Mrs. Mouse

Novel readers and children share a common characteristic. Both have a nose for sincerity. If they catch the faintest whiff of guile or disingenuousness, you’ve lost them.

In writing and teaching children, you must be sincere.

I pondered this when I watched a videotape of my first grade music students. They sang about falling leaves, and the excitement in my voice as I guided them was obvious. Their faces and singing voices reflected my enthusiasm.

Watching the tape reinforced my suspicion: students respond to me because I love their songs. Though I’ve sung opera and studied the classics, I haven’t lost my taste for the simple things. I find simple truth in “Shoo, Fly” and simple beauty in “All night, all day, angels watching over me, my Lord.”

When I sing the songs of childhood, I believe them in the most hidden labyrinth of my soul. They resonate with me, and not because they’re “cute”. Fun, certainly. Entertaining, beyond a doubt. But if a song smacks of cuteness, I refuse to sing it. My students are too precious to patronize. They deserve simple, powerful songs that convey joy, truth, and beauty.

So do readers. They deserve a story we believe in, one that conveys truth, joy, or beauty, and preferably all three. They won’t be pandered to. They will respond to a book that burns its way out of us with tears, smiles, excitement, pain, or revelation. They will sense the engine of passion behind each line, in the subtle rhythm of a story we had to write. That doesn’t mean they’ll love the story. But if we tap into that rhythm, they might continue reading until the last page, until the last chord fades.

Honest, uncontrived passion. That’s what students and readers crave.

Did you ever try to write a book that didn’t resonate with you? Did you keep at it until it did, or did you scrap it and move on to a new project?

I received my first manuscript request in fourth grade.

My teacher invited me and another student to write a short story. The prize for the winning submission was breathtaking: a trip to a young writer’s workshop, where we would learn from real writers and hobnob with kids who, like me, dreamed secret stories deep in our young hearts.

For a ten year old, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I poured myself into my story, sparing no imaginative fancy. I don’t remember many details, only that it featured talking animals, a charging knight, and puppy love romance. I thought it was spectacular, one of a kind. I submitted my story and waited for the happy news.

A few days later, the teacher called me to her desk. Her soft, sympathetic voice set my knees to trembling. Why did she sound sad? Didn’t she have good news to deliver? “I’m sorry,” she said. She’d chosen the other student’s story, a vignette about a visit to grandma’s house.

Oh, that rejection hurt. I cast green eyes at the winner and felt sick the day he attended the workshop. While he worked with grown-up writers, I solved math problems and filled out worksheets, just like every other school day.

If I’d been a stronger, more self-assured child, I might have pondered that grandma story. I might have learned the first adage of beginning writers: “write what you know”. I might have considered the fact that readers can relate to a visit to grandma’s, but no one can relate to talking ducks, fanciful knights, and puppy love. . .all in a single-page story.

I might have, but I didn’t. Instead, my young writer’s heart sported a big, throbbing bruise. But I didn’t talk about my writing, not to anyone. So I came to my own conclusion: I wasn’t good enough. And that was that.

I couldn’t stop writing, though. I wrote poems and journal entries, short stories and personal narratives. I wrote frantically, then tore my words to shreds. Sometime I tucked my writing under my bed or in pages of childhood books, never to be seen again, even by me.

Meanwhile, I learned to deliver what my teachers wanted. An essay with a topic sentence and three paragraphs? Done. A summary of The Grapes of Wrath? Done. I earned good grades, but protected my writer’s heart with layers of bricks and barbed wire constructed from that fourth grade rejection.

I protected too dearly, and finally stopped writing all together. For twenty years I wrote nothing but grocery lists until, a few years ago, the writing exploded out of me with all the force of a long-dormant volcano.

Predictably, I still face rejection on this road to publication. But I don’t hide my words or tear them up anymore. I expect the hurt of rejection. I even embrace it, if I can. Because I understand now: the best stories come from bruised and throbbing hearts that don’t hide, don’t shred, and refuse to give up.