My Son, The Writer

“The entire class stood up and gave him a standing ovation.” My son’s 3rd grade teacher relayed this information to me and my husband during a parent teacher conference.

She said she had just taught her students a few devices about writing. Details and descriptions, and using “wow words.” Instead of saying ‘I was mad,’ write, ‘I was furious.’ Small tools to try and make their 3rd grade writing a little richer.

“I think the class was so impressed that he was able to incorporate most everything I had just taught, and it really was a good story.” She smiled and slid his story across the table.

We took a few minutes to read about the time when we went to Atlantic City and got in line for the go-karts. He wrote about his anticipation of driving, and then his disappointment when he realized he was too short, and then his excitement when he was a passenger with mom. It had structure and description and I was also blown away by this 8 year old narrator. I couldn’t help but smile at the image of the accolades he received from his peers.

I brought it home and after I caught up all three 3rd graders about their positive meetings and what great kids they were, I held up Christian’s story and told them his entire class stood up and clapped for him.

I declared that I would read the story to everyone, my son next to me with a half-grin on his face. I took that as permission and began. We were all huddled together on our king size bed.

About half-way through I could feel him tense up and at one point, he actually spoke up and said, “Wait, I didn’t want to say that there!” I didn’t even get to finish the piece. He had began to protest his own words, and soon melted into an emotional heap.

I sent everyone away to get ready for bed. My little author was in tears, telling me I was terrible and other things I couldn’t quite make out. I  told him to go calm down and I would talk to him when he wasn’t talking in jibberish sentences.

He made his way back to my room. His hair was wet from his shower and I could smell the freshly applied toothpaste as he crept into bed next me, contrite with a few sighs after he snuggled up next to me, resting his head on my shoulder.

“Are you OK dude?” I asked him quietly.

“Yeah. It’s just that I didn’t want you to read it.” He said.

“Oh. I’m sorry. It was just such a good story, I was excited to share it with everyone.”

“Well, there were some words I wanted to take out and one part I didn’t want you to say.” He explained, a little bit of emotion coming through again.

“Ah, so you weren’t done with it. This was just a rough draft?” I asked, a little excited to talk shop with my son.

“I guess so-- except, what does that mean?”

I smiled, “It means you’re a writer! There were some parts you liked, some parts you didn’t, and that’s OK. You can go back and edit your story, change things around.”

He propped up on his elbows to face me. “But mom, there were some things I hated about it and some things I really loved about it. Is that what being a writer is?”

He was so sincere and so incredulous about this paradox. I could not help my own burst of emotions. “YES! That is EXACTLY what it means to be a writer!”

My laughing eyes watered a little as I brought him closer and kissed his freshly shampooed hair. I whispered, “You’re a really great writer son. We’re both writers, isn’t that great?”

I knew he would love the sameness of my comment even more than the compliment about his own craft. He wrapped his arms around me and gave me a squeeze.

I tucked him in bed that night and didn’t think about his story much more after that. I had already crossed a line reading it to everyone without asking his expressed permission. I didn’t want to press the subject. I know how delicate an unfinished story can be, dangling precariously on an unwanted word or missing paragraph. So you can imagine my surprise when a month later, he came home from school and casually mentioned he had finished his go-kart story and would bring it home soon.

I grinned and told him I couldn’t wait to hear it.