Tags

I just switched this blog over to the beta format. What finally swayed me was the keyword tag option in order to group related blog posts. I went overboard on the labels because I originally thought they would actually help with web page searching. They don't. Still, I'm glad that I took a couple of hours over the past few days to attach tags all of my archived posts. (Who suspected I had so many posts about outer-space, sewing, and doll-houses?) While I'm tempted to winnow the tags I created, it's probable that no one else is going to care that I've labeled both my library gigs and writing samples as "storytelling." Still, even though a tag like "folklore" brings up thirty hits, I'm glad that some posts are grouped together. If you suddenly have an overwhelming desire to read everything I've ever posted about puppets, then this beta version is for you.

Speaking of puppets, I've got a puppet-show to plan. In the meantime, check out the Three Minute Nutcracker. Oh, what fun and torment I would inflict if I had a video camera of my own...

Edit and Winnow

Today, I submitted my monthly book review to School Library Journal. I had mixed feelings about my review. The book itself had a narrative that was hard to follow. The text contained a plethora of heavily-wrought descriptions. I recommended the book strictly as an additional purchase. However, I thought the author herself demonstrated a solid understanding of the elements needed for successful fantasy writing, and I said as much.

When I moved to New York, I considered leaving my new library field and attempting to join a publishing house instead. After an entry-level editor friend of mine told me that she earned 5k less than I did, I decided to stay with the library system. I'm glad I did. The few manuscripts for which I did provide feedback were not ready for any sort of professional representation. I would have easily become burnt-out and overwhelmed by the volume of badly written manuscripts.

The book I just reviewed for SLJ was not badly-written. However, I don't believe it was ready for publication. I would probably have thought the same thing about Eragon, had I received a copy of the book for review. Several times I have tried to read Eragon because of patrons' enthusiastic recommendations. I have never been able to get past the first paragraph:

Wind howled through the night, carrying a scent that would change the world. A tall Shade lifted his head and sniffed the air. He looked human except for his crimson hair and maroon eyes.

Once I read "crimson hair and maroon eyes," I stepped off the boat. When I was an avid child and young adult reader, I finished every book I started. I couldn't help it. I was addicted to the discovery of what-happens-next. As an adult (and parent of a toddler) my attention span has become short and skittery. I have no patience for "vivid imagery" that evokes headaches.

Hey. I spent my grade school years glutting sentences with adjectives from the weekly spelling lists. Now, I'm spending the rest of my life learning to winnow.

I've got a book about a crew of mermaid vampire pirates I'd like you to read...

Here's a recent article I read about children's book publishing, courtesy of Fusenumber8:

Weddings, Funerals, and Everywhere In Between, by Diane Roback

The occupational hazards to working in children's publishing are legion. As I read through the stories about people with book ideas approaching publishers in bathroom stalls and at funerals, I remembered one relatively benign but still cringeworthy episode that started out so well: my manuscript was one of 15 selected to undergo scrutiny by an editor at Candlewick Press. We had 15 minutes to talk about the manuscript. At minute 12, I blurted out the premise of a novel I was working on. The editor nodded and said something vaguely encouraging, but I inwardly kicked myself. For what was I hoping? That, like the late, great Ursula Nordstrom, she'd say, "Oh, wonderful! You write that book and I'll read it?" Dream on. (Anyway, now you know one of my embarrassing secrets, which, like my other embarrasing secrets, usually make no one cringe but myself.)

Speaking of Ursula Nordstrom, it's worth reading Dear Genius: The Letters of Ursula Nordstrom, edited by Leonard Marcus. Nordstrom was the now-legendary children's book editor of Harper & Row (Harper and Collins). Chances are that some of your favorite children's books made it into your hands thanks to Nordstrom. If you're not inclined to read Dear Genius, at least check out this book review: Confessions of a Former Child, by Rebecca Pepper Sinkler.

Rhythm, Rhyme and Storytime

One of the fallacies of children’s literature is that sometimes people think they want to write children’s books. Not stories, per se (and I include non-fiction), but children’s books.

After all, the reasoning goes, a children’s book is shorter than a grown-up’s book, ergo it will be easier to write. Any of you who have ever sat down in front a blank page know that all of a sudden, cleaning your bedroom, doing your laundry, and mowing your lawn become more appealing chores than they did prior to your intention to write. I’ve been there. You’ve been there. I have no worries on that front. “Children’s literature is not for the weak,” as Fuse #8 says in the banner on her blog. However, stories in themselves are for the weak and the strong. The weak need encouragement to act with courage, and the strong need reminders to remain humble and compassionate.

What galls me is when someone decides to write a children’s book, puts all sorts of time, energy, effort and imagination into the work, but then decides that the book must be in rhyme. I love good poetry, but I hate forced rhyme. All poetry is not rhyme, and all rhyme is not poetry. For example, the lively illustrations and cumulative disaster storyline of Patricia Polacco’s book, In Enzo’s Splendid Gardens, are utterly ruined by forced rhyme. For example:

"…and heard the commotion
who ran to help the man on the cart
with chocolate and pies all stuck to his heart…”

“Chest” or “shirt” doesn’t rhyme with “cart,” so Polacco has to make do with the nearest body part rhyme. How about "... who ran to help the man in the vest/ with chocolate-cream pie all over his chest?" It's not that much better than the published version, but the book would have been much better had it simply followed the rhythm without insisting upon the rhyme.

