Yesterday was my mother's birthday. Unfortunately, I lost her in 1999 to cancer. I'm really sorry she won't be around to finally see my long held dream become a reality and find a book I wrote sitting on the bookstore or library shelf.
What a shame because I owe so much to her.
My mom was the one who read stories to me, and who taught me the alphabet and my numbers and how to write my name, all before I ever set foot inside a kindergarten class. My mom took me and my sister and brother to the library every other week during those long hot summers. We got to enjoy the air conditioned comfort we didn't have at home, and she let me check out all the books I could carry. She didn't even scold me too much on those cold winter nights when she caught me reading under the covers with a flashlight, because I suspect she did the same thing herself.
My mom was an avid (if not exactly high brow) reader. She preferred True Story to Ladies' Home Journal or Redbook, and I doubt she ever read an issue of The New Yorker. She didn't read much "literature," but she introduced me to the great old Gothic romances of Phyllis Whitney and Victoria Holt. I'm sure she would recognize their influences in my own work. I also believe she would enjoy my story, in spite of some of the "bad" language my characters use. She was a real stickler about not using bad words!
So Happy Birthday, Mom!
And thanks for everything. I know now how lucky I was to have you.
I still miss you everyday.