Time on
The third draft of the children's story was completed on Christmas Eve eve. It was mostly done on that Saturday. I decided to section it into parts. Chapters felt too... official, officious. Stodgy. In my mind's eye, I imagined the story being read to a child by a parent. I wrote it considering how such a guardian would parse the words and then take that short second to decide how they would deliver it to the child. I don't have any children of my own, nor have I read to any, but I am at that point in my life where most friends are wrestling with the notion of negotiating bed time with small people in colorful pajamas. Big eyes and open ears and parroting mouths. The whole story ended up being around 7000 words. If a person wanted to, they could easily read it all in one sitting, but I could only imagine the 15 some minutes before bed being too brief especially stopping for questions and breaking to puzzle through concepts.
All of that is to say that without even struggling with how to end it, a lot of thought went into the beginning, the middle, and even the smallest of minor details. Admittedly, and this is what got me into trouble the first few times I tried this, I didn't think there was a whole lot to writing for children. And again, I was writing with the thought that children would be hearing it, and not reading it themselves. But then, all the years I spent as an educator came back to me. I picked nits about what I was saying about the world, about people, about everything, to a young mind that was still developing and hadn't come up with their own decisions about such things. The parents I know work tirelessly to ensure the correct balance of nutrients go into those growing bodies, and even parents I've only imagined do the same for what goes into their children's minds. The write classroom, the right school, the right district, all to find the right series of lessons that help make their children what they hope they'll be. Adult fiction, I realized, is designed to challenge minds that have an appreciable understanding of what the world is.
I guess the habit of sharing isn't a bad one. I meant the writing as a gift, so what I wrote was given over to the parents. If all goes well, I can post it to this space. Worst case, I'll have learned that children's fiction is beyond where I currently am. But even in that scenario, I will have started a story, and I will have finished a story. The next hurdle will be starting the play I've been conceptualizing for over a year. It feels even further out of my depth. The children's story was a story, even if it was meant for an audience I'd never considered writing for. It still uses a lot of the same mechanics. Plays are stories, still, but they are told primarily through relationships. How people interact within a specified setting, what they say, and what they don't, how they say the things they say, and why they seem to choose not to. Those are the tools. But, I think I'm up for the challenge.
I thought I was up for most challenges. I opened my browser and went hunting again for a potential agent. I compiled all the novels I've written and their synopses, summaries, the first 10 pages, the first 10 thousand words. I thought to make it easier on myself and go back to all the rejections I had already compiled and all the emails that never warranted a response. I found an email to an agent that I had even submitted to in the past. It matched a name on the new list. It was like running around a corner and staring at my own tail. Being confronted by that kind of unraveled my drive. I recognized the urge to close the window, shut it all down. I had a lot of reasons to put it off until tomorrow, knowing that tomorrow hardly ever comes.
That's why I'm writing this now. I had thought to update my progress about the story and the play and whatever else. But I didn't, because I'm bad at committing to this part. So, I sat down to do this because it was something. It may not have been to champion my courage in that other way, but it was something. If there are witnesses to my shame, then it will be easier to fight the next time, the next moment. Hour, day, month.
Looking forward to 2019, I flipped through my mental library of stories I've yet to finish. I'll be working on book two of a series I haven't worked on in years. Trying to shake the dust off was like opening a tucked-away moving box. It was almost like looking at some other person's stuff. But turning things over, really trying to remember, it all started coming back.
So, there's that. I know what I want the next steps to be, but am less sure about how I'll manage them.
All of that is to say that without even struggling with how to end it, a lot of thought went into the beginning, the middle, and even the smallest of minor details. Admittedly, and this is what got me into trouble the first few times I tried this, I didn't think there was a whole lot to writing for children. And again, I was writing with the thought that children would be hearing it, and not reading it themselves. But then, all the years I spent as an educator came back to me. I picked nits about what I was saying about the world, about people, about everything, to a young mind that was still developing and hadn't come up with their own decisions about such things. The parents I know work tirelessly to ensure the correct balance of nutrients go into those growing bodies, and even parents I've only imagined do the same for what goes into their children's minds. The write classroom, the right school, the right district, all to find the right series of lessons that help make their children what they hope they'll be. Adult fiction, I realized, is designed to challenge minds that have an appreciable understanding of what the world is.
I guess the habit of sharing isn't a bad one. I meant the writing as a gift, so what I wrote was given over to the parents. If all goes well, I can post it to this space. Worst case, I'll have learned that children's fiction is beyond where I currently am. But even in that scenario, I will have started a story, and I will have finished a story. The next hurdle will be starting the play I've been conceptualizing for over a year. It feels even further out of my depth. The children's story was a story, even if it was meant for an audience I'd never considered writing for. It still uses a lot of the same mechanics. Plays are stories, still, but they are told primarily through relationships. How people interact within a specified setting, what they say, and what they don't, how they say the things they say, and why they seem to choose not to. Those are the tools. But, I think I'm up for the challenge.
I thought I was up for most challenges. I opened my browser and went hunting again for a potential agent. I compiled all the novels I've written and their synopses, summaries, the first 10 pages, the first 10 thousand words. I thought to make it easier on myself and go back to all the rejections I had already compiled and all the emails that never warranted a response. I found an email to an agent that I had even submitted to in the past. It matched a name on the new list. It was like running around a corner and staring at my own tail. Being confronted by that kind of unraveled my drive. I recognized the urge to close the window, shut it all down. I had a lot of reasons to put it off until tomorrow, knowing that tomorrow hardly ever comes.
That's why I'm writing this now. I had thought to update my progress about the story and the play and whatever else. But I didn't, because I'm bad at committing to this part. So, I sat down to do this because it was something. It may not have been to champion my courage in that other way, but it was something. If there are witnesses to my shame, then it will be easier to fight the next time, the next moment. Hour, day, month.
Looking forward to 2019, I flipped through my mental library of stories I've yet to finish. I'll be working on book two of a series I haven't worked on in years. Trying to shake the dust off was like opening a tucked-away moving box. It was almost like looking at some other person's stuff. But turning things over, really trying to remember, it all started coming back.
So, there's that. I know what I want the next steps to be, but am less sure about how I'll manage them.
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