Archive for Interviews & Appreciations

Three New Picture Books That I Loved: A Kitten, A Plant, and Everything In the World

September 11, 2023 / / One comment

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I go to the library fairly often. My job is one of solitude, of aloneness, and there are times when I just want to be among people. Watch them walk, listen to them talk, see what they are up to. 

And the other thing about libraries is: that’s where the books are.

While I usually try to stay current, there are times when — well — it’s nice not to know. Not get hung up on what’s happening out there. The buzz, the trends, the hype, the books that make me think: Why, why, why? The work for any writer begins, primarily, with what’s happening in here. The rumblings of the head & the heart.

I am newly resolved to take ten picture books out of the library every time I visit. Read them, think about them. Be inspired or annoyed. 

Here’s three from a recent batch that I particularly enjoyed . . . 

 

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The great Kevin Henkes does it again. Can he do no wrong? It occurs to me that he’s probably helped by a wise agent and discerning editors who help bring out the best in him . . . while maybe holding off the crummy ideas. Because even Kevin Henkes must have crummy ideas, right? Right?

Oh, God, I hope so.

The book begins:

There are big things and little things in the world.

The text is spare and the illustrations are simple and yet resonant. He’s so good. He has a full page illustration of pebbles and it could break your heart. It’s a small miracle in a book full of them. Somehow Henkes embues heart and soul into everything he does, that’s what I love about him.

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But for this book, it’s the Voice that I so admire. He simply strikes a tone — kind, knowing (without being a know-it-all), gentle and wise.

This is a beautiful, lovely book.

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Confession: I love Audrey Vernick. She’s my pal and she’s the greatest. If you don’t like Audrey, then you are dead to me. It’s that simple. But: Confession II: I don’t love everything she’s ever done. 

Besides writing solo, Audrey has successfully teamed up with Liz Garton Scanlon, who is such a fine craftsperson with the soul of a poet. A writer’s writer. They made this book together. 

And for me, this might be their best book yet. It’s expertly crafted and takes place in a world that will be instantly familiar to young readers.

It begins:

Room 107 has a cockatiel. Room 108 has a chinchilla. Even the Art Room has a bearded dragon!

[Writers: Not the rule of three, the comfortable pattern that readers enjoy.]

But in Room 109, Arlo’s classroom, there is a plant. A mostly green, hardly growing, never moving plant. 

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Again: the Voice here is unerring and the story unfolds with (mostly) realism and calm and great affection for Jerry (that’s the name of the plant). 

Question: Is Voice the single most important aspect of a children’s book? Maybe yes. 

Warmly illustrated by Lynnor Bontigao. 

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I’ll be honest. I am sick to death of overt message books. So obvious and pedantic. So adult-centered. And yet, of course, there’s nothing wrong with signals. Every story sends signals, embedded with values. So it becomes a matter of craft. Of art. How do you send the message without, you know, hammering someone over the head with it? So that maybe when it comes, you didn’t completely see it coming?

But wait. 

First: The illustrations in this are tremendous. The colors rich — not cartoony — and not too vibrant. Carson Ellis is very, very good. You know instantly that you are in good hands.

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There’s so much art and skill in how this book is put together. It begins with a single-page illustration of a window, a sky, some trees, two birds. The next page is a double spread: a few homes, more trees, and small (but centered) a mother and child about to take a dog for a walk. No words yet.

(I guess it really isn’t about a kitten!)

And then, whoa, the title page. Cool.

It begins:

This story is not about a kitten.

Turn the page, close up of a kitten cowering under a parked car:

A kitten, hungry and dirty, scared and alone, meowing sadly, needing a home. 

The story builds cumulatively as the different members of the community step forward and come together in compassion, and affection, and common decency.

So, yeah, the message does come and it is pretty straight-forward. But how we get there, Dear Reader, that’s the difference.

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This story is about the 

stopping

and listening,

the holding

and bringing,

the offering

and asking

and the working together

it takes, sometimes, to get there. 

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An absolute marvel of a book. 

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Category: Around the Web, Interviews & Appreciations, the writing process / Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Writing Tips #2: A Look at One Page from DOCTOR DE SOTO by William Steig (Scene & Summary)

August 7, 2023 / / No comments

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I recently wrote a throwaway post on Facebook that got a surprising amount of attention. It was about soaking dishes. Yeah, wild, I know. I wrote a sentence that owed something, perhaps, to a specific moment in William Steig’s Doctor De Soto picture book. 

I say “perhaps” because it’s hard to pin down where influences end and ideas originate. It spins in a circle, consciously and unconsciously. Who knows. 

