Discovered today that I've never told my mother a single thing about my book even though it's been in-progress on and off since 2017 and is actually only like a half-dozen chapters out from the first genuinely complete draft being done.
We go out for coffee together every Friday morning, since we're both disabled homebodies and that assures we get out into the world at least once a week, and the code to get into the restroom at the cafe just changed—the new code is 23 23 23.
Me: Aww man, I miss that guy.
Mom: ...what?
Me: 23, from my urban fantasy novel.
Mom: What?
Anyway I sent her the current incomplete draft, which is very weird for me because I haven't introduced anyone to the story in years—everyone who has gotten a copy of the draft since like 2022 was already aware of the story to some degree, they'd see artwork or put up with me babbling about it somewhere. This means I get to be anxious about sharing it for the first time all over again, which is a flavor of anxiety I did not expect to experience again until I started working on it with an editor. Not great! But I am quite proud of it—which is why I'm still working on it after so long—so I can just hope she enjoys it.
Anyway I'm gonna go draw 23 because I really do miss that guy.