So I e-mailed my mom some of my book reviews the other day, and she writes back, “This is absolutely amazing! Are you sure you’re my son?”

I wasn’t entirely sure how to take that. Surely she would know the answer better than I.

I wrote back asking for clarification, and she said, “It’s just that dad and I are not very creative and I wonder where all that creativity came from. I think part of it was that you were at an in-between age for the kids in the neighborhood. Most were Johnny’s age or Kelly’s. You spent a lot of time reading comic books and playing with your toys and imagining all sorts of things. I really think that’s great for kids to have time to do that because most kids have great imaginations that just need some developing.”

Not sure, but I think this might be my mother’s nice way of saying I was a loser and had no friends.

Maybe she’s right . Imagination is like a muscle, and needs exercise. The thing is, though, I never really felt like I didn’t have people to play with. It was more that I didn’t like to play a lot of the things the kids my age wanted to play. I wanted to be reading my comics and books and playing with my toys, because it was far more interesting to me than chasing a ball around, or having some other kind of organized fun.

On the other hand, I don’t know what’s so hard for her to believe. My parents raised me to value reading and hard work, and to be open-minded and try to understand people who are different from me. I think those things are by far the most important skills required for writing.

Making up monsters is the easy part.