What Enid Blyton taught me about creativity
We are nearly there. The twenty first and final Famous Five book is sitting on the bedside table, waiting patiently to be finished. For the past year, my daughter and I have read one every night before bed. A chapter or two, sometimes more if the adventure was particularly gripping.
That makes twenty one adventures in total. Twenty one tales of smugglers, tunnels, hidden treasures, secret maps and villains lurking in lonely cottages. Twenty one opportunities to escape into a world where children are left to roam free, solve mysteries, and eat enormous packed lunches.
She is eight years old and absolutely hooked. And if I am honest, so am I.
Why these old stories still sing
It has been a joy to rediscover these books, not just as entertainment but as little creative masterclasses. They may feel old fashioned at times, but they are bursting with imagination. There is no digital noise, no ironic distance, no algorithms nudging the plot along. Just good old fashioned storytelling that invites you to lean in and wonder what happens next.
Every book is a creative blueprint. The children spot a clue, follow a hunch and find themselves tangled up in something far bigger than expected. There are problems to solve, codes to crack, maps to draw and secrets to uncover. And crucially, the grown ups are rarely involved. The children are trusted to figure it all out. That sense of independence, of resourcefulness, of inventing your own adventure, is where the real magic lies.
Reading them aloud each night has reminded me of what creativity felt like before it came with deadlines and feedback forms. These books are scrappy and a bit repetitive, yes. But they are also full of energy and possibility. They encourage you to think freely, to imagine openly and to make up your own rules as you go.
When stories spark something new
My daughter now draws scenes from the stories and writes her own versions with different characters. The cat often features, usually as the villain. She builds forts and calls them Kirrin Castle. She plays outside in the garden and comes back with dramatic tales of hidden caves behind the shed.
This is what happens when stories spark something. They turn into other stories. They live on in sketches and games and conversations at breakfast. They grow. And I suppose that is what creativity really is. Not a perfect idea or a polished outcome, but a feeling that moves you to start something of your own.
So as we finish this final book, I find myself a little bit grateful to Enid Blyton. Not just for the nostalgia, but for the reminder that a good story, simply told, can still open doors in the mind. Even after all these years. Even when you think you know how it ends.