I sit in this modern, loft-style office with high ceilings and open offices down in SoHo and I strain to hear my daughter as she chats and laughs in the conference room down the hall of this prestigious writers’ organization. She is talking about writing—her writing... She has been writing for years and like the bad mother that I am, I did nothing to really encourage it… until this year. I PUSHED her to apply to a writing program.
Many years ago before she even learned to write the Beast created little worlds hidden on windowsills behind curtains or tucked away in bookshelves. Pulling open a drawer one would come across a carefully thought out scene of Polly Pockets in the middle of some magical event. When she did learn to write I would find little scraps of stories or character descriptions like bits of worlds that were floating around in her mind looking for a home in one of her stories.
Here, The Beast is in her element—talking to other writers—there is an excitement in her voice I have not heard before. The woman who runs the workshop comes to me and says that The Beast is young for the workshop but very socially aware (thank you NPR, the News Hour and mostly Jon Stewart) and mature, they will try to squeeze her in. I tell them—she is an old soul…she has a warmth that can only add to this workshop for high school students. And it is true, The Beast, unlike her mother, is not just thoughtful, but also kind.
The e-mail comes a few weeks later. They feel that The Beast will be a bridge for the other kids in the workshop. She will be the one to bring the group together. First I tell The Husband with victor’s glee that the pushing The Child actually worked this time and then I gaze at my beautiful, smart and nice child and thank Fate for those recessive genes not evident in her parents—maturity and benevolence.