I wrote and illustrated my first book when I was ten. I wanted to go back to that time when the equine was the indispensable work partner of humans and write about a horse that clip-clopped on cobblestone streets, hitched to a beautiful carriage. I wanted to feel what it was like to live in Anna Sewell's day; it always astounded me that she wrote her book when she was so sickly. Her book, Black Beauty, was a masterpiece. You would never know its author was so ill, it was written with such bravery, tenderness and hope. I could picture Anna's mother sitting at her daughter's bedside, patiently transcribing her words. I found it incredibly sad that Anna died only three months after her beloved book's publication. She was a hero of mine.
My horse's name was
Golden Beauty.In my fifth grade class at the Hawley School in Newtown, Connecticut--we ate lunch in the classroom. We could order snacks like yogurts and cheese and crackers from the school kitchen, and we ate our sandwiches and chips at our tables.
I always ate my lunch quickly so I could work on my book about the golden carriage horse. I had nearly filled a composition notebook with my story and drawings when my teacher noticed what I chose to do with my lunchtime freedom. He called in the school librarian, a soft-spoken woman a little older than my mother, and asked her to take a look at my book. She picked up the black and white marbled tablet and flicked through the pages, smiling. It made me feel uneasy. I was an extremely sensitive child who became anxious when people observed my work, but, on this day, I put my fear aside and allowed this kind woman to encourage me. And, much to my amazement, I discovered that the encouragement felt good.
She urged me to design a cover for my book so she could put it in the school library. MY book? In the library? Wow. It had a card catalog number and everything. I will never forget the feeling of watching a student pick it up from the
New Releases section and bring it to the front counter to sign it out. My book! And, another student, then another. It stayed in that library for quite some time. Towards the end of the school year, I wanted my book back. It was getting handled a lot and the sage-green construction paper cover was starting to tatter.
One day, I went to its shelf, and I quietly slipped the composition notebook into my book bag and took it home. It was my book. People read it and they liked it--I felt bad for "stealing" it back, but my protective instincts took over and my book and I were reunited. I had missed it.
A lot of
My Horse, My Heart was written on lunch breaks, too. Thank goodness for lunch breaks!
And thank you to all who are encouraging me. It still feels good.
