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Today I got a hard copy of my book in the mail. I showed it to my mother and, for the first time in a long time, she expressed interest in my writing.

But only because there was a physical book sitting right in front of her.

I’ve been telling her for years that I’m a writer and I actually write books. She’s never volunteered to help me achieve my dream unless it benefited her somehow.

She actually said “maybe I should start reading your books”. I don’t think so. They’re not what she thinks they are. I am a fiction writer. There’s sex, stuff I advise you to think about, magic and, would you believe it, Black characters.

Do you know she actually said that I should make the cover look more religious, like Christian religious, because of the title? I had a cute little cartoon black cat as the avatar for my author’s photo on the back inside cover and she complained about it because she’s superstitious.

Nope, mother dear, you are not ready to read my books. And even if you do, you’ll just have to deal with it.

I know I shouldn’t let any reaction of hers mar my accomplishment. Its a struggle because I want my mother to be proud of me and I have all these doubts in my head that she only serves to amplify most of the time.

Anyway.

Soldiering on.

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