Like Mother, Like Son

Isn't that how it goes? No? Anyway.

My 8 year son has been reading the Harry Potter series for almost a year now. He's most of the way through book 3. He loves to read as much as I did at that age (Heidi anyone?) and tells me often that when he grows up he will be a writer (ok, at 8 I wanted to be a taxi driver; plans obviously change). Not only does he want to become a writer, but he insists his books will be longer than any HP--and "even longer than those ones you read all the time, Mom" (Diana Gabaldon--we're talking 800+ pages x 7). I tell him he doesn't have to be a grown up to write; he just has to have story in his head that he loves. And passion. Not only for the writing and words, but the characters as well.

I've been writing stories, songs and poems as long as I can remember. I'm passionate about it, without doubt. I love my characters. I'm enamored with Kasia, head over heels for Jake, and I adore Klara. I was seriously rooting for Jake to kill Pawel when...well, nevermind. Just when. But he didn't (he's so damn nice, that Jake).

Today, after picking the kids up from school, I was rewarded with Son's first short story. I'd like to say it's brilliant and he will surely land Nathan Brandsford as an agent next week, no doubt paving the way to be published by Random House the following week; however, he's 8 people. Give him a break. It's a complete rip-off of an already written, recently made into a movie, children's book.

So, in the spirit of encouragement to my future author, I give you...

Cloudy With a Chance of Footballs (and I refuse to correct all of his cute little mistakes/grammar)

Across a desert and over a hill lay a town called Sportstown. It was a normal little town but it rained sports things. It rained bats, balls, mitts, softballs, and lots of other sports things but mostly footballs. That's why everyone mostly played football. As soon as a game started it would rain a football. If people wanted to play another sport it would rain that kind of ball or mitt.

But one day to many footballs came down. The next day there was a softball tornado (ouch! interjects Mom), a basketball hurricane, a mitt flood and lots of other vilent storms. But the next day there was a storm with all the types of sports things. The only thing to do was abandon the town but no one wanted to because it was such a great town. Also they did not know if there was another town that had a football field or baseball field or any other field or anything. But they had to go to another town it was there only choice. They had to go. The little kids were criing because they wanted to stay so bad (ispeshally the babies). When they were packing to go they had to bild there boats out of over sized sports things. They sailed for days and weeks. Actuley they sailed for months. But they soon ran out of food and water but they got really luky because they reached the new town. hey bilt there houses out of there mitts, bats, balls and lots of other sports things. Not one person wanted to go back to see what happened to there little old town. But they were still sad that they could not go back. They were not uste to this town. They found it odd that it did not rain sports things. But they still liked there new town better. The End.

Okay, we may need to work on homophones at some point. And, he does take after me--boy likes his conjunctions, but [groan] not the same one (see beginning of sentence).

He's my baby. And [bigger groan] I'm a--no...I musn't...can't type the word, don't make me...dang proud Momma. Oh god. Either the dentist just shoved a sharp pick deep into a nerve, or I used that nail-on-the-chalkboard word my son has picked up of late.