The kids and I are always telling stories. I tell stories to them. They tell stories to me. We tell stories together. A day doesn’t go by without some sort of fiction either being created or expanded on.

When they learned the concept of being published (thanks to Julie Compton – more details here), the oldest started asking if I could get his stories published. I explained that I was having a tough enough time getting my own stories published, and that I was going to wait on his for a bit.

Ever since then, the kids have been discussing exactly why their daddy doesn’t have a book published.

Last week, this all came to a wonderful climax. My oldest (the 7-year old) had given me a hand-written story, carefully printed out over both sides of a piece of paper. He stood and watched as I read.

“What about my story?” he asked. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” I said, handing him the paper back. “It was great. Absolutely fantastic!”

 “Huh,” his little brother said. “Why don’t you use his story then? I bet they’d publish it.”

“No,” the big guy said. “You can’t! You have to write your own story!”

“But why not?” the five year old asked.

“Stop!” I said before anyone got too upset. “I don’t need to use his story. I’ll write my own.”

“Are you sure?”

I forced myself to smile. “Yes. It wouldn’t be right to use someone else’s story. You have to write your own.”

“Yeah!” The seven-year old said sternly. “You have to write your own.” He turned to me. “But you could get it published for me, right?”

sigh.