Does the world of children’s literature really need another tale about a rabbit? Or, another book by Eileen Beha? What do I have to say that hasn’t already been said before? What story can I tell that hasn’t already been told before?

These were the kinds of questions I was asking myself on Day #12 of National Novel Writing Month, when that first spark of imagination for the start of a new book started to dim. When it’s hard to believe what children’s author Kate DiCamillo once said after she read the first 20 pages of my first (and yet unpublished) middle grade novel, My Star, My Sun: “This is a story that needs to be told, and you are the one to tell it.” Words of kindness and encouragement that I’ve obviously never forgotten.

Meanwhile, twelve days of immersion into the writing life has taken its toll, physically and emotionally. Real life keeps creeping in like those backyard mice seeking a winter abode in our warm basement: Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, and Christmas planning; closets that need cleaning, dishes that need doing, laundry that needs washing, a dog that needs walking; connections with friends and family members falling by the wayside.

Writing is a solitary occupation. A long, and often lonely, walk into an empty classroom of the imagination. Deepening shadows and moments of light. Words scratched on a blackboard that hope to someday find a home in a reader’s heart.

Final word count: 1706.

#NaNoWriMo18