It was about three in the morning. My new, crying son needed a diaper change. I lost a quick round of RoShamBo to the wife, so I shuffled into his room. Just as I pulled off his wet package of mess, he arced a clear stream of pee into the air, over his head and onto the carpet.
First thought: “My boy!”
Second thought: “Less than a week old and he’s already marking his territory.”
Third thought: “What kind of mark will he leave on the world?”
Naturally, I hope it will be more than a small puddle of urine, when all is said and done. But if I’m going to teach him that his dreams are worth chasing, then I need to do something about my own. There’s nothing worse than telling someone to, “do as I say, not as I do.”
I’ve wanted to be a writer for about as long as I can remember. I’ve shared my writing with … well … my wife. I’ve been working, if you could call it that, on a novel for eight years. And in all that time, I’ve sent out two query letters. And submitted one short story to one literary journal that I’m pretty sure went out of business. With that kind of track record, how could he ever believe me when I tell him that he can do anything he really wants?
So, a step to share my writing with someone. This particular enterprise will be about some of the things that I think make me me. Reading. Writing. And being a dad to my boy, Jack.