So, I had dinner with my parents tonight and my mother informed me that my instant affinity for Robert A. Heinlein is genetic and that I probably read several of his books when I was in elementary school as she had all of them lying around the house. This has some interesting implications… like, for instance, the fact that my mom reads my blog.

(Hi, mom.)

I’ve always found the idea of my parents and other close relations reading my work a little… unsettling. This has nothing to do with the particular subjects I write about… I mean, I don’t know if she even looks at the stories or if she just glanced at the blog and saw Heinlein’s name… but in the final analysis, it doesn’t matter if you’re writting kitten snuff porn or the trilingual instruction booklet for a six speed blender: it’s weird to think about your mother reading it.

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