What I'm Really Trying to Say Is: Thank You. I Love You

When I wrote, "The Curious Adventures of India Sophia" I didn't really think about the kids that would be reading it. I wrote it for my daughter, imagining the kind of life I wished I could give her (in feelings, if not actual experiences) and I wrote it for myself, as a means to relive those beautiful moments of childhood when you really believe there could be a secret passage behind that wall, if you could only find a way in. It's the book that held me together during the first days of the end of my marriage. I was all tears and sleeplessness, shame-filled, nausea and fear, except for the moments I was pushing out another chapter of magic and courage and talking monkeys, which I completely stole from "One Hundred Years of Solitude", if you've ever wondered.
So, besides the friends who have been incredibly encouraging and the initial book launch and the odd kid of a friend who "loves your book so much," I kind of forget that kids are actually reading it. Until today, when I opened up my mailbox and found 15 letters addressed to me from Mme Fisher's class. This lovely friend of mine took my book and read it to her class, who in turn (under her strong encouragement I imagine!) wrote me letters - telling me what they liked, how it made them feel, what I should name the people in my next novel, who their favorite characters were. Oliver Levi Somers-Brown cut out a picture of himself and glued it to his letter. I am going to peel it off and tape it to my wall. I want to see those little faces and thank them for their encouraging words and let them know what a difference their kindness has made to me today. All of a sudden, there are warm little bodies that share my words and my magic and my world. This amazes me.
Next week, I travel to Claresholm to attend the ceremonies for the Golden Eagle Award. I'm practicing my fake smile in case I don't win, although I'm not sure which would be more uncomfortable and awkward - winning or loosing. I'm to give a few presentations and a speech while I'm there, which makes me nervous, because I don't remember all the details of the book anymore and I haven't been able to read through it since it's been published. I feel ill when I read it; all I see are the imperfections. I've always been like this. It's a character flaw, I know, but I feel so much shame about those black and white imprints of me on the page and the screen. There have been many nights that I've wanted to throw out everything I've ever written, burn my book, delete this entire blog, erase all evidence that I ever tried. But, I haven't yet. Mostly because of the encouragement people have given me - how they tell me I write what they need to hear and don't have the time or energy to find the words themselves, and because I keep hoping that if I keep trying, scared or not, that one day I wont be so embarrassed of what it is I want to say, and how it is that I am trying to say it.