Scott Lax

Finn loves Mickey Mouse, playing catch (at 101/2 months!), singing, music, and being irrepressible.

Here's our little man Finn at the diner. His hat says, "Since 1934," so I checked to see what was happening in literature that year. What a heyday it was: New books by Samuel Beckett, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Agatha Christie, F. Scott Fitgerald (TENDER IS THE NIGHT), Henry Miller (TROPIC OF CANCER), Ellery Queen, P.L. Travers, Evelyn Waugh, Nathaniel West, H.G. Wells, Frederico Garcia Lorca....

To name a few. Inspiring, yes; and a little sad. The country was awash in literary genius, in new ideas, and all of this during the Great Depression. Can you imagine?

What's happened? Where is the great literary art and the great literary writers? We have some, but I mean, that partial list...it's tough to dispute that 1934 boasted more greats than today. (Even genre writers: James Patterson instead of Agatha Christie?)

Some possible answers: Lost in a fog of distractions, both electronic and otherwise; writing for television; writing for advertising agencies; the pace of life; MFA factories; deciding not to write at all because it's usually not valued like it used to be.

Literature, and books in general, despite the availability of tablets, Kindles and such, is suffering. Too many other things to do with one's eyes than read a book. So what can we do we as lovers of literature? All I can think of is read more and better literature. And if you're a writer, set your bar higher, whether you write genre, literary or whatever it may be. That's what I'm doing. That's about all I can do.

Like most readers, I go through times when I don't read as much as usual. The past seven and a half months -- the best of my life, with the arrival of my son, Finn -- have been such a time. Too tired; too busy. There's no need for any writer to apologize for not writing or reading more. It happens.

And then I got back into it. I'm starting slowly, with not much more time, but maybe a bit more intellectual energy. I just read "Dog Story, a Personal History," by Adam Gopnik, in The New Yorker; and am reading Ben Marcus's short story, "What Have You Done?" as well as a novel by one of my favorite writers of light fiction. It's not genre fiction, but it's not exactly Dickens or Kundera. (More on that later.)

If you've gotten away from reading -- and like most of you, I never completely get away from it -- all you have to do to get back in it is open a magazine or book or turn on your iPad or Kindle. (I still like paper, but we'll see.)

Speaking of seeing things, here's Finn about a week ago. He loves nature. And books. And climbing things. And bouncing. And drumming. And singing. And laughing. And...you get the idea.

It's strange and amazing to have just turned 59 and understand life in a way I never imagined. Everything looks different: the environment - so neglected, so precarious; our politics, so filled with greed and short-sightedness; the world, still so full of promise. When I try to see life through Finn's eyes, I know that I can't, but I can sense it. Everything is new, much is wondrous, and his trust is pure. I write to make our lives better, and if I can make the world a little better, that's okay too. I think if leaders thought and cared about children first and foremost many problems would go a long way toward being solved. They should be our first priority.