{"id":136,"date":"2023-03-01T00:58:01","date_gmt":"2023-03-01T00:58:01","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/?p=136"},"modified":"2023-03-06T20:20:33","modified_gmt":"2023-03-07T01:20:33","slug":"spoiled-by-choice","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/index.php\/2023\/03\/01\/spoiled-by-choice\/","title":{"rendered":"Spoiled by Choice"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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\u201cMom, can you look at this and tell me what you think?\u201d<\/p>\n

My 15 year old son burst into my home office, without knocking, and thrust a short stack of notebook paper at me. On it was his neat, small handwriting. \u201cIt\u2019s just a rough draft. Really rough. Like, first draft. I just wrote it and it\u2019s not even finished or anything yet, so ignore all the spelling and stuff.\u201d<\/p>\n

I scanned the top page. A few things had been scratched out, but mostly it looked clean. How can a truly rough, handwritten draft be this clean? I’d seen this before from him, however, back when he was allowing me to try to help him on some of his essays in 5th<\/sup> grade. He was now suffering from intermittent testosterone poisoning, which translated into \u201cLeave me alone. Stay out of my life. Don\u2019t talk to me. I don\u2019t need a mother anymore.\u201d I was therefore surprised and honored that he was actually asking me to look at something he did.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is this?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

He shrugged. \u201cJust a story.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFor school?\u201d<\/p>\n

This time his shrug turned into a squirm. His eyes glanced around my office, avoiding me.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. It\u2019s just\u2026it\u2019s a story I\u2019ve been thinking of writing.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dangerous territory, I realized. He had put me in the position of an elephant stomping through a minefield.<\/p>\n

Writing stories is like painting with your own blood. You are making art of your essence and, even if others don\u2019t realize it, they are judging your soul. My son endured a difficult childhood. In his adolescence, he was still struggling with many issues that had been imposed on him by his imperfect parents. I wanted to encourage and uplift him in every way I could, but I couldn\u2019t lie or pretend to like something I didn\u2019t. Especially with literature, my passion drives me to tear apart anything less than great. I get so caught up in the story and the writing that I forget to be tactful.<\/p>\n

My son was always a voracious reader and had become a good essay and report writer for school. He had also started posting comments on YouTube videos and in chats online \u2013 mostly inflammatory stuff he\u2019d likely regret later, but he loved the outraged responses he would get from his intelligent, factually supported but crazy sounding statements. He hadn\u2019t written any fiction before, however \u2013 at least nothing he\u2019d show me. On top of that, he had been viciously critical of my stories when I shared them with my kids. It wasn’t constructive criticism, which I would have loved. Rather, he claimed to hate them all, but not for any specific reason that I could fix. He just declared them stupid. It seemed like he was trying to be hurtful, especially when I later caught him racing with his siblings to be the first to read the next chapter. It had to have crossed his mind that, by asking me to reread something of his, he had put me in a position where I could have retaliated in kind. Of course, I wouldn\u2019t \u2013 and he probably knew that.<\/p>\n

He also knew that I never read the first drafts of other writers I had agreed to help. I demanded well edited, later drafts that the writers identified as their best efforts. I\u2019m as constructively critical of them as I wish people would be with me, but it is useless effort for first drafts. I believe authors need to know what they are trying to express clearly, before I can help them say it in the best, possible way.<\/p>\n

I was tempted to tell my son to finish writing the story, prove to me that he had edited it at least ten times, and get it to the point where he felt ready to publish it, then bring it to me. I was burning with curiosity, however, so this time I made an exception.<\/p>\n

It didn\u2019t take me long to read. It was only one scene and he had hooked me well at the opening line. I was intrigued by the characters, the situation, the tension between the young man (older than my son) and his father. I didn\u2019t even see any grammar or spelling mistakes. It was better than any first draft I had ever written. I saw signs of real writing talent in it. It was, however, only one scene.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s the rest?\u201d I asked, looking vainly at the back of his pages in case he had hid the next part there.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s all I got. I want to know if it is any good before I continue.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s excellent,\u201d I told him, sincerely. \u201cIt has great potential. I want to know what happens next.\u201d<\/p>\n

