Books
Crying In The Bookstore
It wasn’t super awkward; they were quiet tears of joy and relief.
While journaling with my morning coffee, I unearthed what I felt was a brilliant children’s book idea. As I wrote, my eyebrows furrowed while my hand frantically tried to capture the ideas in my head before they fizzled out.
I read what I had just written and was just as surprised as anyone else would be. A children’s book? Sorry, wait, what?
I swear far too much to be the author of a children’s book. I am abrupt. I don’t do small talk; I can be awkward. Series or standalone doesn’t matter. I don’t think I am cut out for this. I am not the one you are looking for.
My mind persisted- that I was the one. I had serious doubts. How old is my intended audience exactly?
Any day is a good day to visit my happy place, so I headed to the bookstore after work that day to see what was out there. I haven’t perused Indigo Kids in a long while. Though I faithfully buy books for all the baby showers I attend, this is a separate thing entirely.
Then (1980 till 1990: AKA we aren’t a library)
As a young child, I memorized Disney stories and learned how to read with Archie. Mr. Mugs perfected my pronunciations; Pippy Longstocking entertained me. Anne Of Green Gables comforted me while Nancy Drew sent me sneaking for clues and suspecting everyone of wrongdoings.
In between exploring Narnia and moving on to Sweet Valley High, I was given the iconic Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret along with Every Woman: A Gynaecological Guide For Life (written by a man!!!) to explain the upcoming changes in my body. It was frightening, and I remain eternally thankful to Judy Blume who dispensed an appropriate amount of knowledge with empathy.
Escape was all I could hope for as I read because I had already noticed the characters weren’t all that relatable to me. Magic could distract me, but I was facing more significant problems than fitting in. And there were no protagonists (or even antagonists) that could grab my hand, and light my way.
Back then, books were whitewashed, indirect, and mainly, stayed away from topics that were deemed unpleasant. Many books I read were published in the “sweep it under the rug,” “let’s not talk about it” era.
Characters that didn’t fit the norm remained unknown to me, and any wish to explore unconventional topics was questioned. They thought kids wouldn’t notice the majority of their classmates weren’t portrayed in the books read at school, but kids notice everything.
Beverly Cleary said in an interview that a child wrote to her asking that she write about a kid whose parents were divorced. Divorce happened and there were already tons of kids either shuttling back and forth with their backpacks on weekends, were altogether abandoned by one parent, or felt trapped in a “staying together for the kids” household. Those kids felt singular because there were no characters going through the same thing.
She wrote it in! Non-fiction instructional books aren’t the same; they are too much. In fact, they don’t tend to meet the kids where they are. Everyone needs the empathy reflected in fiction and Beverly Cleary recognized that.
Mostly though, everything always worked out in the end. The girl became a princess, either by heritage or by marriage (ugh, barf). The outcast became accepted. Siblings bonded, and kids overcame whatever issue it was that they were facing alone because the message was that they weren’t in fact alone at all.
And parents always improved, understood, and encouraged the protagonist by the end, unless it was a Disney book where one parent is always missing (usually the mom), which they never address in a real way, leaving a missed opportunity to tackle hard things.
The books I read now have the adult problems of today, relating all too well with complexities and fraught emotions that I wished I had on a smaller scale as an 8-year-old with an impressive vocabulary. Old enough to understand that I was experiencing different challenges and that the books didn’t trust kids with complicated themes.
Oh, and you couldn’t linger, loiter, get underfoot, or “test the merchandise” in the bookstore; all the accusations I’ve heard countless times because “this isn’t the library” (which was further from me than the bookstore).
Now (welcomed even in adulthood)
The first thing my eyes zeroed in on was a series of stories being told with more representative illustrations. Today’s kids are reading modern versions of tales as old as time while exploring alternate endings. I was pleasantly surprised to see new Anne of Green Gables-inspired stories on the shelves.
The promise of new characters going on new journeys, exploring new territories while facing modern challenges got me excited, like a kid in a…a bookstore!
A little girl said, “Hi.” Both of us seemed to have the same sparkle in our eyes at the promising direction this trip to the bookstore would take us. She likely sensed a kindred spirit in this adult frame. Moments later, I heard her ask for another book, and I smiled with genuine happiness when they agreed.
Another little girl came striding through the aisles leading her mom and grandma with a very confident bellow of “Follow me” that made me want to follow as well. My heart was a jumping bean.
In today’s bookstores, I see books I craved then. The main characters facing abandonment issues, neurodiversity, racism, death, and foster care.
Is it me or are kids truly seeing themselves in the stories? Previously taboo subjects like racism are currently in the titles of a book. Girls aren’t just princesses waiting for a prince, they are going to be anything they want to be and are planning more for their lives than a faraway wedding day!
I felt a lump lodging in my throat, and my eyes getting glossy. The bookstore is my happy place, and these were tears of joy. Ok, there was a bit of envy for not having had relatable protagonists earlier than adulthood.
My quiet sniffles prompted a few employees to check on me and ask if I needed anything (a kleenex perhaps?). Otherwise, I was completely immersed in the possibilities that lived on the surrounding Young Reader and YA shelves.
The books of today trust kids with hard things. They encourage kids of all ages and urge them to discover who they truly are. What do they like to voice? What do they don’t? And to be comfortable with expressing themselves through relatable characters going on similar journeys.
Trevor Noah’s autobiography Born a Crime was adapted for a younger audience. I felt the promise of it just holding it in my hand, having read the original version.
But I had to wonder if my current age and stage of life were putting fantasy lenses on the kids’ reality.
So now what?
I know I didn’t have the books I needed available to me as a kid. I know because I read all the books I could get my hands on. Do today’s kids actually have their needs covered or is there still a niche undiscovered? Are the stories and characters diving in deep enough, leaving nothing unexplored?
Admittedly, I didn’t see the books I was journaling about that morning, but more importantly, I can’t begin to know how I would write them for the intended audience in a helpful way. My inner child seems desperate in helping kids “figure it out” in a way that makes sense to them without being censored by adults who never went through it or don’t remember what it’s like.
The lump lodged in my throat is my heart. It knows that I may not have the answers to any adult problems that haven’t yet been solved, but that I remember what my childhood was like, and I can offer kids a way through.
My ideas, my voice, my inner child urging me on and telling me there are kids who still need these stories. What am I going to do about it?
