Writing the story you’d be embarrassed for your family to read is a risk. Sometimes it’s the only honest one you’ve got.

Writing with an imagined reader looking over your shoulder produces something careful and dead. Every sentence gets pre-approved, the interesting parts get sanded off, and what is left is technically yours and says nothing. The embarrassment is a useful signal: it usually means you have arrived at the material that actually matters to you, which is the only material worth the work of writing well.

Separate the two decisions. Write the honest draft with nobody’s name attached to the future of it, then decide much later who reads it. One is a writing problem and the other is a publishing one.