Reluctant doesn't even begin to describe it. Let's check the thesaurus:
That would be more accurate, if you're talking about my son. He hates to write.
You wouldn't know it from watching and listening to him. He has always been a voracious reader. He has a deep and varied vocabulary and speaks in sentences that are positively Joycean. He'll talk your ear off--stories, arguments, descriptions of his Minecraft world, you name it. He's a language fiend. My great uncle was an author and poet, my other great uncle was a published theologian, my brother is a sports journalist, I am a writing teacher. When Tai was little, I could see another writer developing before my eyes. I was so excited to have another writer in the family.
And then he went to school and learned to write. And I watched my vision of a writer-son crumble before my very eyes. Put a pen in his hand and my language lover turns into a lump of clay. A resentful lump of clay. With nothing interesting to report about anything, if you take his word for it.
So here, once a week for the next year (that's my goal right now), I will record and hopefully share everything I am doing to turn this lump of clay into a writer. Or at least into a boy who doesn't hate to write.