Home

Advertisement

Previous 20

Mar. 3rd, 2009

Great Sites

 

 

 


It’s not often that an author’s site can make you cry. But reading
Terri Farley’s posts I always get sucked in. Terri is a prolific writer (Seven Tears into the Sea and the Phantom Stallion series) who also manages to write beautifully about wild horses and her efforts to save them—and get young people involved. Her posts and newsletters are heart wrenching and heart warming, just like her books!    



 

Linda Rader Overman  (Letters Between Us) is a smart, sophisticated writer whose site speaks to her fast-paced L.A. life and the thoughtful pauses she can bring us to. The sentiments in her posts can be so polished they gleam. In her own wordsChronicles of An Ordinary Woman is the discussions of an ordinary woman who participates in the everyday and commonplace acts of life as she re-views (reminiscences) about her present, past, and future.



 

 

 Barrie Summy’s site (I So Don’t Do Mysteries) gleams too, in a warm, delightful way that speaks to the kid in you. Or perhaps the kid in Barrie, who offers a bright spot to come out and play. She has a great knack for making you curious. And check out her new Book Review Club!  




That's Barrie! 
                                                      --z..v.

 

Feb. 4th, 2009

GET THE JUMP ON JUMPED


Rita’s Week



...With a review of her soon to be released novel for a Brand New Book Club and an exclusive interview on how she bent time and managed multiple narrators.


 

JUMPED

by Rita Williams-Garcia

A review

Dominique: the bully

Leticia: the witness

Trina: the victim

Three high school girls. One typical day. One telling moment. In Rita Williams-Garcia’s new novel Jumped (HarperTeen/Amistad, March, 2009) she takes a hard look at human nature.

Zero period and the ever-observant gossip, Leticia, fakes her escape from class “to be outside where the dirt is fresh and the gossip is good.” Leticia’s got her ear to the ground, catching it all “while it’s clicking and flashing; what they’re wearing, who they’re with, and what they’re saying.” And she hits pay dirt.

Down the hall comes self-absorbed, pink-pretty Trina, who waltzes through life certain that when “people see me, they see walking art.” But Trina’s dance places her in Dominique’s path, and just then Dominique, a fierce basketball player, is angry at the world. Coach has benched her for poor grades and Dominique is fuming for a fight.

“She cuts a knife through my space then turns,” says Dominique about Trina, who has, unaware, insulted Dominique by walking too near. “And I slam my fist into my other hand because she’s good as jumped…”

Giddy with this gossip—that Dominique will lay in wait for the unsuspecting Trina after school—Leticia dials her friend, Bea. But Bea disappoints her by asking her to get involved. “You gotta give Trina a clue,” she says… “You’re the only one who witnessed it all go down. This is your mess.”  

 

Will Leticia decide Bea is right? That being a witness makes it her mess?

Jumped plays out the tensions inherent in this moral question. In a dovetailing drama that unfolds through multiple narrators in the space of several hours, the novel, like growing up itself, flows like a river, pulls you down the rapids and sends you inexorably over the falls.

Williams-Garcia is a master of voice and spare, rhythmic prose, which she uses to dig to the heart of each character and deliver them up in all their self-importance. And the beauty of this book is how skillfully the author hits her mark. A feat accomplished not through introspection but the weave of inspired action which draws the reader relentlessly to its tough conclusion.

                                                                                    ---zu vincent

 Hold on, there's more....



Rita’s Secrets for Bending Time and Managing Multiple Narrators

 

Q: The novel takes place over one day. Have you used this technique before?

When I was in college, I sold a short story to Essence Magazine that was never published. The story takes place within the time frame of a girl and her boyfriend standing at a red light before crossing at the green light. Within those thirty seconds the girl decides whether she’ll continue on with her boyfriend. Other than that, this is it.



 

Q: Why did you choose this compressed time frame?

Many reasons. I didn’t want to delve into the girls’ home lives any more than I had. I didn’t want to point to social issues to explain why Dominique is the way she is or give easy answers.  

Instead, I thought it would be fitting to handle a seemingly random act in a tight space. And since it’s predicated on so little, the merciful thing to do for the reader would be to not belabor the storytelling. These brutal attacks usually just happen. (I actually saw one today on the F Train. Three girls and a woman who supposedly kicked one of the girls. ) To stretch it, I’d have to make Dominique question her actions when I didn’t believe she would.  


 

And honestly, there is nothing Trina could do to make amends to Dominique. It’s so not about Trina although she is the casualty. Realistically, in a story that takes place over time, I wouldn’t have been able to keep Dominique’s intentions away from Trina. In that case, it would be out of Leticia’s hands and I wanted to keep Leticia on the hook.


 

Q: What were the challenges of writing in such a short time span?

Back story. Digression. Characters yakking about their outlook on life. How much can I get away with and yet move the story forward?  I have a folder filled with unused chapters, all under the, “Covered that already,” banner. One of my favorites involves Leticia and her mother shopping on Seventh Avenue and Leticia getting into it with some shopper. Funny Leticia and Bridgette story but I covered it.



 

Q: What were the advantages and disadvantages of this technique?

Well, it should work for the story you’re telling. Not everyone can wear the hot new fashion that’s got everyone buzzing, nor can a storytelling technique be grabbed off the rack. When the fit is good, everything falls like dominoes. You achieve a nice symmetry. When it’s an ill fit, we all point. “Look at Rita Williams-Garcia in that thang. What was she thinking?”


 

I liked this form for this story because the field of battle is contained. The structure—nine periods times three students, was pretty much laid out for me.  We know we’re headed for 2:45pm. The disadvantages are, you are wedded to that tight space. It leaves little room to play around in. You build a huge “Unused” folder.



 

Q: How did you face narrative arc, pace, and character change in such a compressed time frame?

I gave each character her own arc in a moment of truth that all happens just before the attack. Trina’s moment of truth comes in art class when Ivan won’t let her live in her bubble. Be prepared, Trina. That ain’t all. 



            Leticia’s happens in her chemistry class, and Dominique’s occurs in Coach’s office—one last chance to turn it around. 
 

So you have these three characters in rising states anger, anxiety and rage mounted relatively close together in the chapters before the attack. There’s nowhere else to take this but to its inevitable collision. 




 

Thank you Rita!

                                                                                                            ~z.v.

 

Jan. 1st, 2009

Sweet Thanks




The Roman god Janus, associated with the New Year, is depicted as two-faced—one side looking backward, one forward—to signify both the end and the beginning of things. But imagine Janus, as he turns from the old to the new, pausing in that moment between. The god takes a breath, holds still, and gives thanks. We mortals can too!

 


 


 

This is a huge year to say thank you for me. Launching a novel has shown me just how much our writing community cares about words. And I’ve been awed by the support of so many. 

In my novel’s acknowledgments I was able to thank those closest to me and most involved in production for The Lucky Place, so this is a chance to cast a wider net. 





Thank you to authors Jacqueline Woodson, Tim Wynne Jones  and Susan Wooldridge for reading The Lucky Place and offering such generous advance praise. It meant so much to me that you each took time from your own busy writing schedules to lend your support.

 
              

 



Thank you to the writing communities of Vermont College and the Class of 2k8 who opened your arms to me.





Traveling around the country for signings I've been delighted to catch up with many of you, and you've always been so gracious! (Like Vermont's  wonderful Cindy).


 

 

And Rita Williams-Garcia, Tobin Anderson & Kathi Appelt who were all at NCTE in San Antonio this November.

Thank you to the Highlights Foundation for helping support my time at Honesdale this spring.



 

 


Thank you to the many librarians, teachers, booksellers, bloggers and friends who are passing news of The Lucky Place on to readers, especially my faithful friends right here on The Tollbooth.




 

 



Thank you to the many bookstores who have hosted me and celebrate authors--The Flying Pig Bookstore and Lyon Books, to name just two.




Thank you to all the book reviewers who read the novel and felt moved enough to respond.

 




Thank you to the talented Cynthia Leitich Smith and Cynsations! (Shown here with her new ARC--a must read!) Thank you for naming The Lucky Place a new voices Cynsations Book for 2008
. And thank you for your support of not just me but all the authors you highlight throughout the year. Cynsations is a gold mine of what’s happening in children’s and young adult literature today and it’s wonderful to be included in this rich tradition.  

Special thanks to Gail Gautheir for nominating The Lucky Place for a Cybils Award with such generous praise. 



And to Brittany Lashinshki at Boyds Mills Press who not only holds down the fort at so many book shows but knows a good beach when she sees one.  

Thank you Suzanne Williams, Ellen Hopkins and Teri Farley—writers extraordinaire—

              


for the energy and talent you put into your Nevada program and the support you’ve shown my work. You’re my adopted SCBWI!  

 

And finally, thank you to all those who’ve read and responded to my novel this year. It’s been amazing to hear from you! I saved you a piece of cake from the best launch party ever (thank you Marti and Ron!) because you've made life so sweet.


 

  


Nov. 20th, 2008

Ellen Hopkins

 

 

 

This week we’ve been talking about facing our demons, but we’ve also talked about success. Why not? We need to be inspired by the success of others. And one of the most successful and inspiring writers I know, and a woman willing to face her own demons head on, is Ellen Hopkins www.ellenhopkins.com/. Her New York Times bestsellers pour out in prose poetry that has captured thousands and won her several awards. But it’s her passion that really blows you away.

