It’s tough when your twenty-five year old son is
hell-bent on becoming a writer. You do
wonder where you went wrong as a parent. Persecute yourself for having failed
as a mother. Nights are spent wondering how your once, sweet little boy went
from reading Possum Magic by Mem Fox to —We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley
Jackson.
Our son wants to write Horror. Claims given his childhood
that this is the obvious choice. I
threaten to make his life more horrific. He laughs at me, threatening to base the
evil character in his short story — The Lazy Devil — on me.
I respond with a swift, “You can go base that one on
your father.”
We both laugh.
Maybe having a son as a writer will be okay.
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