What I had written was: “I’m a pot and pan soaker. So was my father, and his father before him. It’s always been that way with my family.”

It made me remember De Soto and look up the scene:

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Forgive the blur. The good doctor informs his wife, “Once I start a job, I finish it. My father was the same way.”

So, sure, he does it far more economically & elegantly than I managed to on social media. In my defense, he’s William Steig writing a book and I’m only James Preller blasting out a few thoughts on Facebook. 

Here’s the full text from the page in case the blur is too hard to read:

That night the De Sotos lay awake worrying. “Should we let him in tomorrow?” Mrs. De Soto wondered.

“Once I start a job,” said the dentist firmly, “I finish it. My father was the same way.”

“But we must do something to protect ourselves,” said his wife. They talked and talked until they formed a plan. “I think it will work,” said Doctor De Soto. A minute later he was snoring. 

One comment before the main thing:

I’m as opposed to adverbs as the next guy, probably more, but “firmly” sure does a lot of good work in that phrase, said the dentist firmly. 

A clear signal. There would be no debate. This strikes me as that rare thing: a good adverb.

Something interesting happens on this page, where “scene” meets “summary.”

We are in a scene from the beginning, of course, announced by those two words: That night. It’s a variation on the “one day” trope of so  many picture books: things are always so until . . . one day something happens. Story begins with scene.

We find ourselves with the De Sotos, flies on the lavender wallpaper, listening to them discuss the mortal danger of treating the fox’s toothache. Then comes that great sentence:

They talked and talked until they formed a plan.

The camera doesn’t move to a new perspective, it just pulls back and suddenly there’s a great distance. We are transported to the land of summary: They talked and talked until they formed a plan. 

I wonder how Steig arrived at this sentence. Did he try to write out that full conversation in early drafts? Did he wrestle with it for days, weeks? Did he worry about the length, the slowness, the slog? This was intended, after all, for a 32-page picture book. There wasn’t time to waste. It could be that Steig immediately went to summary, instinctively knowing that he had to keep the plot moving forward. 

So there’s this: Summary allows the writer to play with time. 

The writer can make time move quickly, cross decades in a single sentence, or can slow it down to a drip, drip . . . drip. Even slower than real time. 

In my current work-in-progress, a middle-grade novel tentatively titled Shaken (Macmillan, 2024), I decided to make a leap of four months from one chapter to the next. Those four months occur in the gap between those two chapters, the way that in a comic or graphic novel there’s a sliver of time in the spaces between each panel. This leap required a sentence or two of summary. Time passed. Winter turned to Spring. That kind of thing (but not those words). 

Aside: Do you ever notice, btw, how very young children are unable to summarize when they recount, say, a movie they just watched? it’s always: and then, and then, and then, and then, etc. The art of summary is really about prioritizing. Recognizing what’s significant and what isn’t. Elmore Leonard’s great rule for writing: “Try to leave out the parts that readers tend to skip.”

Let me make up an example on the spot:

He spent the summer working on the cabin, rising early and laboring until dark, while the loneliness filled up inside him. One September day, there was a knock on the door . . . 

Summary –> Scene. The storyteller (and his listeners, one assumes) is not interested in all those dull empty days of summer. That part is boring. Let’s skip it. So the storyteller makes time fly by, an entire summer in a sentence.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

Time slows to a crawl.

He pauses, uncrosses his legs. Puts down the novel — Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men — spine up on the end table. He gazes out the window. The last light of evening had long ago died.  A faint drone of tree frogs pressed against the panes. Who could it be at this hour? Should he rise to answer it? He coughs, and waits.

Anyway, yeah, it’s cool how Steig pulls that off in the middle of a scene — a sentence of summary, omitting at least an hour of discussion — before he returns us right back to that same “moment” (without ever moving the camera; the focus just gets tighter). 

He ends the page with another great understated sentence. 

A minute later he was snoring. 

A minute has passed in the distance from a period to the capital letter of the next sentence. A minute later. And lo, the good doctor is asleep! Resolved and at peace. Troubled no more. The plan has been set and he needs his rest. 

I’d turn the page, right?

Wouldn’t you?

What is the plan, anyway? 

Steig didn’t tell us. He withholds. That’s actually another technique worthy of discussion. The vital importance of being clear, and answering questions for the reader as soon as possible (to avoid confusion), but also to recognize the value of not answering every question.

How those unanswered questions can prod the reader to do the single best thing that any reader can ever do — turn the page. 

