Baby is taking a children’s book I published centuries ago – The doll that grew – to be read to her class at school. She’s very proud of my being a writer, and said she wanted other people to read my story. I’m afraid I was not very gracious about it.
“If your classmates hate the story, they’ll know YOUR MOTHER WROTE IT, and that could be awkward for you at school,” I said.
She says she likes the story and expects other kids in her class to like it too. So I had to ‘fess up that actually, I’m very shy about people I know reading my children’s stories ( my immediate family are the exception). I feel okay when strangers read my stories/when I perform them in public. Hopefully people will like them well enough to want more. But they are not in my personal space, and if they don't like what I offer, they can just move on.
But when people I know read my story, I just feel like I’m running up and down our street naked. Then I have to face the neighbours for a cup of tea after that. The ridiculous imagery made us laugh, and it didn’t change Baby’s decision to take the book to school. Oh Lord!