Fostering the Young Artist/Writer

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My daughter is an aspiring young artist and writer.

She began drawing at an early age and always had a knack for adding expression to any face she draws (funny how she can't figure people out). Her drawings are typically of animals:


Her stories are a mostly about animals. Writing is something that I recently noticed she is really good at - She has written stories before, but her art always took center stage with me.

Here is a story she wrote for a class assignment recently:

One night, Wildpaw and Amber were out hunting. Wildpaw stopped. He smelled a mouse. He crouched for a long moment, and then he sprang. He caught his prey squarely between his paws. “Wildpaw”, Amber whispered. “What? Jealous?” He teased. “Wildpaw!” Amber screamed from a distance. “Amber?” Wildpaw dropped his prey. “Amber!” He yowled. His ears pricked up. Wildpaw heard the sound of claws, desperately trying to come back. He let his amber amulets on his head and tail glow. Unsheathing his claws, front and back, he charged through the trees. “No one takes Amber without my permission!” He put on a second burst of speed! He crashed through the trees, leapt over logs, his golden wings blending into his back-fur. He halted in a small clearing, hearing an evil and deep chuckle and now hearing a cat mourning, and a wolf-pack howl.
A ragged-looking raccoon and a sly-looking fox, both looking very frightening, had Amber talk. The raccoon turned back to the wolf-pack. “We’re in charge of this while forest. So there’s not gonna be any whining about, ‘But Wildpaw will come!’ or ‘Because he’s the Young Prince!’ Because there no such thing! And believe it or not, he’s dead!” the raccoon sneered. Wildpaw growled. He was right behind the raccoon, who was now stealing food. He slinked through the bushes, and then up a tree. Up and up he went. Fain glows off the milky-moon poured through the trees. He avoided them. At the very top of the tree, he flew quietly and swiftly down. When he was a fox-length away, he crashed into the raccoon, hissing and snarling with rage. Wildpaw flipped the raccoon over, pinning him to the ground and slinking his claws in, all of them. While Amber and three wolves helped her wrestle the fox to the ground, Wildpaw spread out his beautiful wings, looking bigger than ever. “Get out, now!” He hissed. The raccoon slipped out of Wildpaw’s paws and fled. The fox followed. The next day, the raccoon and the fox returned every single night and day.
That was it! Wildpaw told Amber that they should sneak on them, and she agreed. So that night, she slipped and weaved through the trees, and when the raccoon came into view, she hissed and landed on his back, and when the raccoon tore free of her grip, he bolted away. Amber gave chase, vanishing behind the trees in a heart-beat. Next, the fox saw everything, Wildpaw sprang on him, throwing his while body on the fox’s head, his wings flapping furiously. He wrestled the canine to the ground. He tore at him, the fox lashed out, completely missing Wildpaw. He hit back and pinned the fox to the ground, and started to rip at his belly-fur with his powerful, but skinny hind-legs and claws. Wildpaw hissed in his ear, “I never want to see you stealing food from these wolves nor your face in this forest again”. With that saying over, he hit the fox’s ear so hard that he howled and tore away from the Prince’s grip and vanished into the trees. That day forward, the food was restored to the wolves and victory was Wildpaw’s and Amber’s. “Never leave my side again. Warn me next time” Wild paw meowed. “No problem” Amber replied. The leader of the wolf-pack invited them for dinner. They agreed. Still very hungry after dinner, Wildpaw began to pad into the forest. “Where are you going, O’ great one?” Amber teased. “I want you to stay here where it’s safe. I’m going hunting”. And with that he vanished into the trees. “Gee Wildpaw; do you have any more poles of wisdom?” Amber mummerd sarcastically. She turned away and curled up into the tight-sleeping wolf-pack, and a black-wave of sleep crashed over her, and soon she slept.

Her stories come from a combination of the books she has read, and her own crew of fur friends at home. To make sure she wasn't copying anyone else's work, I had to sit down with her, pick a bunch of words that she doesn't typically use in everyday language, and quiz her - she amazed me with her knowledge - and physical explanation of some words (like unsheathing).

What can I do, as a parent to foster these gifts? I was able to get her into an art class on a scholarship - classes are expensive and it's something that we can't afford on a regular basis.

From my research, there isn't a whole lot of writing classes out there for 10 year olds.

Any suggestions would be appreciated!
Thanks so much!
Lynn

No answer as yet - disappointing I hope someone does.
There is certainly quite some talent there

I'm an artist myself, and I can't honestly remember what my parents did to foster it, if anything. I think if she's going to be an artist/author, then that's just what she's going to do, and the best thing is to encourage her to do what she wants and try not to get in the way.
I think you've got to be careful not to push her in any direction, as parents often tend to do whether they mean to or not, but rather let her know that she's free to become whatever she wants to be. What she's doing is about creative freedom, and encouraging that is the most important thing.

My art teacher in high school told us about her daughter, who had taken an interest in art as well. She said she always did her best not to tell her how to do things, like not telling her how to draw things or to color inside the lines, etc. She brought her daughter to class a couple times, and I have to say her desire to create was insatiable. She wanted to draw on everything. It must have been difficult to encourage her while also keeping her under control.

I also got a scholarship for an art class when I was in elementary. I can't say I learned very much, except some new media, but it was certainly fun. And I guess those are important. I haven't thought about it, but that was the first time I ever used oil pastels, and even though I didn't use them for years after, they ended up becoming my favorite media.

Classes are worthless. If she's on the spectrum, the best thing might be to let her explore on her own, by taking her to the library and such.

Writing is the only treatment. I saw some end of thoughts, then picked up again. It is the size of story that fits in your head. Building takes time. no use to edit, correct, when the story can just be written over. I jump in on an idea, write a few pages, it trails off, later it gets changed and attached to another story.

I would say the writers style and world view is there from a young age, they just need to dig it out.

The story is inside, pathways need to be cleared, and the flow kept up. Good descriptive writing can become anything. now she works from her animals, as her world gets larger, maybe a human Princess will appear. We produce ourselves with our words.

Spiral bound notebooks come in packs of five, pens by the bag. Sometimes I stop for months, then start again, it is me.

She does show well for ten.