The Difference Between Mothers and Daughters

A few years ago, I got an idea for a story I wanted to write.  On confident days I called it an idea for a novel.  On fraidy-cat days I called it ridiculousandnevermindforgetIsaidanything.

I have a lot more fraidy-cat days than otherwise.

And I've been busy.

So my idea has mostly remained just that...an idea.

With my homeschooling roster depleted, I thought maybe I'd pursue the idea.

Maybe.

When my parents were visiting in January, I told my mom the idea one day while we were driving across the Snohomish Valley.  She said, "I like that Thelma.  You should write it.  That's a great idea!"

So I felt a bubble of confidence.

Maybe I would.

Maybe.

It's scary and uncomfortable because there's this invisible editor that sits on my shoulder while I write that tells me it's all really quite preposterous and I should stop wasting my time.

I decided to take courage and my laptop to my kids' piano lessons.  I'll sit in the car without a book to read, and I'll write.  I'll have no distractions and no way to escape the editor.  She'll just have to deal with it while I write.

Yesterday, Sarah, our inestimably wonderful piano teacher who gives candy to her students, came outside to chat.  (She's also my friend.)  She noticed the laptop and said, "Are you blogging?"  In a bizarre and uncharacteristic burst of confidence, I said, "No.  I'm working on a novel."

As we drove away, I told Emma, "It makes me so nervous to admit I'm writing.  It feels ridiculous.  I don't know what I'm doing."

Emma said a few encouraging, of-course-you-can-Mom things then she asked me what my story was about.

I told her.

She said, "That's it?  That's the whole story?"

"That's it."

"That's kind of lame."



I've heard of a face only a mother could love.  Apparently there's such a thing as a story idea only a mother could love.

I'm still going to write it, by the way.  I'm just not going to tell Emma any more about it.  Or let her have dinner.

(OK, I'm kidding about that one.  Barely.)