by Moira Rand, author of the Tangle & Trouble Mysteries

Let me tell you something that feels a little vulnerable to admit.

There was a time I thought my daughter might never fall in love with books.

For someone who lives and breathes stories, who disappears happily into magical realms, loses track of time amongst hilariously awkward characters, and weeps (gracefully, I like to think) at fictional heartbreak, that hit me harder than I expected. Not because I needed her to love what I loved, but because I desperately wanted her to feel something. To discover that thrill of escaping into a world not your own and feeling, just for a moment, utterly limitless.

I tried everything.
Short stories. Graphic novels – this one took for a while. Less words, more pictures, apparently. I would read at night, doing my best voice impressions and colourful antics to draw her in. This seemed to work but my throat suffered drastically. I even went so far as to ask her to write her own tips or short stories that she likes. I thought, maybe if she built a world of her own making, I’d catch a glimpse of what made her light up. What made her feel.

Silence. Not the stubborn, defiant kind – the unsure…uninterested…”I don’t know” kind. My heart wept for her. I felt her loneliness and uncertainty as if it were my very own. I remembered how that felt and I desperately wanted to help her. I struggled with a gap I couldn’t bridge.

Until one evening, housing a cup of coffee gone cold in one hand and a tapping keyboard in the other, I said, “To hell with it. If I can’t find a book… I’ll create it.”

And that’s how Marlowe Bellamy was born.

Not as a literary masterpiece. Not even as a polished idea. But as a jumble of odd bits I loved and traits, I saw shine brilliantly and bewilderingly in my daughter. The spark of wit she tries to hide. The way she’s constantly mismatched, chaotic, and utterly herself. The way she says no to boxes, and tentative yeses to possibility.

Marlowe became my gift to her. A way of saying:
You don’t have to be polished and primed.
You don’t have to be top of the class.
You just have to be you. And that is more than enough.

Enjoy your mishaps, revel in your blunders and take those memories and create wonders that no one have ever seen!

Stubby followed not long after. That fierce little ball of loyalty was born from a single, driving need – to give her someone who would never leave Marlowe’s side. Who would cheer her on, no matter how much batter she mucked up or scones that turned to stone. Stubby says the things I think every girl deserves to hear: You’re not too much. You’re just right. And I’m right here to defend your right to be you until the very last sausage roll, or jam tart.

My secret wish for my own daughter – that I can be her Stubby, always.

And you know what?

She loved it.

Not just the story. But the characters. The chaos. The voice.
She laughed out loud. She quoted Marlowe back at me. But most importantly she saw a little of herself in Marlowe and that brought on the most beautifully self-accepting smile if I ever saw one.

I cried. Obviously (huddled over in the shower). Not even gracefully.

Because I realised it wasn’t about making her love reading. It was about letting her see herself reflected somewhere, anywhere.
And that? That’s where the magic is.

Mission accomplished.
Now, the only question is… how do I keep it going?

Stubby?
I think we’re going to need more muffins. Bran, with walnuts. That lasagna did a number on me.

P.S. Here’s to you. Anyone who needs to feel and know – You are enough!

If you can’t find your spot, carve it out and dance in glee at what you made!

Moira

---