by Lisa Sledge
I have a four year-old son. He is sincere and sweet and innocent. And he’s a mama’s boy, which feeds my ego and gives me bragging rights over my husband.
More often than not, I find myself writing at night, but mornings are my most creative and best hours for working. On a good day, if the children didn’t get me up six times during the night, I’m up by 4:30am. I never know when the kids will wake. It could be 6am or they might get up at 8am. More often than not, it’s somewhere in between.
The first thing my Emmett does in the morning is come find me. When he sees me with my laptop, he says, “Mom, it’s time for me to write my story too.” We go downstairs, sit on the love seat that belonged to my grandmother, and I type as he dictates. I reread the story at least five times so he can correct any mistakes. Then we print his work, decorate it, and mail it off to some lucky friend or relative.
We went on vacation last month, spending time with family, but it didn’t slow him down. He authored at least one story every day.
One of my good friends from high school days heard that Emmett likes to write. She gifted him a bound book with blank pages and a special green pen. In two days he’s filled every page with random chicken-scratch letters. Now he corners the nearest adult and tells his story, turning each page as if he’s really reading.
It’s adorable.
Watching him, I forget my anxiety and remember why I write. It’s fun. And it makes me happy.
Why do you write?
Throwing Up Words 