“Mommy, are you ever going to get your book published?” he asks, peering over my shoulder as I sit at my writing desk. My fingers freeze on the keyboard. This boy knows how to get right to the heart of a subject.
Rowan pauses. I can tell he’s contemplating the likelihood of that claim.
“But it seems like there are so many books published, like in the library, and at Barnes and Noble,” he continues. “It seems like everyone else got their book published, so why is it so hard for you?”
I sigh. Take a deep breath. I explain to him how memoirs are tricky to publish these days, because there is so much competition. “Lots of people have stories to tell,” I remind Rowan. “Not everyone’s story gets published into a book, but that doesn’t mean we should stop writing our stories.”
Rowan seems satisfied with that answer. He wanders into the living room, and a few minutes later I hear his remote-control Mario Bros. car being driven headlong into furniture.
I begin to type again.
Ten minutes later he’s back at my side.
He pauses, thinking. A hot breeze lifts the dining room window sheers like a beach towel being shaken free of sand.
“I’ve got it!” he says. “The Magic Curtain!”
I nod my head, skeptical.
“I don’t think so, honey. I don’t think I can write The Magic Curtain because I don’t really know how to write fiction.”
Rowan stares at me, confused.
“But Mommy, you write stories all the time. It’s pretty much the same thing, except it’s a pretend story.”
“Yeah, I just don’t think it’s that simple, Ro,” I tell him. “But I appreciate your advice, I do!” I call after him as he flops in a sulk on the living room couch.
{Truth be told, I’m a big, fat chicken when it comes to trying my hand at fiction!}
