Wednesday, October 12, 2011 ... reading anonymous reviews of my writing is something new to me ... I Ten years ago when I told my mother I was writing a novel, she scoffed. “Oh, please. You can’t write a novel. You haven’t read enough!” That was before she read the draft. When she finished reading it, her face was filled with shock and joy. Stunned, I suppose. She was saying: that was good, better than so-and-so, you can write, I take it back. Having read all her life, she’s a good judge of what works and doesn’t work, but it’s my mother. All mothers, well, they lie. They give you that pleasant, warm smile and lie straight to your face. Unless they are particularly angry in the moment. Then you’re likely to hear a multitude of truths. Not much help in gauging where I’m at as writer with this novel. I certainly couldn’t put that in a query letter. Guess what, dear agent, my mother loved it. Yawn. Burn the letter. Pass me the disinfectant. From there, I allowed some f...