 

Hopkins might write the most cutting edge stories around, but that passion is rooted in an old fashioned integrity. When she speaks about her readers her interest in their lives and their futures wells up, as if they were each carried in her heart. She genuinely cares about reaching young people through literature, which is why she can’t be anything but honest. “Readers see through you if you aren’t,” she says.
 

 

You don’t get sugar coated reading Hopkins. You get brutal truth. Uncomfortable moments that look deep into our own black hearts. An intimacy between reader and characters that is as unsettling as it is compelling. Perhaps it’s because her own success is rooted in heartache. 

 

Her first novel, Crank, was born from personal sorrow. A long time freelance writer, Hopkins began writing her novel in 2002, basing it loosely on her oldest daughter’s addiction to methamphetamine, or crystal meth. She took the first few pages of this novel to a book festival where editor Julia Richardson liked them enough to take a chance. Crank appeared in 2004 and within weeks had given Hopkins the  best seller spot she’s kept ever since.
 

 
 

 

In the sequel to Crank, Glass, and in her books Burned, Impulse and Identical,  Hopkins reaches for her gritty truth by exploring themes such as incest, addiction, and—in her next novel, Tricks—teen prostitution.

 

             “I keep pushing the edge,” she says. “But no has told me to stop yet.” Maybe that’s because she’s so single handedly caught the ear of teens. Her books spread almost underground at first. Not showing up so much in libraries as they were tucked under the arms of kids in the halls at school.

 

            “One teacher told me she finally stopped a boy and asked to see what everyone was reading,” says Hopkins. “It’s fun to get kids excited about reading,” she adds. “And they’re buying books. Kids tell me I bought all five of your books, and I’m so proud of that. They read them and pass them to their friends.”
 

 

            Hopkins is as dedicated to her work as she is prolific. Thrilled to be doing something she loves, she writes every morning until early afternoon. And she finished Identical by writing fifteen pages a day on a writer’s retreat in Cabo with a group known as the “plot dogs.” “They kept calling me to come out of my room,” she laughs, “but I was in the zone.”

 

For Hopkins the process is intuitive. She likes to create her characters around a theme. “But I don’t just create characters,” she says, “I create how they live in relation to others.” If they have a bad relationship with their parents, she figures out why. Not through plot or outline, but by listening. “I let them in my head and they tell their story”

 

The fact that her character’s stories come out in prose poetry happened through experimentation. “It’s important to experiment,” Hopkins says. “I wouldn’t have known I could write like this if I hadn’t.” She often plays with voice on the page, and her poems are sometimes as visual as they are lyrical. “Verse is not a place for everybody,” says Hopkins, “but it’s where I belong.”


 

 

She also seems to belong to the generation she’s touched so deeply. Perhaps she’s done this because in fiction, facing your own demons means you’re giving your characters those demons, too. Hopkins has five characters in her upcoming novel Tricks. And she talks about one scene in particular that came to life for her in an unexpected way.

 

She was writing about Seth, a young male prostitute, a kid whose farmer father kicked him out of the house for being gay. To survive, Seth finds a sugar daddy, yet he also finds himself powerless. To move Seth through one particularly sensitive bedroom scene, Hopkins did research on prostitution and talked to a gay friend. But when it came time to write, she realized her character, although forced to perform sexually, was actually, in some part of himself, wanting to be there. She was startled.

 

But it’s these startling moments that show she’s reached deep into a character and found the truth. Facing demons is what makes each of her characters living, breathing human beings.

 

“These stories are important,” Hopkins says about the dark underbelly of life she often portrays. It took courage to go out on that limb, to push the edge. “But I wasn’t wrong, thank God,” she says. “And now I’m getting paid well to do what I love.”

 
 



               see you next time! ..........zu

 

Courage to Write




Yesterday’s question was, how do we take that leap of faith that lets us reveal our own darkest underbellies? Our own deepest shame? Where is that place for us as writers where truth is a liquid, not a solid?

 

For Jeannette Walls, writing The Glass Castle meant facing her demons. She was ashamed of her past. And one of her biggest demons was her relationship with her dad. She’d endured his often painful neglect. A heavy drinker who couldn’t hold down a job, he was forever moving his family from town to town. At the same time he was a dreamer, and carried around plans for the glass castle, the home he fantasized he’d build for his family.

 

“When we weren’t running we were chasing something,” says Walls, “my dad’s dreams. We were looking for gold to build the glass castle.”

 

In the end Walls realized she had to build her own “glass castles” in life. Yet she found it was her dad’s strong belief in her, the sense he imparted that she, too, could follow her dreams, which led her to success. This was Walls’ liquid nature of truth that came when she wrote her story down.

 

That’s her advice to writers. “Just get it down. You don’t know what the story is until then. Just get going… and tell the truth.”

 

So is it these very feelings of discomfort, even shame, that tell us when we’re on the right track?

 

Before Walls wrote The Glass Castle, she wrote what she calls a “gossip column” in New York. The irony, she says now, is that she was “pursuing other people’s stories while I was busy hiding my own.” Journalists, she notes, often pursue half truths and caricatures. But memoirists and novelists need to move closer to the bone.

 

This isn’t always easy to do. Walls talks about a scene in the memoir where she and her brother and sisters are going hungry and they catch their mom eating a hidden chocolate bar. When she was writing the book, this was one of those scenes Walls struggled with. How to juggle the truth with the idea that the truth can expose the people you love?

 

Yet to this day Wall’s mom has never mentioned that scene. Instead she complains that Walls once depicted her as homeless when she was living under a bridge.

“I wasn’t homeless,” her mother says. “My home was under that bridge.”

The lesson? Your demons may not be someone else’s, after all.

 

And if Walls had let fear stop her, she’d never have written a book that’s touched so many readers. Especially young readers, since her book is popular in classrooms and juvenile halls.

 

Reader reactions, Walls says, have both amazed and pleased her. Some people feel her past was terrible, some see it as magical. Some have understood poverty for the first time, some feel she’s telling their story.

 

And for Jeannette Walls, if she has made a single person understand what it’s like to be poor, then writing her book—in effect exposing herself—has been worth it. “The power of reading and writing is to understand how much we all have in common,” she says. “We read to get past barriers, to see we’re all very much alike.”

 

Ironically, in order to show how much we all have in common a good writer uses the most uncommon scenes. Scenes that are full of substance, and yes, maybe even secret pain and shame.

 

Walls recalls a night when she was little and afraid of a monster under her bed. Instead of comforting her, Walls’ dad helped her chase that monster around the house and out into the night.

 


“That ol’ SOB demon been chasing you for years!” her dad cried. “Let’s go git ‘em. He’s a bully and a coward. Look ‘em in the eye!”

 

Looking her demons in the eye has brought Walls peace with the past. “All I did was survive,” she says about that time. “But I believe there’s a gift in that.”

Nov. 19th, 2008

The Glass Castle




 

I was taking a walk in the woods today when a single autumn leaf unhooked from a twenty foot oak and descended. Down and down and down this piece of gold fluttered and sank, me walking toward it and the leaf falling in gentle spirals—and I kept walking and it kept floating as if we could meet by appointment. Finally I stretched out my palm and that little piece of gold fitted in.

 

But what was it really? Just a dried old leaf. I saw this when it was in my hand. Then again, I still saw gold.

 

Isn’t this what writers do. Walk with reality in our palm? Seeing both a dried old leaf and yet a piece of fluttering gold?  

 

I had a chance to speak on a panel with some fellow 2k8 (classof2k8.blogspot.com/) writers Monday at the California Library Association’s annual conference in San Jose. And I was thrilled that after our talk I caught author Jeannette Walls’ closing lecture about her memoir The Glass Castle.


 

There’s something incredibly rich about finishing a great book and getting to hear the author speak. Walls’ memoir about growing up in extreme poverty has been on the New York Times best seller list for over two years and sold over two million copies. It chronicles her nomadic childhood with her three siblings and her smart, but eccentric parents. In the memoir, the Walls family moves from the Southwest desert to the West Virginia mountains to New York City, where her parents end up homeless.  

 

It’s an amazing, painful and often humorous story that looks life right in the eye.  Walls’ message for writers in her talk—her trick? To see truth for what it is. “A liquid, not a solid.” Because truth can be both a dried fall leaf and a beautiful thing of gold.
 

 

Walls was deeply ashamed of growing up poor. She left her West Virginia home before finishing high school and moved to New York City to make a new life. “I wanted to leave everything from the past behind,” she writes, “even the good things.” But she discovered that the past “has a way of catching up with you.”

 

After Walls moved to New York she put herself through Barnard College and became a journalist. In the new life she’d carved out, she never admitted the circumstances of her past, and often lied about who and what her parents were.

 

“For so many years my fear was myself,” says Walls. “My own past.” The day she spotted her homeless mother rooting through the garbage she knew she had to confront this past. Still, her fear was palatable when she sat down to write.

 

 

“Why am I doing this?” Wall would ask herself. “Why expose myself to humiliation?” She was terrified the truth would ruin her image. “My stand in the world that I’d so carefully cultivated.”

 

So the question for tomorrow is, how do we do this as writers? How do we take that leap of faith that lets us reveal our own darkest underbellies? Our own deepest shame? Where is that place for us where truth is a liquid, not a solid?


Nov. 12th, 2008

CONGRATULATIONS TAMI LEWIS BROWN!





