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Honoring my Mother | Heading in the write direction

Our son returned Monday, after almost a week of attending a workshop by a writers’ guild that had given him fellowship status. Excited as we were to bombard him with questions on everything that transpired (hopeless stage parents that we are), his reply had merely been cool, with a poker face that hinted: it was just another ho-hum milestone, just another day.

As his parents, we had likewise been no stranger to such activities during our time. At that age, with the world still opening up to us, meeting new people with the same interests, much less, sharing a few days with them, was always a wonderful experience. Any bonding time by artists, writers, accountants, or whoever, always improves on whatever passion is commonly shared. As such, we still had to cajole our little big man into sharing tidbits, and not treat such experiences like classified UFO conspiracy information.

From pre-school scribbles on the walls, to his grader hobby of filling tons of clean coupon bond papers with quirky one-paragraph tales and drawings of dragons and monsters, he may have indeed come a very long way. (Stored some of them and burned the rest, by the way.) Story-telling had always been our common thread and passion, and just like his older brother, our bedtime stories had always consisted of made-up legends and fantasy shorts, complete with alternative endings to suit whatever was our mood in those many evenings.

Even with a growing kiddie comics collection of fairy tales and local folklore, we had comfortably shifted to making up our own little stories, not only for the sheer fun of it, but because we felt they were limited in many ways. So, that was how his growing-up years went. For a time when he was two, we even resorted to inventing our own little language just to urge him to express himself and exercise that tongue. He has come a long way indeed.

At first, we had wanted him to take up Communication Arts in uni and develop to be an extro, but he had instead preferred a course in creative writing. For the longest time, we have tried to veer him away from the solace of a lappie’s LED screen so that like other kids who came out to play, he would be like them. The rest of the kids in both sides of our families had grown up boisterous, going outdoors, running or riding their bikes around our compounds and elsewhere, but he, true to form, kept to his world of books and whatever fantasy game was in his laptop.

Alas, we thought, whatever makes him happy will always win the day, and that leads up to present time. His grandma when she was alive, had been a prolific writer with three books to her name, and us, his children, are likewise not far from her tree. So, it is simple math and not rocket science that we both understand, totally believe, and with much love, support the track the path he is presently treading. To this, what is there left to say?

The course is set Dr. Spock, to infinity and beyond! (Star Wars soundtrack on this part)

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