It’s a waste of emotion and time and can flip you into a cesspool or worse, a quicksand snakepit, should such a thing exist.
I have a friend who wrote AN ENTIRE BOOK so she could hand it to her father and he’d be proud of her and he’d hug her and tell her how wonderful it was that she’d done this fantastic thing and she’d cry and it’d be amaaaaazing. She got her book published and the great day came and she handed the book to her father and the fucker he didn’t even open it to see what she’d inscribed. He tossed it on the counter and said, “Maybe I’ll get around to reading it.” Shot down and shredded, she collapsed into therapy for half a decade. She’d spent every single day of the entire two years it took to write it, hoping for his approval and didn’t get it. Ewwwww.
Pattie Boyd wrote a book about her life with George Harrison and Eric Clapton (he famously wrote “Layla” and “Wonderful Tonight” about her… probably paying her zilch for being his muse…) and Clapton NEVER called her or sent a congratulatory note or anything. Nothing. Zero. When she was interviewed and asked what Clapton said about the book, she covered what had to have been a shattering hurt by saying he must be terribly busy…
As Sgt. Rock would say: “ARGGGGGHHHH!”
Write for yourself. Please yourself. If you write for someone else’s approval, what happens if you don’t get it?