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.
“Well, no…”
“Why not?”
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.
How great it is that he is using his imagination and getting it down on paper. So very good for him and also for the academic side also…