“You’re going to LOVE the short story I’m writing. It’s called ‘Drunk.’”
So began an email that was ripe with emojis and exclamation points interspersed with news about the lake and the slide, Hamilton dance parties, and late night hair braiding sessions in the cabin. But it was the subject of my 11 year-old daughter’s creative writing project that I couldn’t stop thinking about.
It was Madeline’s first sleep away camp, and I had been anxious for that first missive to arrive. But when it did, my fears of how she would handle sleep away camp quickly faded into the background as my mind raced ahead to the end of camp public reading. “The main character is a dad who’s addicted to alcohol, and the mom and kids are really sad that he’s a drunk,” she wrote, “but his girlfriend, who works with him at the University where he teaches computer science, encourages him to drink.”
My daughter loves to write and has been honing her craft with quirky stories for years. While other pre-teens were hanging out at the mall or taking selfies she could often be found scribbling in a journal or typing at the computer. When she was eight she wrote a trilogy about a woman going through a midlife crisis who goes from getting her pilot’s license to opening up an 80’s themed vintage store.
I should say here that my husband is not a “drunk.” Sure, he’ll enjoy a beer here and there, and an occasional scotch after dinner . . . and okay, fine, there was that one night when we were visiting with Russian friends who pulled out a bottle of vodka . . . but a drunk, no. This creative writing project of Madeline’s was creative indeed. I knew that, but what would others think? This was a summer camp; we didn’t know the other parents - we had been told that on pickup day the students would read from their projects as a celebration of all they had accomplished. Would my daughter read “Drunk?” I prayed it wasn’t the only story she was writing. There were three days until the end of camp.
During those days I pondered why I cared at all about the public reading. I wanted my daughter to live her creative life out loud, and explore limits in a way I had never felt comfortable doing, right? I sent her to this camp to delve into her writing talent. Or did I? Surely the camp would understand the difference between memoir and fiction, fantasy and reality. Or would they?
Three days later, my husband and I arrived at the camp and quickly found Madeline sitting up poised and prepared among her peers. The aspiring writers sat in a semicircle opposite three rows of empty chairs waiting to be filled by parents. An instructor stood near them, waiting, as the audience slowly trickled in.
She waved to us and giggled nervously. I recognized that pre-performance giggle. But this time it wasn’t all nerves. It had a devilish aspect to it. And that’s when I knew. There were no other stories written at camp. There was one, and we were about to hear it.
With everyone seated, the instructor introduced himself and declared that it had been a productive week. The students had worked diligently from 9-12 each day on their projects, and he was impressed by the different styles of writing and work ethic he had observed. Then, he explained that he would introduce each student, say something about their work, and invite them to read a brief excerpt.
First up was Ira. In his remarks, the counselor said he was blown away by Ira’s imagination that inspired a fantastic start to a science fiction book. Then there was Matilda who had actually completed a first draft of a YA novel at camp. The counselor noted the significant volume of writing Matilda had produced. Next up was Anthony who focused on spoken word and had produced a beautiful poem on race in America.
Our daughter was up next. The counselor looked over to introduce her and then looked down at the ground. He paused. I wanted to throw up. Then he gathered himself and said solemnly, “Sometimes students choose to tackle really tough subjects in their writing.” He looked at Madeline and waved her over to the center.
She looked at us, giggled again, and then looked down at her paper, and began.
“I’m reading an excerpt from my story, My Drunk Dad,” she said.
Before I knew what I was doing, in a reflexive attempt to salvage myself from total embarrassment, I turned around to the parent nearest me, a total stranger, and shout-whispered, “It’s not autobiographical!”
Then I lowered my sunglasses over my eyes and looked over at my husband to throw some telepathic support his way. He, too, had donned sunglasses, despite sitting well within the boundaries of the shade that graced the reading area.
As she read, I tried to focus on the story. It had great descriptive language of the main character sneaking up to spy on her father; complicated emotions that the mother felt torn between helping her husband and being angry at him; and dramatic moments that included an intervention in a restaurant. It was really good. But I couldn’t help from also simultaneously monitoring the facial expressions on the instructor. Was he trying to read through my plastered-on smile? Was he thinking that poor woman suffering through life with a husband like that and her poor daughter pouring out her emotions while away at camp?
She ended, everyone clapped, and when the last reader was done, people dispersed quickly to their cars. No one approached us. No one asked us to go out for beers. The instructor didn’t ask Madeline if she needed to visit with the camp social worker, and my husband, had survived a humiliating public moment.
As we drove away from camp, I resisted the urge to ask right away, why did you write about a drunk father? Instead, I said the story had pulled me in from the very beginning, and I couldn’t wait to read the whole thing. Eventually we worked our way to choice of topic. She had been inspired to write about it after reading a story in a magazine about a teenager who was facing a similar situation in her family. Apparently, the other topic she had considered was a story about puppies in a kennel and the guilt one dog felt after being adopted and sad that he had to leave the other dogs behind. Go figure. It didn’t occur to my aspiring Nora Ephron that people at the camp might mistake the fictional father for her real life father, but she thought it was funny after the fact that she might have embarrassed him. And it’s provided plenty of laughs for us since then.
She’s returning to the camp next week with just one request from me. Please give me a heads up if I’m going to arrive at pick up to hear, “My Crazy Mother.”