In Which the Son Rescues the Mother

Euphoria is short-lived in the life of a writer. You have an idea—oh, you have an idea—and you go all out in your attack of said idea—moving forward because you have to move forward because you don't have time (in the heat of the new) to slow things to a slog and hover over the fine points of perfection.

Then it has to happen: You slow down. You stop on a Saturday to read what you have written and you really wish you hadn't. You spend your next three days throwing out most of your work, swapping out paragraphs, cursing the day you opted out of law school (and why, in fact, did you opt out of law school when the law school library guys were so good looking?). Then you slow down, again, read what you've got, again, go off shopping for gifts for your many dear friends, again, and when you return to your desk and read once more, you hit a new low point of despair. You say to your son:

Can I, like, borrow you for an hour?

He says: Yeah, okay. Sure. What is it?

You say: Can you, like, sit on that Corbusier chaise over there while I read, um, nothing much just, well, you know, 38 pages of a stinking brand-new novel? Because we'll have steak tonight? Because it'll be just like you like it, which is to say, medium rare?

Um, he says. Sure, he says. Pulls half a can of Dr. Pepper out of the fridge and settles in for the haul.

And you read. And your son—he doesn't stop you. And you keep going, and what you've got, you realize, either isn't half bad or you're fooled by the sound of your own voice. And when you're done, and you look up, your son isn't even half asleep: He has a whole slew of questions that he's asking. Assumptions he tests. A few little pointers about that police work on page 10. He talks to you about motivation, does a few little turns around What if?

Oh my gosh, oh my goodness, now you answer me this: What would I do without this kid?

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