Why Do I Write for Children: Another Voice
Photo by Vitaly Gariev on Unsplash
Here is another response to my question, from a colleague who prefers to remain anonymous. She has had a varied career: in public health, studying epidemiology in Nepal; non-profit management, as a consultant and an executive director of two organizations; an AP Psych teacher and a documentary filmmaker. In 2016, she started taking courses in writing for children. She has two published picture books and has two on contract. She teaches ELL to newcomers in her area and loves to garden and swim. She lives with her husband on a farm in southeastern MA. They have three grown children, a playful pup, several beehives, and too many chickens.
Why do I write for children? It’s a question I am asked often—by friends, family, and on occasion, strangers. Heck, I even ask myself that from time to time! There are layers to my varied answers, some surface-level, some deeper, and then even deeper. On the surface, writing for children fits my lifestyle. It’s flexible; I can take it anywhere, write when I want, and decide when and where it happens – except, of course, when that creative lightning bolt strikes! On a deeper level, I’m an introvert at heart, and writing gives me a reason (or an excuse) to spend time alone, while still feeling productive—which is something I value. And then there’s that fear of failure—it’s easier to hide the rejections. People only see when I’ve been successful. That’s the moment they celebrate; they don’t know about the countless rejections. It feels safer that way.
But there’s something deeper driving me. It’s well-known in my family, among my friends, and mostly within myself that I love being with and nurturing children. I loved being a mother to young children. To me, those were intimate, magical, awe-filled days. I reminded myself often to be fully present regardless of how each child was at that moment. For me, motherhood with small, wide-eyed children was where I experienced the sacred, the divine. I know that sounds a bit cliché. How does one capture that feeling? It’s so profound, ineffable, really. Maybe that’s why I write for children: to capture that feeling again, to somehow put into words the deep regard I have for their very existence and how participating in their lives, their awe, and their curiosity takes me back to that magical place. Their earnestness, honesty, intuition, and rich life of feelings are dimensions of being that are lost as childhood wanes. Can we extend it, can we re-capture it in some way? Let’s at least honor it in them—and in whatever remnants we retain as adults. If we can engage children, and each other, through stories that reflect the extraordinary of our lives, we’d be better off.
There’s also something about ‘universals’ that calls to me—the connections that bind us as humans (and to other creatures)—beings who are all part of something much bigger than ourselves. Through good writing, we tap into those universal truths that bring us closer to one another. And gosh, don’t we need that? People express these truths in different ways—through art, song, and prayer—but for me, I have discovered, that it’s through writing for children.
And here’s another thought I’ve been grappling with related to universals and writing. I’ve heard countless people talk about experiencing tragedy. “We all have tragedies,” they say. “We all know loss. It unites us in a way.” It can connect us in the same way joy does. Or singing together. Or walking together. Or dancing. And for the longest time, I didn’t relate. I, after all, had not experienced tragedy. I’d never wished tragedy upon myself, but I’d wished I could better understand what others had gone through. I wondered if I’d been too quick to gloss over my own pain. Should I be recognizing my losses as tragedies? Had I missed something important? Yet, as I’ve gotten older, as I’ve written more and reflected more, I’ve started to understand. When I search my memory for the hardest loss, the deepest sorrow, it’s not a single event that stands out. When I really dig deep, when I reflect on the most painful part of my life, it becomes clear: I was a motherless child. Mummy, as we were told to call her, was not dead or gone – she was just never fully there. I was unloved by my mother. She was present but not available – or maybe not accessible is truer. I respected my mother—wife of a prominent physician and from a family of means, who didn’t have to work but chose to. She was one of the first women to graduate from MIT. She then went on to get her PhD in chemistry from Oxford. Then a professor at Smith and Johns Hopkins. She was a feminist. She was an advocate. She was a pioneer, carving out space for women in the sciences. Yet, I did not experience a loving dimension to her, no vulnerability, no intimacy. And there was, by extension, no affirmation of me. That is a tragedy for any child. A mother who had no willingness to try to love her children. There lies my suffering, my forever longing. That is a part of me, or a part of me that is missing and can never be filled. If it weren’t for a surrogate, a loving nanny, beloved to my bones, who I was passed to immediately upon my birth, I would not even have the capacity to love myself. My absent parents are a loss I carry with me, deep in in my soul. It’s the part of me that still longs for care, for love, for affirmation—even just acknowledgment!
One of the most intimate moments for a child is to be read to at night. I never experienced that level of comfort and love. My parents were busy preparing for the next day—and Nanny couldn’t read. Ironically, it may also have turned out to be a gift; maybe that’s what I want to offer children through my stories. Not just the story (and hopefully it touches on universals) but a book—something that is shared with them, with an adult, or in community with classmates. To show them that they are loved, recognized, and seen for who they are—no matter what their circumstances. That they are worthy of love and care. That they are, indeed, sacred and divine in this world.
