Maybe It Isn’t Such a Light Story After All

Recently, something rather unexpected has been happening at my little photo shop.

More and more people who come in for completely unrelated things—passport photos, document printing, photo restoration, or other small jobs—notice the book sitting nearby: Les Lignes de l’Amitié : Chroniques d’un enfant, de la solitude à la confiance.

Some pick it up and flip through a few pages.

Some read a little longer.

And, lately, quite a few have decided to buy it.

Today, two women came into the shop and both bought a copy.

One of them asked me to write a dedication on the first page:

“Pour Claudie”

and then sign my name.

I tried to do it carefully, although my handwriting was probably more awkward than elegant.

While I was signing, I told her something I often think about this book:

“It’s a very light story.”

She looked at me and disagreed.

She had only read a few pages, but she said that she could already feel some weight in it.

That stayed with me.

Because as the person who wrote the story, I had been thinking of it as light for a long time.

There are children playing in parks.

There are LEGO robots.

There are imaginary battles.

There are games, friends, schoolyards, pieces of paper, envelopes, and small adventures.

Nothing seems particularly dramatic.

But when I think about what William actually has to deal with, perhaps the story isn't quite as light as I imagined.

He has to live with the difficulty of language.

His parents decide to move to a new home, which means that even though the family is happy about the new house, William has to face the possibility of losing the familiar world he has built around himself.

He has to find his place among children who already have their own friendships and their own little circles.

He experiences something that looks almost harmless from an adult perspective, but can feel very painful to a child: being quietly left out.

He becomes close to a friend who is perhaps more sensitive and possessive than he knows how to handle.

He watches another child struggle to find a place in the group.

And eventually, he even challenges his teacher, convinced that he can learn everything he needs by himself.

None of these things, by themselves, is a tragedy.

But childhood doesn't need a tragedy to be difficult.

Sometimes a ball thrown at you can feel like a battlefield.

Sometimes not being invited into a game can feel like the whole world has closed its door.

Sometimes losing a friend happens without anyone doing anything obviously wrong.

And sometimes growing up means discovering that being independent doesn't mean you no longer need other people.

Perhaps this is what my reader sensed after only a few pages.

The story is light in its way of telling.

But the things William is learning are not necessarily light.

He is slowly learning how to belong.

How to trust.

How to accept that friendship doesn't always look the way he expects.

How to stay when things become uncomfortable.

How to make mistakes and repair them.

And, perhaps most importantly, how to stand in the world without standing apart from it.

I didn't tell her all of this.

I simply finished writing “Pour Claudie”, signed my name, and handed the book back to her.

But after she left the shop, I kept thinking about what she had said.

Maybe writers sometimes know too much about their own stories.

We remember how an idea began, how a scene was written, and how easily one moment led to another. Because of that, we may see the story as something familiar and even simple.

A reader doesn't have that history.

A reader simply opens the book.

Reads a few pages.

And sometimes feels something that the writer has forgotten was there.

So perhaps Les Lignes de l’Amitié isn't really a light story.

Perhaps it is simply a story about heavy things carried lightly.

And maybe that is what I was trying to write without knowing it.