Should I let my mother read my novel? Or should I pretend I don’t have a copy?
I hummed and hah-ed. I took my advance copy of CHOPPY SOCKY BLUES off the bookshelf, then put it back.
Finally on the second day of her visit I caved in. I probably had the thought in the back of my mind that she would be returning to England in two days, and any awkwardness that might arise would only have 48 hours to hang around.
I dropped the book onto the coffee table next to Mother’s Danielle Steele paperback. “I thought you might like to read this,” I said, as if the idea had just occurred to me. I also tried not to make it sound as if I thought my book was better than Danielle Steele’s.
“Oh, I say!” she said, sounding a little like Bertie Wooster examining a pair of bright yellow socks. “I’d better start this right away.”
The deed was done. The book accompanied her in the car, at restaurants, to the bedroom, and even on a freezing walk at the beach.
I have to point out that the mum in CHOPPY SOCKY BLUES is more than a little based on my own mother. She’s not exactly depicted in a negative way, but––and maybe this is worse––I make fun of her. She’s one of the funnier characters in the story.
She finished reading just before we set off for Newark Airport.
She did not say she liked the book.
In fact, apart from telling me it didn’t take long to read, she made no comment about it.
Hmm…
You only get one mother, and I have the feeling you can only really put her in one book.
I’m more than happy to report that so far the mother in my next literary effort is absolutely nothing like her.
When Your Mom Reads Your Novel (And she is in it).
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