 

 Two sisters, one stolen car, and a whole flock of chickens... Melanie Kroupa at Farrar Straus and Giroux is publishing Tami Lewis Brown’s middle grade novel

One Shiny Silver Key 



Here’s the story. Last summer our own Tami Brown was inspired to spend a summer up near the Canadian border, alone. Here she holed away and wrote the draft of her middle grade novel One Shiny Silver Key. If you ask me that took courage. But courage has its rewards. Tami just sold One Shiny Silver Key to Melanie Kroupa at FS&G.

 

I was lucky enough to read One Shiny Silver Key in draft, so I know that Tami’s harrowing story of Peep and Margie’s journey will grip your heart. Her young protagonist is brash, bold and thoroughly lovable. Plus she tells it like it is! 

 

I asked Tami for the story behind her story, and what follows is a peek backstage. But first, I thought I’d add to this mysterious process we call writer’s intuition.

 

Doing our part, some friends visited Tami last summer. One day I got her out of her cave long enough for coffee at the lovely little whistle stop known as North Hero.

 

That’s where we found what can only be described as a chicken memorabilia shop. It was filled with wire, ceramic, quilted, painted, plastered and stuffed replicas of chickens. Go figure. The minute Tami walked in; she knew her character had sent her there.   

 

I’ll let her tell the rest.

 

“About fifteen years ago I read a news story about two sisters, seven and nine years old, who borrowed their father's car and drove 200 miles to visit their older sister and her new baby.

 

That story really stuck inside my brain but I never expected it to turn into something important to me or my life.

 

Three years ago I woke up one morning thinking Peep and Margie never set out to be criminals. I didn't know who Peep and Margie were... little did I know I was soon to find out.

 

That summer I went to the Vermont College residency and as part of my MFA program, and realized I had to write an entirely new first half of a novel—at least 75 pages—for my creative thesis.

 

A few weeks later I went on vacation in southern Vermont to Rudyard Kipling's house. Every morning I got up before the rest of the house stirred, went to Kipling's desk, and wrote like wild—something I can't usually do on command or from one day to the next.

 



By the end of two weeks I had about four chapters of the novel written. Then I proceeded to rewrite it ten zillion times over the next two and a half years.

 

Last summer I knew one of the weird elements was that their mother was obsessed by collectible chickens—which I didn't really understand until Zu drug me into that place on North Hero Island.”

 


The rest, as we know, is history.


In addition to One Shiny Silver Key, Tami’s picture book

 

Soar, Elinor! 

will be published in April 2010 by Farrar Straus and Giroux/
Melanie Kroupa Books

     

 

Sep. 11th, 2008

LIFE, CRAFT, ART

 

“To the writer of fiction, reading fiction is a dramatic experience. It’s often tense, provocative, disturbing, unpredictable.”

Joyce Carol Oates, The Faith of a Writer



 
 
 
If you love to write you also love to read. You love words. You love the very act of setting down sentences. Phrases haunt you. So do random scenes and ideas.
 
I have a suggestion. Take advantage of this if you read The Faith of a Writer. Have your journal ready. Sit with the essays at a coffee shop or on a rock at the creek and open an inner dialogue. Respond to Oates’ journey with notes on your own. We all have gold in our history and passion for this strange persuasion to create. Mine it.
 
In her introduction Oates says that underlying her essays in The Faith of the Writer is a “prevailing sense of wonderment at how the solitary yields to the communal…” I think she’s talking about intimacy. That only by being intensely private, by revealing our most secret selves on the page, do we truly reach others. So mine it deeply.  
 
Oates begins by exploring her past, starting with her early school days learning to read and write, then moving to the children’s literature that most influenced her work long after childhood vanished. This is important, she says, because our first emotional attachment to story soaks “into the very marrow of our bones” and influences our “interpretation of the universe thereafter.”
 
It’s worth noting what that influence was. Oates began at age eight, with Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass. Your influences may be totally different, but they will still yield clues to your voice and subject matter, your “strategies of art” as Oates calls them.
 
As for methods, “Write your heart out” is Oates’ advice. “Never be ashamed of your subject, and of your passion for your subject.” Especially mine your forbidden passions. “Read widely, and without apology.” Admire and even copy other writers work.
 
And run (or walk or swim) as a way to meditate. Since writing is also visceral, it relies on tissue memory, and we need to give spirit and body a chance to work together. Oates is an addicted runner. “…The runner seems to experience in feet, lungs, quickened heartbeat, an extension of the imagining self,” she writes. It’s in giving ourselves over to these times of solitude that inspiration strikes.
 
 
Where does this inspiration come from? From a deep human yearning to play, says Oates. She reminds us that our minds long to play, to experiment and imagine just as readily as our bodies long to move. And it’s okay to be restless. We’re fueled by defiance and rebellion. An urge to be different, to honor and record the past our way. To set the record straight. “The artist is born damned,” she writes. And it’s this sense of exile and inadequacy that pulls us to create.
 
Yet, ironically, at the same time writing offers a “key” into a special, magical world. Lost in that world you both “are and are not yourself…”. It’s not the outcome we’re after, but the immersion. Writing is fascinating, we fall into that wonderful loop of time and go down the rabbit hole into a waking dream. Life is quickened, writing is a great luscious risk, “like falling in love.”
 
And because of this risk we need to address failure. Oates’ essay on failure is not only illuminating but heartening. Especially her list of famous fiction writers who nonetheless felt like failed poets or playwrights.
 
There’s much more in the book, about reading as a writer, self criticism, and even the joys of the writer’s studio. In each essay Oates moves beneath the surface to ask the underlying questions, the why of writing. So that from her singular soul we recognize much of the journey, or at least a few stops along the way.
 
I like the places this book takes me, the slant of it. When a writer who’s produced a body of work shows you behind the scenes, the weight of her words feels balanced with her deeds. And examining what shaped her gives us not only the evolution of a writer, but ways to understand our own approach and use it more effectively.
 
            Oates says it best,
 
            “Henry James spoke of the artist as, ideally, one upon whom nothing is lost….,”she writes. “What a writer is intellectually, morally, spiritually, emotionally will radiate through the work…. Yet we can change our characters, we can deepen our souls, certainly we can become more mature, more sensitive and observant through the discipline of writing…. And one of the ways we can affect such change is by approaching the art of writing as a craft.”        

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Sep. 8th, 2008

LOOKING FOR INSPIRATION

 
 
            I discovered a delicious secret the day I began my journey to become a better writer. Books on the art of writing. One of my favorite illicit pleasures when attending college was out of reach was to wander the back shelves at the university book store—those monkey racks they hauled in and filled with required reading arranged by class. I’d grab a catalogue and thumb through until I found the course numbers that directed me to the creative writing book shelves.
 
I could never resist a first stop at the lit course requirements—Norton Anthologies as big as door stops towering over classic and current novels. But I knew the real gold was mined in the books those lonely one or two creative writing professors put forward. The reading list here was not only thin and so shrunken as to be subversive, but it was usually “suggested” rather than required. As if even in the university it was understood that art and its craft was not to be trifled with by requiring something of the muse, but rather, gently suggesting it.
 
Here were the most lyrical novels, the sharpest cutting edge poetry and short story collections, and most intriguing of all, books on writing. Being a fledging it hadn’t occurred to me that so many authors wrote about their process. And that, wonder of wonders, they had made it accessible to me.
 
Not just on the university shelves, either, but in the library. What a feast to find so many books about writing neatly shouldered together in Dewey Decimal land. My method here was to run my hand along the spines of these thickly bound titles until one seemed to jump itself into my grasp. Writers know this phenomenon, that just like the stories we’re compelled to write, the books we read choose us.
 
This same magic worked for me in bookstores, too. Finding the writing reference shelves I’d thumb through and discover the sorts of books which rarely failed me—often trade paperbacks with covers that felt a bit roughed up, like the softest sandpaper. And these books too jumped into my hands, as if what I needed to know right then and there had already been telegraphed.
 
Really, a writer’s education is scandalously free, or at least cheap, on the university, library and bookstore shelves. And any advice on a good writing book is meant to help you look for your own jump. Because we are never just one sort of writer with one single need. The need changes as the process moves forward. One season Frey’s How to Write a Damn Good Novel may but just the thing. The next, Bradbury’s Zen in the Art of Writing.
 
This week I wanted to talk about a book that doesn’t so much give a how to as it explains how come. What makes a writer? How do we go about it? Why do we even try? There’s a familiarity in honest answers to these sorts of questions that feels like coming home.
 
Which is why I chose Joyce Carol Oates’ The Faith of a Writer, because Oates’ book of essays on craft manages familiarity by being original. And it proves what she herself says about the great irony of writing that, “In our very obliqueness to one another, an unexpected intimacy is born.”
 
Stay tuned….

Jun. 5th, 2008

Literary Bones

Day Five

“….a different sort of flesh covering those literary bones.”

 

 

 

Dramatic Structure

 

You know the feeling. You end the book and close it reluctantly, with what can only be called satisfied despair. Satisfied that the read was so perfect, despairing that alas, it’s over. Now you feel dazed, disembodied, half of you still with the book’s main character—as if by some eerie alchemy, you’d become him or her—and it’s a day’s effort to climb out of that more vivid, more interesting body, and back into your own.

