mom

In writing my semi-crappy novel I wish I’d changed a few things before publishing. There are a couple of typos. I need more contractions. Cappy says so. I do too. 

I should have thanked my mom. She shared her love of reading with me. She encouraged me to read. She didn’t complain much when I spent nearly every waking moment until I left for college with my nose stuck in a book. 

Did she know I read whatever she was reading after she went to bed at night, even if it was not appropriate for a ten or twelve year old? Likely. She occasionally give me a couple of dollars she could ill-afford to buy a paperback from the rack at Hook’s drugs. She bought me books for Christmas or my birthday. She bought cheap bookshelves to store all of my books in my increasingly crowded bedroom. In short, I owe my mother a debt of gratitude. 

Mom died five years ago today. I read the post I wrote after she died. It didn’t do her justice. It made her seem a cold hard woman. My mother was a perfectionist. She expected it of others. Mostly, she expected it of herself, including being a mom. She came pretty close. I mean that in the best way possible. 

If I ever write another novel, a doubtful proposition, I will thank my mother. 

I miss you mom.