Seriously.

I’m a pretty private person. In the year and a half I’ve been seriously writing, I’ve only shared my words with a handful of people. I finally mustered up the courage to tell my mother about my writing for two reasons. One, I wanted to go to Nationals in Reno this year, and two, I needed a babysitter for the kids while DH was at work during the day. Since my mother is a teacher and is off for the summer, she was willing to watch the kids. But asking that one small favor has opened up a whole can of worms.

She wants to read my book.

Oh, Lord.

My mother does not read romance. She reads mysteries – Grisham, Margolin – anything but romance. She read The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks and had trouble with the love scene. Well, crap. I’m screwed. She can’t read my work. Can’t. No way – no how.

So she was here last night for DD’s Kindergarted graduation. And she asked. Again. “When do I get to read your book? Do I have to wait until it’s published?”

Um…I’m thinking she will have to wait a lot longer than that if I have anything to say about it.

Marina’s Bane, which is under consideration with several agents now has . . . let me count, um . . . three full love scenes, two other partials. Oh, yeah, like I want her reading that. So that’s out of the question. I could give her Wait For Me to read instead, that’s done now. It only has one love scene. But, oh wait . . .HELLO! my alpha agressive wall-backing hero and the near violent love scene would probably give my mother a heart attack.

I don’t want to have to explain to my kids that grandma died while reading mommy’s book.

Okay. I’m screwed. No way she can read my work.

And then there’s my sweet, adorable six year old daughter. She knows I write. She asks about my work all the time. She knows Marina’s Bane is about an archaeologist. Last night at graduation, each child made a poster of what they wanted to be when they grew up. Then as they walked across the stage in their little graduation cap, the teacher announced over the microphone what their aspirations were. My daughter said, “When I grow up, I want to be an archaeologist.” Sweet, huh? Oh yeah. She also wants to read my book. “Mommy, when you get your book made, I want to sit with you and we can read it together.”

Oh, yeah. Like that’s ever gonna happen!