by Uma Krishnaswami
It’s not always easy being a writer. A lot of people don’t get what I do. Many confess they’d love to write a children’s book. What they mean is that they don’t think it’s that difficult and so they’d love to be, not writers, but the authors of published books. It’s the product they’re after—the bright, glossy picture books, the cute middle-grade jackets with smiley kid faces on them. Who wouldn’t want their names on books for young readers?
I’ll bet those same people would retract their wishes double-quick if I offered them a day at my desk. Working alone—four hours at a stretch without another human being to speak to face to face. A day spent writing 1,000 words and throwing out 500 of them. Facing the 15th revision of a novel and knowing I’m not there yet. Tossing out the picture book idea that has no traction, after spending months trying to wrangle it onto the page. And we’re not talking yet about fielding rejection letters.
So why do I write, other than for the inescapable reason that if I didn’t, I’d be unemployed?
I write because I have to. Because as a child growing up in India, I didn’t see myself in any of the books I read, so it took me until I was thirty-one and a new mother to figure out that real, live people could write children’s books. I write because the stories keep bubbling up. I only write the ones that won’t leave me alone, and there are still enough to keep me going for the rest of my days.
Let’s face it, the world is as beautiful or cruel a place as we humans make it. These days, there are times, especially when I turn on the news, that I’m just about ready to give up on humankind—our collective indolence, fear of powerful bullies, refusal to stand up for what’s right, the instinctive refuge we take in self-interest and self-preservation. But I also see stories of people who are brave and kind and generous and refuse to accept that cruelty and injustice are inevitable—people who put their own lives on the line for freedom and justice, or who volunteer their time and expertise in dangerous places, to help those who need it most.
And me? I write. And maybe, through my writing, I work on conveying a worldview that values hope and justice and fairness. If a book of mine validates child readers, if it helps to make them believe that a tree matters, if it shows them to speak out against unfairness, or imbues them with the will to make a difference—well then, I’ve done my job. I may not live to see that new and improved world for myself, but my readers might. Maybe some of them will even be instrumental in creating it.
Uma Krishnaswami was born in India and now lives in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada. Her story collection, The Broken Tusk: Stories of the Hindu God Ganesha, has been in print for twenty-two years. Uma’s novel, Step Up to the Plate, Maria Singh, is the 2017-18 winner of the Asian Pacific American Award for Literature in the children’s category. Her chapter book, Book Uncle and Me, won the International Literacy Association’s Social Justice Literature Award and is a USBBY Outstanding International Book. Uma teaches in the MFA program in Writing for Children and Young Adults at Vermont College of Fine Arts.