Twenty years on.
It’s been about twenty years since I last spoke to my father. And by “spoke,” I mean exchanged angry emails. He’s an attorney despite his advanced age, so I won’t risk a spiteful lawsuit by enumerating what a bastard he is, but I will talk about something else: my writing and how it relates to him.
I wrote vaguely about this some while ago, but it’s worth repeating: don’t scoff at your kids’ dreams.
My father once told me, “You always wanted to be a writer even though you don’t have any talent.” And I don’t know if you know this, but that’s one of the worst things a parent could say in this case.
I will freely admit I’m not the best writer in the world, but I’m good enough to have gone toe-to-toe with JK Rowling and Don Winslow in the Best Crime Novel award category via the Crime Writers’ Association. That counts for something. I was nominated for awards by the CWA four times for three consecutive novels. So, the short version is that my father’s judgment regarding the quality of my writing is… questionable.
I’ve been thinking about him lately as the release date for The Guilty, one of my best novels, is rapidly approaching. Would he like it? Probably not. But you know what? I couldn’t care less. I made it in this business when he had no faith. And I excelled when he claimed I couldn’t.
Take that how you will.