So last night, my lovely 14-year-old son says, just to be nice, you know, out of the blue, “I’m afraid to ever read your books.”
I say, “WHY????”
He says, “I might find out they’re bad.”
Me: “They’re not bad!! They’re good!” Me, fishing desperately for proof: “My October book is up for an award! The National Readers Choice!”
Son: “I haven’t seen anything about that on TV.” Eye roll.
TV!!! Me: “But but but!” Thinking desperately, suddenly NEEDING to convince this child who once pooped all the way across the wall behind his crib WITHOUT LEAVING HIS CRIB that my books are fabulous AND BETTER THAN POOP. “My books are published all over the world! By a major publisher! They are GOOD!!!”
Husband, trying to be helpful: “When you start dating, you’ll want to give them to your girlfriends! They’ll be impressed!”
Me, having flashbacks to the love scenes in Deep Blue: “No!!! NO! No giving them to the girlfriends! They’re bad. REALLY BAD!!!!”