When I was 12, I stapled pieces of plain paper together and wrote a book. It was complete with colourful illustrations that I did myself. Of course they were just pencil drawings shaded in with coloured pencils.
That was my first book. It had different stories though I can’t remember what the stories were about. I later lost it, or so I thought.
First forward a couple of months later, I’m browsing through my father’s bookshelf for what to read and I find tucked within the book he had been reading, my book. The book I wrote, illustrated and according to my young mind, published. I had designed the cover on it too and to me that felt like legitimate publication.
I was mortified to find it there. I grew up surrounded by books, hearing my father talk about books, praise books, criticize books. At that moment, all the pride I had felt after writing my little book flew out the window. I felt it was unworthy. I grew up hearing this man give very insightful reviews of the greatest books. Then there was my sad looking little book.
So I did what anyone in my position would have done. I stole it away, reclaimed it, but I did not keep it. I threw it in the fire that was cooking that night’s supper.
All this came back to me as I was writing my first official book. I was thinking about how my father would have made the perfect Alpha reader. I was in desperate need of one. Then I was thinking about how he would never get to read my book. My first book.
So I remembered my first book. My little book of papers held together by a few staples.
My first book that my father read.