 

You’ve been hooked and reeled in by the power of story. A power that owes much to dramatic structure. And while art itself may be indefinable, you can look at the mechanisms which helped to create it. You can reveal its literary bones. And one way to start examining these bones is through plays and screenplays.

 

                                                             

 

 

A couple of books on dramatic structure really lend themselves to this. Lajos Egri’s classic The Art of Dramatic Writing, and Screenplay by Syd Field. Egri approaches structure through the stage play, but his principles can apply to any story form. He explores how the heart of a story revolves around premise, character and conflict, and the expertise with which these elements are dramatically orchestrated.

 

“A character stands revealed through conflict: conflict begins with a decision;” writes Egri. “…A decision is made because of the premise of your play.” (Egri digs into this in the book and ties it to character change). “The character’s decision necessarily sets in motion another decision, from his adversary. And it is these decisions, one resulting from the other, which propel the play to its ultimate destination: the proving of the premise.”

 

                                                                

 

 

You might be more familiar with the newer book, Screenplay, in which Field borrows Egri’s dramatic play structure for scriptwriting and breaks a script into three acts. Act I is the beginning, or setup, Act II the confrontation and Act III the resolution. Field calls this movement—from beginning, to middle, to end—the foundation of dramatic structure, because it appeals to our essential sense of storytelling.

 

“You may not believe in beginnings, middles, and ends,” Field writes. “You may say that art, like life, is nothing more than several individual moments suspended in some giant middle… what Kurt Vonnegut calls a ‘series of random moments.” Yet even life, he counters, has three acts: birth, life and death, and we crave this sense of balance in our stories, too. 

 

Yesterday, Elizabeth noted that the film “Prince Caspian” can’t really be about Caspian’s journey to adulthood in the sense that the book is. Books and movies aren’t the same animal (and that way lies disappointment for diehard Narnia fans). But if you dig into dramatic structure as Egri and Field map it out, you might find the movie does an admirable job of paying tribute to Lewis’s Narnia. And it’s a great practice in general for looking at what makes stories tick.

 

In “Prince Caspian,” Hollywood has pared the story down and quickened its pace, but Caspian still has to overcome emotional and physical obstacles to take his place as king. We still watch him struggle and we still watch him change. And his movie journey has its beginning, middle and end, from the opening in Narnia, to his battles with the Telmarine, to the conclusion with Aslan. 

It’s just a different sort of flesh covering those literary bones.

                                                                                                --zv

 

 

                                                                 

 

Thanks again, Elizabeth
            For more on the book of essays Through the Wardrobe that Elizabeth and I appear in:
http://cynthialeitichsmith.blogspot.com/2008/05/author-interview-herbie-brennan-on.html
           A review of the collection is at:  
http://narniafans.com/?id=1452
           Sarah wrote more on cinematic techniques at  http://community.livejournal.com/thru_the_booth/21786.html 

Jun. 4th, 2008

Literary Bones

 

Day Four

 

My favorite of the Narnia books is Voyage of the Dawn Treader—like Reepicheep, I could just continuing voyaging further on and further in, as far as Lewis is willing to take me….”     Elizabeth Wein

 

 

                                                                                   

 

 

Building Worlds

 

Elizabeth, you mentioned that you haven’t yet seen the film for Prince Caspian, but are there aspects of Caspian and his story you hope the movie will highlight?

 

Well, I know that the movie is more battle-focused than the book, but the reviews I’ve heard—personal reviews, which I take more seriously than industry reviews—seem very positive. A friend of mine posted an intriguing riff on Caspian’s SHIRT which gives me high hopes for the film. The shirt is all delicately embroidered with wildflowers.

 

Remember what I said about the king connecting to the land? Someone on that set must GET IT. I’d love to see emphasis on Caspian’s deep-rooted relationship to Narnia, even if the actor playing Caspian is about ten years older than the Caspian I picture (I mean, the film can’t really be about Caspian’s journey to adulthood in the sense that the book is).

 

As a fantasy writer, why do you think C.S. Lewis’s novels have stood the test of time? What do you admire most from a writer’s standpoint about his work?

 

I’ve heard that C.S. Lewis insisted his books were not intended for children, though they’re about children. I think that’s what gives them their readable, undying voice—they weren’t meant to be patronizing.  I also think that, whether Lewis meant to or not, these books laid out the template for most modern children’s fantasy, just as Tolkien set the template for high fantasy. When I reread the Narnia books recently I was astonished at how derivative they seemed all of a sudden.

 

Of course they aren’t derivative at all, they’re the FIRST of this kind of book. But hmm, let’s see. Prince Caspian. It’s one of seven books. The kids all start out on a railway station platform in their school uniforms, on their way to boarding school, and then they’re suddenly sucked out of the station and into a land where magic is commonplace.

 

                                                                       

                                                                      

 

What does THAT bring to mind? (The railway platform thing in Prince Caspian is just so evocative of certain other, more recent fantasy, that the filmmakers seem to have been obliged to set the scene in a London Underground station, i.e. a subway station, instead of a train station. Whaaa? Just in case Someone suspected Lewis of plagiarism and wanted to sue him for breach of copyright?)

 

The point here being that CS Lewis’s novels set the standard—we still read them because they’re EXACTLY what we like in fantasy and adventure, and all the modern stuff we read and enjoy now takes its cue from Lewis.

 

I do have issues with Lewis… I can’t say he’s my favorite fantasy writer or that I admire his work unconditionally. I’m not a fan of his sermonizing (it makes me squirm when Aslan tells people off). But I love his worldbuilding, I love his characterization, I love the quirky names he gives his characters. The denizens of Narnia seem to be the manifestation of an imagination without limits.

 

My favorite of the Narnia books (which I think I share with many others!) is Voyage of the Dawn Treader—like Reepicheep, I could just continuing voyaging further on and further in, as far as Lewis is willing to take me.

 

Final note from Elizabeth:

 

Thank you so much for the interview! I love talking about maps. Oops, I mean books. It has been very exciting being part of the Through the Wardrobe project because everyone else involved has been so eager to share their own stories and views on the project—and I think it had us all panting in anticipation of the movie. It makes you feel like you’re part of the buzz, part of the rush. The anticipation is killing me.

(E’s website can be found at www.elizabethwein.com, but she says her sporadic blog eegatland.livejournal.com is much more interesting.)

 

 

…tomorrow, examining the literary bones.                        

 

Jun. 3rd, 2008

Literary Bones

 

Day Three

 

Some people say that all young adult literature is about the journey to adulthood. I guess I’ve spent my whole life thinking and writing about that journey…” Elizabeth Wein

 

 
                                                                                      
                                                                                     

 

From Aerial to Inner View

 

Let’s get back to Elizabeth Wein and how maps and flying influence her perspective as a writer…

 

Telemakos, the hero in my novels The Lion Hunter and The Empty Kingdom, is trained as a mapmaker. He really is—throughout most of the action of the two books he is apprenticed to a royal cartographer. Navigation is actually his number one skill; the reader is kind of set up to think of him as a spy, but he calls himself a tracker—he thinks of his skill in the context of being able to find his way anywhere.

 

            Telemakos first turns up as a six-year-old in A Coalition of Lions, and he was already a map lunatic then. The map that appears in The Lion Hunter is meant to be drawn by him. A careful reader might figure it out—the map, which is decorated with pelicans and flamingoes, is referenced in the text a couple of times.

 

The best maps I have of Ethiopia and Yemen, the setting for The Mark of Solomon (the overarching title for my two most recent books, The Lion Hunter and The Empty Kingdom), are aerial navigation maps. I referred to these obsessively long before I considered the possibility of becoming a pilot myself. I had never been to Ethiopia when I wrote A Coalition of Lions, and these maps helped me visualize the landscape (GoogleEarth wasn’t around back then).


                                                                         

 

I have written several short stories about flying, but my novels still take place on the ground ONLY because I can’t figure out a pseudo-historical way to launch my characters into the sky. At one point in The Empty Kingdom Telemakos is described as an “apprentice pilot.” Of a boat, not a plane, but I put the pun there on purpose.

 

The process of becoming a pilot influenced these books in other ways. The discipline, tension and responsibility that drive Telemakos in The Mark of Solomon were definitely inspired by my own flying lessons. Getting my private pilot’s license was the hardest thing I have ever done.

 

What drew you to write about Caspian and his journey to adulthood?

 

Well, The Mark of Solomon is also a story about a journey to adulthood. Some people say that all young adult literature is about the journey to adulthood. I guess I’ve spent my whole life thinking and writing about that journey, so it comes as no surprise I find Caspian’s version of it compelling as well.

 

One of the things I really love about Caspian is his connection to his land—how he is the rightful king because he understands the land, and they grow in awareness and gain their freedom at the same time. I guess this also connects to that irrational moment where you stand on the beach, overwhelmed by its beauty, and feel that you own it. I like the idea that you have to love your land in order to rule it. And taking that to its allegorical conclusion… that when we take responsibility for ourselves and others, we come into our own “kingship.”

 

 
                                                                        

 

 

In “Prince to King” you talk about how Caspian comes to the emotional maturity that earns him his crown through a three step trial of “awareness, faith and responsibility.” Going back to your love of maps again, it strikes me that in the essay you have recorded a “map” of a character’s inner journey. How conscious are you of moving your own characters through such a journey in your novels?

