“And still a writer,” I said in wonder. It wasn’t a question, but he nodded anyway.
“And still a writer,” he agreed. After another pause and a few more bites of our pizza, he asked, “What about you? What made you want to be a writer?”
“My father,” I said without hesitation.
“How so?”
“I grew up on a farm with my father only. My mother had passed away before I was old enough to remember anything. But he told me how much she loved his made-up stories, and it was one of the things she loved about him. So, every year on her birthday, my father would take me to her grave site, and he would read one of his fictional stories.”
He was quiet as I spoke.
“Sometimes he would even have me help him construct a new story to read to her grave. They were usually about farm animals,” I said, getting
