Dear Mom,



I sold my first short story, and got the check for it a couple of days ago.  It made me feel like a real writer, and I knew you'd be so proud!

My kids were home when I checked the mail, so they hugged me and told me how proud of me they were.  Then I took a picture of it and sent it to the Husbandly One, and he texted back how proud of me he was, and how much he loved me.

As I walked to my room, I thought how much I wished I could call you and tell you.  I pushed down the sadness that came with that thought, because I had things to do.  But... I found myself thinking about it later, and it hit me like a ton of bricks.

I couldn't tell you.

I mean, I could.  I could tell you, and in the moment that I told you, you'd be happy and proud of me. But you wouldn't know what it meant and you would forget all about it a few minutes later.

And that hurts.

You gave me so much encouragement when I was small.  You read all the little stories I wrote when I was a kid, read my bad poetry, my fairy tales, everything, and then you'd smile at me and say, "You're going to be a wonderful writer.  You have the family gift of storytelling, and one day, everyone will be reading your stories when you publish them."

Not if.

When.

You believed in me, and encouraged me, and pushed me, and now that I have finally sold a story, and will hopefully sell another, and another, and another... when you should be able to see the start of it all...

I want you to be proud of me.  Even if it is just a short story.  And I know, somewhere in the labyrinth your mind has become, you are proud of me.  I just... wish you knew, too.


Love,


Jo