Lately, my father has been calling me Ed. It has nothing to do with his mental state, which remains pretty sharp at 89. It has to do with my recent role as his editor, which proved to be one of the most challenging but rewarding experiences of my life.
Writing isn’t rocket science, but my father did work as an aerospace engineer with NASA on the early design stages of the Mars and Jupiter probe landings. After retirement, he took up art as a hobby, surprising us with several impressive watercolor paintings. He moved on to designing draw bridges for model railroads. At age 80, he built a cello, modeled from a child’s violin. At 85, he made a bass fiddle. Did he consider his experiences worth writing about? No. But soon after I began writing a novel, my father decided to start one, too.
Dad was never a serious writer. In fact, Dad was never serious about much of anything. But he’s always had a fertile imagination. He would fascinate us with tales of Billy the Raccoon