Sometime Book

C. S. Lewis wrote on the differences between a true reader and someone who merely reads; one quote summarizes the import of his thoughts on my own: “Those of us who have been true readers all our life seldom fully realise the enormous extension of our being which we owe to authors” (An Experiment in Criticism).  Children’s books are exceptionally guilty of this; they catch worldviews not yet so structured by memories and other books and whisper their art into adult minds, too. 

Kids’ books devour my attention. Some of the library workers at Crown have stopped asking me if I am checking the books out for class or for fun. (It’s usually for fun.) The shelves of thin, tall picture books at Barnes and Noble are not safe from these hands of neither child nor parent. While books considered by many to be more serious and mature also delight me, books written to include an audience of children have always been favorites. As the story of four children living in a boxcar flew through my fingers a week ago, I realized that my childhood writing style dripped off of those pages onto my own. 

How much of the being called “me” is made up of the words of those immortals called authors? What has it taken in that bent it with poison or armed it with a potion of truth? Who would it be without story? 

If this creature were to cut her own story out of the bits of syntax-covered paper that coat her flesh, the result would be grafted to another living being, who could either be blessed with a spell of beauty or cursed into ugliness. Yet I want to write. I want to be one who shapes a thought or a whole story in a child’s (undefended) mind. I read with my preschoolers, discovering what makes them giggle, what makes them ask questions, what makes them shout, “Read it again!” My life this summer is colored by children—by their moments of honour, defiance, hurt, delight, intelligence, silliness, sadness, embarrassment, discovery, and love. As I try to bottle the perfect balance of these in words and phrases, I fall short of my goal and into my fears. 

Will I say what is True?

Will I create fluff?

Will I cause more harm than good?

What has shaped me will shape what I can give to others, but without a few kinks I couldn’t have elbows or curly hair. That which truly mars can be redeemed. My words might fly from the cages in which they came to me and rearrange themselves with the undertones of hope that pervade my soul. They change me, but with help, I can also change them. 

So instead of sitting down to write this sometime book, I’ll take an evening to ice-paint with my brother and explain the blob pictures to my mom, who has to love them. I’ll finish the day with ice cream and some thoughts about what actually matters. Planted seeds have a funny but consistent way of blossoming into beauty loved by children and adults.