When I am working on a novel, I am not writing for the Queen (shhhhhh!! Don't tell her. She might be listening.)
I am writing for the child I once was.
I am writing the book I wanted to read when I was eleven.
Eleven year-old Me was such a little conundrum. I loved watching Star Trek re-runs with my dad (the really old ones. "Why does it look like Mr. Spock is wearing eyeshadow, Daddy?"), and found Monty Python hilarious when I sneaked a peek of it on PBS. (More than once. And just for the record, the parrot WAS dead.)
Eleven year-old Me still played with dolls sometimes. Barbies. Yeah, I know...but they really did have them back then. I wanted a princess dress badly, but never, ever had one. And I thought it would be cool to be a general (nice medals) or a super-hero (flying power and super-strength, please.)
Eleven year-old Me created stuff all the time. Seriously, all the time. I loved projects, messes and art...and baking cookies.
I lived in my head a lot.
I was rarely bored.
Don't get me wrong-- I have not written a book with Star Trek or Barbies or Generals in it (yet). My current book is a far, far cry from such things. However, it is still for eleven year-old ME, that little girl that I knew so well. She would have loved something different from what other kids were reading. She would have loved the adventurousness of the MC and the quiet magic that unfolds with the story.
I think she would have read my story more than once. She would have dreamed she was the girl in my story when she closed her eyes.