A couple of days ago my son sat next to me on the couch and wrote his first two stories. We have, since he was four (He's six), sat in the local park, on little blue metal benches at one of the workout stations, and told stories, chance a piece. So when he sat down with his index card notebook and a pen, I was not too surprised, and, though I don't wish the life of a writer on anyone, more than a little thrilled.
The writing was basically illegible, as he was trying for words he doesn't really know how to spell yet, but both stories involved "kids being naughty"; and one involved a kid leaving his "fake parents." As I said, I couldn't make much sense of his spelling, which may be just as well, since, when I went to look for these precious index cards just now, I learned they were accidentally thrown away.
The themes of his writing and the loss will almost certainly make him a writer.