On the way home from Florida, of course, I stopped to see my three grandkids. After three months of being away I received a lot of hugs. We played and played and played.
My seven year old granddaughter said that she had a librarian in her room. I asked some questions about the meaning of that announcement and she told me that I needed to see for myself. On the window sill by her bed was a collection of tiny books. One of them was a short story I had written about the birds I had seen in Florida. The rest of books she had created with her drawings of fairies and creatures with magical power, labeled in her own handwriting. She also told me the journal she had started was private. It stood tall in her little library, its pages secured with a pen ready to write down new thoughts and ideas. The librarian was a little butterfly who sat behind the books and, although she was very tiny, she guarded those books with an extreme sense of pride and duty. My granddaughter encouraged me to take a book home with the understanding that I was to bring it back in a few weeks when I visited again. Before bedtime we made a nest for the librarian so she would be warm in her corner in the window.
What a lovely existence to be a child with such imagination and an uninhibited eagerness to express her stories. So many decades older than my granddaughter, I had lost that freshness, that optimist that my stories were worth telling or writing down. In a class I took recently, we talked about writing resistance. I’m proud say I’m evolving. I am keeping my inner critic silenced and I no longer am worried about people not liking what I write on my blog. And I have overcome my greatest fear, that no one will ever read what I write. Now I am confident I will always have at least one reader, my granddaughter.