Steve Chatterton
Will Write for Food

Category: ‘Memoirs’

Fan Fic with my Son

January 20th, 2015 by Steve
Image by Vjeran Lisjak

Image by Vjeran Lisjak

My son and I are working on something together. He sees me writing and wants to get in on the act, so every once in a while he tells me ideas he has for a story that takes place in the Star Wars universe and I help him flesh it out into a story.

The thing is, sometimes I feel like he could do it all without me. He’s created an interesting character set (all original, too), and he’s got neat ideas for where the stories going to go. He’s even got some really funny stuff going on, like the meddlesome Jedi apprentices who take down a Sith Lord with a combination of laughing gas, marbles and whoopee cushions. That’s all him in his nine-year-old glory.

Anyway, he still wants me as the guy doing all the word processing, so I’m just glad I’m along for the ride. Thing is, he’ll call me on my writing style. And he’ll be right, too.

The other day we were reading through our work together when we came across this passage, in which our young heroine has to defend herself against one of those floating remote spheres that shoots out lasers that you try to parry with your lightsaber (see the original Star Wars film for reference):

Betsy put on the helmet. It was pitch black inside. She could not see a thing. The world had become eternal night, an endless abyss that swallowed her whole.

After he read that part, he gave me a sidelong glance and said, “Jeez, someone likes hyperbole.” Can’t get anything past this guy.

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How I Became a Stay-at-home Dad

May 14th, 2014 by Steve

A lot of men ask me, “Can I be a stay-at-home dad just like you?”

The first thing I do is start answering their questions with a bunch of other questions, knowing full well how much it ticks people off.

“Are you sober right now?” I ask. If they reply yes, I ask my follow-up, “Have you been dropped on the head recently?”

You see, I need to know they are not making a rash decision, that they have thought this through, and that they are of sound mind, for being a stay-at-home parent is not to be entered into lightly. Gingerly, perhaps, but definitely not lightly.

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All Hands on the Poop Deck

April 29th, 2014 by Steve

My son turned nine recently. He has the honour of sharing his birthday with people like Shemar Moore (Criminal Minds actor), George Takei (the original Mr. Sulu), Luther Vandross (singer), Andy Serkis (Gollum), Crispin Glover (creepy), Stephen Marley (musician/son of Bob), Ryan O’Neal (actor), and Tito Puente (musician/no relation to Bob).

I only mention this because I’m tired of everyone pointing out that he also shares a birthday with Hitler, and I’d like to downplay that association as much as I can. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve had people point it out to me. Congratulations, your child was born on the same day as one of the biggest monsters in human history! is not exactly something parents want to hear.

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On Bird Brains, Etc.

April 24th, 2014 by Steve
Ruby-crowned Kinglet

Ruby-crowned Kinglet – Photo by Me!

English speakers don’t often ascribe intelligence to birds, quite likely for good reason. A cursory examination of bird-related figures of speech shows we call the dim-witted among us “bird brained,” sometimes dismissing them as “silly geese.” The long-extinct dodo is now synonymous with stupidity, and we safely assume that crows fly in straight lines because that’s all their little brains can comprehend. Rumour-mongers questioned about their sources often say “a little bird told me,” and the resulting lies they spread don’t remotely advance our appreciation of avian brainpower.

A bird in the hand (even a lame duck that’s no longer a spring chicken) is worth two in the bush, which you can kill with a single stone if you’re lucky; they’re so feeble-minded they likely won’t see it coming.

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642 Things #2 – Green Stuff

April 4th, 2014 by Steve

642 Things to Write About

I remember my Grandma as one h*** of a cook and my mother as the personification of how things sometimes skipped a generation. For instance, Grandma (pronounced Gramma by those in the know) always roasted her turkey to perfection; crispy skin, never dry in the least. And even if it were slightly overdone, her pan dripping gravy meant all was forgiven. My mother’s pork chops, however, doubled as hockey pucks once they cooled. Perhaps it was for the best. If mom had Grandma’s skill, I likely would have been a morbidly obese child.

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