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I loved this gentle picture book about grief and how we struggle to offer comfort in sad times. The text is spare and simple; the illustrations clear and poignant without being sentimental.
It’s pretty perfect.
As a teacher and writer, I’ve spent time lately thinking about the practices and strategies we have to cultivate our own creativity. I’ve even reached out to my peers for their tips and suggestions, which you can easily find on my blog with a little scrolling.
Here’s one thing I do:
When I go to the library, around once a week, I try to grab 10 new picture books from the shelves that feature “what’s new.” I find that I really like 1-2 of them, actively dislike a couple, and shrug at the rest. It’s hard to create a really great book and that percentage seems about right.
Anyway, this is the book I found last week and immediately shared with my class. For many reasons. One of those reasons was to remind these aspiring writers to keep the text short, to hone down to the bone, to seek the essence. I struggle with that myself.
These days, picture books are getting younger and younger. The text is shorter. Conventional wisdom now says that a manuscript should not be longer than 500 words. So, of course, people keep coming in with 600-750 word stories. Ha. Maybe it’s time to work harder at writing 150-200 words manuscripts. Leaning hard in the other direction. See if you can stay very spare, direct, and allow the (imagined) illustrations to carry some of that load.
Don’t try to do too much in one 32-page picture book.
On a personal note, my oldest, Nick, is a two-time childhood cancer survivor. He’s 31 today and imperfectly healthy. Back then, friends and neighbors felt it and cared. A two-year-old with cancer. How could they not? But they struggled, I’m sure, to say and do the right thing. This book is about that. What I came to believe was that it was important to say something. Recognize the moment. Simply, directly. It doesn’t have to be a lot.
Don’t say, “What can I do?” Don’t say, “Just ask if you need anything.”
Don’t put the work on them.
Just drop off the lasagna. The gift card to the coffee shop. Think about what you can do . . . and do it. The small gesture means so much.
The one thing I hated — despised — was when someone would say, “I’m sure he’s going to be okay.”
It made me furious. Such complete and utter bullshit. You don’t know. No one knows. The core of the experience is the unknowing. Children die. Terrible things happen. Don’t you dare squeeze my hand and promise something you can’t possibly deliver, just so you can feel good. You are sure of nothing. You don’t know. Nobody knows. That’s why each day is so hard.
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