I remember reading my mom's novel for the first time. I was working in a profession that required 150 percent of my attention, only 50 percent of the time. In other words, I had a lot of time on my hands, in between the busy days. It took a day to read her life's work. But I was useless for days after I read it.

Her novel was scrawling. She was a very smart woman, but it was still weak. The obscure, rambling, language wasn't strong enough to form a foundation for anything substantial. She was crazy. Schizophrenic, actually. It didn't matter how smart she was. She was writing from a dream world. The bravado of her writing revealed that she was convinced, in her limited and convoluted perspective, that what she was writing was the best story that had ever been written. It wasn't.

Her book was jarbled and half-hearted. From my perspective, the book was nothing more than the ravings of a mad woman. She rambled on about celebrity encounters that had never happened, using multi-syllable words indiscriminately. It was sort of tragic. It was evidence that she used to be smart, but was now just...well...crazy

And now, I've written a book. I'm scared about others reading it, of course. I'm terrified of their judgments. But more than anything, I'm terrified that others will read it and respond to it in the same way that I responded to my mother's "book". I'm worried that they'll read it and think that there is no real value or structure to hold it up.

But then I am reminded that I am my worst critic. And I don't have the option to drift into a fantasy world comprised of fake encounters with celebrities, like my mother did. I don't have the option to create a fake sort of confidence. I am forced to be subject to the harshest critics. Including myself.

I hope that people don't read my book and think that it is the work of a lunatic. Actually, I don't mind if they do. As long as they'll publish it.