Spring has arrived. The memory of winter is melting into the forgotten realms. It is this time of year that I feel the most creative. I get out and dig my hands deep into the soil, sow tiny seed pods, and let the water from the hose run down my arms. The sun is warm and not yet hot. Strong winds fill the trees and rustle unfurling leaves with an impatience I myself feel during this season. I impatiently await sprouting flowers, I hover over wet soil for green shoots, and I keep myself from picking at weeds-or-could-they-be-flowers? plants.
My flower garden is small. Because of my impatience and visionary expectations, it is mostly filled with figurines. Mushrooms, pinwheels, gnomes, fairies, and–yes–even a garden wizard I found on clearance one autumn day last year. Although, clearance or not, I was going to own that wizard. I see strange plants coming up and can’t identify them. This frustrates me to no end. I keep checking and re-checking them for signs of familiarity, but there are none. I want to pluck them out, but I refrain, because they might be the very thing I intended.
Although, most likely, they might be weeds.
It’s this spring time season that turns my thoughts to the imaginary. I dream of fairies, watch them flutter in my peripheral, and longingly stare at the landscape to catch a glimpse. As a child, I fanciful named myself a female Peter Pan (he was played by a woman all those years), and that same refusal to age bred within my spirit. I’m still a twelve year old child. Sure, I work three jobs, pay bills, and can drink alcoholic beverages when it strikes my fancy, also coffee, but when I lay my head down at night, listening to the lull of leaves brushing against my pirate ship tree house, I return to my youth.
I account this to the reason that I write young adult books. I never cared to even read adult fiction. It’s surprisingly different from YA and I found it doesn’t capture my attention. I read books that I can fly through, ones that set my spirit free. In like manner, I write the books that inspire my inner Pan. Life is too short for serious stories.
I’ve had people judge me accusingly for not reading certain books–“classics”, or other worthy works of literature. The truth is, I hate it when people force their interests on me. I try very hard not to do it to them, because they might not be capable of appreciating my same ideals. With some cases, they just might not have time! In like manner, it’s difficult for me to enjoy a work of literature when it is being shoved in my face. With that being said, please, share you book loves! But respect my decision if I choose not to read them. One book will not a life-long friendship make, and neither will it tear asunder a preexisting relationship.
So when it comes to the books I’ve written, you really won’t find me harping on them too much. Within my writerly circle, yes of course I’ll want to expound on the latest plot or character development, but so do we all. I won’t beg you to read my books, or tell you how amazing I think they are. Your time is valuable to you, I want you to read a book for your own interest, on your own time, so that you’re able to enjoy it. And if you love the book, if my words made you laugh, or shiver in excitement, if your imagination ran wild even for a moment, than that’s all I need to hear. What makes you happy, makes me happy. Because that’s how the world was meant to be–putting others before thine own self.
In the words of Ellen Degeneres, “Be kind to one another” and Dream Big!
Fanny T Crispin