William Steig was a writer who knew what he was doing.

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CLICK HERE for Writing Tip #1.

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Category: Interviews & Appreciations, Readings, the writing process / Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Writing Tips #1: A Look at One Scene from THE GREAT BELIEVERS by Rebecca Makkai

July 14, 2023 / / 2 comments

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For the past two years, I’ve taught several online classes for Gotham Writers. It’s for adults and via Zoom, usually titled “Writing children’s books” in a workshop format. I’ve taught four ten-week classes so far. Three hours a session on a weeknight. It’s demanding and the pay is horrendous but I love the students and what we learn together. And every dollar helps. 

But first, an aside: I’m not comfortable with the idea that I’m a teacher, since I see myself more as conductor than instructor. As the expression goes: Not the sage on stage, but the guide on the side. 

Anyway, I find that I miss it when there’s no class, no fellow writers to discuss these things with — the writing that moves us or falls flat or annoys us and why. A lot of the class is about developing our critical taste. Lately I’ve been casting about for an outlet for these thoughts. Since, yeah, in my real life just about no one cares what I think about writing.

And it feels a little pretentious, talking about writing as if I know. But, okay, I accept I must know some things. I’ve gotten this far. I’ve been publishing all sorts of books since 1986. 

So: I just read The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai and I have  thoughts about it. When I first picked it up, upon a friend’s recommendation, I didn’t realize that much of it was set in Chicago, 1985-1990, centered around a gay community amidst the AIDS crisis. As it happens, my oldest brother, Neal, lived in Chelsea in NYC (15th between 7th & 8th) and was sick at that time. He finally succumbed in 1993. But back in ’85, I was 24 and living in Brooklyn, working in  Manhattan (Broadway & Waverly, across from NYU). I spent much time in Neal’s apartment during my early teenage years, the late 70s, visiting from my home on Long Island, learning the village’s streets via its used record stores. I met his friends, his partner, spent time in his world. This book powerfully brought all of that back. Brought my brother back. So much loss. That disease hit so hard.

Here’s one moment from the novel — and a few brief writing observations after. In this scene, Yale is visiting Charlie, who is very near the end of his life, at the hospital:

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He sat on the chair by the bed.

The nurse came in, and she showed Yale a small pink sponge on the end of a stick, showed him how he could hold it to Charlie’s lips to give him water.

He did it for a while, and he ran his thumb over Charlie’s wrist, listening to the thrumming of the walls.

He fed him water, drop by drop.

He could feel it, all around him, how down the corridor, and down the other hallways of other hospitals around Chicago and the other godforsaken cities of the globe, a thousand other men did the same. 

 

A few folks who have been in class with me might not be surprised when I express deep admiration for that first sentence:

He sat on the chair by the bed.

A full paragraph.

He sat on the chair by the bed. 

Clear, unadorned, lean, concrete, specific. He sat on the chair by the bed. It’s perfect. It looks easy. And it is so hard for many of us to write. The temptation to pretty it up is so strong (in me, at least). 

To write with restraint — without ego. The writer getting out of the way. An absolute absence of cleverness.

He sat on the chair by the bed.

Anybody could write do it!

The next paragraphs are equally clear and concrete and beautifully rendered. We get that one word, thrumming, but mostly it is simple language, directly told.

He fed him water, drop by drop. 

A mood sets in. The seconds ticking by, the end of a life’s last seconds. To be in that lonely, sad hospital room. Watching a young man die. He fed him water, drop by drop.

And then we get that long sentence, the poetry and the liftoff. As writers, we have to be careful about when and how we attempt this. Too much of this kind of thing would make a book exhausting to read, too purple, too annoying. The writer always reaching for a distant star. The batter always swinging for the fences. 

But here, in context with the paragraphs before it, we are ready and eager for that elevation — for this one long sentence. The ground has been prepared for the poetry.

Thirty-six words, four commas, and a period. 

He could feel it, all around him, how down the corridor, and down the other hallways of other hospitals around Chicago and the other godforsaken cities of the globe, a thousand other men did the same. 

That’s good writing. 

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5 Questions with Martha Brockenbrough, Author of TO CATCH A THIEF

March 5, 2023 / / No comments

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Martha Brockenbrough occupies a lot of different places in children’s literature, fiction and nonfiction, picture books to chapter books to young adult novels. Martha’s newest book comes out this April and it’s her first middle-grade title — just right for mystery lovers (and if you like dogs, all the better!). Let’s get to know her a little bit. 

 

 

1. We’ve never met, so let’s start at the beginning. Were you one of those kids who knew from an early age that you wanted to be an author? 

