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I
need to read. If I
don’t read, I get antsy,
edgy, uncomfortable.
Even if everything in my
life is fine, and I’m
not simply turning to a
book for consolation or
escape, I still feel the
need. If I don’t read, I
don’t feel like
myself.
Sven Birkerts speaks to
who we are and the
connection between the
sense of self and
reading. He asks if our
adaptation to the
“circuit
board future,” when we
are unable to give full
attention
to
reading (or
anything else), will
leave us without a core
sense of self. “Reading,
even though it proposes
an elsewhere, gives me
that self--gives it to
me most fully and purely
when I am most deeply
possessed by the work.”
So reading is demanding.
It is also comforting.
Having books around the
house is comforting,
too. If one wishes to
speculate on how that
feeling of comfort
began, why not go back
to babyhood? For a baby,
a
book is a comforting
physical object. A baby
can manipulate it, “use”
it, stop using it, and
return to it again,
always with the
assurance
that D will follow C.
Beyond toyness, a book
offers the elemental
experience of story. At
first, like the
toy-book, the story
provides constancy. It
can be
repeated, memorized,
mastered. It is
unchanging in an
otherwise
unpredictable and
puzzling world. Even if
the story sets up a
problem,
conflict or tension,
which most stories do,
the story becomes
familiar
once repeated. And
repetition and
resolution are
comforting.
Older children say they
like a good story,
meaning plot,
characters....
A good story will cast a
spell, allowing a reader
to slip into another
world, to watch the
characters and become
part of their lives.
Readers
enter into a kind of
“virtual experience”
where they can control
the
pace and imagine the
scenes, unlike a movie,
for example, which is
not
as interactive and which
can sometimes be
assaulting.
Scholars have theorized
that the immersion or
escape into a book may
bring readers closer to
that which comforts us,
even if those specific
elements in the story
that do so can’t be
isolated. I’m reminded
of all
the times I re-read The Secret
Garden. Why? I
wonder. I’m still not
sure.
And another question:
how exactly do we learn
to read? If someone had
a
one size fits all
answer, wouldn’t
everyone be a reader? I
can’t remember how I
learned. Did it just
happen? Kids forget. But
those who love to read
do not forget one
thing--the pleasure.
Part of my work as a
children’s librarian was
turning kids on to
books,
and the best way for me
to do that was to share
the pleasure through
storytelling.
What makes a good story
to tell? Again, no
single answer.
Librarians
spend a lot of time
choosing the best
stories--it’s called
“book
selection” and
“collection
development.” Some
stories are time
tested--retold and
perfected over years.
The Mende people of
Sierra
Leone, among the
greatest African
storytellers, know what
makes a good
story. They expect it to
contain:
1)
fun,
laughter, humor
2) imaginary
incidents
(“The story is a lie,
we just arrange it.”)
3) song:
the
opportunity to sing
and shout
4)
information,
a proverb, a moral.
A good story may not
meet all four criteria,
but it must be
entertaining. In other
words, it must offer
pleasure.
The sources of pleasure
can change over time. I
can’t recapture the
response I had as a
child to the books I
once devoured. Nancy
Drew
books were engrossing,
scary, thrilling; now
they’re dull and
transparent. Some books
that were once howlingly
funny are now mildly
amusing or not funny at
all. Some that were
emotional, tender, and
deep
now seem overwritten,
florid, cloying. I dare
not go back and re-read
some of the books I
loved the most!
When I read the
following words in Diane
Setterfield’s novel, The
Thirteenth Tale,
they seemed my
own--but more eloquent:
“I have always been a
reader; I have read at
every stage of my life
and there has never been
a time when reading was
not my greatest joy. And
yet I cannot pretend
that the reading I have
done in my adult years
matches in its impact on
my soul the reading I
did as a child. I still
believe in stories. I
still forget myself when
I am in the middle of a
good book. Yet it is not
the same. Books are,
for me, it must be said,
the most important
thing; what I cannot
forget
is that there was a time
when they were once more
banal and more
essential than that.
When I was a child books
were everything. And so
there is in me, always,
a nostalgic yearning for
the lost pleasure of
books.”
As an adult, I guess I’m
more critical, more
stressed, more easily
distracted. It’s harder
for me to give myself
over to other worlds, to
let the author carry me
out of this one, though
I’m lucky in that many
books still do the
trick. I can’t forget
the impact, for example,
of One Flew Over
the Cuckoo’s Nest or
Midnight’s
Children--the
sense of discovery,
coming to those books
without expectations,
just
picking them up--and
being blown away. More
recently, I've been
passing
the word along about The Lacuna
and Cutting for
Stone--beautifully
epic,
absorbing,
bighearted novels.
