Danaye Reinhardt

This November, I wrote a list of 26 items I wanted to complete in the month, as the sun sets and all my energy disappears along with it. I call it “Procrastination Prevention.” It coincides with the age I’m turning in a few weeks.

One of those items was to put together an order for my picture book, Dragon on Drums.

I’m not one to declare something before its time. My last post hinted at a project that was nearing the finish line, exhausted, sweat dripping, a punch to the air. I’m not sure it’s that victorious. It’s been more of a learning experience—researching the self-publishing process, uploading a million PDFs in a trial-and-error system, video-calling my sister to discuss page numbers and color and text placement. But we got it done. Last Christmas, my sister and I watched my niece crack open the book, see the fun animal illustrations my sister drew, and listen to a story I wrote years ago in a creative writing class.

Last week I mentioned to my roommate, in reference to a painting she was working on, that it’s hard for artists to know when they’re done. There is always one more stroke of the paintbrush, another sentence to edit, another piece to fix or adjust. When is a painting complete? When does a novel stop existing just for the author and become a public, consumable thing?

When does a silly little picture book learn to walk on its own dragon feet?

As a creator—one who forms something from nothing, who turns a world from the abstract to the physical page—it has been most rewarding to now look to family and friends and ask, “Do you want to participate in what I’ve created?”

I haven’t had that a lot. Most of my long-term projects (the ones I’ve invested most in) are either a half-written mass of plot and characters settled deep in my computer, or my current novel on draft three and which I won’t let anyone see. Now, I’m hearing from Facebook friends I haven’t spoken to in years saying, “I see this thing you’ve created and I’d love to be part of it.”

It’s small. It’s thirty pages, 307 words. It was a few days back in 2020, writing my first children’s poem in a season of restlessness and frustration. To compare to my novel project, I have invested far less time and brain power and excitement into Dragon on Drums. But it’s here, in full color, come to life, for my friends and family to read.

I have two dozen other tasks to complete in November. Somehow, I don’t imagine changing that lightbulb, arranging a Christmas list, and getting an oil change will quite satisfy the way Dragon on Drums, in that crisp, blue cover, has this November.