I loved books before I knew it was possible to be an author. I had it in my head that the world already had all the books it needed—and I was so happy to learn in third grade that I could be an author. I’d considered being a veterinarian, but my aversion to blood and suffering means author is the far better career choice. As a kid, I read everything I could. Fiction, nonfiction. Stuff for kids. Stuff for grownups. If it was in print, I was curious. I was pretty darned shy as a child, and inside the covers of a book, I had all the company I ever wanted—with none of the forced Free to Be You and Me singalongs.

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Martha: “I’m the one with the short dark hair. This is me in middle school. YIKES!”

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2) You’ve written a somewhat dizzying range of titles and genre — from adult titles all the way up to picture books  — but To Catch a Thief is your first middle-grade novel. How and why did that come about for you and, tacking on to that, what if any new challenges did the middle-grade novel present?

I’ve written many different types of books for the same reason I read many formats. I love it. To understand a category well enough to write it is, for me, how I express that love. It’s been a really fun career, and even though I completely ignored the 2009-era advice to “have a brand,” I’ve truly built a life around story. Middle grade might just be my favorite thing to read, but it was kind of a tough nut for crack. There are so many ways to do it, and I had to discover my way. When I was that age of reader, I loved mysteries. I fancied myself a detective or a spy. I even made my younger sisters and me secret dossier folders out of envelopes and I felt extremely cool doing that. Encyclopedia Brown, the Three Investigators, Agatha Christie—I loved it all (and read Agatha Christie instead of doing Calculus. No regrets.).

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3) Let’s talk about the setting for To Catch a Thief. It is this very quaint, benign little seaside town where everybody knows your name. I’m almost hesitant to say this, but I was reminded of the old Boxcar Children in terms of the warm and cozy and convivial vibe. Was that intentional from the get-go?

I was coming off writing a biography of Donald Trump and an extremely gory YA retelling subverting a dozen or so fairytales. I wanted something comforting. I wanted tomato soup and grilled cheese. So I wrote everything I love, loosely basing the setting in a community called Seabrook on the Washington Coast. I did make everything about 37 percent more disheveled. I’m one of five kids, though, so I know what it’s like to grow up in a crowded house with a leaky roof, and I really know what it’s like to want a dog for a pet.

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4) Well, yes. Indeed a lost dog plays a prominent role in this story — along with a child’s desperate longing to own that dog. 

When I was nine, a chocolate brown toy poodle followed me home from school. My mom checked his tag—his name was Randy—and made me return him to the address on the tag. When I knocked on the door, the woman who answered offered me the dog. I told her I’d have to ask permission. I wore my mom down a day or so later and was so excited that I told my friends at school I was getting a dog. I stopped at his house to pick him up. The woman opened the door and told me she’d already gotten rid of him. Not long after, though, my parents brought home a puppy. A golden retriever. And in the 42 years since, I’ve had five of my own (along with several cats). At the moment, I have two goldens, Dottie and Millie. They are my ladies, and they keep me company as I write and they demand I take breaks. They help me cook, they shed on my friends, and they teach me lessons about joy, devotion, and forgiveness every single day.

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Martha’s ladies.

 

5) As the author of Unpresidented, you did an enormous amount of research and spent a lot of time living in the mind of Donald Trump. That seems like trauma to me. “Post-Trump Stress Disorder.” How did you recover from that experience? In some respects, it feels like writing Catch was a healthy antidote. A spiritual cleanse. So what’s your coping strategy for the 2024 election? Seriously, help me. I’m dreading it.

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This book definitely helped, as did my early chapter book series, which launches its second title this year—Frank and the Masked Cat. (Yes, there’s also a dog in it. OF COURSE.) It was extremely traumatic to do the Trump book. When you really dig deep into that stuff and see the patterns, it’s not hard to predict what will happen. “Anything to win” was the thesis of that book, and it bore tragic fruit on January 6, 2020. One of the most traumatic parts, I think, is having a bit of the Cassandra syndrome. That book is entirely factual and so many people don’t believe it. It’s because they don’t want to, and because we’ve been conditioned to think that “both sides” are to blame. Sometimes that’s true. It’s not here.

Anyway.

The midterm election should give all of us heart. But I hope it doesn’t make us complacent. Democracy is hard work. We are the people, and we owe our nation our best efforts. Children’s books are now in the crosshairs of the liars and the bigots—words I do not regret using and will not apologize for. There is no pornography in children’s books. None. Zero. There are many beautiful stories that embrace the diversity of all of our lived experience. All people are equal. All lives are equal. Everyone has the right to their body and especially to their hearts. There is no negotiating or discussion on that point for me, and it’s really not complicated.

