My mom isn’t.
I am reminded of a panel discussion at one of the first writers’ conferences I ever attended. The authors were talking about the experience of writing something of which their moms disapproved. For some, it was language, for others it was sex or violence, for a few it was the very notion of genre fiction itself. The point is, for every writer, it was something. And the longer I’ve written, the more writers I’ve met, the more convinced I am that this is a universal phenomenon.
I don’t mind if strangers see the mess that I carry around inside my head, but family, that’s a whole ‘nother level of discomfort. The missus, of course, is excepted from that generalization. After thirty-plus years together, she’s seen that mess up close and personal. But my mother? What do you say to your mother when she looks at you and suggests you could have found another way to say c***-l***ing, s***-s***ing doodyhead?
I don’t know what you’d say if it were your Mom, but what I say is, Mom, you’re not in my target demographic.
And I smile sweetly, the smile of a good son (even now in my 60s) who thinks, but does not say, Mom, sometimes I put the curse words into a story, just so you have to read them.