My father edited a magazine.  When I left him phone messages or a birthday wish list, he would leave more red ink than my blue ink, forcing me to learn to write.  Now I cannot imagine now writing. 

My oldest son is autistic, which saddens me because he may never know the joy of creative writing.  But then, I cant sing if my life depended on it, so maybe he'll bloom in a different direction.  I named my autistic son after my father and wish they could have met.