 

I wouldn’t have said I was conscious that such a map existed, but when you point it out to me I’d say OH, of COURSE. The Empty Kingdom is most definitely about the “prince to king” journey and, well, I suppose I already said that the hero is a mapmaker. It’s definitely a metaphor for his inner journey. When I was writing the essay about Caspian I was very struck by how similar a progression Caspian and my own Telemakos were making throughout their individual books.

 

Responsibility is something that I feel very strongly about. I don’t like to make my readers feel that I’m trying to pound any kind of moral message into them. But I do like my characters to take responsibility for their own actions (my children quote me on this, with sarcasm: “I know, I know, Take Responsibility for My Own Actions!”). This is why I love Caspian. He DOES it.

 

…tomorrow, taking a cue from C.S. Lewis.  

Jun. 2nd, 2008

Literary Bones

 

Day Two

“I lift detail and imagery from my own experience…the worn, narrow stairs, the grain of the stone and timberwork, the lofty halls and airy tower chambers…” Elizabeth Wein

 

 

 

 

 

 

Living with Castles and Kestrels

 

Say hello to Elizabeth Wein www.elizabethwein.com who lives in Perth, Scotland. Wein has authored several young adult novels which blend Arthurian legend with the history of ancient Ethiopia. Her most recent two books form The Mark of Solomon duology. Part I, The Lion Hunter, was short listed for the Andre Norton award in 2007. Part II, The Empty Kingdom, was released in April 2008.

Congratulations on your wonderful essay “Prince to King” in Through the Wardrobe. We’ll talk about that soon, but first, a little about Elizabeth. Your own life sounds quite mythical. You live and write in Scotland, and you’re a bell ringer. Are there aspects of Scottish landscape and tradition that really affect your work? 

 

Not so much cultural tradition, since my work isn’t set in Scotland, but the wild landscape and the historical sites around me do have a profound effect on my work. I am actually an uprooted American, but I’ve been in the UK since 1995. One of the things that blew my mind when I first arrived in Scotland after living in England for five years was how commonplace castles are here. From my bedroom window I can see one that was built around 1590—it’s now used as low-income housing. Within a ten mile radius of my house I can think of, offhand, seven others.

 

There is no doubt that I lift detail and imagery from my own experience of climbing around and exploring these places—the worn, narrow stairs, the grain of the stone and timberwork, the lofty halls and airy tower chambers. To tell the truth, though, it’s probably the drains—of all things—that turn up the most in my writing. They get used as escape routes and hiding places and traps (when my son was three he once climbed out of a castle via an ancient toilet).

 

My husband and I do ring church bells, á là Lord Peter Wimsey in Dorothy Sayers’s The Nine Tailors. We ring at St. Columba at Dunkeld. The great choir of the 13th century cathedral serves as the parish church of Dunkeld; between the bell tower and the church stand the ruins of the cathedral itself, and you have to climb over the ancient doorway to get to the tower stair.

 

                                                                

 

The cathedral stands on the banks of the River Tay. The atmosphere of beauty and history in this place is incredible. My kids take 13th century tower stairs for granted, having been dragged up and down them at least once a week for as long as they can remember.

 

We’re definitely more connected to the land in Scotland than we were in Southern England; we see more wildlife (in the river in the middle of the city of Perth I’ve seen seals, and herons flying over our house, and once, a kestrel right outside my study window); much more of our food is farmed locally; and I think all this contributes to my fictional characters’ relationship with the world around them, even though their landscape and wildlife aren’t the same as mine.

 

 

                                                                     

 

 

There’s a scene in my most recent book, The Empty Kingdom, where the hero is walking on a beach and is so struck by its beauty that he feels like he owns it. I’ve felt that here, too, sometimes; that’s why I used it in my book, to emphasize the character’s connection to the land.

 

(Incidentally, it’s a total coincidence that I live in Scotland. I’m here because my husband got a job here. He’s in the computer games industry.)

 

You write fantasy novels and have a Ph.D. in folklore. Do you feel there’s a connection between your love of legend and your writer’s voice?

 

Well, the reason that I have a Ph.D. in folklore is because I wanted to write fantasy novels. I saw it as a means to an end, although I kind of fell into the Ph.D. by accident because I was given a very nice grant at the end of my first year working on my M.A. There’s no doubt that the love of legend and the writer’s voice affect each other.

 

When I started the graduate program in folklore I imagined it would give me ideas—a grounding in myth, legend and folktale. In fact what it gave me was structure: the technical skills to use research effectively, the ability to recognize themes and motifs and to use them appropriately, and a knowledge of how storytelling functions in society.

 

Learning those things probably wasn’t the most exciting aspect of the folklore program at Penn. But in the long run it was definitely the most useful.

 

Since you’re a pilot as well as a map-maker, what about the external landscape, especially from an aerial view? Do maps and flying influence your perspective as a writer?

 

Maps are a huge influence on my writing. I am a total, total map nerd. I have never written a single story without looking at a map first—usually several maps. I can’t seem to visualize a character’s landscape unless I see it plotted out graphically from overhead. Incidentally, I draw all the maps for my own books, too. That’s not obvious—they aren’t credited, except indirectly in The Empty Kingdom where it says “Text and map copyright Elizabeth Gatland” (my married name).

 

There’s no printed map in my first book, The Winter Prince, but tucked inside the jacket of my own personal copy is a Xeroxed map of the landscape where it takes place with my characters’ journey through it outlined in highlighter pen.

 

 

                                                                

 

 

… tomorrow more highlights from Elizabeth Wein including the connection between her “map lunatic” character Telemakos, and Prince Caspian of Narnia’s inner journey.

Jun. 1st, 2008

Literary Bones

 

Literary Bones




 

Well she got her daddys car
And she cruised through the hamburger stand now
Seems she forgot all about the library
Like she told her old man now
And with the radio blasting
Goes cruising just as fast as she can now

And she’ll have fun fun fun
til her daddy takes the t-bird away
(fun fun fun til her daddy takes the t-bird away)

 

 

Day One

Cheeseburgers

 

 

Remember that old Beach Boy’s song about the girl and her t-bird? As the story goes, she was gonna have “fun fun fun til her daddy takes the t-bird away.” A friend of mine recently admitted that as a child she used to hear that line differently. For years she sang it as, “she’ll have fun fun fun til her Daddy takes her cheeseburger away.” 

It makes sense, right? They were cruising through the hamburger stand. And caught up in the rhythm of the song that’s the story she thought she was getting. A showdown between a girl and her (no doubt) strict vegetarian father. 

Isn’t it sometimes worth revisiting a story you thought you had down the first time? It can deepen, or even change, its meaning. Taking a second look was part of the fun for me in writing an essay for the anthology Through The Wardrobe on C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia.  http://sarahbethdurst.blogspot.com/search?q=Zu+Vincent  


                                                                               


                And since I have some pretty good company in there I invited one of the authors to stop by The Tollbooth this week. Elizabeth E. Wein lives in Scotland, rings bells, flies planes and writes young adult novels set in Arthurian Britain and sixth-century Ethiopia

She’s got some great insights on writing and the writer’s life—everything from castles to character maps—and it just so happens her essay is about the subject of the new Disney release “Prince Caspian.” That makes it a perfect time to talk about books to movies and the art of dramatic structure, too. 

Mar. 28th, 2008

PLAY, IMAGINATION AND INSIGHT

 
ROAD PLAY
 


 
There are a couple of reasons why I wanted to talk about the following novels in terms of insight, imagination and play. First, it strikes me that in writing for young adults a road trip is inspired. Road trips are grand adventures, one of the last attempts at play we make before we enter adulthood. Yet, conversely, how many adults are able to take off and follow their dreams?
Second, both books use alternating chapters in an imaginative way, with either a change in time or between character voices. There’s also a wonderful play on words between the title and theme in each book. And finally, the characters in both stories leave technology behind on their adventures. All this made me curious about the role of imagination and play in these writers’ lives.
 
SHIFT



Shift by Jennifer Bradbury (Atheneum) is a tense mystery with spirit and insight into a boy’s heart as he becomes a man. When Chris sets out with his best friend Win on a cross-country bike trip after high school, Chris doesn’t realize that he’ll eventually have to let go, not only of his best friend—who disappears mysteriously along the way—but of an idea he’s had of himself. Thus the “shift” of bicycle gears becomes a shift in perspective and a major shift in his life.
 
Q: Jen, Shift is a metaphor that worked for literally shifting gears, the shift in time in the novel, and the emotional shifts the characters make as they mature. A shift happened in me as I read, too, because I slowly realized the truth about Win’s mysterious disappearance. Did you think of the title as metaphorical when you began? 
 
A: “I wish I could say everything was planted there on purpose. The title actually changed just before my submission to my editor. I’m so glad it did—but most of those connections were sort of serendipitous on the back end. I love short titles with multiple meanings (another definition is a trick or deception, which pleased me). And at that point, the metaphors did crystallize.
 
Q: Were you aware of the momentum of the road trip as something that helped you in your character's journey?
 
A: It’s absolutely true that the trip was meant to both grow the characters and drive them apart. Travel in all forms tends to expose people to themselves and to others, and it was fun to let that drive this story.
Q: Did you make a conscious choice for the boys to leave technology behind?
A: Yes. Travel and adventure takes on a different dimension when you leave all the stuff behind that distracts you in your daily life. So the cell phone breaking early on was part of creating that magic for the characters. And Chris at one point mentions that he’s sort of glad about it, because part of the joy of the trip is the independence, and feeling like anybody could call them at any moment would have spoiled that.
 
