Writing Children’s Books When You Barely Consider Yourself a Writer

I didn’t call myself a writer when I started writing a children’s book.
Honestly? I still flinch when people say it out loud.

“Writer” always sounded too serious. Too official. Too polished.
Like you needed a degree, a publisher, or at least a favorite indie café you could name-drop while staring into the distance and overanalyzing sentence structure.

What I had was grief. And a lizard.
And just enough energy to scribble something that felt like a story.

Here’s what nobody tells you about imposter syndrome:
It’s not always loud.
Sometimes it’s just quiet and constant.

It doesn’t say “you suck.”
It says “You sure this is worth doing?”
It says “Why would anyone care?”
It says “This has already been done — and better — by someone with a nicer website and an actual mailing list.”

And the worst part?
It sounds like you.
It uses your voice. Your doubts. Your logic.
It feels like truth.

I didn’t start writing because I believed I was good.
I started writing because I needed a place to put what I was feeling.

And children’s books — surprisingly — gave me that place.

Not because they’re simple.
But because they’re honest.

Writing for kids stripped away all the fluff. You can’t hide behind clever metaphors or long-winded paragraphs when your entire scene has twelve words and one of them is “wafer.”

Every gesture matters. Every sentence carries intent.
You’re not just telling a story — you’re shaping how a child sees kindness, or grief, or friendship, or change. And if you get it wrong, they feel it. Immediately.

There’s no hiding behind complexity.
It’s just you. Your heart. And a few carefully chosen words.

So yes — it felt terrifying.
And yes — it still does.

But I kept going.
I finished one book. Then another.

And the more I wrote, the more I realized:
I don’t need to feel like a writer to be one.

I just need to keep telling the truth.
Even if it’s dressed up in lizard skin and a kid named Chan.

If you're waiting to feel qualified, don't.
That moment might never come.

But the words will — if you let them.
Start small. Start soft.
Start with whatever breaks your heart open.

Turns out, that’s where the good stuff lives anyway.