There is a profound disconnect in my career as a children's author between the child who needs my story and the adults who decide whether that child ever sees it. I spend years crafting worlds designed for seven-year-olds, imagining their questions, their fears, and their specific brand of wonder. Yet, when I finally hold the finished book, it is not the child who matters most to the immediate transaction; it is the gatekeeper. The book must first convince a publisher to buy the rights, then an editor to polish the prose, a school librarian to approve the catalog entry, and a parent to open the wallet. Each of these adults represents a layer of trust, money, and permission that stands firmly between my imagination and the young reader I wrote for.
The irony is that while I know the reader intimately, I often know nothing about the customer. The customer is the parent, the teacher, or the donor who holds the purse strings. They are not judging the book on its artistic merit alone; they are judging it on its utility, its safety, and its alignment with their own anxieties about the world. A story about dragons might be a triumph for a child, but a failure for a parent worried about nightmares. A story about friendship might be perfect for a classroom, but a liability for a librarian navigating strict budget cuts. The customer's reality is a complex web of systemic pressures and personal fears that have nothing to do with the narrative arc I spent months building.
Comments
Post a Comment