The other day I caught the tail end of an NPR story highlighting research that says, despite the ease and frequency with which teenagers interact on social media (adding new layers to peer pressure), “parents are still the most powerful influence when it comes to…values.”
The story is talking about teen drinking and smoking and deserves a listen. But, that isn’t exactly why I bring it up.
Something psychologist, Susan Lipkins, says during the show stuck with me and can be applied in how we nurture writers and readers at home as well:
“I ask parents, when I speak to them, I say ‘OK, so there was a car accident; what did you do? Did you stop and help? Did you call 911? Or did you just pass by and say; boy I’m glad it’s not me?’ That’s a very mild example of how we teach our kids what to do.“
Actions speak louder.
Writing
Surely my daughter has seen me spend too many hours at the computer, heard me tell of a story accepted or turned down, listened to me talk of the Grandmas and Grandpas I teach who write their stories. She’s heard me sigh when the writing wasn’t working; speak of hope when it was. Witnessed how I’ve kept at it and–on many days–enjoyed it.
So last weekend when I mentioned that Cricket Magazine–her magazine–was running a poetry contest, she jumped at the chance to write her own poem. Literally. Jumped up and grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil and wrote her first poem, “The Art I like.”
Then, she typed it on the computer and signed it, and we submitted it. This isn’t the first thing she’s written (she was on a spree for a while churning out picture book after picture book of stories…master of her muse), but this is the first piece she’s sent out into the real world. It was pretty cool, putting a stamp on that envelope.
Reading
My son isn’t into writing the stories, but he’s very much into reading them. Considering how we don’t have cable and at least one of us can be found with face in book during the day, I’m not surprised. What has caught me off guard is that he also likes to rate his books.
I review books. I’m a grown up; grown ups write reviews. I suppose I’ve even mentioned it once or twice in passing conversation. But since he really doesn’t like writing, I never thought he’d craft his own.
Then, after buying him several of James Patterson’s Middle School books through my Kindle account because he loved them, plowed through them, asked for more, I got an email notice from Amazon saying my recent book review had “gone live.”
It had been months since I’d reviewed anything. Confused, I opened the email and saw his rating, his words, about one of his favorite books, Middle School: The Worst Years of My Life.
5 stars
Title of review: Awesome
“It was very good and a good ending. I have read it 3 times before.”
For a half a second, I considered taking it down before anyone wondered why this review read so differently from any of my others oh-so-important formal reviews. But then, I stopped myself. For crying out loud.
He took initiative without any direction from me. He made a point to click the link at the end of the book that let him write his honest opinion about a book he appreciated. He’s done it two more times since then.
Parenting is never easy; half the time I am quietly begging for the burning bush or a tablet inscribed with ten commandments of good moms and dads (or something like this post from Amy Shearn about the 12 ingredients for a good parenting day), because I have no idea what to say or how to lead.
Then, I look around. I take a photo. I keep it as evidence that, sometimes, you don’t have to say a thing. You just do; you just open the door, pave the way, and your kids will follow.
Writing and reading. How do you pass it on?
We hit a milestone in Milwaukee last Sunday…the equilux, the time of season when day and night come in equal parts. Over the course of the next few months now, the sun will burn brighter, warmer, longer, and the idea of summer won’t seem so impossible.
It’s been a long winter here and everywhere else. The slightest hint that things will get better helps. The Spring call of the robin in the morning; sunlight that streams through the bedroom window, no longer filtered by frost; yard litter revealed bit by bit as piles of snow finally melt: random sticks that once guarded the opening of the snow fort, my spade meant for the garden but “borrowed” for a day in order to dig out said fort, sleds discarded and buried and rediscovered along the edge of the driveway. I’ll take those tiny shifts in the landscape, litter and all.
Incremental improvements make all the difference in writing as well, and I do best when I remember that phrase. I’m at 6300+ words or into this current (and in much better shape) novel revision. I know, slow-slow-slow, but moving nonetheless. The story is filling out, my confidence growing. I even handed over the first few chapters to a writing friend for critique. That’s progress.
