Some day, I want to write a book.
The thought germinated in my mind about six years ago. Some day meant once all the kids are in college, or when I retire and have nothing else to do. As a stay-at-home mom with three kids under five years old, I had very little time for hobbies.
The library became a usual hangout where I would return an armload of picture books and take out an equally voluminous amount of new books every other week. Reading to my children every night exposed me to the world of children's literature and its vast array of styles, voices, plots, and characters.
I started musing about what kind of book I would write. Would it be a picture book? a chapter book? a novel? What theme would I explore? An idea for a fantastic book came into my mind so strongly I couldn't ignore it. I started writing that same day.
Emily and the Magic Book was born, an interactive story where the reader helps Emily reach three goals.
I wrote whenever and wherever I could: during the baby's nap, at the laundromat, in a parking lot, at the playground, in a waiting room. Ideas came tumbling down on the pages, even though I didn't have a clear plot in mind from the beginning. I enjoyed every minute of the writing process, sometimes surprising myself with the twists my story would take.
My first draft was barely finished when I started working full time again. I printed a copy in a book format for my daughter and bound it by lacing a string in the middle.
I put aside the idea of writing, now juggling with a job, three kids, and the purchase of our first home.
(to be continued...)
The Squeezing of the Sphere
17 hours ago