Archive for the writing process

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: , , , , , , , , ,

Oh, Look! Here’s An Article on Yours Truly from the Albany Times-Union!

August 4, 2023 / / No comments

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My local newspaper, The Albany Times-Union, just ran a feature article about me.  

Yes, I find that vaguely horrifying but also a good thing, I suppose. 

It’s nice to be seen.

It’s funny, in this business people will commonly say things like, “If this book reaches just one kid, impacts just one child, it’s all worth it.”

And I always think: Yeah, no. 

I’d like to reach a lot more than that. 

Articles like this help. 

Thank you, good folks at the Times-Union newspaper for making this happen. Just one question: What’s a newspaper?

Ha, ha, ho. Sorry, that hurts. 

Naturally, it took me 48 hours before I could actually force myself to read Jim Shahen’s piece. Today I wrote and thanked him for making me not look too much like a total blithering idiot. Some writer!

Anyway, perhaps my out-of-town fans will enjoy reading this . . . 

Delmar author James Preller releases newest children’s book in “Exit 13” series

Photo of Jim Shahen Jr.
Jim Shahen Jr.
Delmar resident James Preller has been living in the Capital Region for about 33 years and writing novels for kids of all ages at a prolific rate for even longer than that. Most famously known for the elementary school-reader “Jigsaw Jones” mystery series, he’s the author of more than 80 books that run from picture book to young adult in appropriateness.

His most recent work, the middle-grade mystery-thriller “Exit 13: The Spaces in Between,” came out at the end of July. “The Spaces in Between” is the second installment in the “Exit 13 series” (Preller describes it as a hybrid of “Schitt’s Creek” and “Stranger Things”) which tells the story of siblings Willow and Ash McGinn. On a family vacation, they’re forced to stop at the Exit 13 Motel where spooky mystery surrounds the business and its employees. Various confounding events to keep the family from checking out and resuming their trip, forcing the McGinn kids (and their goldendoodle Daisy) to get to the bottom of it all, lest they stay stuck at the Exit 13 forever.

The quick-paced, supernatural series is a tonal departure from “Upstander,” the book Preller released immediately preceding “Exit 13.” That one deals with the heavier issues of having a sibling struggle substance abuse and being a participant in bullying. For Preller, being able to explore different genres, themes and difficulty levels has been crucial in enabling him to sustain his writing career.

“I published my first book in 1986; I was 25 then, and I’m 62 now. I’ve spent more than half my life as a published author,” said Preller. “It’s kind of a lot, when you think about it. I’m a little unusual in the breadth of my work. Whatever memo there is about branding yourself, I missed it.

“The master plan, to the extent that I have any control over it, is to write quasi-literary middle-grade novels, but also have something more commercial for mass-market release,” he continued. “I’m a survivor, I just keep scrambling around and I’m fortunate to keep coming up with new material.”

A Long Island native, Preller was drawn to children’s literature shortly after graduating from SUNY Oneonta in 1983. Upon graduating, he moved to New York City and waited tables at Beefsteak Charlie’s to make ends meet while seeking lofty literary goals.

Soon after, he got a job at Scholastic and his professional ambitions took a turn.

“I liked to write poems and took myself very seriously, but poetry wasn’t going to pay the bills at all, plus, I wasn’t very good at it,” he recalled. “I got hired as a junior copywriter at Scholastic and I saw ‘Where the Wild Things Are,’ I realized what a kids’ book could be: anything. A world of possibilities opened to me.”

In 1986, he sold, wrote and published his first book, the picture book “Maxx Trax: Avalanche Rescue” about a truck that takes action when an avalanche threatens to destroy the energy station and imperils his family.

“Maxx Trax” eventually sold 1 million copies and Preller’s writing career was underway. He left New York City for the space to start a family in a more affordable climate here in Albany County. From a work standpoint, Preller’s output was varied, writing a mix of early readers and film adaptations — “Space Jam,” “The Iron Giant” and “Godzilla” — for Scholastic. From 1998-2007 or so, he struck gold with the 42-book “Jigsaw Jones” series. Since then, Preller has balanced the lighter, preschool-and-elementary-aged material with books that reflect more serious themes.

If there’s a throughline from “Maxx Trax” to something like “Upstander,” it’s that Preller tries to base all his work in reality. For his first middle-grade novel “Six Innings,” he relied on his own family’s experience with pediatric cancer as a reference. To add verisimilitude to the mountain hiking-based “Blood Mountain,” he regularly corresponded with a park ranger in Lake Placid. Even “Maxx Trax,” has a real-world connection: Maxx, like Preller, is the youngest of seven siblings.

“Every book is different and has its own challenges,” he said. “A lot (of the interest in mid-grade literature) was my own children getting older and wanting to write some things with a little more depth and grit in their content. I can go into deeper things than I can with ‘Exit 13’ or (the spooky story series) ‘Scary Tales.’

“I tell kids when I speak at schools, that even if you aren’t writing about a human, whether it’s super-powered trucks like Maxx Trax or writing about a dragon or a wombat, you’re still drawing upon your own emotions and experiences,” Preller added.

With the new “Exit 13” out in stores, Preller is now looking ahead. He has four more books under contract — a middle-grade novel dealing with a student-athlete coping with post-concussion syndrome and three picture books — that will keep him busy well into next year. And there’s another idea or two percolating for beyond then.

If Preller has it his way, he’ll sustain this level of activity for years to come, and hopefully continue inspiring kids to read.

“I’m 62 and live in a town with a lot of state workers who are retiring,” he said. “Do I want to still be publishing new books at 75? Absolutely.

“I have no ideas or high hopes when a book comes out and I’ve learned to let go of the outcomes,” Preller continued. “I’m very aware that this is entertainment and I just want to give the reader the best possible experience, so they’ll go, ‘Oh, I’ll read another book.’ ”

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Category: Around the Web, EXIT 13, the writing process / Tags: , , , , , ,

Publication Day: The Worst Day of All

August 1, 2023 / / One comment

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In her most excellent book, Still Writing, Dani Shapiro talks about “writing in the dark”:

“There is only one opportunity to write in complete darkness: when you’re at the beginning. Use it. Use it well. The loneliest day in the life of a published writer may be publication day. Nothing happens. Perhaps your editor sends flowers. Maybe not. Maybe your family takes you out for dinner. But the world won’t stop to take notice. The universe is indifferent. You have put the shape of your soul between the covers of a book and no one declares a national holiday. Someone named Booklover gives you a one-star review on Amazon.com.

So what is it about writing that makes it — for some of us — as necessary as breathing? It is in the thousands of days of trying, failing, sitting, thinking, resisting, dreaming, raveling, unraveling that we are at our most engaged, alert, and alive. Time slips away. The body becomes irrelevant. We are as close to consciousness itself as we will ever be. This begins in the darkness. Beneath the frozen ground, buried deep below anything we can see, something may be taking root. Stay there, if you can. Don’t resist. Don’t force it, but don’t run away. Endure. Be patient. The rewards cannot be measured. Not now. But whatever happens, any writer will tell you: This is the best part.”

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I agree with Dani Shapiro.

But here we are.

Publication Day. A kind of death.

One other thought that I had recently:

Writers don’t finish books, readers do. 

Thank you for your interest, your time, your support. 

Exit 13: The Spaces In Between, now available in bookstores, etc. This is the second book in the “Exit 13” series by Scholastic. 

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