What the Red Panda Knew…
I never meant to write a book. Well, I sort of did. But I didn’t think it would end like this.
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 to write about Andrew George, a quiet and curious boy who finds a hidden tunnel under the city zoo.
My sons lost interest long before I did. They’re little boys and little boys want to go on adventures of their own, not read one their mother is slowly writing. So what followed were months and months of writing and rewriting, shaping and changing a story written really for no one. 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. So I kept writing for quirky boys with scruffy haircuts and mismatched socks who have no idea how wonderful they are.
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 mother. I even hired a lovely editor to proofread it and offer her suggestions, which were wonderful and tender and made the story 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.
And then I made a new friend. Amy. And she is a real writer, the kind who is hosting a sold out reading of her book at a shop in Brooklyn I’ve visited in my dreams a thousand times. I sheepishly told her over ice cream that I was a writer, too, only not a real one. I told her about my book and my little underground story and that all I really wanted was one copy of my book to hold in my very own hands. And maybe a second copy for my mother. I wanted to throw up in embarrassment because I was telling someone who takes this work very seriously about my little 5 am hobby. She couldn’t have been kinder. “That’s a thing, you know,” she said. “Wanting to hold your book. But here’s the deal. You can print just one copy. Just one for you.” And she told me exactly how.
That’s how I ended up here. With the slow drawn out sculpting of a story over two years and its publishing over the last month or so, just so I can hold it. At first, I didn’t plan to tell anyone about it. But now, I want to tell everyone about it. Because we are all so stuck trying to make money and measure up and maybe look pretty doing it. I want to show you that it’s okay to fall in love with a process for the sole purpose of joy and discovery. It is okay to chase a dream for the beauty of chasing the dream. Buy my book. Or don’t. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Andrew George and his secret tunnel beneath the zoo, talent can’t stay hidden for long. And the world needs yours. Maybe mine, too.
