The other day, my father reminded me that when I was around four or five, if someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would announce without hesitation: “A famous writer and artist!” I was passionate about writing and drawing even as a little tyke at the kitchen table with my crayons, paints, paper, and those fat red pencils. I couldn’t imagine any other life for myself, and this has never changed.
No, I’m not famous. But two days ago, when I walked into the bookstore where I work and saw MY BOOK, Being Henry David, in a double face-out in the Young Adult section, near truly famous names like Laura Halse Anderson, Sherman Alexie, Meg Cabot and Libba Bray, I admit I felt like an almost-famous version of myself.
Except that I imagine the truly famous people are way cooler and more controlled than I am. I took one look at my book on the shelf, and burst into tears. Now I’m a crier in general (bursting into tears is my default go-to emotion), but I didn’t feel the tears coming on, didn’t expect to flail the way I did. But I couldn’t help it. That surreal, happy, floaty feeling grew and grew, and overflowed right out of my damn eyeballs. Dream-come-true tears. Yep, it’s been a long, long time since I was four years old, but if I could go back in time, I’d give that little girl at the kitchen table a big ol’ hug, hand her another stack of paper, and say, “keep it up, sweetie.”