I handed three chapters to my mom last night.
“I wanted you to read the beginning of my book.” It was difficult to hand over the pages. I’d pored over them time and again before that, but I was certain there were still some typos.
She looked genuinely impressed. Or shocked, maybe. I don’t know. “Should I read it now?”
I wanted her to finish them instantly, so that I wouldn’t have to wait; but I wanted to be far away as she read them. I imagined watching in horror as she pulled out a red pen and began to mark up my pristine pages, chuckling to herself.
She’s a high school literature teacher, you know.
So I told her she could read it whenever. She said she’d read it that night before bed. I said, There’s no hurry. She said, But I’m interested to read it. (What a hideous word interesting is.) I said, Whatever.
I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept telling myself that if she didn’t like it, it didn’t matter. I’m my own person. I have a right to decide what to do with my life. If she makes me get a job, fine, but I’ll just get a cheap apartment, live on Ramen noodles, and write until I prove to her that this is what I’m supposed to do.
I slept in this morning — because I couldn’t fall asleep. Mom had already left for work. I keep trying to distract myself, but I can’t keep still. Maybe I’ll go out for a walk. At least I’ll keep moving.
Maybe I’ll stop in at her school around 3.