My Biggest Fan
by Laurie Larsen
My mother sat in the passenger seat while I drove. “Turn left up here on Oakland. I think … yes, that’s just as good as any other. Oakland will get us there.”
I glanced over at her and smiled. She was peering at the minuscule map, her nose scrunched, the paper inches from her eyeglasses. The sponsors of the annual Holiday Tour of Homes evidently printed the thing for people with perfect vision, undistracted by the mechanics of maneuvering through stop lights, 4-way stops and overzealous Christmas shopping traffic, this first weekend in December. Certainly not for the likes of us – a gracefully aging schoolteacher with bifocals and her daughter, who had something big on her mind.
I turned left onto Oakland Avenue, then, my heart about to burst with my pent-up news, made a pit stop – an unplanned, unrehearsed right turn into the Toys R Us parking lot. Only after I became ensconced in an interminable line of cars, all on the lookout for a parking spot at the popular store, did I curse my spontaneity.
“Honey?” Mom sounded confused, and worried that I’d suddenly lost my mind. “What are we doing here? You needed to go a few blocks further down Oakland before we turned.”
Rolling almost to a complete stop behind the Chevy Suburban in front of me, I spotted my break. I sliced the wheel of my minivan like an Indy 500 racer and made a sharp left, leaving Toys R Us in a puff of proverbial dust in my rearview mirror. I motored quickly to the adjoining lot and let out a deep breath I wasn’t aware I was holding. I found an unoccupied square of pavement, braked, turned off the car and twisted in my seat so I was facing my mother.
I knew a jubilant smile was lighting my face because my mom looked at me and ventured dubiously, “What on earth?” She let the Tour of Homes map flutter to the floor and tuned into my gaze. It was unmistakable that something big was up.
“There’s something I want to tell you, Mom. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, and I’ll just burst if I don’t tell you.” Mom beamed and looked at me expectantly. “I want to write a book, Mom.”
My mother, bless her, never hesitated. She just said, “I know you can do it.”
I laughed. How could she possibly know I could do it, when I had no idea that I could do it? I hadn’t the first clue of how to do it. Or why I wanted to do it. All I knew is that the impulse, the drive, the obsession never left me alone these days.
With my mother’s constant faith tucked firmly in my back pocket, I began my writing adventure. I dreamed up a story that I had to tell the world. I refined it. I outlined it. Then I started writing it.
I set up a strict schedule: one hour a day, no matter what else was going on in my busy life – career, husband, kids, home -- and I adhered to it. Amazingly, after about five months, I had a first draft. Mom was my personal reader, my advisor, my editor. She was my cheerleader, my motivator, my back-patter. Each chapter I finished, I printed it off and delivered it to her. She would read it immediately, and her praise was overflowing.
Occasionally I’d ask her to rip it apart. “Be a tough critic, tell me what’s wrong with it.” But she never found anything wrong. And secretly, I was glad. Others could tell me what stunk about my writing. My mom was my biggest fan and all she could muster up was total admiration for my work.
One day, I finished the book and sent it off to America House Book Publishers. Life continued. My parents left for their annual winter escape to the warm south, away from the frigid winds of January in central Illinois.
One cold Saturday in February, I was checking my email and I got the thrill that every published author experiences, in one form or another. In my case, it was an email from the Publisher, telling me how much he loved my manuscript, Whispers of the Heart. He wanted to offer me a publishing contract!
I whooped and hollered and jumped up and down in front of my computer screen. I picked up the phone to call my mom to share the great news – the news that we’d both been waiting to hear – news that confirmed what she’d told me over a year ago in that snowy parking lot -- that I could write a book. I caught my breath, and when a mechanical voice came on, I realized my parents were out. I left a joyful message on their answering machine, saying only that I had good news to share. Then I proceeded to call everyone I knew.
About two hours later, I was talking to one of my friends in Pennsylvania and the doorbell rang. My husband answered it and escorted our across-the-street neighbor in. I wrapped up my conversation, hung up and greeted her.
“What’s going on over here?” she asked with a smile.
“My book’s going to be published! I just got the word today.”
“Well, call your mother.”
“I tried, and they were out.” I stopped, confused. How did she know?
“Your mother got your message and tried calling you a hundred times. Finally, she called me and instructed me to come across the street, tell you to get off the phone and call your mother!”
I laughed and headed back to the telephone. Despite the miles, my parents and I shared our jubilation and a champagne toast over the phone lines.
My book was released eight months later, and the Dedication page displayed proudly, “To Mom, my biggest fan.”