Being trapped inside during quarantine led to some productive writing time. I finished my second fantasy novel Dark Blood.
My son Ketch did some writing of his own. We were walking around the block one afternoon, and he was telling me a story. I kept prompting him to continue with questions: “Where does the boy live?” and “He has a tentacle arm? What can it do?”
We were both cracking up as Ketch kept expanding his wild tale about a boy named Changer. I knew it was too good not to share so we ran home to get it down. Ketch dictated the story while I typed.
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And thus, Changer: The Deep Waters of the Deekos was born.
Ketch has written a few other stories since Changer and each time I’m impressed by his humor and imagination (he borrows liberally from the books and shows he consumes, but don’t we all?). Mostly I’m inspired by his passion. He can’t sit still as he talks, bouncing around the room and waving his arms as he breathes a story to life, and correcting me if I make a suggestion that isn’t part of his vision.
When I’m struggling through a draft and it feels like a chore, I think of Ketch jumping on his bed as he excitedly tells his story, and I remember how fun writing can be.