Passing it On

I few weeks ago I was looking through my computer files and I found a document that I didn’t remember creating. So I opened it. I was astounded. It was my daughter’s document and in it she was writing. It was the tiny budding of a manuscript and at that moment there was not a more proud mother than me. My daughter was writing! I was thrilled. Something that I am so passionate about, love doing so much, miss it when I can’t do, think about it all the time — and my daughter seemed to be following in my own footsteps.

There is no greater form of flattery than to see something that means so much to you being cultivated in someone that you love so much. It’s a lot like when she was born. She was miraculous and wondrous and I couldn’t believe that I made her. And to see that she’s also imaginative and funny and so sadly sincere all at the same time is just as miraculous and wondrous and I’m so damn lucky to call her my own.

Having a child share your passion is more than any parent can hope for. To have one more tangible string to connect with them on is precious. Think of the father and son tossing out a fishing line or playing catch in the back yard. It’s a time of bonding. It’s one shared memory that you’ll cherish as long as you can. It’s better than having a fat bank account or a house in the right neighborhood. It’s your kid and they like what you like.

And having them like what we like is kinda like a validation on our own life. As if because they are beginning to love something that we love, it’s a good thing to love. She seems to like writing; ergo, writing must be something good to love.

More precious than her grandmother’s jewelry, more valuable than her college fund and more important than being one of the cool kids, my daughter has begun a life-long journey. Her feelings and emotions and dreams and wild imagination will be splashed on page after page. Her loves and hates and indifferences will be secretly written down and hidden in journals and password protected files. Maybe she’ll blog and write and even if she is never published – although she has been published as she likes to remind me – she’ll have this magnificent outlet to put her thoughts onto page and make them her own.

She could be a rocket scientist if she wanted. She could teach or heal or do magic in a side show. But if she is never anything more than I writer, I would die a happy mom.

So here’s to the next great American Novelist! Keep on writing Bug!

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