Dinalie Dabarera on ‘Quiet Time with My Seeya’

Dinalie Dabarera’s debut picture book Quiet Time with My Seeya tells a gentle story of the relationship between a young child and her Sinhalese grandpa. ‘This mutual love and tenderness that spans generations is felt on every page,’ says our reviewer Karys McEwen, who praises Dabarera’s ‘delightful illustrations’ of movement and joy. McEwen speaks to the author and illustrator.

Congratulations on your debut solo picture book, Quiet Time with My Seeya. Can you tell us a little about the real-life inspiration behind the story?

Thank you! Quiet Time with My Seeya is inspired in a big part by my relationship with my maternal grandmother, and the ways that it was impacted by the gradual loss of a shared language. Seeya means grandpa in Sinhalese, which is the language of my grandma. As I got older and Sinhalese became less a part of my life, it became harder to communicate with my grandma. Despite those barriers, my grandma never stopped loving me, or showing me that she loved me—through her joyful smile when she saw me, the softness of her hands holding mine, the warmth of her hugs. I wanted to write a book about that kind of love— the kind of love that isn’t spoken, but shown and experienced through time and attention, in hugs and smiles and laughter.

When did you first realise you wanted to write and illustrate children’s books?

I’ve always loved drawing. When my sister and I were little, my mum kept us occupied during church with pencils and paper. I remember drawing some pretty inappropriate things! I don’t know what the elderly parishioners thought, but my poor mum was thoroughly mortified. Despite that, like a lot of people, and definitely many people from Asian immigrant families, I had no real concept of art as a real job until I was in the latter years of high school. I remember seeing ‘illustrator’ listed in that book of careers they give you when it’s time to pick out a university degree. That was the first time I’d ever really thought it could apply to me. I’ve always been drawn to the narrative properties of illustration, the pairing of words and images, the sincere attempt to communicate. Children’s books are such a natural home for storytelling, silliness and painfully earnest expressions of emotion—all things I deeply enjoy.

What do you hope young readers and families take away from reading Quiet Time with My Seeya?

On the face of it this book tells such a joyful story, but to me this book is as much about loss as it is about love. For young readers from families that face similar challenges around language as those portrayed in this book, I hope they see a reflection of something that they might perceive but not yet fully understand—a recognition of the fracture and sacrifice, as well as the deep love and connection, that can co-exist within one family. For children and families who don’t have that experience, I hope this book might encourage them to think more deeply about the role that language plays in culture and connection—what it means to have it and what it means to lose it. In its simplest (and sappiest!) articulation, I hope all readers will take away a reminder that the expression of love can take many forms.

What did your process of creating this book look like? Is writing and illustrating a picture book very different from collaborating with someone?

The writing of this book happened over a period of a few years, in intermittent spurts. When my then editor asked if I had any story ideas, I pitched this one as a wordless picture book. Definitely striving towards an extremely legitimate artistic expression in the vein of The Arrival, and not just a sneaky attempt to avoid writing … fortunately for me (in the long run if not at that moment) my editor insisted that I give it words. The illustration phase was a lot more structured, because illustration makes up a fair chunk of my day job, with thumbnails and roughs progressing to clean sketches and the full colour final art. I do think doing both the writing and illustrating is quite a different process to collaborating with someone. There is a real freedom in having that control, which I’ve really enjoyed, but there is also something so lovely about the trust and openness it requires to collaborate with others and the unpredictable but beautiful story-telling that can arise from that. Luckily I’m not really creating alone—I’m still collaborating with my lovely editorial team whose honest and insightful feedback I’m fortunate to have access to.

What was your favourite childhood story?

I have this really fond memory of accompanying my older cousin on his bike around my father’s hometown, during our family holidays back to Sri Lanka. Back then, for many Sri Lankans, the primary mode of transport was a bicycle, and it was common to see more than one person, sometimes whole families with their small children, sharing a single bike. My cousin was tall, as was his bike, and I was then (and still kind of am) quite small. I would hop up on to the cross-bar of the bike, feet dangling out of the way of the looping pedals, no helmet and a sore bum, as my cousin expertly manoeuvred us through traffic. Together we zipped nimbly past busy shops and people, rumbling vans and squat three-wheelers, and the occasional family of chickens. For a child who grew up in the confines of suburban Australia under the extremely watchful eye of an over-protective mother, it felt like a real taste of freedom. A version of this memory made it into my book, although after the polite request of my publisher, it features quite a bit more safety equipment. 

Read Karys McEwen’s review of Quiet Time with My Seeya here. 

Category: Features