Bicycles sometimes fly. Animals write in webs. Other dimensions are just a wrinkle away. A broken plano plays by itself, abandoned and ghostly in the middle of a forest.
Writing for a child means there is no limit to the wonder and possibility of the life inside your story. Cynics are not allowed the last word, they are powerless in the face of an unbridled imagination. Which isn’t to say it’s easy (or easier than writing fiction for adults). It’s not. But the thing about writing for children is that the ending is never hopeless. It may be difficult and complicated, heartbreaking or sad, but in one way or another that thing with feathers that perches in the soul - that thing perseveres, come what may.
I’ve thought about this a lot lately, why I write for children. I used to think my stories were an offering of sorts, a way of serving some distant unknown reader whoever, wherever they might be. But a friend recently told me to think about writing from the inside out, not the other way around. And that’s when I realised that perhaps the young reader I’m trying to reach is not ‘out there’ at all. Perhaps the young reader I’m trying to reach is the child I used to be: a doubtful eleven year-old. A girl who needs to know that somehow all things kind, just, magical and wondrous still matter on the other side, among grown ups.
But looking at the adult world of today, do I believe this, truly? In all honesty, I’m not sure. But then that thing with feathers beats its wings, and I feel the power of it. And I know that it’s okay to doubt, but not okay to stop or give up. So yes. Yes is what my stories say to my eleven year-old self, and to anyone else who reads them. All things kind, just, magical and wondrous still matter.