(This story is included in the new book, SHORT ROAD TO HELL.)
Shortly after my first novel, Bahamarama, came out, I mailed a copy to my mother. I can tell you that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that caused me as much anxiety as the thought of my mother reading my first novel.
Days went by. The book got nice reviews by lots of magazines and newspapers. But not a word from my mother. It was excruciating.
Finally the call came.
“I read your book,” my mother said. I waited. “And I loved it. Just loved it. I am sooooo proud of you.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom,” I said.
She told me she had called up all her friends in town and told them to go out and buy my book.
“You’re the best, Mom,” I said.
Then, she said, she had gotten together with her friends over lunch one day to talk about the book.
“Everyone loved it. We all thought the setting and the characters were wonderful. The dialogue was funny and smart. And none of us had any idea about the ending. It caught us by surprise,” my mother said. “But …”
“But what, Mom?”
“Well, we all agreed that there just wasn’t enough sex.”