What inspires my gentle stories

I never sit down to write with a full story in mind. More often, it starts with something small. A single line in a notebook. A question a student asked. A leaf that caught the light in a particular way during recess. These tiny things stay with me. They build up quietly until they form the beginning of a gentle story.

As someone who writes for children, I have learned to keep my eyes and ears open. Not just for what is loud or obvious, but for what is quiet. What is unspoken. The little things that often go unnoticed are the ones that guide my writing most.

Everyday classroom moments

I spend my weekdays surrounded by children. That, in itself, is a constant source of inspiration. Children notice everything. They ask questions I would never think of on my own. They feel deeply, even when they cannot always express what they are feeling.

One afternoon, during indoor recess, a student made a tiny home out of paper scraps and tape. She added a bed made of tissues and called it a "resting place for tired thoughts." I do not know where she got the phrase. But it stayed with me. That image later turned into a story about a fox who collects lost thoughts and gently returns them to their owners.

Another time, a student cried quietly during reading time. No tantrum. No sound. Just tears rolling down as he stared at his book. When I asked what was wrong, he said, "I feel everything at once." That line went straight into my notebook. I still think about it. It reminded me that children often carry more complexity than we give them credit for. These quiet emotional moments find their way into my writing.

Sketches and scraps

I am not much of an artist, but I do sketch. Badly. Still, drawing helps me think. I keep a notebook full of small drawings. A bear holding an umbrella for a bird. A child talking to a tree. These are not illustrations in the traditional sense. They are more like emotional placeholders. They help me remember the feeling I had when the idea came to me.

Sometimes a sketch stays untouched for months. Then one day, I flip through my notebook and something clicks. The bear becomes a character who worries about everything. The tree becomes a silent listener in a world that moves too fast. It is strange how images can hold on to feelings longer than words can. They wait until I am ready to write.

Books that leave a mark

There are books I return to again and again. Not just because I love them, but because they remind me of what gentle storytelling can do. Books like "The Quiet Book" by Deborah Underwood or "A Sick Day for Amos McGee" by Philip C. Stead. These stories do not try to impress. They do not shout their meaning. Instead, they offer a feeling of safety, of calm, of being seen.

When I read these books, I do not feel pushed to learn a lesson. I feel invited to feel something. That is the kind of energy I try to carry into my own writing. Not to instruct, but to reflect. Not to explain, but to share.

It is important to remember that children today live in a world full of noise and speed. They are processing more than we ever did at their age. From technology to identity to global concerns, their mental space is often overcrowded. I recently came across an article discussing why some kids are identifying as furries. While the topic is complex, what struck me was how much it reflects a search for identity and safe self-expression. It reminded me that children crave stories that do not judge them. That give them permission to explore who they are without labels or pressure.

Gentle stories offer that space. They do not define. They open. They allow children to imagine other versions of themselves, and of the world, where softness is not weakness but strength.

A few final thoughts

Writing gentle stories is not a task I approach lightly. It requires listening more than speaking. Observing more than planning. I do not always know where a story will go. Sometimes I start writing and stop halfway. Other times, a story arrives fully formed from a moment I had forgotten until I saw a note or a sketch.

But every story starts with something real. Something felt. A moment that tugged at me enough to want to pass it along.

I write gentle stories not because the world is always gentle, but because I believe children deserve moments that are. Moments that let them breathe. That remind them they are not alone. That offer softness without explanation.

And most of all, I write them because I believe these quiet moments matter. Even when they are small. Especially then.