Q: Do you see a connection between your writing and how you played as a child?
 
A: I played outside a lot as a kid, read a ton of books, and took more risks than my mother liked. I think part of living is getting over the fear of what might happen if you try something and fail. And in a weird way, in the way I played as a kid—sort of risky at times—the biggest risk was leaving my inhaler at home (Bradbury suffered from childhood asthma), and risking even more as I grew up did pave the way.
 
BRINGING THE BOY HOME

 
 
Bringing the Boy Home by N.A. Nelson (Harper Collins) is a gut wrenching adventure told with heart and insight. Nelson’s title plays on the idea of a boy becoming a man. In this case Tirio, an Americanized boy from the Amazon, endures a dangerous rite of passage to return to the village which cast him out as a child. The title reflects this ritual journey and is also a play on the novel’s use of the power of the sixth sense. And in Nelson’s book the road trip becomes the jungle trek that Tirio takes alone.
 
Q: You’ve said that the inspiration for your book came from a stay in a research camp in Brazil. Can you talk a bit more about how your background helped create this story? Was there a deeper connection or emotional insight you found while writing Bringing the Boy Home?
 
A: The insight I got was that regardless of race, religion or gender, at our core, we are all truly alike. My ah-ha moment came many years after my visit to Brazil when I was trying to answer the question— “What was my purpose of writing this book?”
When I came up with the “we are all alike” answer, I thought, “Oh, that is so pat—how can you say that? You were only in the jungle four days and the only contact you had with the local people was the cook at the research camp.”
Then BINGO—the cook. He went behind the kitchen one night, cut some leaves off a bush and brewed tea for my stomach ache. As he handed me the cup, he gestured with his hands a couple times and motioned for me to drink up.
I kind of laughed about it at the time—this angry little man, watching me intently, forcing me to drink—but at the same time, I got this strange feeling of connection and familiarity.
I was raised in a very rural area—where it wasn’t uncommon to use sassafras root as a cure or cut up an onion and tie it to your ear for an infection. And many a time my mother handed me a cup of medicine or tea with that same “c’mon, I know it doesn’t taste good, but drink it” look.
So it was almost as if, at that moment—when the cook knitted his brows together and watched me intently until I’d emptied the cup—I could have been his child. That was the insight I garnered. And that’s why it wasn’t difficult for me, a thirty-something farm girl from Missouri, to write a book from the point of view of two thirteen-year-old Amazon jungle boys.

 Q: I love the title and how it plays on the idea that Luka is drawing Tirio home with his sixth sense. And readers get both boys’ voices in the alternating chapters. Did you have both voices from the beginning or did they develop along the way?
 
A: Tirio’s and Luka’s voices came to me surprisingly easily. And I really don’t know why. Maybe because of the reason I gave above. Maybe not. Some mysteries are better left uncovered.
What was a struggle was how the boys were going to be related. I had NO idea until about halfway through the book. I didn’t really feel the need to know because their stories hadn’t really intersected—so I just kept writing—but then when it came time to start intertwining them—I was flummoxed.
So I leashed my two Weimaraner dogs, laced up my shoes and went for a walk. And I can tell you exactly the stretch of road where I was when the connection came to me. It was so clear and cool I just stood there and smiled. That was definitely one of those magic moments writers never forget.
 
Q: For Tirio’s journey, he leaves behind the modern world and even discards all technology right down to his shoes and his leg brace, to return to his village. Can you talk about this decision to leave the modern world behind?
 
A: In order for Tirio to prove to his father that he was strong enough to be a Takunami man, he had to survive and find his way back home through the jungle exactly as any other Takunami boy would—with nothing but his five senses to help him. The last thing Tirio wanted was for his father to say he only made it because he had some kind of outside help. And I also think he wanted to prove it to himself—that he could do it. Strangely enough, I flew through Tirio’s jungle scenes much faster than his Florida scenes.
 
                                                                

Q: Do you see any connection to the story’s drama and a sense of play you had as a child? Were you an adventurous kid?
 
A: I was an adventurous kid partly because I was forced to be. If it was up to me, I probably would have stayed in my room and read all day, but after a few hours my mom would come in and shoo me outside.
Plus, we were only allowed to watch an hour of television a day (usually at night,) so that combined with the fact that I had 1000 acres of an old farmstead to explore—yeah, I had a lot of adventures.
My little brother and I were constantly turning over rocks and logs in search of worms to go fishing with, but then we’d get distracted by all the cool stuff under the rocks and logs. Once we’d fished all our ponds, we snuck over the property line to fish in the old widow’s pond next to us.
 We were always building stuff: mazes out of the bales of hay in the barn, tree houses and a dog house from the scrapes of wood we found laying around.
So to answer you question: Does our creative play as children affect our creativity as adults?
Yes, absolutely...if we allow it.
 
Before I sign off, I wanted to add that Bradbury and Nelson are part of the debut novelists’ Class of 2K8, where my novel, The Lucky Place launches next week. I hope you’ll stop by!    

  http://classof2k8.blogspot.com/


                                                                                                                 

                         

Mar. 27th, 2008

PLAY, IMAGINATION AND INSIGHT

MONSTEROUS IMAGINATIONS



Yesterday we talked about child psychologist Elkind’s stages of child development—infant, six to twelve years olds, and adolescence—and how these stages correspond with our literary tradition: picture books, middle-grade, and young adult books. Let’s look at them more closely now, and see what we might be losing if technology is dramatically changing children’s play.
“Infants and young children dawdle because they are looking at the world with fresh eyes and ears,” says Elkind about the first stage of development. “They are caught up and excited by much that we take for granted and no longer find of interest.”
This is the age of loving sound, song and rhymes. The age when we’re full of curiosity and want to understand the world, when we’re truly discovering the world through play. (It’s also the age first targeted, and pretty uselessly, according to Elkind, by such infant learning shows as Teletubbies, and computer software like Baby WOW.)
Is screen media useful to an infant or a toddler? Can they actually put themselves to work and learn in the way such media intends? Consider what Joyce Carol Oates says in The Faith of a Writer, about this harrowing and fascinating time of life.
“In the beginning, for the child, there is only life, and consciousness; ‘play’ is indistinguishable from both. No child, not even the prodigy Mozart, ‘plays’ for professional purposes, nor even to define himself as talented, a worthy object of others’ attention.” 
Infants and toddlers aren’t thinking of themselves as professionals. They dwell in the magical realm of the imagination. Do you remember those years of constant astonishment? Annie Dillard, in An American Childhood, describes the power of her freewheeling imagination this way.
“When I was five, growing up in Pittsburgh in 1950, I would not go to bed willingly because something came into my room. This was a private matter between me and it. If I spoke of it, it would kill me.”
It would kill me. At five, Dillard’s imagination was so all consuming she couldn’t reason with it. And while this is terrifying for a child, who can argue the value of what Dillard’s wild, untamed mind later produced?
 
A GOING WORLD



Elkind calls a child’s second stage of development as “the age of reason.” This stage begins between ages four and six and lasts until ten or twelve. He describes it in terms of literature this way: “Before the age of reason a child prefers rhymes and poems that are simple sequences of events.” For example,
Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn,
The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn.
Such rhymes appeal to young children because the “images are general, concrete and here and now. Playful and amusing, with unexpected outcomes.”
But with the age of reason kids’ interest turns instead to books like Winnie the Pooh with its somewhat complicated characters and plot. Soon children develop a love of games with rules, tag, hide-and-seek and Marco Polo. They adore jokes and clubs and secret play places. Books such as Bridge to Terabithia become beloved. Yet it’s still not a time, Elkinds cautions, for advanced technology to rule the day.
 “Children are not naturally motivated to learn from formal instruction,” he says. “Parents and teachers are most effective if they build on children’s love of stories, contrasts, rhythm and rhyme, unexpected facts, and humor.”
Annie Dillard says of this time in her life that, “…so many times a day the world, like a church bell, reminded me to recall and contemplate the durable fact that I was here, and had awakened once more to find myself set down in a going world….”
Is this a time to reel in the imagination? Or to let it expand?
Development is relatively slow at this age, says Elkinds, compared to the leaps children make as infants. In today’s world, we tend to structure kids’ lives at this stage, both in school and with outside lessons. Sometimes too much. 
“Learning is most powerful when it involves self-initiation and personal motivation,” Elkind writes. “This is most likely to happen when young people play when they want to play , for how long they what to play and with whom they want to play.” But Elkind laments that in America we have fewer and fewer places for such play. So much so that “we Americans are losing our preeminence in our own national sport—baseball.”
 
