Kids Know Best

I wrote my first novel at seven. It was a tragic coming-of-age story about a girl and her horse. It was probably the world's shortest and underdeveloped novel at five single-spaced pages sprinkled with errors, but I was damn proud of it.

At eight, I wrote my first comic.  It was called The Adventures of Super Baby.  Oddly enough, this was before Dav Pilkey created The Adventures of Super Diaper Baby (Obviously, I was on to something).  I sold the homemade copies on my front lawn for a nickel apiece.

At nine, I created my first magazine.  It was a tabloid-inspired zine featuring the kids of my school.  I brought the zine to class and showed all my friends, who praised my hard-hitting journalism.  I was so proud until the teacher scolded me for bringing in such an "insulting art project."  I don't remember what was so inappropriate, but I remember my spirit broke, and I never wrote after that.

FAST FORWARD...

When I first attended college, I studied jazz performance and music business. I thrived on the idea of forever being a creative individual and loved spending every waking hour glued to my cello. Performance was my escape. It was accelerating and fun, until one day, it wasn't.

I dreaded my lessons but told myself it was what I wanted. Eventually, the stress of music became too much and seeking guidance. I expressed my distress to a teacher. He asked why I had decided to study music in the first place. I said because it was my first love.  It was the first creative outlet I explored and the only way I knew how to express myself.

He eyed me unconvinced. "Are you sure?"

SIDE NOTE...

Aside from music, I also took an intensive writing course as a college requirement.  On the last day of class, we were asked to break into groups, read our essays aloud, and work on final edits before handing them in. Our final assignment was a personal narrative relating to a larger topic.  I wrote about my interracial relationship and racism in America.

I had never read my work out loud before and had written on such a personal topic. I didn't want to.  When I began to read, my voice shook as my head hung over the pages.  I felt like I was dying with every passing word.  As I finished the final sentence, I looked up expecting smirks and looks of disgust, but instead, I was met with expressions of sheer enjoyment and praise.

"I loved it!"

"It was like listening to a tortured romance novel!"

"Why aren't you a writing major?!"

These kids were trying to be nice.  I wasn't good at writing.  I didn't know how to write.  I'd never written before.  Why are they smiling at me?

FAST FORWARD SOME MORE...

When the semester ended, I traveled back to Wisconsin to spend the holidays with my family. I was cleaning out my room at my dad's house when I found my first journal, dated 1998.  The first words on the first page, written with the confidence only a six-year-old could have: "I am going to be a writer."

Those words from my six-year-old self were the only encouragement I needed. I started my next semester as a journalism major.

We adults sometimes laugh at kids when they enthusiastically share their dreams.  We brush off their young ambition as a phase, something they'll grow out of.

"Sure, honey, you can grow up to be a ballerina.  You can do anything you set your mind to."

Then somewhere along the way, as children grow into adults themselves, they become surrounded by discouragement.

"Are you sure you want to paint? Artists are starving for a reason."

Suddenly they find themselves in college or at their first job, hating what they're doing. They try not to let it bother them because it is what society tells them to do.

"Of course, you hate working.  No one likes their job."

But what if that first dream wasn't just a phase?  What would happen if it was the encouragement that embraced us? What if people loved their work? Maybe our younger selves had the right idea.

The next time a child tells you they want to be a singer, doctor, or the president, don't laugh and dismiss them with a pat on the head. Be the first person to tell someone they can. We remember the first time someone told us we couldn't.

You might save a little girl from forcing herself to be a musician when she was born to write all along.