Sunday, 22 April 2012
For me, the first draft of a newly conceived picture book is cause for minor celebration. Nurturing embryonic thoughts into fully developed words and stories is nothing short of miraculous in my world.
Any new mother will tell you that the immediate moment after birth, after the pain of extraction and delivery is over, is full of indescribable wonderment and joy. And like a freshly written manuscript, a new born, whilst largely ungainly in appearance, fairly wrinkled in places and in need of a good buff up, is undeniably the most beautiful thing its creator has ever laid eyes on.
My urge to share that beautiful first draft is comparable to an equally mad belief that the rest of the universe cares, wants and needs to see photos of my new born child in spite of no genetic link to it whatsoever.
I reluctantly suppress my desires. There's plenty of time yet to share the brilliance with everyone. And truth be told. It's not that brilliant. We still have a lot of growing up to do - together. It's just the exaltation of giving birth; the pride, the surging hormones, they often cloud ones judgment, making it hard to see past the memory of that first glimpse of what you're certain will be your greatest life's work ever.
But now it's time to put my baby to bed.