FAST DRIVING



In early adolescence, too, Elkinds finds us losing out on age appropriate activities. As puberty begins during ages twelve to fifteen, the heavyweight emotion—love—takes over. Academics get the back seat to this new wonder. As Dillard describes this time in her life, “…you wake one day and discover your grandmother; you wake another day and notice, like any curious naturalist, the boys.”
Wouldn’t “the seventh grade slump” be better spent, Elkind wonders, using a form of play to learn the basics of relationships and coping skills, by staging a play or building a boat? And this is a great time for adults, he notes, to play alongside their children, sharing their own forms of recreation with them, such as hiking, swimming or dancing.
“So this was adolescence,” Dillard writes. “Is this how the people around me had died on their feet—inevitably, helplessly? ….and when at last their inescapable orbits had passed through the dark egoistic years it was too late, they had adjusted.”
            But adjustment does come, and with it we’ve earned late adolescence, between the ages of sixteen and nineteen. Now play becomes “institutionalized” and our creative potential is funneled into the arts: Music, acting and writing.
But the path still isn’t easy.
“Funny how badly I’d turned out,” Dillard writes. “Now I was always in trouble…. I loved fast driving.” A good thing for us that she realized her potential in adulthood, not discarding play for work as some adults do, but embracing it.
As Joyce Carol Oates says of this final transition into adulthood, “All writers—all artists—may be classified as romantics, for the very act of creating, and of caring enough to create, is a romantic gesture. What begins as child’s play ends, not ironically so much as rather wonderfully, as a ‘vocation,’ a ‘calling,’ a ‘destiny’—”
 
 
GEOGRAPHERS OF IMAGINATION



The truth is you can’t deny your destiny. Not and be a fully realized human being. So if you fear you can’t “keep up” with technology and its sometimes numbing effects on the imagination, why not reconnect instead. Recharge your work with what’s most basic and essential from childhood. Reconnect with those stages of play in your own life. And never doubt that the power of play is also the power of books.
“I began reading books, reading books to delirium,” says Dillard in An American Childhood. “I began by vanishing from the known world into the passive abyss of reading, but soon found myself engaged with surprising vigor because the things in the books, or even the things surrounding the books, roused me from my stupor.”
Books, like play, bring us back to ourselves. Without imagination and insight we wouldn’t have had the Brontë sisters, those “gifted, blessed or accursed children who are themselves, in childhood, geographers of the imagination,” as Oates calls them.
Think how the Brontë’s plays, mimes, games, and serial adventure stories were carried into their adulthood and resulted in some of our most enduring classics, including WutheringHeightsand Jane Eyre. Have more “enduring works of art ever been more triumphant than this?” Oates asks.  “The memorization of childhood fantasy reimagined as adult passion and ‘fate’”?
And consider this. While I did give my niece that stuffed animal for Christmas (and thus a “virtual” pet), I also gave her a book. She had the flu the night we exchanged gifts, and she went down on the couch and took the book with her.
“I’ve already heard this one,” she told me, so I offered to exchange it.
“No!” she said, and clutched it close. “My teacher read it to us. It’s a good book!”
 

Mar. 25th, 2008

PLAY, IMAGINATION AND INSIGHT

 
 
POWER OF PLAY



I’ve been reading a lot about play lately, from David Elkind, Ph.D.’s The Power of Play. Elkind, too, believes that the advent of so much technology has seen the loss of creative play time. And with it the loss of social interaction that helps us develop what he calls three interwoven skills for emotional and cognitive health: play, love and work. 
Elkind splits childhood development into three stages: before the age of reason, the age of reason, and adolescence. These stages hit me like a writer’s map of children’s literature: picture book, middle grade and young adult. So I thought taking a look at his 2007 release might—even though Elkind is a child psychologist—be interesting from a writer’s standpoint. 
Play, says Elkind, is a vital component to developing our most valuable skills as human beings. It’s not “a luxury but rather a crucial dynamic of healthy, physical, intellectual, and social-emotional development at all age levels.” 
Without getting too technical, suffice to say that his book departs from the traditional stages of child development (physical, intellectual and emotional-social) and looks instead at how we learn to interweave that trio of love, work and play in the three stages mentioned above: infancy and early childhood, elementary school years (ages 6-12), and adolescence.
Throughout our lives we gain important skills in playing everything from peek-a-boo to playacting to putting play into creative endeavors such as writing and art, says Elkind. And without trying to be a doomsayer, he notes that as kids spend more and more time in front of TVs, computers, movies, BlackBerries, and cell phone screens it means “a lack of interaction with caregivers, other kids and time spent exploring the sensory world through active play.”  
But don’t kids need all this technology to keep up with the times?

 
RUNNING HOT AND COOL



Elkind isn’t advocating going backwards in time, but rather seeking a balance. He notes that today we’ve created a false sophistication in children that makes them look more advanced than they really are. His simple analogy is of a young child who thinks he can tell time when he reads a digital clock. But that same child doesn’t yet have the skills to understand and read a face clock.
In addition, technology’s impact on children isn’t easily measurable because there’s no simple cause-and-effect to measure. In other words, who we are and how we react to screen media has many variables. For instance, Elkind divides media impact into “hot” and “cool” calling hot content more intense and cool less intense. 
Hot content demands less viewer participation, JurassicParkis one example. While cool content allows for more participation and invites more learning (such as Sesame Street)
You can see this reaction in readers as well. Certain hot, action packed books appeal to some readers, while cooler, thoughtful reads appeal to others. Writers understand this, that’s why there are as many types of books as there are readers.

 
THE DELIMNA



Yesterday a reader sent me a story from the New York Times about the move for libraries to make video games and stations part of their programs and collections. Following other libraries from Ann Arbor, Mich. to Los Angeles and parts of New England, the New York Public Library has added 2,500 copies of 92 different games for circulation. It’s a way to be more relative to a younger audience. 
And is it bringing kids in. 
Jack Martin, the library’s assistant coordinator for young adult services says in the article that games have “the potential to be a great teaching tool” through learning the game rules, its world and its story.
“Pretty cool,” a ninth grader was quoted as saying about seeing more kids in the library. “Because you don’t see too many kids my age in a place like this to check out a book.”
 
BACK TO BOOKS
So how do we get back to books? How do we decide for ourselves what needs to change and what’s precious enough to fight for? 
Tomorrow we’ll go a bit deeper into those stages of child development from a writer’s perspective, exploring play and its kinfolk—insight and imagination. You might even find how your own writing voice was born in play and realized in literature. 

Mar. 23rd, 2008

PLAY, IMAGINATION AND INSIGHT

 
CHILD’S PLAY



When my friend and I were little our favorite pastime was to act out stories together. We’d wrap up in my mother’s sheer curtains, her skirts for capes, and run around the yard or sweep over the fence, sometimes the tale so elaborate it went on for days. In the sharp smell of Bermuda grass, the mint plants edging up the stucco wall, the peach trees with their fuzzy, wormed fruit. We stole jewels, clashed swords, watched the world go up in flames.
            Play and story. To me, as a writer, there’s a visceral connection between the two. They both begin with imagination and lead to insight—insight as that essential something that speaks to our humanity and the meaning of life. 
           And imagination, psychologists tell us, needs play. Remember being lost in play as a kid? Wasn’t that feeling akin to the “flow” you feel now when the words are coming freely on the page, when the story surrounds you, rushes through you and moves you down the river of time without your even realizing how long you’ve traveled?
But according to the experts, play isn’t what it used to be. It’s lost its creativity when so much is being done for us. Not only are kids pushed to be more structured and learn academics at an earlier age, but infants have TVs in their bedrooms, kids under six watch screen media for hours a day, elementary school students text message and maintain their own blogs and teens grab text, images and sound through iPods and MP3 players.
Is interaction with technology causing the death of the imagination? And if so, what does it mean for writers who rely on readers’ imaginations to interact with their stories? After all reading, like play, calls for participation.
This week I wanted to play around with play. To take a look, from a writer’s perspective, at what play means in children’s lives. To talk about how a writer’s voice is born in play and realized in literature. And to discuss how play—and thus literature—is being affected by technology.
Then we’ll talk to two authors about imagination, insight and their brand new books—Bringing the Boy Home by N.A. Nelson and Shift by Jennifer Bradbury—that take play on the road.



 VIRTUAL WORLD

An award winning author told me recently that she’s “giving up” on writing for young adults. “I just can’t compete,” she says, “or even keep up with, technology.”
The dilemma is two-fold. On one hand, you can make a good case for authenticity. For knowing and writing into stories all the latest gadgets that give your novel the ring of truth. But that’s just surface stuff.
The big question is, is technology too much competition? Should we write at all?
This Christmas, all my eight-year-old niece wanted was a certain stuffed animal. Not to use in hands-on imaginative play but as a portal to a virtual world where her real pet became a cartoon version. With a secret code and computer cash she spent days online caring for her pet; buying it furniture, food and other goodies to fill its home. Quite a bit like designing imaginary houses the old fashioned way—with a pencil and paper—with one exception. The real designing was already done for her. (Down the hall her older siblings were also caught up—plunking mock guitars as notes raced out of a video screen.)
What’s wrong with that? Plenty, say neuroscientists Adele Diamond and psychologist Deborah Leong on a recent NPR interview, “Creative Play Makes for Kids in Control”. Because kids lose out when they rely, not on their own creativity, but on the parameters set by a virtual world. 
            “When children learn to rely on themselves for playtime,” say Diamond and Leong, “—improvising props, making up games and stories—they’re actually developing critical cognitive skills, including an important one called ‘executive function.’ Essentially, executive function is the ability to regulate one’s own behavior—a key skill for controlling emotions, resisting impulses and exerting self control and discipline.”
And that’s just the tip of the iceberg...

Jan. 24th, 2008

INSIDE THE EGG

 

A Tale Told Inside-Out


 Yesterday we saw Despereaux, however diminutive, become the super-hero of his story. Super-hero roles, says award-winning author Jacqueline Woodson, play to a child’s feelings of being outcast and misunderstood, giving them a sense that a star lurks behind the mask.


