The Time I Wrote a Book
I’m a girl with a lot of interests. My husband, Matt, likes to say I collect hobbies and he’s not wrong. In the past few years alone, I’ve dived deeply into plenty of things. In addition to being a mother to three redheaded boys, I’m a preschool teacher, a painter, knitter, baker, amateur gardener. I am astoundingly busy by choice, and most of the activity takes place within the walls of my own home.
And then last year, I picked up an entirely new hobby. I wrote a middle grade chapter book. It started simply enough, as most of my hobbies do. My then five-year-old son drew a picture of a little boy sleeping in a lion’s cage and asked me if there were any secret tunnels he could use to get into the zoo for free. I told him that I didn’t think there were. And that even if one existed, we would never know because it was meant to be a secret. My oldest asked if I’d write him a story about a secret tunnel under the zoo that we could all read together. I’m a sucker for my children so I said yes, of course I would write a story about a little boy who discovers a tunnel under the zoo. I asked my kids to give the little boy a name and I’d take it from there. They picked Andrew George. Andrew for their uncle and George for their youngest cousin. We had a name. Now, all we needed was a story to go with it. I don’t really know what I thought would happen. I guess I assumed I’d spend an afternoon scrawling something down or maybe I’d write a chapter at a time and we’d read it as we went. But before I knew it, I was using every free minute I had to write about Andrew George, a quiet and curious boy who finds a hidden tunnel under the city zoo.
My sons lost interest in our story long before I did. They’re little boys. They wanted to go on adventures of their own, not read the one their mother was slowly writing. So what followed were months and months of writing and rewriting, shaping and changing a story written really for no one. If anyone asked, I would say confidently that I wanted my boys to see themselves as the hero of a story—tender, sweet, artistic boys who aren’t the punchline but instead got their day in the sun. I won’t lie. I was even a little self-righteous about it. “Children’s books should be mirrors and windows,” I’d say, quoting a children’s literature professor I’d loved in college. “I want my boys to have mirrors to see themselves and windows to see worlds different than theirs.” So I kept writing. For them. For quirky boys with scruffy haircuts and mismatched socks who have no idea how wonderful they are.
In the book, Andrew, a fifth grader with a love of art and undiagnosed OCD, hates the spotlight. He isn’t sure what’s more terrifying—being a boy with nothing to offer the world or one with a tremendous amount to offer it. Lost in his sketchbook and the wonderful, winding world of his mind, he manages to skate under the radar. Until he finds a secret tunnel under the zoo and ends up using his incredible heart and eye for beauty to save the animals.
In the end, I was so tremendously proud of the earnest, evocative world I’d created. I read each chapter aloud to Matt and I printed a copy for my mom. I even hired a lovely editor I found online to proofread it and offer her suggestions, which were wonderful and tender and made the story even more polished than I thought it could be. All in all, I spent the better part of a year writing it. Hours upon hours upon hours writing a book for no other purpose than to write it.
Much to my own surprise, I ended up sending it to literary agents—fifty in total— with the hope of getting it published. And while a few were seriously interested, they all ended up passing on it. And all for the same reason. “It’s a charming story and you have a strong voice. But it’s not a page turner. It’s not splashy enough.” “I adore the way you write. There’s so much to love here. But in the end, it’s not adventurous enough. Children want a good romp.” Even Matt said he thought it might be more suitable for adults than children. My quest for a literary agent ended on my birthday, when the woman who I truly felt was right for the project, who asked me to revise a couple of things and send the manuscript back for her review, sent me an email at 6:20 in the morning (did I already mention it was my birthday?) saying she felt I was talented. She just knew that another lucky agent would scoop me right up. She couldn’t wait to cheer me on from the sidelines. But she wasn’t the person for the job. I was crushed. And I set my book aside indefinitely.
* * *
I went on a road trip that summer with my little family. We’re those annoying people who don’t own iPads so we downloaded some audiobooks ahead of the trip. I picked one that Amazon hailed “the best middle grade novel of 2021.” And since my goal was to be a middle grade novelist, I figured it might be helpful. We turned it on about an hour into our drive and I prepared to be dazzled. The book was flashy, punchy, filled with action. Every chapter was another twist, another turn, and ended on a jaw-dropping cliffhanger. And I hated it. And my children hated it. We made it to chapter 4 before we collectively decided it wasn’t for us. “That felt like chugging a slushie,” Matt said. “It was too much.” After a while, all three of our boys dozed off in the back seat and we got to talking. Both of us agreed that this book was proof of why my book didn’t work, why no one wanted it. My story was subtle and quiet and honest. It was about a boy finding himself, finding confidence in his unique gifts. No ghosts. No alternate dimensions. No technicolor cliff-hangers. It was a simple story. But it was mine.
It took me reading the kind of book I thought I wanted to write, one with top billing and its own display at Barnes & Noble, to realize that’s not my story at all. I’m not an adventurer. I’m not someone who wants attention, at least not on a grand scale. Life these days is all about headlines, highlights, reels of the best of our everyday life. My sister-in-law is a high school dance teacher. She told me lots of her students list their dream job as Influencer or YouTuber. Jobs that demand attention, that center around people noticing you for something bold and splashy, lives with you at the center. I am so thankful to work at my dream job—preschool teacher. Sure, I’m the center of attention during circle time. I dance a mean Tooty-Ta and my class is here. for. it. But for the most part, it’s a gentle and sweet job that requires me to set my ego aside and let my students be in the middle of it all. It requires creativity and humility. So. Much. Humility. But it’s just right for me.
By now, you may have figured out something it took me a year to realize. I didn’t write this book for my sons at all. I wrote it for me. In all its baby steps and tiny twists and moments of self-discovery. I created a hero who embraces gentleness, who is kind and finds beauty in the tiny details of his life, who is content with small things. Andrew George isn’t the hero my children need—he is the hero I need. My story wasn’t made for bigtime success in the same way that my life is leap years from many people’s idea of success. But it is okay to desire a quiet life. It is okay to seek subtlety, the mundane, and to relish in the great beauty in the everyday. Just don’t expect a literary agent to show much interest in it.
