Kidnapped

The Good Old Days

My children have now entered the teen zone and TikTok, gaming, and YouTube have kidnapped their impressionable young minds. Only a few years ago I took great pride in my son’s great literary exploits, casually dropping them into conversation. "Suzanne Collins’s Underland Chronicles? Oh yes, he’s finished all six books. Morris Gleitzman? Um, he’s onto his second sitting of the whole Once series, I believe. Sophisticated reader, you say? Oh, yes. "

Ha! Pride comes before a fall and how I’ve fallen! A few storeys, at least! (Pardon the pun!)  

In line with this great disaster, I have gone to great lengths to tempt said children back to print with everything from bribery with baked goods to loudly calling my chickens with great emphasis on their literary names – “Enid! Noel! Agatha! Makka Pakka! Come and get your mealworms!” But it is all to no avail. My fifteen and seventeen-year-olds do not even blink. I must admit, my seventeen-year-old is not long out of Peppa Pig and The Gruffalo, though I am told she still enjoys Stick Man at her special school (this gives me great hope). However, my fifteen-year-old boy declares he is allergic to books. They bring him out in hives! 

Did someone say "mealworms"?

I swallow and pretend it doesn’t matter but feel like a fraud! This is a disaster! How can a writer’s children not read?

I recall the twenty-eight little people in my class (5HS Nettleham C of E Junior School) who are still chomping away at tomes like little bookworms and wonder if they too will develop this allergy or whether they will weather the storm of peer pressure and fashion. Currently, some swallow texts like there is no tomorrow, others taste, spit out and try something different, and yet others repeatedly gulp down the same daily diet reluctant to recognise there are further worlds out there other than those belonging to Tom Gates and Greg Heffley. But, why question the nutritional value of these texts? They are reading books! 

I completed a children’s novel a while ago and it has sat in the drawer for a few years during which I completed another book project while fighting the battle of extreme teen parenting. However, my fifteen-year-old often mentions it. “When are you going to get Mortaldis published, mum? That was a good book.” We start chatting about a sequel. He is excited about the character development and makes some beautiful suggestions. He becomes increasingly animated and pours forth his ideas as I sit and listen, amazed and fascinated at how alive my son has become about a book. There is a writer lurking deep within this boy. The language he uses, the concepts, and the designs he offers. Since he was a tiny tot he has wanted to be a vet due to his love of animals. 

“Have you ever thought of becoming a writer?” I ask him, and he smiles. 

“Actually, mum. I have thought about it,” he says. 

Pride wells up within me (careful Nikki) and I suddenly choose my words very carefully. “You know, a good writer reads a lot of books,” I say staring at my nails pretending not to care. His phone beeps and he grunts distractedly. 

“I mean, perhaps not a lot but at least some…” I press and look up. 

He’s been kidnapped again. 

Really not that long ago...