So, last week I told you I wrote half a book and burned it and wrote an entire novel afterward. Great, you're all caught up now.
The truth of the timeline involved in all of that is a bit hazy, but I do know that about four years into the first mess of a book, I took a pause from developing a story to grow a person inside of me. That maternal shift refocused me on a shorter form of stories with picture books. I'd tried to write one when I was in college taking a literature for children class, but I just couldn't figure out how to make it work and ended up melting wax into the shape of a castle with my then boyfriend. (I'm not sure if all of these will involve Jason and I burning or melting things, but it's entirely possible they will. Stay tuned).
One look at the tiny person who made me a mom woke something inside of me that I couldn't touch before holding the fragile life that depended on me for everything. Writing a picture book demanded that I understand the pure innocence of a new human. Her tiny fingers holding mine reached a place I hadn't understood before that.
I was grateful, overwhelmed, and awed by my daughter. It came out in stories that are honestly terrible and no one will ever see them except me. Well, and mg grandma because she was a writer too. She made me feel safe enough to share with her. She also laughed at the awfulness with me. I knew they weren't good, but had no clue how to get better. Really, I wanted to get back to that novel anyway, but that innocence struck a chord I couldn't ignore.
My precious grandmother sent me articles in the mail to help me learn. They were great. They helped me some, but I couldn't figure out the right way to fix anything that I could read to my daughter. A new hunger awoke to write for her. Something I really didn't know how to do.
At least I didn't until my grandma sent me an article on The Children's Literature Institute. I had to apply to get in. I knew my stuff was bad, but maybe I could come up with something good enough to qualify as an admissions essay. I think that's where I learned the lesson that writers generally all suffer from impostor syndrome and are really hard on their own work.
If you'd like to read my admissions essay, it's adapted to a short story published in the https://www.amazon.com/Inspiring-Generations-Years-Stories-Yosemite/dp/1930238452.
Next week, I'll talk about the children's lit institute and my time there.