Lately, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the fact that I’ve been saying I want to be a writer since I was six years old and that my parents never did anything but encourage me. Sure, there was that brief moment in high school when they made me take a class in Visual Basic because programming was the wave of the future and then I retaliated by failing the class and the final (something they are going to find out about right now because I never told them that), but they’ve always encouraged me to write. My mom has always called me her little author (when she wasn’t calling me Boo Boo. You know, Yogi?) In middle school and high school, my dad actually freaked out a few times over making sure we copyrighted some of the really crappy poems I’d written because he was afraid someone might try to steal them. Wow. He was seriously proud of me.
In fact, I recently talked to my father about possibly wanting to get into the production side of the business, its rigidness and certainty tempting the control freak that is me. His answer? “I really think you should stay on the creative side (see also: less stable. see also: less money) of things. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
This all makes me feel so privileged. And wonderful.