He followed me into the kitchen as if he had something important to tell me...
- Dad, I want to be a writer.
- Cool, I said.
I’m not one of those people who dump their own dreams and expectations on to their children. I want him to do whatever he wants to do. The cliché follows...as long as he’s happy.
So I left the conversation at that.
A few days later...
- Dad, did I tell you I wanted to be a writer?
- Yeah, buddy. That’s pretty cool. What do you want to write?
He gave me the title of something that he’s been thinking about. First it was going to be a movie, then a cartoon, then an X-box game. Now it’s going to be a book. We have franchise possibilities here, people and that’s why I’m not providing the title. You just never know.
- That sounds excellent, son. When you going to start it?
- Eh...he says and pauses. He thinks awhile. Like it hadn’t occurred to him that work had to be done and the thing had to be started. He answers - Soon.
- Can I give you some advice, buddy?
- Sure, after all, dad you’re world famous and very successful (ok, he didn’t say that EXACTLY. I’m paraphrasing...in a wish fulfilment kinda way.)
- Well, to be a writer, you’ve got to read a lot.
- I think I want to be a businessman then.
- Why are you thinking about this just now? You’ve just turned 12.
- I can’t live with you or my mum forever. I need to be able to have enough money to buy a flat of my own.
- Again. You’re 12. There’s plenty of time to think about this.
He pats my hand
– You need to plan, dad. Stuff just doesn’t happen on its own.
Who is putting this stuff in his head? I blame the cartoons. Full of all kinds of nonsense.
