All my love and attention has gone into this childrens book I’ve been writing and illustrating. Finally, I completed it and sent it off into the universe in hopes that she finds a home.
“She” being my book.
“the universe” being the publishers.
I used to write childrens books all the time when I was a kid. It was easier then. I was producing a plethora of phonetically spelt tales, filled with pictures I felt like drawing vs. ones that pertained to my story. Few made any sense or they were never completed because I’d trail off to a new idea. If the talent was honed, I’d have been the Shirly Temple of kid authors. But now... to dive into the mind of my inner child, so that I may write for children isn’t as easy a task as one might think.
Even for me.
And I’m a huge fucking kid.
I circled my desk many times before I agreed to sit down at it.
That was the first step.
“Bum in the seat” was the writing advice my psychologist gave me once. I kept repeating those words to myself every time my feet moved in any direction that wasn’t towards my desk.
“Bum in the seat E! That’s not your seat. That is outside. Get in here” My conscience called out to me from The seat.
I was having such trouble writing the story. I had already spent a couple months illustrating the pictures, with little to no effort at all. It was easy for me to hold my sharpie and sketch out exactly what I was seeing in my head, but to write something that made sense of what my imagination puked out, enough sense that someone would publish me, was where I struggled.
As the writers block continued, I began to feel like an asshole.
“Who draws a book first before writing it? My deadline is right around the corner and all I’ve got are a bunch of unexplainable drawings like that fucking kid from The Ring!”
I was not a japanese horror film.
My pictures were going to make sense.
I would make that deadline... if I could just get my BUM IN THE SEAT!
“It’s ironic that you’re stumped writing for children and yet you have no problem acting like one. Get over here!” My thoughts chased me around my apartment like a mother chasing her toddler before bath time. But as soon as my mind gave itself a rest and stopped chasing after me, was when I was able to sit down and put words to my illustrations. To be quite honest, the minute I got off my case, was when I wandered on over to my desk and voluntarily sat down. Some things never change.
I put a lot of pressure on myself to create that book.
I’ve got so much respect for kids, way more then I have for adults, and I wanted to write them something special. I didn’t want to patronize them with some bullshit story about a puppy or “why it’s important to brush your teeth,” even if they are five year olds. I gave them more credit and wrote them something a little more kick ass.
Once I was done,
I put my markers away and wiped my desk clean.
I packed up my drawing paper and re-sharpened all my pencils.
I took a look around my apartment and saw zero evidence that a childrens book at ever come to life in there. All the sharpie marks on my table, due to my inability to color inside the paper (let alone the lines), were all gone. Just as it looked before.
I miss my markers.
I miss my drawing paper.
Seems as if diving into the mind of my inner child only pulled her out of there.
I’m going to get my markers.
I’m going to get my drawing paper.