What I passed on

When my kids were little, I tried to capture them on paper, insecure pencil lines on white parchment. I wrote poems about them, lines of prose inspired by the beauty and innocence of new life. As they grew older, I read stories to them, sometimes editing in my own version of the tale so my voice wouldn’t wear out by the third book. One day they learned how to pour their own bowls of cereal and grab an apple from the fridge when they were hungry. They were semi-self-sufficient. And I realized I could write more, perhaps a short story, or even – gasp! – a novel. Many bowls of cereal and apples from the fridge later, my children are authors themselves. Having watched their mother endure the ups and downs of being an author, they have still chosen to express themselves with the written word. There is no greater pleasure than knowing I handed to my children the love of writing. I could have quit. I could have passed. Instead, I passed it on.

Pictured left to right: Author's mother Sandy McCollough, son Tyler, Author Nicole Young, daughter Tara, friend Kaylee, and in front, daughter Ilana