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The miserable fringe wants to keep young people from recognizing the humanity in all of us. Once kids have internalized that value, the bigots lose forever. So we have work to do as writers, as artists, and as citizens. And look, I know people say, “Oh, we have to meet them halfway. Name calling never helps.” Other people can take that approach, and I encourage them. I prefer to deal in unvarnished truths, and my concern at this moment is not for the feelings of the fever-dreamers. It’s for the people they’re threatening.

To end this on a positive note, though: the generation of young people fills me with hope. They are just. They are committed. They care about the planet. They’re savvy when it comes to the nuances of identity. It’s a fantastic challenge and a privilege to be able to write for such extraordinary humans.

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JAMES PRELLER is the author of a wide range of books, including the popular Jigsaw Jones mystery series. An author of picture books and easy-to-reads, he has also written middle-grade and YA novels: Bystander, Upstander, Blood Mountain, Better Off Undead, The Fall, and more. Look for the first book in his strange & mysterious EXIT 13 series for readers ages 8-12: The Whispering Pines. Book 2 in the series, The Spaces In Between, comes out in August. Can’t wait, won’t wait!

 





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Category: 5 Questions, Interviews & Appreciations / Tags: , , , , , ,

A Little Advice for Aspiring Writers

February 23, 2023 / / No comments

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Stephanie Affinito — lover of books, writing, teaching, journals, podcasts, and long walks on the beach — asked me five questions after our podcast interview. (For that, just bounce on this link, and the miracle of the interwebs will take you there.)

Stephanie asked: 

Where do you do your best writing?
What are your favorite writing tools? (pens, notebook, software, etc.)
Do you have any special writing routines or rituals?
What inspires your writing?
What advice do you give to others who hope to one day write something of their own?

Here’s how I answered: 


I suppose it’s my disposition to remove any of the preciousness or magic out of the writing process. For me, it’s been called “going to work” since I went freelance in 1990. Let me back up. The important thing, regardless of your physical surroundings, is to get yourself in the proper headspace to write. The right frame of mind (and the time required to produce anything of length). Now, granted, everyone is different and there may well be various rituals or strategies to help you get there, in place, so to write. It might be an office, a chair, a particular pen, a bottle of gin. We can scribble on napkins or jab sentences into the “Notes” feature of our phones. But to write at length requires, simply, a place where you can be free from distractions. Focus is everything. Concentration is king. And at every turn the world conspires against those things. To write well, I think you need to turn the world off and allow yourself the time and space to go deep inside your head. What inspires my writing? Oh, gosh. Everything and anything. But I do seem to need to be inspired — moved to write — — in order to get anything worthwhile done. I’ve never been very good at cranking out 1,000 words on any given afternoon. Whereas for others, that’s exactly the process. They write by writing. And I’ve gone through all the self-loathing that comes with falling short at the job. What I’ve learned — and this translates into my advice for any writer — is to read widely with care & attention and to write often. The obvious stuff. But after a while, you will begin to learn about yourself, the things that work for you. We are all different. For example, I’ve come to accept that I seem to need a lot of time percolating. Ruminating. Dithering might be another word for it. Working things out in my head over time. And it’s as if a certain kind of creative pressure slowly builds and builds until, one day, it’s time. I’m ready to write. As a writer, you might be completely different. You might be analytical, methodical. You might like to write out extended character profiles, elaborate backstories, fill pages and pages in notebooks. But ultimately, the task comes down to just you and a blank page. Nothing gets written until you sit down in front of that blank page. You need to get yourself there on a regular basis, one way or other. What else? Oh, please, forgive yourself. Be patient with yourself. Try your best. Work hard, but also take time off. Exercise. Enjoy walks. Read books. Meet with friends. Fill yourself up. And always return to that blank page. Just you & the silence of your thoughts, your feelings, and the time & space to think & feel them. Good luck.

 

Addendum: I did not write this in my original answer to Stephanie, but all my references to the “blank page” reminded me of a tip that I actually practice. At the end of the day, around the time you are ready to push away from the desk, leave a little something unwritten. That is, don’t finish the chapter. Don’t end the scene. Leave it off in the middle if possible, maybe with a few clear notes. Then the next day, you can pick right up where you left off — i.e., it’s not a blank page! — rather than having to start all over again at the bottom of the hill. 

 

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Etcetera, etcetera . . .

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