A couple of weeks ago, I offered my mother the first two printed chapters of Finches. This includes the chapter entitled, Rahim (The Womb) that will be appearing in Chiaroscuro's July issue in just a few days (I can't stop saying that, because it still amazes me.) Finches is something I always wanted my parents to read. It's something I'm truly proud of, and probably the most parent safe of my works, relatively speaking. So on Friday morning, she got back to me about the piece. She had to do that between the missing hours of 9AM to 3PM when I was out cold after 24 hours of no sleep due to Brazil's footballing against Japan. I dimly recall that she said my story was good. Later, she repeated that she thought my story was good, though she wanted to know how Ghani died. She is the first reader who has called me on the subject of how Ghani died, and I've subsequently realized that I haven't covered that topic yet.
Fodder for Chapter 3.
In marginally related news, my unholy sleeping habits have spontaneously boosted production of TOEIC questions to the point my suffering editor has told me to, quote: STOP! :P
I admire how two editors from directly opposite ends of the earth have told me this now.
But I can resume submissions on Monday, so I have to finish a couple of sets by then. I also have a pile of code, the KSP admission papers to finish, my workshop proposals to jot down for Santa, and a time-sensitive story to finish. Naturally, I work from the bottom of the pile. My brain is seriously too tired to compute the other stuff at the moment. Current ratios of insomnia are so bad, I am literally twitching in pain before I can sleep. But I have to work.
Me mum has since looked at all the poetry I had published this year and sent the links to my aunts, who have similarly cooed in the way aunts would, and she has only just emailed them the details for The Outcast. She also wants to see me at my reading on Curtin's Open Day. I have subsequently given her a hug or two in thanks, because it means I can finally talk about my writing to my mother as an adult. Hey, I didn't know she cared.