Dear Evan:
I think you’re inheriting your daddy’s love for scary stories. Recently, you ask every night for a scary story — “but not *too* scary, just a little scary” — after we read books at bedtime.
Sometimes, I’m able to oblige, though I have to admit more often that I start in on what *I* think is only a little scary, and you plug your eyes and stop me right away.
(Looks like the Headless Horseman will need to wait another year.)
You may also have inherited your daddy’s love for storytelling. A few nights ago, we were driving home from errands and I heard from the back seat:
“…and the ghost became a *witch*… and the witch became a *monster*… and the monster became a *gob-uh-lin*… and the gob-uh-lin became a *pile of zombies*!”
All complete with dramatic enunciation and growly whisper. I laughed. “What are you doing, bug?”
“Telling a scary story.”
If you get an agent before I do, I’m just going to be crushed.
I love you,
Daddy