One thing I've been unexpectedly grateful for over the course of my journey as an author is how REAL it's made writing for my kids. They write and illustrate books in their free time for fun (or, in my daughter's case, "It's not a book, Mom, it's a series!"), write under pen names (they use White, too!), and regularly check to see whether or not I know their favorite authors.
(Hey, Mo Willems? Wanna be my friend?)
It's wonderful that this wall between writers and books has been broken for them. Books aren't magical things that exist on their own--they come from somewhere. Someone has to write them. And they know that someone could be them, if that's what they want to do.
But sometimes I wonder if maybe they've seen a bit too much. Tonight they were upstairs playing at bedtime when I heard my eight-year-old tell my six-year-old, "Okay, pretend you're my editor. Tell me all the things you want me to change about my story! Also, find any mistakes I make and tell me to fix them."
Maybe books-as-magically-created-objects is more fun to believe in, after all...