Enough. Here, then, is a small list of rhyming books I’ve enjoyed reading aloud. They have both a compelling storyline and invigorating verses. Please add your own recommendations in the comments section.

Rhythm, Rhyme and Storytime

Black is Brown is Tan—-Arnold Adoff, ill by Emily Arnold McCully

black is brown is tan
is girl is boy
is nose is
face
is all
the
colors
of the race

Chicka Chicka Boom Boom—Bill Martin, Jr., ill. by Lois Ehlert

I often have this book on display for storytimes, but don’t read it unless I think the children need something familiar with which to connect. It's quite popular, and I wouldn't even list it except for hte fact I have never gotten tired of the rhythm and rhyme of this book. I can recite it aloud for you, if you like, complete with hand-claps and knee-slaps:

skit-skat skoodle-doot
flip flop flee
everybody running to the coconut tree...

A House is a House for Me—Mary Anne Hoberman, ill. by Betty Fraser

I have a startling confession to make: when I read this book, I mentally have the tune “Tomorrow Belongs to Me” from “Cabaret. I’m not proud of this fact, but it is a good tune with an unfortunate connotation.

“A hill is a house for an ant, an ant,
A hive is a house for a bee,
A hill is a house for a mole or a mouse,
And a house is a house for me.”

I Can’t, Said the Ant—-Polly Cameron

I take it personally that this book is out of print. I'm glad that it's readily available in out-of-print paperback form (courtesy of Scholastic), and I buy copies for baby presents when I think the parents will appreciate the book. In the story, all the anthropomorphic items in the kitchen from the food to the cutlery help a broken tea-pot on the floor get back on the counter. My favorite rhyme: "’Form a battalion,’ said the scallion."

Twenty-Four Robbers—-Audrey Wood

Not last night, but the night before
twenty-four robbers came a-knocking at my door.
I asked them what they wanted, and this is what they said,
H-O-T… Hot Peppers!!!”

By the way, the fact that I link to Amazon.com does not mean I necessarily advocate ordering from the company. The links are for your convenience. Please consider ordering titles from your local independent bookstore, if you have one (or more) in your area.

Invasion

I'm taking down this post. I've changed my mind. It is not the next segment of "Alien Contact."

The Tough Guide to Running Out of Steam

While searching for online references to Diana Wynne Jones's Tough Guide to Fantasyland, I found Through the Looking Glass: The Secret Diaries. The contributors describe this collection as "A Collaborative Effort Inspired by the Secret Diaries of Cassandra Claire (but without the slash)." I'm embarrassed to admit I recognize the pitfalls of my own writing within these pages. I had hoped I was beyond all of the nonsense of my earlier years. For example, this excerpt from The Secret Diary of Frustrated Writer #42 rings true:

Day 19:

Finished rewriting chapters 1 through 12. Very clever. Characters now eat "zemai" and "t'mat." No one will realize this is corn (maize, get it?) & tomatoes, or if they do, will think I'm clever and original for not having my characters eat stew. Also remembered to mention feeding horses from time to time.

The "stew" reference in the excerpt is a pretty common response to reading Tough Guide. I definitely recommend reading it with a sense of humor intact. After reading Tough Guide, I got frustrated with every single thing in my manuscript. I decided I wasn't going to be anything more than a hack. That decision lasted about five minutes.

Here is a piece of writing I started awhile ago. It was intended as one of the stories the main character in my novel tells her young cousin in order to keep the young cousin entertained:

Once, in a time that was before your time, the King and the Queen of the Azahari lived in a palace cut into the rock of the mountains. The ceilings were covered with raw crystals like the insides of treasure-stones (or geodes, as the people of this age call them). Although there were no windows, the torchlight lamps brought warmth and comfort to all those who dwelled within. The Azahari lived in comfort and ease, for the metals and jewels they mined and crafted were sought by many merchants of the flatlands. Still, the King and Queen were sad, for they had seven sons and yearned for a daughter.

It happened one day that when the King was bathing in his subterranean hot springs, a strange and powerful magician appeared before him. “I know what it is you want,” the magician said, “and I can grant it for you. Take this stone, and grind it into a powder. Mix it into your Queen’s nightly cup of tea, and she will conceive a daughter before the month is gone.” The sorcerer held his hand open, and a dark red stone lay in his palm.

“I thank you, sir,” the King said, and took it.

“There is one condition,” the magician said. “In five years’ time, I will come for your daughter and she will be my own forever more.”

“This I can never consent to,” the King said.

“Then, in five years’ time, if you have not changed your mind, I will ask for something else in your possession that is of equal value.”