Some children’s books
also blow me away with
their brilliance and
heart, The Music of
Dolphins,
for example, which
restored my faith in
what a contemporary
children’s
novel could be. And I
was so glad that the
success of Harry Potter
made
fantasy profitable,
allowing old and new
fantasy to flourish
again,
because, as
artist/writer Betsy
James put it, “Fantasy
is the melting
pot of the soul.” (Check
out Betsy's
site
and
blog for many
other soulful thoughts!)
First books--those cozy
“lap” books a parent
reads
to a child, often at
bedtime--are
flourishing, too.
Despite all the
aggressively marketed
electronic distractions
books have to compete
with, as Eden Ross
Lipson
observed in The New York
Times,
“one thing that has not
changed is the pure
pleasure of reading with
toddlers and
preschoolers.” Among the
benefits of reading to a
child,
beyond pleasure, is that
“you are giving a child
undivided attention.”
Maybe the core sense of
self that Sven Birkerts
described starts out
with the parent-child
bond--and a book!
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MAKING
PICTURE
BOOKS
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When I was working as a children’s
librarian, we’d physically examine
picture books at book selection
meetings. We’d look, read, discuss.
Picking up a book, I sometimes felt
a tingling in my fingertips. That’s
when I knew something special was
going on: book magic!
Everything in the book
had come together perfectly--text,
illustration, design, type,
endpapers. The book was a keeper, a
read-it-again book, a book that was
great to look at. It didn’t have to
be elaborate either. The
Carrot Seed comes to mind
as a
perfect--and simple--book.
Now that I’m involved in making
picture books myself, I realize how
complicated the process can be. It’s
a long process--sometimes it takes
years, and there are a lot of
variables at work. Magic isn’t easy!
According to an artist friend, good
art cannot save a bad story, but a
good story can survive bad art. So
it makes sense that most picture
books begin with the text.
For me, once a manuscript is
accepted for publication, it’s like
sending a child out into the world.
You hope you can continue to guide
her, but you know, in reality, you
no longer have much control. So you
tell yourself, I did the best I
could. And now you’re cautious,
warning
yourself, I don’t want to make the
mistake of being too involved in her
life--suffocating and overly
protective. But I need to keep in
touch,
don’t I? I have to make sure she’s
not in trouble.... How can I stop
being a mommy? A worried author?
Your child’s teachers, lovers,
friends influence her life, and so
it
goes for the manuscript. Everyone
influences the final work: writer,
artist, editor, printer, designer. A
picture book is a group project, a
collaborative creation, and better
yet, a creative collaboration.
Once, when I was on a writer’s
panel, the question came up: “If you
can’t choose the illustrator, what
happens to your vision?”
In my case, I try to convey my
vision to the book’s editor in the
form
of a written description or a little
mock up of the book (a “dummy”).
The editor may share my thoughts
with the artist, but more often than
not the artist would prefer to
imagine the book herself, letting
her
own imagination respond to what she
sees in the text.
I do have a strong conceptual or
visual idea as I write. The visuals
I
have in mind even dictate the text,
especially if I’m writing verse.
But I know that sticking to my
vision might be limiting, closing
the
door to other valid, possibly better
visions. Picture book magic might
take place when two or three
imaginations add up to equal more
than the
sum of their parts, and not
necessarily when the writer’s vision
dominates. So I TRY to let go a
little bit, both as a parent and as
an author!
When and if the editor shares the
artwork-in-progress with me, I
comment on it and make suggestions.
I always try to step back, as
though I had nothing to do with the
book. I put on my book reviewer
bonnet and library-lady hat so I can
be as critically objective as
possible. Then the text editor and
art editor get back to the artist
with their own critiques--and maybe
mine as well.
We all want the same result, a
wonderful book, hopefully a magic
one.
Revisions are always part of the
process. After all, didn’t E. B.
White
and Garth Williams go back and forth
until they got Charlotte exactly
right? Once a writer and artist
establish mutual trust and
appreciation, they
might communicate directly with each
other. They might spark each other
creatively. They might even
immortalize each other. Consider
White and
Williams, Kraus and Aruego, Minarik
and Sendak--magical picture book
collaborations. Happily, the list
goes on!
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ILLUSTRATIONS
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What kinds of pictures appeal to
children? I grew up in the heyday of
The Little Golden Books. I loved those
books, with illustrations by
Mary Blair, Gustaf Tenggren, Tibor
Gergely, and Feodor Rojankovsky. The
only illustrator I remember disliking
was Eloise Wilkins. I didn’t care
for the illustrations in my Dick and
Jane readers either.
Both my
parents were artists, so I was exposed
to all kind of art from
the beginning, not only in picture
books, and I was given lots of art
materials myself. I think my
background was atypical, and that most
kids find picture books their first
and only source of quality art. It
could also be that my parents' own
response to the books we read
filtered down to me.
