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When Life Gave Me Crayons: How I Stumbled Into Writing Kids’ Books
It all started with a fourth-grade homework assignment—not mine, but my daughter’s. She’d been asked to write a story about “a magical creature solving a real-world problem,” and the blank page on her desk might as well have been Mount Everest. “I don’t know how to make it funny,” she groaned, pushing her notebook away. That’s when I made a joke about stressed-out unicorns forgetting where they left their rainbows. She snorted, grabbed a purple crayon, and started drawing. Two hours later, we’d accidentally created our first picture book.
Let me back up. I’d never planned to write for kids. My career had been in curriculum design, where spreadsheets and learning objectives ruled my days. But parenting taught me that children’s stories aren’t just about rhyming words or talking animals—they’re secret keys to big conversations. The night we doodled that frazzled unicorn (who, by the way, eventually found her rainbow in a cereal box), something clicked.
The “Wait, Could This Actually Work?” Phase
For weeks, our unicorn story lived on the fridge. Then my sister visited, laughed at the cereal box twist, and said, “You know, this is better than half the books my kids bring home.” That casual comment lit a spark. I began scribbling ideas everywhere—napkins, phone notes, the margin of a grocery list. What if a yeti opened a snow cone stand? Could a grumpy garden gnome learn TikTok dances?
The trick, I realized, was balancing whimsy with relatability. Kids want escapism that still feels true. My daughter became my toughest critic. If a joke didn’t make her giggle or a character’s choice confused her, back to the drawing board we went. One rejected manuscript about a skateboarding dinosaur still lives in our “Nope” folder.
Why “Good Enough” Beat Perfection
Here’s the twist: My first published book wasn’t the unicorn story. It was a tale about a sock named Kevin who kept escaping the laundry. I’d written it to calm my son’s separation anxiety—Kevin always came back, even after wild adventures. When I shared it at a PTA meeting, a parent who worked in publishing said, “That’s adorable. Have you considered submitting it?”
I hadn’t. But her nudge made me research the industry. Turns out, the children’s book world thrives on quirky concepts told with heart. Agents weren’t looking for Shakespearean prose; they wanted voice, humor, and emotional resonance. So I took a deep breath, polished Kevin’s saga, and sent it to 20 publishers.
Nineteen said no. One said, “Let’s try.”
The Humbling Reality of Making Magic
Seeing Kevin the Sock in print was thrilling…until I realized writing the book was the easy part. Publishing involved collaborating with illustrators (who transformed my stick-figure visions into art), learning pacing for read-aloud flow, and accepting that not every idea would land. My first school visit taught me that kids ask blunt questions like, “Why didn’t Kevin turn into a towel instead?”
But here’s what surprised me most: Stories built on genuine moments—like helping my kids through homework meltdowns or laundry dramas—connected best. Readers sensed the authenticity. When a librarian told me a child had checked out Kevin’s Laundry Escape four times, I finally felt like a “real” author.
Lessons From the Land of Happily Ever After
If there’s a moral to my accidental career, it’s this: Great children’s books aren’t about teaching lessons—they’re about sharing joy. The unicorn story eventually got published too, but its magic wasn’t in the rainbow hunt; it was in the messy, laughing collaboration with my kid.
To anyone flirting with the idea of writing for children: Start small. Tell stories that make you smile. Observe how kids interact with books (they’ll ignore the text to discuss a caterpillar’s hat for 10 minutes). And embrace the happy accidents—sometimes the best ideas come disguised as procrastination or play.
As for Kevin? He’s getting a sequel next year. Rumor has it he’ll meet a rebellious oven mitt.
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