Actual sentences my three-year-old son has said:

“2+2=4. I’m amazing.”

About his painting: “It’s so good and so it’s beautiful and it’s a wall-bridge for playdoh to go on.” (Whatever that means.)

“Fonsi will be down once he’s back from getting me toys from Peurto Rico.” (Yes, “Despacito” Fonsi. B+ Parenting.)

Hand J a math book, and he goes through problems without fear of messing up. Give him a canvas, and he covers the whole thing with paint. Sit in front of him and listen, and he’ll tell you a story. He’ll go on and on:

About the bee who lives on his ceiling.

About the stuffed tiger who bit him but with whom he has since reconciled.

About the doctor-bunny who fixes his owies when he’s in his crib.

Not once does he question the validity of his imagination or his storytelling ability. He is never self-conscious about what his audience will think or if he has an audience at all. I know, because I hear him excitedly talking to his animals during afternoon quiet time.

Whenever J is too cute to handle, I squish him and say, “Never change!” To which I’ve taught him to reply, “I’m going to change and stay sweet.” Because he is going to change. I don’t want him for one second to feel guilt or sadness or grief for growing up. But I wish he could say so much more than just “stay sweet.” I want him to promise to stay courageous, creative, unapologetically him, to never lose that unwavering belief in himself.

Didn’t we all have that once?

What happened? What quieted that voice inside us telling us we could do anything we decided to do if we just went and did it? When did we grow out of that shameless enthusiasm, desert that brazen creativity?

When was the last time we said, “I’m amazing”?

I stopped writing when I could no longer say that about myself. That was it. I didn’t lose interest. I didn’t forget how. I didn’t find something better to do. I just didn’t think I had it–whatever it was.

Something, or a million little things, shut up that voice inside telling me I was amazing.

Thank God for Grandma Audi. My eighty-year-old Grandma is one of those rare people who never lost faith in herself–or at least not long enough to make a career change. She was a starving artist with three baby girls and she kept going. She is now a successful painter, teacher, and retired graphic designer for the state of California.

And she never lost faith in me. When I was a kid, she always had an art project ready for me when I came over. And when I “messed up,” she’d tell me, “There are no mistakes, just opportunities for creativity.” When I was in college, she sent me dozens of emails with articles about the importance of fostering my imagination even while I was neglecting (okay, running from) my right brain. When I started writing again, she was my loudest cheerleader. An article she mailed me last fall is still on my fridge with the circled quote:

Let go of the way people told you things are to be done, and give yourself the space and the ability to make mistakes, to think about ridiculous things. –Perry Chen (founder of Kickstarter)

Oh man, did I think about ridiculous things. Then I wrote them down. Then I sent them to Stacey. Then another friend. Then my writers’ group. Then an author. Then agents and publishers.

And one of those publishers thought my ridiculous ideas weren’t half bad.

But if Crimson Tree didn’t sign me, I wouldn’t have failed. If no one buys my book, I’m still successful. If people buy it and hate it, I’m still amazing.

You know how I know? Because I never look at J and tell him, “Your bunny story sucked. You failed at having an imagination.”

Because there are no creative failures, just the failure to try.