I showed my last post to Stephen King Junior. He loved it. Thought it was hilarious. He loves that I’m stacking his writing against mine – he has always said he has more books than me – he loves that he’s inspiring me and loves the idea of his mother being in awe of him.
My youngest son doesn’t know that I have always been in awe of him. Awe equals amazement and fear. I had Post Natal Depression when I had him and it created a gulf. It’s difficult to love what you’re afraid of. It has been a long road getting our relationship to one where I’m the leader and can love him in the open and easy way I love his brothers.
Yep, this kid has always run rings around me and now he’s doing it on paper.
Over breakfast this morning Stephen King Junior told me had taken yesterday off to help me catch up. In the old days I would have been all, fuck you man (not to his face, not ever, all the less than brilliant stuff I thought when I was struggling with him I kept in my head) but this morning I’m using his statement as motivation.
So we made a deal. Today I’m up for six hundred words. We shook on it. I’m picking him up in five hours so six hundred words is doable. Perfectly doable.
I’ll plunge in at the two hundred word mistake I made last time I tried to make sentences. I’ve figured out where I went wrong and I know how to fix it. It’s okay if you make mistakes; that’s how you learn (I tell my sons that all the time but they are not old enough to believe me). This is first draft and there are changes to be made all through it – some I know about today, some I’ll find out about in the months to come.
I’d love to set a deadline for this first draft, but I’m afraid. I have set deadlines and deadlines and set deadlines. By last September. By last November. By last Christmas. Now I’m thinking June but you know, maybe I’ll just shut up and write because a silly unrealistic shifting deadline doesn’t matter.
And it doesn’t matter that when I kissed my youngest son goodbye this morning and said, ‘Have great day, gorgeous. I’ll have six hundred words by the time I see you next.’
He said, ‘Six thousand!’
‘No, babe, six hundred.’
‘Get out my car, dirtbag. Six hundred.’
When they cross the road to the school the crossing lady always holds up the traffic so my sons can blow me kisses and do their little backward waves. It’s lovely and I don’t mind if they take their time to grow out of it.
There he was blowing me kisses, smirking and waving. I blew kisses back at Stephen King Junior and mouthed, ‘Six hundred.’