What’s wrong with being silly?

Why is a certain kind of writing always assumed to be for children? I’m thinking about writing that would include writers like Dr. Seuss or Shel Silverstein. It’s writing characterized by silliness and humour.

I write quite a bit of it and whenever I show it to someone they invariably say, “Oh, kids would love this! You should write a childrens’ book.” Why?

I can honestly say that whenever I have written something of this kind – something silly – children have never entered my mind. I’ve written for myself. I love this stuff. (Note: in excess, it can get annoying and very quickly.)

A lot of other adults appear to love it too. But it isn’t serious or “adult” enough so, in order to justify liking it, we say it’s for children. I don’t have children so I don’t know if I even could write a book for an audience of children. On the other hand, I have been a child so I do have first hand experience.

When we enjoy something but it doesn’t have the serious aspect we think we, as adults, should carry, we choose to see it as something “for children.” I’d be willing to bet that the vast majority of childrens’ books sold appealed to adults first, adults who then figured their kids would love it. It may well be that children will like them but it’s the adults who really love them. It’s adults deciding what their children will or won’t like based on what they, the adults, do or don’t like.

What’s wrong with being silly? If the issues we deal with in our lives and in the world can be considered heavy (poverty, income, relationships) it is humour, including silliness, that leavens it and makes it light enough to make a start and continue with those tasks.

You can’t always be silly. It would be irresponsible and irritating as hell. But sequestering it as something that “children will love” is a kind of denial that misreads who we are. And on the subject of silliness:

Cinnamon cat

Cinnamon Cat follows the scent
of cinnamon dust and that
is the only concern of the cinnamon kitty
known as the Cinnamon Cat.

She loves a bun, honeyed and swirled,
swirled with her favourite taste.
She’ll sticker her nose with honey and spice,
and no crumb goes to waste.

But taste isn’t what the Cinnamon Cat
finds precious in a bun,
and it isn’t honey that sticks her there;
it’s the scent of cinnamon.

Beware how you dress and perfume your wrist
and how you cologne your cravat.
If you’ve even a hint of a cinnamon stick,
you’ll be stuck with a Cinnamon Cat.