I’m trying to write a lot these days. Writing things that I feel neither confident about or certain are worth writing, and so I spend a lot of time plagued with self-doubt. Enter Ramona Quimby, whose name I consistently misremember and mispronounce as Ramona Quimbly. I first met Ramona as a child, probably aged 8 or 9. I remember reading her stories and thinking ‘yes!’ and feeling like I understood everything Ramona went through. I loved that bad things happened to Ramona, but that she continued on being brave, being peppy, and giving her all to the world. So now, much older, when I have my occasional moments (or as of late, my frequent moments) of insecurity – when I feel exactly as I did at aged 9 when I wasn’t quite sure whether anything I did was right, or mattered – I return to Ramona. I’ve been on a bit of a stint: reading ‘Ramona the Brave’, ‘Ramona Quimby: Aged 8’, and ‘Beezus and Ramona.’ I don’t know whether the books themselves bring me comfort, or whether reading them reminds me of being 9 and well looked after by my parents, but whatever the cause, reading Ramona makes things feel better. I can’t in good conscience recommend Ramona, because perhaps you never read her as a child, or perhaps you don’t identify with precocious, misunderstood little girls, so maybe I’ll just suggest that you read it if you’re interested in finding out what it’s like to be a little kid and overwhelmed by the world. Or maybe returning to your own childhood “yes!’ book – because they really do make everything feel a little bit better.