Something really cool happened yesterday. The cool thing combined three of my great loves: my son, writing, and mini chocolate chip cookies.
My husband/writing partner and I are blessed with kick-ass children. Also those packages of Toll House cookies, where the dough is already scored so you can break it off and plop it on a cookie sheet and have warm melty cookies in 9 to 11 minutes at 350 degrees.
Because our kids have known for the entirety of their lives that their parents love to write, they think nothing of cover flats, flap copy, ARCs (Advanced Readers Copies), calls from agents, TV deals, film right sales, foreign royalties, autographs, conferences, keynote speeches, and book tours. In much the same way the children of a dentist have no real awe for flossing or plaque or the pulling of wisdom teeth, so too do our kids think nothing of tagging along to a book signing and hearing a parent say, "It's great you got those designer shoes for seventy bucks. Please put them back on your feet and, once you're again fully clothed, I'll sign whatever you want. But the shoes gotta go back on your feet."
Which is fine with us. Parents should not be held in awe. They should be considered perfect until their children hit puberty. Then they should be tolerated and occasionally despised by these same children. Then, during the college years, they should be considered a semi-reliable source of income. (This can also happen while the now-grown children get engaged and need someone to foot the bill for a 75-plate wedding reception in the Penguin Hall of the New England Aquarium.) Finally, when the children in question get knocked up or knock someone up, parents should be considered a bottomless fountain of child-rearing wisdom. That's the way of the world, and parenting. Awe shouldn't enter into it.
Which brings me to my upcoming release, RISE OF THE POISON MOON. It's the new Jennifer Scales book, the YA/Fantasy series my husband and I write together. Our children have read all the books. Well. Our son has read them all. Our daughter has read all but the last, but she successfully pleaded a) high school, b) marching band, and c) high school.
Anyway, while we were writing RoPM we had to be very careful while brainstorming, or discussing the Big Bad, or spoilers. Because if my son overheard, he'd clap his hands over his ears, start chanting "La la la la I CAN'T HEAR YOU!", then dash out of the room.
"But when will it be OUT?" he asked again and again when we tried to soothe him with "hey, the outline's done" or "hey, we hit page 200 today" or "hey, our editor didn't think that scene sucked rocks".
"July," we kept telling him. "Oh. Um. No. NEXT July, hon."
Fast forward to next June, or as I like to call it, yesterday, and several ARCs showed up, courtesy of the good people at Berkley. My husband promptly handed one to my son, who vanished into his room for the next four hours. When I went upstairs to fetch something, he assumed I was about to tell him to beat feet for bed because he greeted me with a shrill, "You said I could read for another half hour!" Jeez, okay, calm down. I was only looking for toilet paper. Why am I the only one who ever replaces the damn toilet paper? (Behold: the sexy life of a New York Times best-selling author.)
Later, when it WAS his bedtime, I went up to shrilly nag him into shutting off his light, only to find he'd essentially passed out with the ARC open on his face. He shouldn't have much trouble reading through the dried drool.
And that's when it hit me. The cool thing. His parents write books. And our kids love to read some of those books. So my kids can sometimes read a long-anticipated book a month before anybody else.
But that's not the cool part. Our kids think nothing of getting books early, that's what's cool. Which is great. Our kids shouldn't be fans. They shouldn't be in intimidated by us. They should think of us (depending on how much we've gone parental on them) with distant affection or soul-searing irritation. They should roll their eyes when we speak within earshot of one of their peers. They should bitch when we insist on completion of their chores. They should console our consuming envy when the preview for ECLIPSE comes on with, "That's okay, Mom. Betsy will be a world-wide phenom, too. Um, in Thailand maybe. Or Germany. Your books sell great in Germany! You could be the new TWILIGHT in Germany!"
In other words, they should take us completely, totally, continually for granted. All the time. Because however much my husband and I love writing, we love being parents more. And if we're being taken for granted, we're doing it right.
Probably.
