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.