“I’m sorry, but I don’t feel strongly enough about your mother’s book to do a blurb for it,” writes my author friend.
You’d think I’d feel disappointed. I’d given my friend two new books: a copy of my just-released novel (The Last Will & Testament of Zelda McFigg) at my book launch party and an advance reading copy of my mother, Edna Robinson’s, novel (The Trouble with the Truth), written in 1957, edited and doctored by me in 2013, and due out in February 2015 as the debut novel from Infinite Words, a new imprint of Simon & Schuster founded by best-selling author/publisher Zane! My mother is dead and I own the rights to her novel, so it’s my book. I’d suggested that my author friend might actually prefer my mother’s book to Zelda McFigg because the writing style is more similar to hers, but I was wrong; she raved about Zelda McFigg and offered an unsolicited blurb, but she turned down The Trouble with the Truth.
My first uncensored reaction to this rejection: I win! My friend likes my book better than Mom’s. Yippee!
But almost concurrent with this competitive glee is such a queasy shame that I blush all alone in front of my computer. I must reveal this to no one. And that’s when the more acceptable feeling of disappointment comes: Damn, no blurb for Mom’s book, and it’s such a good book! I’m bummed.
(Read the rest of this piece at The Mantle.)