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.