Roger Hargreaves Made Me An Author
/I could only have been seven or eight when I wrote my first book. I wrote about one of the Mr. or Little Miss books I had a kid. That characters were just like me. I was desperate for people who understood me.
One story I’ve told myself is I’m crap at math and art. Turns out these were wrongheaded ideas. I’m not bad at either. Not a genius, but adequate. That’s more credit than I’ve given myself in years past.
My first memory is at Christmas and me playing with my dog. Second is a nun talking to my mother about my strong obsession to books. While they never wanted me not to read, books were the only thing I wanted to learn from. Math texts were dry, and I had given little thought to messy drawings.
My soul lives in between the pages of books. I knew that the afternoon I wrote my first story and drew the pictures that went with it. With my careful print writing, I wrote the name of the book and in the author place; I put my full name. With the middle letter. Not sure why I’m Kimberly K., but I am. Seems I’ve answered to it from childhood.
I don’t remember when I found my first one, but Roger Hargreaves wrote the Mr. And Little Miss books for kids. Mr. Happy is still my favorite, but I love all of them. Mr. Worry didn’t get rid of my childhood anxiety, but it let me know it was ok to wonder about things. Even when adults thought I was ridiculous.
Mr. Messy was the best. Loved the scribbled art and dry wit. Mr. Tall or Mr. Skinny. I could go on forever about all the books.
The books were filled with bright colors and each one was short enough for a night read through. Once I learned to read, I was like a scanner. I wanted to learn everything I got my hands on. My reading is fast unless I turn it down. That meant I went to the library every day. I’d come home and change out of my uniform, do whatever chores I need to suffer through, then drop on the side of my bed and read.
These books were targeted to help children process different situations. There are so many things dropped in the lap of kids. We need to share toys, even though that’s weird. From the second you hit your first classroom, you’re trying to figure out where you fit. Are you the nerd? Are you four eyes? Are you too tall or short? It’s a pecking order we fall into automatically until you realize how silly it all is.
My point is the books filled a need in me. Answered a call I didn't understand. Beautiful stories filled with unknown places to explore and knowledge to soak up. I never tried to sneak out of the house or do anything fun as a girl. I read books.
Not much has changed. I can play with numbers fine, but my guy is better at it. I’m okay with that. We each have our skills. I read and write and can see the big picture. Writing of any kind honors the gifts I been handed. Books are beautiful and thankfully both my guy and I are readers. When we move, the people who do our pack out groan when they see our combined bookshelves. I take it as a compliment.
On bad days, I grab my iPad, pull the covers up to my nose and dig in for a few hours. Always makes things right with my soul.
What childhood books do you remember?
