Saoirse told me the other day over lunch that I should write a book about our family as superheroes. She had it all planned out: the color of our capes, what we would say, how we would interact. She described, in detail, our adventures, and said that we would be called…The Supers. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the story had already been made into an animated kids’ movie that made its creator about a bazillion dollars. Besides, they always need sequels, and her story idea was really pretty good (hear that, Disney/PIXAR? HIRE MY DAUGHTER. We’ll be happy to negotiate wages). But she was so excited while talking about her story, so, so animated (get it? HIRE HER, DISNEY). When I tell you her eyes actually lit up, believe me when I say, her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree on fire. Writers, this is why we write, by the way. And I may have a budding novelist on my hands. Lord help us all.
She smiled across the table that day and asked me if I would write the story. I said to her, “You could write the book! Would you like to write it?”
She looked at me with an expression that was nothing short of incredulousness mixed with teenager-level exasperation, with a little Jack Nicholson-esque raised eyebrow thrown in for good measure.
“Why would I?” she said.
Only the slightest bit miffed, I told her, “Because it was your idea! You could be creative. Use your imagination, and write your own story.”
She barely paused. “Um,” she replied. “Could I draw the pictures?”
Yep, she’s a writer all right. She’s already got the avoidance part down pat.
I haven’t talked a lot about my novel-writing lately here, largely because…
I’m sitting at a desk littered with paperwork. I see two planners here…