Writing Broken Road was a multi-faceted experience unlike any other I’ve ever known. One of the most significant elements about it was how vulnerable I felt going into it, and even more so once the characters were well fleshed-out and had become my dear friends.
At this point in my life, my self-protectiveness is a well-honed skill, so sharing the fact that I was writing a novel, much less the novel itself, was difficult and a pretty well-kept secret, except for a small number of people that Mike and I—well, Mike asked—to read it for advice on writing style and content.
I didn’t tell my parents or my siblings until the book was published. I sent my parents a copy and my mother began reading it. She’s a former school teacher and the very first person who taught me grammar, most noticeably correcting me when I would use “me” when “I” was the correct form.
Less than a week after sending them Broken Road, Mike went to visit my folks for Christmas. My younger sister was also at their apartment and there was a bit of discussion about the writing. I mentioned that Mike and me (just kidding) had spent twenty minutes lightly arguing over a comma, and that I had won that argument. Mother then said she had found a couple of places where the grammar was incorrect, but that didn’t bother me; I knew about several instances where that was the case, but it was written that way for a reason.
Then she dropped the bombed. She had noticed an error-not grammatical-but an error so huge it’s embarrassing, not only for my mistake, but because Mike and/or I (see; I do know what’s correct) have gone through this story no less than thirteen times and caught mistakes every stinking time, and we still missed this glaring gaffe.
I will not tell you what it is; won’t even hint at it. It’s too humiliating, and if you’ve read the book and didn’t catch it, so much the better.
But, if I write another book, you can be damn sure my mother will be one of the first to read it!
