He doesn’t open his eyes. It is 6:30 in the morning. “Mom,” he says. “You’re still weird.”
“I know,” I say. “But you still have to go to school.”
I wonder what he will think if I ever get published and his friends at school point to a page in my book and say, “Your mom wrote that?”
I wonder what he will think if I never get published and he finds himself faced with boxes of manuscripts to sort through.
Do you ever wonder what will happen to all your work once you’re not here? Would you leave instructions to burn everything? Leave it all to fate?