 “Kids need to see themselves in a book to feel legitimized,” she notes. “And like them, the super-hero characters in tales are often misunderstood.” So too are the characters in realistic novels, as we’ll see with Janet Lisle’s wonderful Afternoon of the Elves.


 



 


While Afternoon of the Elves uses many elements from a traditional tale, the novel is less a tale than a tale turned inside out. For only Hillary believes in the ‘other world’ proposed by her friend Sara-Kate, and in fact the reader never actually sees that other world save through Hillary’s certainty that it exists.


When the strange outcast Sara-Kate tells fourth-grade Hillary that she has elves building small houses in her back yard, the magic of the story is the extraordinary event that reaches out and transforms Hillary. And Hillary proves to have some extraordinary powers of her own, including a belief in magic, and a stubborn empathy for Sara-Kate.


Thus Hillary defies everyone, from her mother who scolds; “I don’t like you playing in that yard,” to her friends who warn, “Sara-Kate Connolly is not a nice person. Hillary should be careful of her.” She even defies Sara-Kate herself, a moody outcast “who didn’t have any friends, who spit at people when they made her mad and walked around all day in a pair of men’s boots…” and returns again and again to Sara-Kate’s yard.


In the process Hillary learns to see more in Sara-Kate than others do, realizing that she, “was really no different from anyone else… She even managed to look rather pretty at times.” And although no one save Hillary ever believes in Sara-Kate’s elves, as Hillary says about the behavior of such creatures, “Facts can be understood differently, they can add up to different answers depending on how they are viewed.”


Through her eyes we too see Sara-Kate’s junky yard as a place where elves save water in acorn cups, fashion a Ferris wheel from discarded bike tires and use starlight for power. Yet it’s not this magical realm that constitutes the moral universe in Hillary’s life, but the everyday world of parents and friends who oppose her fixation on the girl next door. Her friends are typically shallow kids who worry about “Eton cuts” and “star jackets,” and her mother the standard parental figure who seems villainous in her opposition to Sara-Kate.  

                                         


“Mrs. Lenox disliked the Connelly’s shabbiness,” writes Lisle. “She was nervous about the disorder lurking just beyond the hedge. It nibbled at the edges of her own well-kept yard.” Without her mother’s full consent, Hillary crawls through the hedge to Sara-Kate’s yard, and later accompanies the older girl on her adult errands around town.


 “Hillary went secretly, of course,” writes Lisle, “…her parents would never allow her to walk around the town.” So that Hillary’s mother becomes the ogre in the tale, and Hillary its super-hero. After Hillary discovers Sara-Kate rocking her sick mother in her bazaar, barren house, Hillary forms this astonishing conclusion about her tough, resourceful friend: that she’s an elf.


 "The elves were there because Sara-Kate was there,” Hillary reasons. “She was their leader and protector… and when the weather grew too cold… she brought the precious magic beings inside… with her strangely sick mother.” From Hillary’s point of view, we are living in her child’s world right inside the egg.


 Here adults can behave in monstrous ways, like aliens from another planet, and children must negotiate their own world, where they manage their feelings, thoughts and adventures beneath the parent’s radar.


 Even Sara-Kate’s mother is a fantastical creature in this child’s universe, seen only through Sara-Kate’s motivation to save her. Hillary sees her as a shadow in the upper window or a sad, white-faced figure in Sara-Kate’s arms. And although Hillary is making inroads in understanding these parent-creatures—she “looks deep” to understand her father’s distress at the dinner table—it’s Sara-Kate, another super-hero, who’s taught her this technique.


 In the end, Mrs. Lenox discovers Sara-Kate is keeping her household together on her own and turns her in to social services, reducing Sara-Kate to a mere child in the adult universe. And suddenly Hillary too, doesn’t know if Sara-Kate was “cruel or warm-hearted, magic or ordinary.”


 Not the happily ever after ending of a true tale. But as the author herself has said, just as tales themselves are about perception, about changing perception to get at moral truth, the novel is “really about perception. How our perceptions distort reality. I wanted readers to feel unsettled… to realize we can’t use our laws to judge individuals.”


 Hillary’s perception then, becomes her truth, and when her friend is taken away she moves the elf village to safety because “every single thing Sara-Kate had taught her about elves had turned out to be true about the thin girl herself… [she] was sure she had been in the presence of an elf, and that the village was a special, magic place.”


 So like heroic Despereaux hidden in a tiny mouse body, Hillary sees magic in fierce Sara-Kate. The sort of magic that can fuse any tale, whether it’s traditional, or told with a contemporary twist.


 


 


“We should look at green again,” says Tolkien about the act of writing tales, a sentiment that might be applied to writing for children in general, which urges us to be “startled anew (but not blinded) by blue and yellow and red. We should meet the centaur and the dragon, and then perhaps suddenly behold… this recovery fairy-stories help us to make. In that sense only a taste for them may make us, or keep us, childish.”


 


Childish enough to step inside the egg. 


Jan. 23rd, 2008

INSIDE THE EGG

 

Dear Reader


 

            Today we’re looking at Kate DiCamillo’s The Tale of Despereaux, for elements of a traditional tale. 

 

Despereaux begins with a tale's “extraordinary situation.” A tiny mouse born with too large ears and his eyes already open. His certain doom is pronounced by his own father. “The last one,” said the father. “And he’ll be dead soon. He can’t live. Not with his eyes open like that.” Further, “He was ridiculously small. He ears were obscenely large… [and] most alarming of all, he showed no interest in the things a mouse should show interest in.”

 

Already, little Despereaux is larger than life. That is, his life is larger than an ordinary mouse’s life in his world. In fact, though he’s a strange runt, his very strangeness seems to allow him super powers. He hears music, and he reads books instead of eating them.

 

The castle he’s born into is complete with a dark dungeon full of evil, mouse-eating rats, and a golden upstairs where rich King Philip adores his Princess Pea. And in this world even a mouse’s existence is “charged with traditions and values which impose themselves” on his will. Because he reads books he discovers the notion of love, and falls in love with the Princess Pea.

 

“The Pea, he decided, looked just like the picture of the fair maiden in the book in the library. The princess smiled at Despereaux and… the mouse fell in love.” Not only has he been noticed by a human, he even speaks to her, and thus has not conformed to mice rules. The judgment comes from the mouse council; he is to be sent to his death in the dungeon.

 

            There are other aspects of the tale apparent in DiCamillo’s novel. One is the language itself, which is “reserved and relatively formal.” DiCamillo addresses us as “Dear Reader,” in a tone that naturally accepts things like talking mice and their fate. “Reader, you must know that an interesting fate (sometimes involving rats, sometimes not) awaits almost everyone, mouse or man, who does not conform,” the author writes.

 

In these narrative asides lies the idea of a moral universe, as surely as it's found in the meeting of the mouse council which banishes the renegade Despereaux. And DiCamillo is able to comment on this moral universe without pulling us from the world of the tale because she comments on our expectations.  Look at how she considers Despereaux’s decision to be brave for the princess in the face of death: “Even if (reader, could it be true?) there was no such thing as happily ever after.”

 

            DiCamillo also follows the traditional tale when she introduces two additional storylines, that of Chiaroscuro and Gor! The Tale of Miggery Sow. Chiaroscuro is the vengeful rat who plots to steal the princess because he himself has been banished from her light. And Miggery Sow is the slow-witted peasant girl who helps Chiaroscuro carry out his evil plot in hopes of becoming a princess herself. So, while these stories are introduced as tales of their own, in the end they reconnect with Despereaux.

 

To foil their plot and rescue the kidnapped princess, the tiny mouse must return to the dungeon he’s escaped from. In this he is aided by other elements familiar to the tale: the threadmaster’s gift of red thread, and Cook’s wonderful soup.

 

Beings in the tale are both larger than life and “types” as well. Despereaux’s Brother Furlough is envious enough to send Despereaux to his death; Gregory the jailmaster is as dark and dangerous as any ogre; and evil Botticelli the rat and the wise threadmaster mouse are mentors to Chiaroscuro and Despereaux, respectively.  

 

The ending, with its “ring of finality,” is also full of what Tolkien calls “grace.” Just as we’ve been privy to the narrator’s ironic voice, we’re privy to a new ending for an old story.

 

The captured princess, it turns out, has a heart, and in empathizing with poor Miggery Sow she gains her trust. When Despereaux appears to rescue the princess, and Miggery cuts off the rat’s tail, Chiaroscuro is thwarted both by pain and by the scent of soup on his adversary. His own broken dreams are then laid bare and seeing this, the princess forgives him.

 

Do we have a happy ending? “Yes,” writes DiCamillo, “…and no.” What we have is an ending consistent with the tale’s moral universe; happiness with an ironic turn. Each character does gain something, but not quite what they expected, while the reader is left with a sense of satisfaction, even joy.

 

“Imagine, before we leave,” DiCamillo entreats us. “An adoring king and a glowing princess, a serving girl with a crown on her head and a rat with a spoon on his, all gathered around a table in a banquet hall.”

 

Now return to the idea of the egg. If the land inside the egg is a child’s reality—a child’s universe and perception of reality apart from the adult perception of reality—might it follow that a contemporary novel for this age group could read as a tale?

 

We’ll find out next time.

 

Previous 20

Advertisement

Customize