So, last Friday I faced a group of 5th grade students to talk to them about the reality of being a writer. In the class was my youngest daughter.
I went into the class knowing full well that what was at stake wasn’t my future, but hers. If I nailed it, made it interesting and fun, she’d be THE KID to know. If I died a horrible death and embarrassed her…well, let’s just say I remember being the odd kid out in grade school.
As I answered their questions, I glanced over at her desk a few times. She sat there with a smile. Her face shone with pride. Her mom was the one addressing the class! Her mom was the one everyone was talking about after I left. Her mom was an awesome mom.
I set out to be published partially to show my daughters that the risk was worth taking if what you wanted to do was that important to you. Along the way, I’ve managed to make at least one of them very proud of me. I think the oldest is, but she doesn’t talk about it much. She’s in high school this year, and has a very good idea that she’s got it better than a number of her friends. I give her great credit in that she’s very careful about not bragging about things in her life, our family, so her friends don’t feel bad.
There’s a lot to be said for knowing you made your child so proud of what you’ve done that it shines like a beacon across her face. I may never get to where my books are on a best seller list. But I have that feeling, that memory. And I will cherish it.