My son is writing his first book. He’s not the first of our family’s second generation to follow me in this path. Since outing myself as an author, more than a few of my nephews and nieces have sought to outdo my efforts, often with nerve-jangling success. On a trip to Worthing last month, my nephew Daniel sneered quite derisively when I told him it had taken me three years to write my book, since he’d written two that weekend alone. My niece Anna wrote a novel – with the enviable title of Two Children, Millions of Doors and Good and Evil – that was jarringly readable, while nine-year-old Oisin has spent the past year compiling lore for his similarly excellent deep fantasy series, Ice, Fire, War.
I’ve had many conversations with them about their works, because passing wisdom to the next generation is the least that should be expected of a famous author like myself. And I can assure you that these interactions are a two-way street. They keep me abreast of updates as they come in, and I heavily imply that their lack of copyright means I can take their best ideas for my own work any time I choose. They’re smart kids, so they get it.