When I worked as a children's
librarian, I noticed that some
children
couldn't stop looking at a quality
book, as
though the art were a revelation. I’m
thinking in particular of a
kindergartner in St. Thomas. He lived
with his family in the back of a
bar. He was kind of a wild child,
probably chronically overtired, and
he wasn’t
up to par as a student. But his
appreciation of beautiful book art was
extraordinary and intense. He was
totally absorbed in it. He couldn’t
tell me WHY he liked it, and I could
only wonder: Where did this
feeling come from, how did it arise?
Was it instinctual?
Some educators argue that a child's
instinctual response isn't enough
to help them appreciate high quality
art (ie, no exposure, no
understanding) and suggest guidance be
provided as to what to look for,
along the lines of an aesthetic
treasure hunt--or exploration using a
"common vocabulary of art" (The
Painter's Eye: Learning to Look at
Contemporary American Art by
Jan Greenberg and Sandra Jordan,
Delacorte, 1991, p. 8). And it seems
to follow that children who have hands
on artistic experiences will be
more observant and react more
appreciatively to book art--and
recognize
media they've used themselves:
collage, paint, chalk, modeling
clay....
But still, can we answer the question,
What appeals?
Some have written that cartoonish and
representational are a child’s
favorite styles. Yet one child told me
he didn’t like seeing faces
pictured in books. He’d rather imagine
them. Another was frightened by
the lack of faces in my book Tukama
Tootles the Flute
(Orchard, 1994), illustrated by
Synthia Saint James, On the other
hand,
the artist’s bold, almost abstractly
conceived pages appeal to a wide
audience, including the visually
impaired, as I was gratefully informed
by some parents. Given anecdotal
evidence, there aren't any rules about
what appeals to everyone or, in fact,
what works
best with a specific
kind of text.
A story of few words might require
more than simply designed, graphic
illustrations. More complicated and
detailed illustrations might carry
the narrative above and beyond the
text. When I’ve looked at picture
books with older kids, I got more
articulate responses about why they
liked a certain book’s art. (One nice
thing about working with children
in the Virgin Islands--there is no
stigma attached to reading picture
books, while on the mainland I’ve
heard them described disparagingly as
baby books, even by parents.) These
children delighted in visual
narratives, including contradictory
ones, surprises, and hidden
treasures. On the other hand, once
again, books read as readalouds in a
group might benefit from bold images
rather than detailed ones. And
contrary to expectations, a very young
lap book might benefit from
detailed illustrations offering take
off points for talking about
things other than the story,
including objects, numbers, colors.
The popular psychologist, Penelope
Leach, in her book Your
Baby & Child: From Birth to Age
Five (Knopf, 1989 edition),
says that babies are entranced “by
big, clear, illustrations of babies
and older people doing familiar
things” (p. 257), that toddlers’
attention will be held by “big,
detailed illustrations of familiar
scenes” (p. 360), and that a
somewhat older child, “reading”
pictures, is also preparing for
reading
words later on. “Try to find him books
with big, colorful, detailed
illustrations,” she advises, “rather
than the sterile conventional A is
for Antelope type” (p. 453). I was a
little surprised to find her
taking a stand, and such
an odd one, regarding quality. In my
experience alphabet books are more
often artistic showcases and
conceptual tours de force than sterile
exercises! What I think she’s really
intending to speak to is a certain
level of visual storytelling and
artistic quality that goes beyond the
ordinariness and predictability of the
dictionary.
Dr. Leach’s recommendations are broad,
but specific studies HAVE been
done trying to analyze children’s
subject and style preferences. I
found one old interesting document
on-line: in 1941 thousands of
children were asked what they would
like an artist to paint for them.
MOMA held a competition, and the
winning artists of “pictures for
children” would receive a princely
$25. (To see the themes, check
out
this
site.)
Judging quality and impact is a more
difficult task. Judgments can be
informed, based on knowledge and
experience, but can also be elicited
by an
undefinable combination of nature and
nurture. I say this because of the
realization that came to me while
sharing art preferences with my
husband and with colleagues whose
taste and judgments I respect. We
almost always disagreed! That proved
to me just how subjective a
response to art can be, which led me
to the view that judgment must go
beyond education and to some sort of
gut based, mind/body predilection.
"Kid appeal" aside, we’re now well
beyond the point where children’s
book art is viewed
as second class or “only” for
children. Original art from children’s
books is being curated in museums and
sold in galleries as its own art
form, along with “fine art” and
“graphic art.” Sometimes the
distinctions seem fluid, just as
literature crosses the boundaries of
specific genres. If the text comes
first, which had been a criticism of
illustrations––that they were not Art
with a capital A, isn’t it true that
art
historically served a story––most
often a religious one?
