard and bows to the pretend audience, etc. Completely in her own world and enjoying it immensely. She doesn't know her mother is watching.
The mother then realizes that that's why the oldest daughter is angry -- her mother is interfering in her world. The daughter is trying to have her own college experience, and here her mother is, denying the daughter the freedom of experiencing her life in her own way.
The mother dropped the class. That's the only episode I remember from that show.