To all my writer friends, I bring you the end to all plot worries! (I know the link sounds fishy, but it isn’t what it looks like…)
I was talking to my Mom about the stuff I wrote when I was a kid (or the stuff I dictated and she wrote, way back when) and it reminded me of a secret shame. I remember, in first or second grade, when wavy letters gave way to words strung into sentences, I wrote a story and got some praise for it. Nothing big, just the usual teacher pat-on-the-head stuff, I’m sure, but it didn’t stop me from folding it carefully and showing it to my Mom the moment I got home. She was smiling, and I was chatting away, filling in the details that hadn’t made into my four sentence masterpiece.
I got to the end, looked down, and realised I’d spelled my own name wrong. Alas. I remember feeling so much shame, and wondering what other flaws and mistakes my Mom had seen and loved me in spite of. I think I’ll be ready for kids of my own when I can run that scene through my head and not correct that dumb little kid, however gently.
~Chirs Green, signing off.