In a startling development, my mother read my novel.

Oh, I know what you're saying. "Of course your mother read your novel, you two-bit hack! She's your mother. That's what mothers are supposed to do!"

Ah ha, but that's where you're wrong. Mom didn't read my first full-length (and for the time being, dead) novel. She said she couldn't get past page three, which probably said a lot about my impressive lack of sale.

I mean, if my own mother can't get past page three...

But this one? This one she read in one day. In one sitting, even. She said she liked it. "I liked it very much," were her exact words. She complemented me on a few scenes, lamented the oft-lamented lamentable plot twist, made a few suggestions about a couple of scenes, suggested I clean up the trendy language a tad and complained the last two chapters felt too rushed.

Considering this woman has read novels professionally and got her masters in English Lit, I'm taking all of it as high praise. Especially the envelope stuck to her fridge that bears the name of the imaginary retirement home.

Dad's next on the reader schedule...