Someplace deep inside me there is a warm flowing reservoir of memories linked to children’s picture book stories where I can’t exactly pin point a specific place or a time, but only a “feeling.” It is sweet.
As I grew, a desire to write picture books grew within me.
I can tap into that warmth as a reader whenever I want, no matter what my age, but the writing joy is lost.
We all have details, layers, wounds, blocks, or fears that tell drawn out stories validating why…
But I believe it has to do with how we define or qualify joy in the process of adulthood.
Adulthood makes us serious by default.
- We have to be responsible.
- We have to be efficient.
- We have to account for our actions.
- We have to be a contributor.
So we learn to justify joy by outer trends and social norms: substances, physical needs, or material things to fill in the “joy” gaps. We often save joy over there on a shelf because the present is too busy so we will long for it someday when we make time or get more money.
Busy busy adult lives–does that equal joy?
Why do we push away or postpone it?
Do we think it too childish?
What is your why? …
I struggle, with a capital ‘S’ to force myself to write for children now a days. It bothers me.
I feel that I have lost a piece of myself somewhere along life’s path, this little piece, and I can’t figure out where, or even when I dropped it.
What concerns me most is coming to a realization that perhaps adulthood stole it from me.
Perhaps I can’t recognize that joy anymore. Perhaps it is foreign to me now.
Perhaps I have been overrun by “serious.” And we all know as adults that serious takes precedence.
If you are content in your adulthood, perhaps being serious is your ultimate joy.
But for me, that sounds absolutely horrible and terribly dull.
Someplace deep inside me there is a warm flowing reservoir of memories linked to children’s picture book stories where I can’t exactly pin point a specific place or a time, but only a “feeling.”
It is sweet.
That is where I am going to look for joy.