Even my Father liked this last story of mine.
I say “even” not because everybody else in the world did so far (though that would be cool), but because Father – unlike most of my other “prime readers” – has never really been into speculative fiction, slipstream and such. When it comes to reading for reading’s sake, he prefers, I think, the good old hardboiled hero story, be it ironic and funny (such as a number of Rejtő’s works) or blue, noir and cool (like the episodes of Chandler’s Marlowe-series).
Father’s always liked my writing in his own way. Yet now, in this story – despite its being not less slippery and challenging for the imagination than any of its predecessors – he seems to have found something that spoke directly to him.
And that matters a lot to me.