The King thought of all of his jewels and precious metals, and said to himself, “Surely, I can afford to give this magician a whole trunkful of treasures.” He agreed to the magician’s conditions. The King did as the magician said, and truly, before the month was out, the Queen was with child. They were overjoyed, for they were of an age when they did not think they could have any more children. Nine months later, the princess Rania was born.

Rania was beloved by everyone, especially her seven brothers, who swore to protect her, no matter what. The King forgot what he had promised the magician until the five years were up. Then, the King told the Queen what he had promised. The Queen was aghast. “How could you have ever entertained such a notion?” she cried. “I will never give my child up.”

“Fear not,” the King soothed. “The magician did say that we could give him something else of equal value.”

“There is nothing that could equal the value of our daughter,” the Queen retorted. “I see I will have to make plans to protect her. Oh, husband, what have you done?”

That night, when the magician came to the gate of the castle in the mountain, the Queen hid the Princess Rania in a treasure chest in a room deep in the mountain. She drilled holes so that Princess Rania could breathe, and set enough food and drink inside the chest for her dinner. “Do not say a word,” she instructed her daughter, “and we will come for you soon.” She did not tell Rania why she was hiding in the trunk, for she did not want her daughter to be afraid, nor did she tell the King where she had hidden their daughter, for fear that the magician could trick it out of him.

“Good evening,” the magician said. “I have come for what you promised.”

“I know,” said the king. “And I remain as firm as I did years ago—I do not want to give up my daughter.”

“Then you must give up something of equal value” the magician said. “Lead me to your treasury, and I will take the equal of your daughter in your wealth.” The King led the magician to the treasury. “There,” the magician said, “I want the entire contents of that trunk.”

The King went to the trunk and opened it. There, inside, was his daughter, quietly munching on a honey-cake. “No!” he groaned.

But the magician laughed, and said, “Your little girl cannot escape her destiny.” The magician grabbed the girl by the wrist and began to drag her out of the mountain-castle.

“Wait!” the Queen said, who had just come in, and saw with dismay that her plans had been foiled. “I must give her bread and meat for her journey.” She gave Rania a bundle wrapped with cloth, and around her neck, she hung a small, embroidered bag. “Keep this safe and close to you,” she whispered, “and all shall be well. I will find you when I can.”

“It is time,” the magician snarled, and this time, he scooped the girl up under one arm. As he strode out of the mountain-castle, the seven brothers, who had just come back from their hunting, saw their captive sister.

“Release her!” they cried as one, and raised their sabers to slash the magician to ribbons. The magician laughed and raised his other arm. The seven brothers fell back and turned into seven stones, black and glistening as obsidian.

As the magician tore down the mountain, the wind became cold and icy and clouds covered the moon. Or so it seemed to Rania, who was terrified. At long last, they reached the magician’s hut. The magician tied a rope around the girl’s ankle and tethered her to a tree. “Here you will stay,” he said, “until I have need of you. Tomorrow, you will do all of the cooking, washing and care of my animals. I will give you no food tonight, for your mother has seen fit to give you provisions.” He shook out his cloak and stomped into the hut.

Rania wept for many things: the loss of her parents, the enchantment of her brothers. But she was also resolute, and decided that the best thing she could do would be to regain some strength. She opened up the parcel and began to eat the bread and meat within. As she ate, she heard a rustling behind her. She saw a hutch, and a hare within. The hare looked at her with dark liquid eyes that seemed to communicate hunger. “Are you hungry, friend hare?” she asked, and offered him bits of her bread. The hare ate them, but only looked quizzically at the strips of meat she had. Rania opened the door of the hutch and the rabbit hopped out. Around its neck was a collar with yellow and white jewels.

***
I ran out of steam around this point. Perhaps the baby had woken up, perhaps I felt as if I really needed a nap, and when I woke up, I lost the initial drive to finish the story just so that the main character would have something to tell. Here are my remaining notes:

Rope cannot be cut. The hare tries to nibble through the rope, but is unsuccessful. The girl finds a pair of scissors in her little bag, and these scissors slice through the rope as if it were butter. Then the hare somehow makes it known that he wants his collar cut. She does, and the hare transforms into a young man. Rania says that she wants to go back to her parents, but the man says that the magician will find them again, and do worse than transform her brothers into stones. He carries Rania down the mountainside and brings her to safety in a small village, where he believes the magician will not find her. “The magician will think you are looking for your parents, and he will look there. Once he finds out that you are not there, he will look elsewhere, but it will be too late. Stay in hiding and do not let it be known who you are.”

“Where will you go?” Rania asks.

“I go East to raise an army against the magician,” he says. “Then, when we have defeated him, I will find my lost kin and return to them.”

Rania then goes to live with her aunt and uncle, and they keep her identity secret from everyone. Someday, she vows, she will find her parents again and they will figure out how to turn the seven stones into her brothers again. Or something. That is to be worked out somehow. Would a young girl have figured things out? This should be a lot simpler.

It rarely is! If I ever do rework this story fragment into something more, it will be simpler, but it will have an elegance that the ornate rough draft does not have.