Recently, while my sons got their hair cut, I was flipping through my writing craft books, finalizing a presentation. My son picked up Writing Young Adult Fiction For Dummies.
“You wrote this?” He asked. I nodded, a little puzzled. “Yeah?” he said. ” The whole thing? All by yourself?” Me nodding. “Wow.”
He picked up my other book, Writing New Adult Fiction. “Did you write this one too? Hey, look, that’s your name on it! You did! Wow. Cool.”
I’m not sure what to make of this. My son is 13. My books–including these books–are all around the house. I go to conferences all the time, taking these books with me and often frantically hollering out just before leaving for a conference, “Where’s my box of books? The box with the Dummies books! Someone help me find my box of books!”
Did I just wake up in an alternative universe? HOW is this news to this child?
And that’s the end of my story. I’m not sure what to do with this exchange. He was lovely, showing great interest. He gave me that teen “You’re not so bad” head nod. I felt like I was being assessed in a new way. I dare to think I passed muster. Two wows and a cool. Gotta be good.
