Sometime in the past year, my daughter, C.C., started making books. She made other things too — she invented her own timed card game, constructed scenes for puppet shows, and designed crowns we wear to support our favorite football team. She orchestrated the end-to-end execution of an invitation-only Saturday night living room disco party. The girl has the spark. And I love watching her explore her need to create.
It’s the book-making that gets me, though. I too enjoyed writing short stories when I was just a tad older than she is now. I didn’t embellish them with illustrations like she does, although I did like to draw. Her father isn’t one to write, but he too is a maker, a wood worker, so it’s no surprise she has these creative instincts. What gets me is that she doesn’t resist them.
Much has been published about children’s natural inclinations versus those of adults, that we tend to be less impulsive the older we get. And how, when we experience major transitions like changing careers or moving or any other “starting anew” later in life, we should channel our inner child to uncover the true joy we seek — because when we were that child and there was that something we loved to do, we just did it. (Yes, Nike, I hear you.) It’s trendy yet wise advice.
When I watch C.C. make book after book, I feel the presence of the universe (and maybe my dad) standing off to the side, shooting me that mildly smirky look, that gentle throat clearing. And a non-verbal, calm yet emphatic “yo, see what she’s doing? What’s your excuse?”. To which I internally reply, “I have none” — a feeble attempt to keep at bay my indulgent bemoaning of schedules, laundry, expenses, shit to clean up, weather, and exhaustion.
She doesn’t just make the books, she plays the role of writer to the fullest. She earned the “aspiring author” award at the end of 1st grade. And for a solid week before cranking out her latest piece the other day, she told us often that her next book was going to be fiction. Having learned the difference in school recently, she was proud to remind us that her previous titles were non-fiction and with this next work she was going to change it up. When she did start writing and drawing, she was lost in her art for several hours. That same day we endured insane heat to decorate for Halloween, she worked on her “novel” — confident, quiet, and not at all worried where we’d be, when we’d be done, or why we couldn’t play with her.
My mom-brag senses were soaring, my heart was full. I too was proud, and in awe.
And again, immediately humbled.
While I’m on the fence whether I ever want to write a book, I’ve said many times that I want to write. In a scattering of places and times I did, and I eventually got off my procrastinating keister to start this newsletter. I’m more consistent, but far from prolific. And by “more” I mean: not completely not writing. <shrug>
My daughter’s book-writing also shows me what she’s consuming and processing. Its simplicity is loaded with depth, revealing what’s weighing on her and what she thinks is a kind way to work through it. There’s conflict and hopeful resolution — the ingredients of good stories, the ingredients of our lives. She lets it come out onto the page with little inhibition. It’s in there though, those seeds of hesitation. I do my best to encourage both her process and her output, distracting her from the creeping whispers to second-guess both. Like a parent taking the hit to protect their kid from oncoming harm, I’ll protect her solitude and desire to write above my own.
But that too is not an excuse for me to resist my childlike cravings to put words on a page. The two of us each finding joy in writing is not mutually exclusive, even if making time for myself does always feel at warring odds with motherhood and modern demands. She shows me I can do this too, without realizing the example she offers. I owe her the return example, of the adult woman who is true to herself. I can and must show her that instincts are to be explored not buried, that we are meant to wander and follow our gut — even when the incessant voices of the weathered worker/mom/friend/wife/daughter insist otherwise.
What in your immediate surroundings inspires you? What encourages you to keep on truckin’ or to walk the walk? I look forward to learning about your joy. :-)