My Mother, the Writer

Mom’s study was carefully redecorated in fake wood paneling and furnished with fine metal and wood furniture; it was a real office. As good as any insurance agent might hope for. Its most important feature was the typewriter – first a sturdy Olympus, and then a fine electric model that made even me proud. That thing smoked with creativity.

Mom cranked it with as much vigor as the Mixmaster upstairs in the giant kitchen. The typed pages piled up in huge stacks. The product, it seemed, was never complete. Always in progress. But always good.

That was where I learned to write. Through osmosis, I guess. I just watched Mom. She didn’t tell me how. But occasionally she would edit my work and made me think what I wrote was important. One day, as we sat down there, she announced that I could write. And it occurred to me that I could. After all, she was my mother.

Chris