I can't sleep
My brother, one of the many, had me run out yesterday to Barnes&Noble to pick up books he has to read for school.
He is going to be a sophomore.
I am so old.
Anyway. So I get in the car and I am driving and thinking about the 15 dollar gift certificate I have from the most random writing award ever. I hate driving now, these last weeks, because I know I have to give the car back and I don't want to rip my Swarthmore sticker off the back and take my CD's out and get rid of my sweet lanyard.
This is beside the point. I pick up the books and wander around for a bit. A bit so big I guess it can't really be called a bit anymore. Somehow when I'm at bookstores I always end up gravitating towards the children's section. I wanted to be in the magazine section looking for magazines with cool ads in them to perk up my bleak dorm room next year, but I get really frustrated with magazines so I ended up browing Roald Dahl and remembering what it was like the first time I read Judy Blume.
Yes, I, too, read Judy Blume.
People ask what I want to be all the time, of course, because I am an adult and should have a vague notion, but of course I have no clue. I have had many BIG DREAMS, most of them completely random and unattainable. During my Roald Dahl/Judy Blume/Louis Sachar (!) days, though, it was to be a children's author. Even then I recognized the magic in children's books that sort of wanes away in more "serious" books of literature.
But what the hell is more serious than figuring out what goes on in a twelve year old's brain?
It's the BIG DREAM that has always had the most feeling to me, the one I sort of hold onto somewhere even as I hear "district attorney" and "middle school history teacher" and "criminal profiler" and "slam poet champion of the universe" and "world-class pastry chef" tumbling out of my mouth. All my dreams are big, but this one is different.
Because what's bigger than Harriet the Spy, than Harry Potter, than Matilda?
So I bought the books, and Elle magazine, which I found supremely disappointing.
Mike was supposed to have first dibs on the books, clearly, but I was bored today so I read one of them.
It was Jerry Spinelli's Stargirl, and if you've read it or heard of it you know why it plays into my whole children's-book-author-big-dream-thing. I think it's one of those more sophisticated types of children's books. They call them "young adult novels" and they are usually extended dramatic angsty monologues parading around calling themselves something they'd rather be than what they are.
Slightly-more-sophisticated-children's-books.
Stargirl was magical. Stargirl was not any of the things the "powers that be" otherwise known as "old crusty white men who decide what great literature is" look for in a book. It was the most thinly veiled allegory I've ever seen, a blatant cliche. I loved every second of it. Sure, I love reading huge brooding adult classics. I love seeing words I don't know, or unravelling thick, complicated plots. But more than anything, I love remembering the first time I read Shel Silverstein.
And thinking, I want to write something that makes a child feel like this.
And not thinking, what silliness.
He is going to be a sophomore.
I am so old.
Anyway. So I get in the car and I am driving and thinking about the 15 dollar gift certificate I have from the most random writing award ever. I hate driving now, these last weeks, because I know I have to give the car back and I don't want to rip my Swarthmore sticker off the back and take my CD's out and get rid of my sweet lanyard.
This is beside the point. I pick up the books and wander around for a bit. A bit so big I guess it can't really be called a bit anymore. Somehow when I'm at bookstores I always end up gravitating towards the children's section. I wanted to be in the magazine section looking for magazines with cool ads in them to perk up my bleak dorm room next year, but I get really frustrated with magazines so I ended up browing Roald Dahl and remembering what it was like the first time I read Judy Blume.
Yes, I, too, read Judy Blume.
People ask what I want to be all the time, of course, because I am an adult and should have a vague notion, but of course I have no clue. I have had many BIG DREAMS, most of them completely random and unattainable. During my Roald Dahl/Judy Blume/Louis Sachar (!) days, though, it was to be a children's author. Even then I recognized the magic in children's books that sort of wanes away in more "serious" books of literature.
But what the hell is more serious than figuring out what goes on in a twelve year old's brain?
It's the BIG DREAM that has always had the most feeling to me, the one I sort of hold onto somewhere even as I hear "district attorney" and "middle school history teacher" and "criminal profiler" and "slam poet champion of the universe" and "world-class pastry chef" tumbling out of my mouth. All my dreams are big, but this one is different.
Because what's bigger than Harriet the Spy, than Harry Potter, than Matilda?
So I bought the books, and Elle magazine, which I found supremely disappointing.
Mike was supposed to have first dibs on the books, clearly, but I was bored today so I read one of them.
It was Jerry Spinelli's Stargirl, and if you've read it or heard of it you know why it plays into my whole children's-book-author-big-dream-thing. I think it's one of those more sophisticated types of children's books. They call them "young adult novels" and they are usually extended dramatic angsty monologues parading around calling themselves something they'd rather be than what they are.
Slightly-more-sophisticated-children's-books.
Stargirl was magical. Stargirl was not any of the things the "powers that be" otherwise known as "old crusty white men who decide what great literature is" look for in a book. It was the most thinly veiled allegory I've ever seen, a blatant cliche. I loved every second of it. Sure, I love reading huge brooding adult classics. I love seeing words I don't know, or unravelling thick, complicated plots. But more than anything, I love remembering the first time I read Shel Silverstein.
And thinking, I want to write something that makes a child feel like this.
And not thinking, what silliness.