My father asked me if I had started writing anything in anticipation of my classes. Y'know, for practice. I figured I wasn't going to write anything until I was told what to write about. In the end, I know he just wants me to do well, but man, if I ever set out to write a book, I better not tell him. Or maybe I should...seems like he still likes to keep tabs.
I told him about my blogs and he seemed concerned that they were up there for everyone to see. Then he asked how to get one. So I guess I have to get my dad a blog.
Is it ever weird having a teacher and writer father and being a teacher and writer myself? Hell yes. Now I suppose I also have to write, direct and act in a few plays and become an engineer while I'm at it. Oh daddy, how big your shoes are!
I spent all of Christmas Eve with him, cleaning the house, drinking tea, eating pizza and shooting the shit. Somewhere in all that, he showed me how to tell which way was up on the Union Jack. Random, sorta, but I was really happy he was still alive. I mean, sometimes I just wish I could keep his brain after he dies and ask it questions, because I haven't finished getting everything out of it yet. Frankly, I don't know if I ever could. But if I had his brain, maybe I'd have half a chance.
If I said, 'daddy, can I have your brain?', he'd tell me I already do.