‘Who’s it?’
‘Mom, it’s me.’
‘Is the house on fire?’
‘No…’ I waited for what seemed like a decade. I was about to lose my nerve when she came to the door.
‘Sweet heart…I’m trying to work. I want four hours to myself. When I come out, I can attend to you. Okay? What’s that you’re holding? You want help with a school assignment?’ She asked wearily.
‘No…I want to show you…’ I faltered. ‘I wrote a book.’
I looked up into her face. I’m sure she wanted to laugh. She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it.
‘You wrote a book?’ With raised eyebrows, she pointed at me chuckling mildly.
‘I would like you to go through my book…and tell me what you think.’ I handed it to her.
‘Honey, I can’t promise to read this soon. It would take a chunk out of my time.’
I nodded.
‘Okay.’ I wanted to tell her not to take too long or I might burst with impatience. She rubbed my shoulder wearily and went into her study. I was in my usual corner when she came out three hours later, smiling. I was about to mess my hair up, when it occurred to me that I did not know why she was smiling. Had she read my book, or had she received inspiration for whatever she was working on? She called me into her study three days later.
‘I read your book yesterday in my spare time…’
‘Did you like it? What do you think?’ I could not help smiling. I knew my book was not terrible. However, my Mom sighed dramatically.
‘Abby sweetie, to be sincere, it was not good.’ My smile sagged. ‘I’m your mother and as much as I would love to tell you it was a very good first try… you have got talent, and all that sweet stuff, I don’t want to raise your hope. The book is below average. The story deals with too many complex issues at the same time. The characters are not “breathing” as my editor would say. It’s…it’s like Soda without the gas…sweet, but lacking…’ She waved her hand in the air as she searched for the unpleasant word that would summarize my book. Not finding any, she continued.
‘To sum it up, you still have a lot to learn. But don’t be disparaged.’ My smile had disappeared long before she finished. Disparaged? I was crushed. Didn’t she see anything commendable about my book? Couldn’t she encourage me, didn’t she know she was crushing my spirit? And why was she being sweet with me as though I was still a ten year old? I sat there, staring at my fingers. She rubbed my knee sympathetically.
‘Look, I am proud of you. You’re my girl and I love you. It takes time to develop writing skills. There are millions of books published on a daily basis worldwide, you have to constantly keep readers entertained or you lose your audience.’ I nodded slowly. ‘I am saying, being a writer means more than penning down a couple of words that make sense. Face your studies for the mean time. I don’t think this is where your talent lies.’ With those last words, my mother ruined my entire week.
‘Mom, I will leave, I have some homework to do upstairs.’ In truth, I wanted to run up to my room and weep.
‘No, wait a while. Tell me about your book? Your characters, the plot, the end –why is it so tragic? Who knows, I could spot one or two places you veered off track.’ I nodded, curled up in the leather sofa and began telling my Mom in earnest, everything about my book, Ten Storeys High. I left later on without my manuscript and my Mom never returned it.
This short story is part two in a four part series. Click to continue reading parts one, three, and four.
‘Mom, it’s me.’
‘Is the house on fire?’
‘No…’ I waited for what seemed like a decade. I was about to lose my nerve when she came to the door.
‘Sweet heart…I’m trying to work. I want four hours to myself. When I come out, I can attend to you. Okay? What’s that you’re holding? You want help with a school assignment?’ She asked wearily.
‘No…I want to show you…’ I faltered. ‘I wrote a book.’
I looked up into her face. I’m sure she wanted to laugh. She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it.
‘You wrote a book?’ With raised eyebrows, she pointed at me chuckling mildly.
‘I would like you to go through my book…and tell me what you think.’ I handed it to her.
‘Honey, I can’t promise to read this soon. It would take a chunk out of my time.’
I nodded.
‘Okay.’ I wanted to tell her not to take too long or I might burst with impatience. She rubbed my shoulder wearily and went into her study. I was in my usual corner when she came out three hours later, smiling. I was about to mess my hair up, when it occurred to me that I did not know why she was smiling. Had she read my book, or had she received inspiration for whatever she was working on? She called me into her study three days later.
‘I read your book yesterday in my spare time…’
‘Did you like it? What do you think?’ I could not help smiling. I knew my book was not terrible. However, my Mom sighed dramatically.
‘Abby sweetie, to be sincere, it was not good.’ My smile sagged. ‘I’m your mother and as much as I would love to tell you it was a very good first try… you have got talent, and all that sweet stuff, I don’t want to raise your hope. The book is below average. The story deals with too many complex issues at the same time. The characters are not “breathing” as my editor would say. It’s…it’s like Soda without the gas…sweet, but lacking…’ She waved her hand in the air as she searched for the unpleasant word that would summarize my book. Not finding any, she continued.
‘To sum it up, you still have a lot to learn. But don’t be disparaged.’ My smile had disappeared long before she finished. Disparaged? I was crushed. Didn’t she see anything commendable about my book? Couldn’t she encourage me, didn’t she know she was crushing my spirit? And why was she being sweet with me as though I was still a ten year old? I sat there, staring at my fingers. She rubbed my knee sympathetically.
‘Look, I am proud of you. You’re my girl and I love you. It takes time to develop writing skills. There are millions of books published on a daily basis worldwide, you have to constantly keep readers entertained or you lose your audience.’ I nodded slowly. ‘I am saying, being a writer means more than penning down a couple of words that make sense. Face your studies for the mean time. I don’t think this is where your talent lies.’ With those last words, my mother ruined my entire week.
‘Mom, I will leave, I have some homework to do upstairs.’ In truth, I wanted to run up to my room and weep.
‘No, wait a while. Tell me about your book? Your characters, the plot, the end –why is it so tragic? Who knows, I could spot one or two places you veered off track.’ I nodded, curled up in the leather sofa and began telling my Mom in earnest, everything about my book, Ten Storeys High. I left later on without my manuscript and my Mom never returned it.
This short story is part two in a four part series. Click to continue reading parts one, three, and four.
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