He began to tell me.<\/p>\n

I should have stopped him. Telling a story one intends to write is absolutely against my LAW! I know, well enough, that when someone tells a story, the urge to write it too often disappears. I know it isn\u2019t just me, because it has happened with other writers I\u2019ve tried to help. If you only want to tell me a story, I can enjoy that greatly, but if you plan to write the story, maybe even publish it, then you have to write it for me to read, NOT tell me. Period. Yet, he had me hooked so deeply I really wanted to know what happened next. Also, he was sharing with me again, as he used to when he was younger, before the \u201cGet away from me, I don\u2019t need a mother,\u201d phase kicked in. I shouldn\u2019t have, but I let him talk.<\/p>\n

I loved the story he was developing, which seemed to have a lot of real promise. Eager to read more, I urged him to write it. He never wrote another word for it.<\/p>\n

What he did do was start puzzling out a completely different story. He kept talking with me about that, for months. This time, for his sake, I did my best to insist that he write it, rather than tell me. He refused, claiming he couldn\u2019t decide where to begin.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou started telling me about it at the point you should probably start writing it,\u201d I said. \u201cYou can always change it later, if you think you can do better, so it doesn\u2019t really matter where you start. Always write the first draft with the idea that you\u2019ll rewrite it later. Trying to be perfect with it only crushes creativity.\u201d<\/p>\n

He shot me a skeptical look, almost, but not quite, saying out loud, \u201cYeah? What do you know?\u201d Then he saw my expression. He realized I was waiting for him to say aloud what we both knew he was thinking. He wisely reconsidered.<\/p>\n

Every so often, he will tell me about a new twist in that story he is still considering writing someday. It breaks my heart because it has now been over a year and he hasn\u2019t written a single word of it yet. I\u2019m losing hope.<\/p>\n

He got distracted for a while by Engineering classes and Engineering club in his high school. For a wondrous period, he seemed to always be tinkering to build something new and interesting. He\u2019d come home delighted, to tell me how well one of his constructions had performed under various tests. He talked about becoming an Engineer someday. I was excited by his excitement. Then he suddenly stopped caring. He stopped doing his homework. He barely passed his last Engineering class and took no more after that.<\/p>\n

Now his voice has finished breaking. It has settled into a lovely, resonate, masculine voice and he is playing with singing into a phone app he found to see how low he can go. I hear those beautiful, low tones and think he could, with some training, be an excellent bass. I would love to help him get that training, but he doesn\u2019t want it. He\u2019s just playing with his voice\u2026and my heart. I wonder if he knows how frustrating it is for me to see all the potential in him that he is wasting.<\/p>\n

A part of me really doesn\u2019t care what he chooses to do with his life, as long as it is legal and moral. I just want him to be happy. I\u2019m sure I\u2019m a typical parent in this aspect. To see all the potential in him \u2013 to write, to design and create, to sing and probably much more of which I am still unaware \u2013 all of it taken for granted and ignored\u2026 (Sigh).<\/p>\n

Perhaps it is a curse to be blessed with so many options. If he had only been potentially excellent at one thing, without hope of doing anything else well, he might have thrown himself into that single ability and could be developing it to greatness already. Sadly, for him, he\u2019s got too many talents, too many interests, and no need to choose. If he doesn’t find something he can put his heart into, it will be truly tragic.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Proud and frustrated by my teenage son.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":141,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_uag_custom_page_level_css":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-136","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-author-blog"],"uagb_featured_image_src":{"full":["https:\/\/b-muze.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/head-6332128_1920.jpg",1920,1379,false],"thumbnail":["https:\/\/b-muze.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/head-6332128_1920-150x150.jpg",150,150,true],"medium":["https:\/\/b-muze.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/head-6332128_1920-300x215.jpg",300,215,true],"medium_large":["https:\/\/b-muze.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/head-6332128_1920-768x552.jpg",768,552,true],"large":["https:\/\/b-muze.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/head-6332128_1920-1024x735.jpg",1024,735,true],"1536x1536":["https:\/\/b-muze.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/head-6332128_1920-1536x1103.jpg",1536,1103,true],"2048x2048":["https:\/\/b-muze.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/head-6332128_1920.jpg",1920,1379,false],"sow-carousel-default":["https:\/\/b-muze.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/head-6332128_1920-272x182.jpg",272,182,true]},"uagb_author_info":{"display_name":"B. Muze","author_link":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/index.php\/author\/wittilywrithotmail-com\/"},"uagb_comment_info":0,"uagb_excerpt":"Proud and frustrated by my teenage son.","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/136","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=136"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/136\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":388,"href":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/136\/revisions\/388"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/141"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=136"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=136"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/b-muze.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=136"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}