SquarePeg Books

My writing has taken to an uptick which I enjoy.  My 10 year old son Daniel has noticed that I’m writing again and has asked questions about it (“what are you stuck on? what’ s the story about?” And even though I’m sugarcoating medieval style warfare and domestic issues in the interests of pagecount, it still isn’t quite something I’m ready to talk about with a 10 year old – “Well, son, I have this minor character tortured to death and-” No. Just no.)

The other morning my son hit me up with a statement just about every writer hates to hear. “When you’re done with your story, I have an idea you should write about – what happened before it.”

It’s 0730. It’s 5 degrees outside and I just got back from rushing Sara off to school early for her choir practice. I have not consumed a drop of any kind of stimulant. I never enjoy hearing someone tell me how I should write what they want me to write, especially when it’s unsolicited. At any time. It doesn’t matter how much caffeine I’ve had or how much chocolate is in my mouth.

If you tell me my next book should be about XXX, my first instinct is to cut you.

But I can’t be negative to him. He’s my son. He’s 10. He doesn’t like school nearly as much as his sister, and really doesn’t like reading or writing. I can’t jump on him for a comment that he doesn’t understand is rude. I can’t instruct him that his comment is rude, because he takes everything so seriously and I’m worried he’ll dislike reading and writing even more if I say anything even remotely negative about his “contributions” to my work.

“When you’re done with your story, I have an idea you should write about what happened before it.”

My eye twitches. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

He gives me his title for it and talks about how it involves my map and- as I shuffle around the kitchen, refilling cereal bins, setting my tea kettle on, looking for my damn keys that I just had because I’m not going to make my kids walk a mile in 5 degree weather (yes, I spoil them; not the point).  “That sounds interesting,” I say.

Daniel then jumps into his concept, which actually sounds  like he’s trying to shove Minecraft, all of Kingdom Hearts and a high level blurb of Lord of the Rings into a blender and then mold it into my world as a prequel. My shoulders hunch up tight around my ears.

He is absolutely convinced he is my collaborative partner and all his ideas are pure gold.

“Maybe you should write the story since you came up with it,” I tell him.  “It sounds like you’ve got a good idea of how you want it to go.”

“True.”

“Have you written down any notes?” I ask. “I have to write a lot of my ideas down for later because I forget them if I don’t.”

“I haven’t because I thought you could use it. I think it would be a good story,” he chirps.

It takes everything I have to precisely rip the school coupon off the empty cereal box and not tear the whole box violently in half while screaming. “You should write it down,” I say again. “I can give you a folder for your notes and maps and things so you can keep it all in one place.”

“I’ll draw the map right now,”  he says cheerfully.

Once done, he shows me his work explaining the different regions, right before it’s time to put on socks and shoes. “We can get Sara to do the audio files,” he says, thoughtfully including his sister.

“I suppose if she wants to,” I agree as I ship him off out the door.

“I hope they make our books into movies,” he says.

My eye twitches again as I immediately start thinking about IP law and how to protect ones rights over one’s personal IP and so many other things that I only understand around the edges of.

Last week he wanted to be a cop when he grows up. The month before a professional baseball player. Two years ago an astrophysicist.

He starts asking questions about how hard it is to be a famous author.  I answer as best as I can, trying not to cringe as he constantly says “our books.”

Oh, well. Maybe I’ll have a descendant willing and able to responsibly care for my IP when I’m gone.