Monday Mom Stuff
Yesterday, Greg Pincus blogged about his dad, about his dad reading aloud to him, and Greg’s reading aloud to his kids. My own mom and dad were up for a visit this weekend, and…well, I was thinking about a “mom post” this morning, even before I read Greg’s post.
This is my mom’s theme song. Or, rather, my theme song for my mom.
My mom is now and has always been honest with me. I have very distinct memories of going to her with my writing, when I was a girl, and having her read it, then say, “This is really good for your age.”
Okay, no, it might not have been exactly what I wanted to hear…then. But I knew she was telling me the truth, and I would have been able to tell if she were lying. ‘Cause, you know, she wouldn’t have been any good at it. 🙂
Recently, my mom has been working on her memoir. She started taking a class, then–when the teacher had to leave–she and some of the other writers decided to keep writing together. Voila…my mom had a writing group. And she’s using my book to work on her revisions.
Which would be totally cool enough.
Except there’s more.
She and my dad visited this weekend, to say “Happy Birthday” to my now-fourteen-year-old son (not sure when that happened!). And I asked my mom if she wanted to read the first scenes of my WIP.
She said, “Sure.”
One more thing you should know about my mom. She reads fast. Lightening-bolt fast. And, as I was to learn just this weekend, not a single expression crosses her face as she’s reading. Yes, I watched. And I had no clue. I mean, this is first-draft stuff. Mega revisions lay ahead. Was I going to get the decades-older version of “good for my age? Which, you know, at heading-toward-fifty just isn’t so much of a compliment anymore.
She turned the last page and said, “This is really good. I would read this book.”
So there we were, both tearing up and hugging, and talking about other historical novels, and I was emailing her the list of Joyce Moyer Hostetter’s books, because now she wants to read some YA historical fiction, and, well…
I have always believed that Caro’s story is one I want to tell. Because of my mom’s honest lullaby, I now believe more strongly than ever that I can tell it.