Don't Let Those Books Remain Unwritten

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

I wanted to be like my grandmother. So I wrote out stories for my grandchildren, short, rhyming "Good Night" stories. Later, I decided to publish them. I would write some letters. I would make some phone calls. I would not give up. I would get this done. This is what I told myself. I wrote one letter. And got some great advice about structure and how to tell a better story. Then I went on line for the next step and learned that it can take up to five years to have a children's book published. Five years? I didn’t want to wait five years.

Now it is six years later.

And the stories? They’re sitting in a tray, in a folder, under a pile of legal pads on my desk: . "The Day Charlotte Got Stuck in a Bucket." "The Day Charlotte Said Peeez at the Table." "The Day Charlotte Devoured Rhode Island.” Halloween stories. Thanksgiving stories. Christmas stories.

Six years ago, babies were back in my life — my children's children, an almost 1-year-old, a 3-year-old, a 4-year-old — stopping by with their mothers some afternoons, sleeping over in cribs and beds that my husband and I bought so they could stay. We had toys for them and books, which we read morning, noon, and night. Many were great: "Bear Snores On," "When the Moon Smiled," "Knuffle Bunny." But just as many were not.

The not-so-great books inspired me.

My grandmother had inspired me, too. She was a storyteller. When I was a child, whenever she came to visit, we would sit in the parlor or upstairs in my room and she would spin tales. I don ‘t remember the details of a single one, but I remember the characters, a girl and two brave boys, all friends and all about 10. I remember a rickety fort and a park bench and a dirt hill with a big boulder on the top. I remember that the stories were like soap operas, full of twists and turns and danger. And I remember how I loved them.

I wanted to be like my grandmother. So I wrote out tales for my grandchildren, short, rhyming "Good Night" stories for when they got tired of "Goodnight Moon" and "I Love You More Than . . . " Stories about each of them and about Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas. I cobbled together photobooks using my words and photos of them.

Try harder. Don't give up, I told myself when my efforts looked like efforts. The kids liked what I did. But I didn’t. I wanted a real illustrator. But that process takes time and I told myself I didn’t have the time to give it.

You can do it. It's never too late. Don’t quit! That's what I tell other people. Isn't that what we all say to our family and friends? Don't quit. Try again. You can do this.

For more than 30 years, I have been nagging Ann Galvin about a Christmas song she wrote. in the 1960s. It's a catchy, upbeat, fun, can't get it out of your head, destined-to-be-a-classic if it were on the radio and not in her desk drawer, song. But I can't convince her of this. She smiles and shrugs. And I understand why.

It's daunting to try. It's frustrating and time-consuming and depressing, and how do you even know if something you write or create or believe in or are attempting to do is any good?

You don’t.

But what I do know is what happens when you do nothing: A song remains unsung. A book remains unread.

And six years go by.

And 30 years.

And a lifetime.