May I. . .

brag a little?

I've said this before and I'll probably say it again, though I will try to say it in a slightly different way. Three of my kids are writers, and I am really happy about that. (The youngest three. The oldest three are not writers, but one has writing potential and the other two have a real gift of speech--they could sell gun control to the NRA.)
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About thirty minutes ago my 14-year old (who wants me to call him a 15-year old, which he will be 15 by the end of year) asked me to read through an analytical paper he wrote for his English class. It's not perfect, but it's a whole lot better than what I was able to write when I was his age. Look for works by S. A. Jitmoud to hit the bookstores sometime in the next ten years. (Yes, he has already decided on a pen name.)

And my 18-year old is doing the NaNo thing. He won't tell me the plot or even the genre, but I do know he has over 25,000--leaving his mother in the dust (I hope to pass 19,000 before I go to sleep tonight). This kid is a perfectionist and I appreciate NaNo for giving him permission to write without worry. He's on his way too. (But he hasn't decided on a pen name yet.)

My youngest, at 12, is constantly coming up with stories. At this point I'm not sure if he'll be a writer or just a really good storyteller--and you can't knock the oral tradition. He certainly has an imagination, and he knows how to string together sentences too. We'll see.

I am proud of all of my kids. It is satisfying, though, to see some of them follow in my footsteps--and I'm sure these three will all pass me up. I don't mind.