I wrote a children’s story about my daughter.
It came out of me one day like a flood, as my stories usually do. I was watching my daughter, realizing how much she had grown, and I panicked. She’s growing up too fast. All of those memories – what if they disappear? Followed by, remember when she did that thing?
… Followed by me furiously pulling out my laptop and jotting the whole thing down. A few edits later, and I had my first children’s story.
It was months later that I finally read it to her. I wasn’t planning on it. I was going to find someone to illustrate it and print it out for her as a gift, but time passed, and I was writing something else, and then another thing, and it didn’t happen. One day she snuggled up to me, peeking at what I was working on.
“Mama,” that’s really good!” she exclaimed.
I felt my heart beat a little faster. I didn’t realize how much the approval of an eight-year-old meant to me until that moment.
“Really?” I asked.
She looked at me, all attitude, and said, “Do I ever lie to you?”
One thing about this kid is that she never lies and that is why she also can’t keep a secret, because to her, that’s lying. It’s frustrating, actually.
Warmth spread through me. Get a grip, I said to myself, she’s only eight. She likes everything. But still, when the question inevitably came, I excitedly told her, “yes, I do have some more things you can read.”
I let her paw through a few action sequences from one of the YA books I was working on. Then I read her a children’s story I was working on. She ate it up.
The whole time I was having an internal struggle about whether to share the story I had written about her. She’s sensitive. She’s struggled with being a social outcast, with bullying, and with her own self-image. What if she didn’t like how she was portrayed? What if it made her self-conscious?
I asked her. “Would you like to read a story I wrote about you?”
Her eyes lit up.
I gave her a qualifier. “You were younger then, and it was a while ago, so if I got anything wrong, you can correct me.”
“Okay,” she said.
I read her the story. It’s a celebration of her uniqueness, her fascination with outer space, and how she overcame adversity.
She cried.
“You’re crying,” I said, when I was finished, feeling alarmed.
“Mama, I LOVE IT,” she said, wiping her tears.
And it struck me then, the power of stories. That reaction is the reason I write. Was my story great? I don’t know, but that’s not the point. She loved it because it was about her. Because it affirmed that who she is, and all her quirks, are worth celebrating.
My favorite children’s books are those that speak to kids and tell them that they are worth celebrating, especially those kids who maybe need to hear it most.
And sometimes adults need it too, from a quirky, space-loving eight-year-old.
(The book is being illustrated now, along with another that I wrote about my now six-year-old daughter, and I will be publishing them, hopefully this year.)
Liz Highland 