Chicken Little keeps catching me putting her drawings in the recycling bin.
She never once considers that I’ve done it on purpose. She always assumes it’s been a mistake.
“Mommy, you accidentally put this in there,” she says, holding it out to me. “Whoops!” I say, and stick it back on the refrigerator.
This is an innocence I covet desperately. Oh, to be so certain that everything you’ve created will be unconditionally cherished.
On my hard drive are three distinct drafts of my book. The first two I offered to the world like Libby offers her art, with faith that it would bring back some of the love I’d put into it. Both were loved by several someones. Each was rejected by more someones.
That’s just life as a grown-up.
The funny thing is, despite hard-earned appreciation for the harshness of reality and all, I still have a glimmer of that innocent, hopeful kid in me. Without that kid, I wouldn’t keep doing this probably. I sure as heck wouldn’t be on draft four.
Maybe I’ll just move Noodle’s art from the fridge to a big gigantic pile in the closet, clearing out of the way clothes and old books and umbrellas, keeping and loving every single crayon masterpiece forever.
It’s the least I could do, really.
Hi to my Chicken Little...I am glad to know you still have that glimmer from the refrigerator art. Makes me hope I did something right for that hopeful kid inside of you. I love that hopeful kid...I want her to stay forever.
ReplyDeleteI have been thinking a lot about the writing impulse lately and wanting to send you the words of Hemingway on writing. Something I stumbled across and love. He says,
There was so much to write. He had seen the world change; not just the events; although he had seen many of them and watched the people, but he had seen the subtler change and he could remember how the people were at different times. He had been in it and he watched it and it was his duty to write of it.
(from the Snows of Kilimanjaro...)
so...write on, my Chicken Little, WRITE ON!!
Love, Mom