What is Little Kidlit Mountain? And why would I want to climb it?

Hi, I’m Nicki! I write books for kids. This is my blog, Little Kidlit Mountain. Thanks for stopping by. 

But what is a Little Kitlit Mountain? And why would a bookish/not particularly athletic type like myself even think about trying to climb it?

Patience, traveller. Your questions will be answered in due course. But first, I’d like to tell you a bit of my story. About how I arrived here, at Little Kidlit Mountain basecamp, ready to set out on my trek.

You know how so many authors seem to have written their first novel in the womb? Or at least by the time they were in kindergarten? And to have known what they wanted to do forever? Well. When I was little, I wanted to eat ice-cream for breakfast. I wanted to be able to fly. In terms of actual, career-based ambition, I wanted to be Olivia Newton John in Grease. It will blow your mind to learn that the only one of these childhood aspirations that actually came to pass involved eating dessert in my pyjamas.  

I grew up, and found myself at university studying to become a lawyer, a career for which I was not at all well suited. But on the way to becoming a lawyer, something wonderful happened. In my last semester at university, I took a creative writing class. Not because I was interested in creative writing, but because I can be a bit lazy and thought it would be easy. I quickly figured out that writing fiction was in fact quite hard. But I also realized I loved it! And the question formed in my mind: one day, possibly, far off in the future, could I maybe be a writer?     

After lawyering (let’s face it, probably rather badly) for a couple of years, I moved to New York with my husband, where there were lots of opportunities to practice. I studied at the Gotham Writers’ Workshop, most notably under a kind young instructor named Matt de la Peña, long before his Newbery Medal winning rockstar days. I undertook a Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at New York University, where I learnt from literary heroes like E.L. Doctorow, had quite a lot of fun, and also taught writing myself.

I emerged from my studies with the slightly pretentious desire to become a very serious Literary Artiste with a capital A, writing very serious literary fiction. The work of my favourites was so beautiful, I guess, so inspiring. Why shouldn’t I want to do what they did? Ascend to their lofty heights? I gave it a go for a while, but just couldn’t seem to find my footing.

Then our eldest daughter was born prematurely. It would not be a stretch to say that I was overwhelmed. So much joy! So much sorrow! So much baby! I gained a priceless treasure: this tiny beloved who’d emerged miraculously from my body, fully formed if worryingly undercooked. But I lost something too, something important. 

I lost my creative drive, you see. My energy to write. She had been my faithful friend, helping me make sense of the world. But then I became a mum. And my creative drive shook her head, got up off the couch, and ran for the hills. Scared off, perhaps, by our daughter’s truly prodigious talent for newborn wailing? Fair enough.

The thing was, she didn’t come back! Not for years, no matter how I pined. Babies number two and three were born, and were tiny, and got bigger, and still my energy to write was middling at best. I’m sure it was normal, with the sleeplessness, and my children’s all-consuming physical and emotional needs and whatnot. But the years passed, and I started to doubt my ability to write. I almost forgot about my dream. Almost.  

Then, early in the pandemic, I had the crazy idea of writing a picture book. I had certainly read them often enough. I knew the pleasure of that shared experience with my kids, snuggled together, lost in a story. I decided to give it a go.

And the floodgates opened.

Now, I have three picture books forthcoming from Scholastic Press, and many more in my bottom drawer, all dressed up with nowhere to go (if any nice publishing types happen to be reading and would care to take a look). I am also working on a middle grade dystopia that counts Nick Cave and Margaret Atwood amongst its influences, and is much more appropriate for children than it sounds from a description of its influences. You’ll just have to trust me on this.

These days, I see my previous plans to write super serious adult books as a bit like my childhood wish to sing and dance with John Travolta in uncomfortably tight latex pants at the Rydell High school fair. They’re both worthy endeavours. Mountainous achievements, even. Just probably not my path. 

Kids’ books, on the other hand? Kids’ books are a different story. Kids’ books are most definitely my path. Kids’ books are terrain I want to explore. I am pulling on my hiking boots this very minute, and packing my nourishing trail mix, which is actually just an enormous bag of chocolate chips. I’m setting out from base camp, my books in one hand and a compass in the other.

I’m looking up at Little Kidlit Mountain. And honestly, I can’t believe my luck, to get to explore something so beautiful. To be part of something so glorious.

Here we go.