Right now, my son is perfect. He hasn’t always been and he won’t always be, but in this moment in time, he is. He’s 10 years old, he’s inquisitive, passionate, and kind. He’s currently writing a book that’s basically a copycat rip off of The Warriors. No, not a novelized version of the 1980’s movie about gang violence in downtown New York, though maybe that was a book too? No he’s writing about a dystopian world where different cat clans are at war with each other. It’s a whole series of books that he’s fallen in love with. He’s basically writing fan fiction, but it’s his current obsession, both the writing and the Warriors books themselves. He even writes while he’s away at his Mom’s and gives me daily updates of his progress via text. It’s adorable and I love that he’s so into his craft of writing. It reminds me of being a kid, actually! I loved creating my own stories based off of movies I’d just seen. Of course, I’d change the names of the characters to protect the original writer’s material and their feelings. I didn’t want them to know that my adolescent creative brain would soon be crafting a work of greatness that was based off of their work, but better! I didn’t want them to feel bad. Like they were on to something and had they just given it that extra oomph that I was giving it, they’d have had greatness too! This is likely why writers crawl inside of a bottle, right?
I’m kidding, though I’m sure there is some truth to me thinking I had the next great idea. When I was 10 years old I couldn’t fathom that my imagination wasn’t something of greatness. I was young, dumb, and ignorant. I can see that now, but back then, I was original and brilliant. Couldn’t spell worth a shit, but all geniuses have their flaws, yeah? Just like my son probably feels the same way right now, and I’m saddened by the fact that in the not too distant future. Perhaps I’m being bleak, but this could very likely have more to do with my feelings about my writing and less about his? For now, he’s happy and he’s writing. Hell, the boy is writing more than I have been lately. Now that I think of it, I’m going to have to break his damn hands mafia style. “Son, come here and bring with you a hammer!” Okay, not his hands… his writing hand anyway. Wait, I just came up with a better, less violent, less traumatizing, sure fire way for me to avoid fake threats of violence— I’ll just start writing too. See, the brilliance hasn’t completely left me!
Though if I start writing about dystopian pussy cat warriors, it’ll likely be something he can’t read for a few more years. Imagine the movie Cats— you know the box office bomb with Taylor Swift and Dame Judy Dench that’s based on the award winning play? Not that watered down version that played in cinemas, though, but the more adult version. The version before they CGI’d the buttholes of Idris Elba and Jayson Durolo right out of the film. At least according to internet rumors, this was once a thing! Mix that NC-17 puckered kitty cat butthole freak fest in with a bit of Zach Snyder’s 300, “This is Sparta!”, war cries and all, add just a dash of Caligula and you’ve got one hell of a Masterpiece worthy of putting my freaking name on it! Siskel and Ebert will rise from their graves to give this four enthusiastic rigor mortis thumbs up!
So, what’s on your mind?