Knowing the story, for most of
us, enhances the art. The story helps
us to understand the use of
symbols,
form, and color, and conversely, the
art helps us to understand the
story. The fact that
picture book art, as part of its
mandate, is aimed at appealing to a
wide audience and confined to a
specific format and storyline doesn't
prevent it from
being considered for its artistic
values, above and beyond the
text. Some contemporary picture books
even reference the wonderful
children’s
book art of the past to add richness
and wit to a story--Brian Lies in
his terrific Bats at the Library
(Houghton Mifflin, 2008), for example,
and Marjorie Priceman in my
book, This
Is the Day (Houghton
Mifflin, 2007), with her echos of Madeline.
The
new sophistication extends to the use
of artistic styles ranging
from the Naive to Renaissance, Surreal
to Retro....
Professor Kay E. Vandergrift offers
pointers on discussing and reviewing
picture
book
art, a bibliography
on children’s book illustration, as
well as notes from her own and
other books. The quotations are
fascinating and offer food for
thought.
But in the end, I’m glad that
scholarly research hasn’t
been conclusive on the question of
child appeal. If it had, we might
never get to see such a great variety
of artistic styles and pictorial
voices in children’s books.
Aesthetic appreciation is still a
mystery.
After all, however incomprehensible it
is to me, millions of people
loved the
work of Eloise Wilkins. And Dick and
Jane have their fans too. Good
grief, they’ve even made a comeback in
the 21st century!
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RETELLING
TALES
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People always ask, “Where do you get
your ideas?” My answer:
from real life, dreams, a word or
phrase--and other people’s stories.
Someone else’s story might grab my
attention and beg me to retell it.
I’m attracted to certain themes: loss,
struggle, transformation, magic,
overcoming, good vs evil--the stuff of
legend and folktale. I’m drawn
to the topics of food, family, art,
music, and love. When I come across
a story that comes after me, I want to
“fix” it, or recreate it to
reflect my own experience and values.
Nobody minds when a writer refashions
a fairy tale. If the ogre is
sympathetic, the prince turns out to
be a bum, the princess is not
helpless after all--that’s perfectly
okay. But when it comes to
adapting folktales from other
cultures, questions arise. Questions
about source, accuracy, multicultural
sensitivity....
For example, can a non-African retell
an African folktale? I believe
there is such a thing as cultural
“radar,” but I also believe that
there are more differences within a
group than between the empathetic
of two different groups. We are all
part of the human family, and we
all have antennae, if we choose to
wave them around a bit, that can
provide us with good information. We
can empathize. We can inhabit. We
can imagine. In fact, sometimes it
takes an outsider to reveal the
value of a culture insiders may take
for granted, or denigrate, or even
try to suppress.
Besides, I like the idea that all
writers are free to write about what
touches them, no matter what their
backgrounds may be. This isn’t to
say I’m not interested in being true
to the cultural source of a tale
that pulls me into its orbit; I always
research its setting and
origins, and salt and pepper it with
some specific, telling cultural
details, but I need to make the story
my own, too. And while that may
mean the story is no longer authentic
culturally, the process of adaptation
is culturally authentic.
For Native Americans, a story has an
independent life, to be nourished
and to nourish. In Africa, the Hausa
people say, “A story, a story, let
it go, let it come.” Individual Ahamba
storytellers reenact each story
creatively, even to the extent of
altering the ending. And as Ruth
Finnegan wrote in her book, Limba
Stories and Storytelling
(Oxford, 1967), “There is no
‘received’
or correct text of any traditional
story. Limba story-telling is a
living art and the traditional themes
and motifs find their realization
in the actual performance, embellished
on each separate occasion with
differing dramatic devices, emphases,
and wording, or with episodes or
references peculiar to the occasion.”
What is most powerful in these tales
is their universality; the same
basic story and character type can be
found in nearly every culture.
But the variants make each one unique.
They reflect particular cultures
and a real, concrete sense of place.
Turning that principle on its
head, I have sometimes taken my
favorite tales from childhood and
placed them in a brand new cultural
context. For instance, “The
Fisherman and His Wife” became “Reina
Sardina” (Spider, 3/2004), and
“Stone Soup”
became Kallaloo!
(Cavendish,
2005).
If I’m guilty of sanitizing a story,
altering its trajectory, or making
the characters more likable, as I did
in Only
One Cowry (Orchard,
2000),
it’s
not only because I’m writing for
children, but because I’m writing
a story I’d like to read myself. The
source may be a traditional story
that grabbed me, but it also has to
become a story that satisfies my
somewhat moralistic storytelling
impulse. In the case of Only One
Cowry, a trickster tale
evolves from one of outright
selfishness to one of sharing the
wealth--and still keeps its tricky
nature.
Retelling a story, I try to dust it
off, shake it up, and make it
fresh, or as Ezra Pound put it
succinctly, “make it new,” as good a
rule as any for creative
interpretation, to which I’d add “make
it your
own.”
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