I knew what the page was supposed to say. That was part of the problem.
There comes a point in creating a children’s book when I have looked at the pages so many times that I am no longer sure I am seeing them.
I know where every sentence belongs. I know what each illustration is supposed to show. I can practically turn the pages in my head.
That is useful until it starts getting in the way.
When I know what a page is supposed to say, it becomes surprisingly easy to read what I intended instead of what is actually there. An awkward sentence starts sounding normal. A small detail disappears into the background. I fill in the meaning because I already know the story.
Unfortunately, the person buying the book does not have access to the version in my head.
A printed proof gives me a chance to meet the book again. Suddenly, those familiar pages have a different presence. I can hold them, turn them, and see how the words and pictures work together at their actual size.
An illustration that looked wonderful on a large screen may feel crowded on paper. Text that seemed perfectly readable while I was working may need another look. Something near the binding might be harder to see than I expected.
Apparently, my computer screen has been very generous about the size of everything.
The proof also reminds me that a picture book is an experience that unfolds. Each page leads to another. A pause, a surprise, or a change of scene needs to happen where it makes sense for the reader.
I try to imagine a parent or grandparent reading aloud. Does the sentence come out naturally? Is there room to pause and look at the picture? Does the next page make a child curious?
Reading aloud helps. My mouth will sometimes object to a sentence my eyes have approved several times. If I stumble, I need to find out why. A three-year-old is unlikely to appreciate my explanation that the wording looked fine in PowerPoint.
Then I look at the illustrations as if I have never met these characters before. Can I tell what Lucy and Sammy are doing? Is the important action clear? Have I included a detail that only makes sense because I remember the instructions used to create the picture?
My career taught me to review work carefully, but reviewing my own book requires an extra step. I have to set aside what I meant and pay attention to what a reader receives.
That can mean making another correction when I was hoping to be finished. It can also mean discovering that a page works even better than I expected.
The goal is a book that a child can enjoy and an adult can comfortably read again.
Preferably without either of them needing Paw Paw nearby to explain the squirrel.
