When I was a child, my favorite thing to do was write stories. My mother still has (somewhere?) the first story I ever wrote. “Watch the Flower Grow” is a tale of a small seed that — you guessed it! — grows into a beautiful flower. Free play time from ages 5 through 10 was consumed by story creation, and I dreamed of becoming a novelist when I grew up.
Flash forward twenty years and it seems G has gotten the bug. Lately, he has been commandeering every piece of printer paper he can find, producing multiple books per day. Sometimes he will transcribe the story himself; others, he will get frustrated with his inability to spell quickly and enlist the spelling skills of the Ex or me.
His latest piece is actually a compilation called, “The Days.” It will have (when finished) 30 stories — “one for each day” (presumably in a month). Each story involves a family and what they do on that day. The words are G’s own and he of course does the illustrations himself. I need to scan images of this book and post them up — it’s adorable beyond words and fills me with pride.
“You know, Mommy wanted to be an author when I was your age,” I told him.
“Are you an author now?” he asked.
I decided it was best not to launch into a conversation about abandoned dreams and changed the subject. Thankfully, he didn’t press me on the topic — he had stories to create.