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I call myself a writer because I write. I take great pride in my work, even if I am as insecure about how the words come together as I could get. My daughter seems to be following in my footsteps whether I like it or not.
(And oh, how scary that is!)
She doesn’t call herself a writer, though she has taken on a story or two, even asking once to have her story published in four parts on one of my blogs. I obliged, though it was so difficult to keep from editing and correcting. She forbade me.
Last year, she had to write a “‘biography” for her English class. I did leaps of joy as I considered it a refresher course in proper grammar usage (which it was not, by the way!). She came to me, asking for my help.
I swooned.
She worked on it and worked on it.
“Let me see,” I asked her.
“Almost. I’m going to need your help soon anyway.”
“Oh, good. I can’t wait!”
I waited and I waited. I waited some more. Finally, she brought me her paper.
“Ok, mom, will you edit it for me?”
With red pen handy, I started reading, and noting, and reading, and noting. After a few red slashes, I handed it back to her. She looked it over, shrugged her shoulders, muttered a “thanks” and left the room.
A few weeks later she handed it back to me, a huge B- emblazoned in red on the front cover.
“A B-? He gave me a B-?”
She laughed. “No, mom, he gave me a B-.”
“But you should have gotten an A+ with my edits!”
“I didn’t do them. I decided I liked it the way it was.”
Well, humph. Why does she bother to ask my advice if she isn’t going to use it!
Then the nagging in the back of my head started. It sounded suspiciously like the voice I hear in my head when I read my best friend’s texts–especially after she has gone on an “I told you so” spree.
“I told you so! Why don’t you ever listen to me?”
Perhaps the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree after all.
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For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Michael gave me this prompt: Whatever your kids are comes from you. So whatever irritates, look at yourself. -Art Garfunkel.
I gave Cameron this prompt: Little Miss Muffett sat on her tuffett eating her curds and whey. Along came a spider and sat down beside her, but what if he DIDN’T scare her away?
This is non-fiction as it really happened. It’s a bit looser than I usually write, but I still want and welcome your feedback.
Thanks for stopping in and reading!
