It’s a logistical challenge to coordinate an author visit. Especially if the author is coming in from out of town and presenting to multiple groups. And especially especially when there’s a snow day on the originally scheduled date. So it’s really saying something that Eliot Schrefer’s author visit on February 20th was worth the logistical challenges and then some!
Eliot is the author of the National Book Award Finalist novel Endangered, which tells the story of a fourteen-year-old girl trying to survive in war-time Congo with an orphaned bonobo, and the brand new novel Threatened, among other books. He charmed and inspired middle school students, high school students, and teachers as he presented about human-ape relationships and his research trip to Congo for Endangered. He also talked more informally about his writing process with the eighth grade.
I loved hearing about Eliot’s adventures in Congo, and I also appreciated the humble, unintimidating way he described his life as a writer. I thought it was especially interesting to hear about how he came up with the idea for Endangered. He began researching bonobos because of a pair of Bonobo brand pants, and when it came time to write the novel, he started off with the situation for the story in mind. He knew he’d tell the story of a teenager trying to take care of a bonobo during a time of violence and political unrest, and from there, he figured out what kind of character would fit the situation best.
It was also interesting to hear him talk about drafting versus revision (he doesn’t let himself look back above the cursor as he drafts and keeps moving forward, and he spends much longer revising a first draft than writing it) and about getting into the writing zone. One of the eighth grade students asked him if he feels like he’s really writing from a character’s perspective when he sits down to write, and he said that sometimes he gets into a flow state, in which the story comes to him easily from a character’s perspective, but sometimes he has to sit down and write even when he isn’t in that kind of zone.
My own writing process is different from Eliot’s in some ways: I tend to start a story with a character or a feeling instead of a situation, and I tend to go back to earlier parts of a story a lot as I’m getting a draft together rather than pushing onward without looking back. But the tone of Eliot’s talks made it clear that there isn’t just one way to do things: what’s important is to realize that writing, or any other kind of art, is going to take a whole lot of effort and discipline, and then to figure out what works best for each of us.
Oh, and in addition to all of those great takeaways from the visit? Bonobos are extraordinarily cute. Seriously. Look them up on YouTube. In the larger assemblies, the whole audience was enchanted each time Eliot showed a video clip of bonobos. Eliot is writing a quartet of YA novels about young people and their relationships with each of the four great apes: bonobos in Endangered, chimpanzees in Threatened, and then orangutans and gorillas in his next two books. As I looked out at the audience of students and teachers, all smiling and laughing as they watched these emotionally expressive, absolutely endearing apes, I realized that there is something fundamentally fascinating and resonant about these creatures Eliot has chosen to write about.
And so maybe that’s the biggest takeaway of all: that the best stories deal with subject matter that is in some way fascinating and resonant. That’s not to say that we should all go out and write about apes–I think Eliot has that under control. But I think we should all be on the lookout for potential topics that speak to us and might speak to others. We should all be on the lookout for our own “bonobos,” and we should be aware that the initial seed of inspiration could come from something as simple as a pair of pants.
Welcome back for the second installment of the Student-Author Interview Series! This time, four terrific seventh grade readers are interviewing one terrific author: K.A. (Kelly) Barson. Kelly’s debut, the funny and poignant contemporary YA novel 45 Pounds (More or Less), tells the story of sixteen-year-old Ann Galardi, who resolves to lose 45 pounds in two and a half months so that she can fit into a bridesmaid dress that won’t humiliate her when her aunt gets married at the end of the summer. Like last time, the student interviewers will share their favorite things about Kelly’s book, then they’ll ask Kelly some questions about the book, and finally they’ll ask her some questions about when she was in middle school. We hope you enjoy the interview!
First, what the students especially love about 45 POUNDS (MORE OR LESS):
Sophia: I really loved how Ann thought of a goal to work towards. I liked the style of the book and that it’s realistic but shows something that’s not everybody’s reality. I liked Ann’s relationship with Jon, and it felt true when other girls were really mean to Ann. Sometimes people do things that they think are a joke, but they’re really mean.
Rachel: I love how relatable it is even if you don’t have 45 pounds to lose—it’s about parents and siblings and friends and things you can relate to.
Lili May: I agree that it’s relatable, and I also like how you can see how Ann changes, and how she changes who she’s friends with and meets some new people she really likes. I like how in her quest to teach her little sister Libby to be healthy and not freak out about eating she teaches herself that’s how you should live.
Breanna: I really like the little brother and sister, Justice and Liberty. Their names are cute and I liked how Libby was worried about food. Regina also was the perfect name for Ann’s mom’s awful mother-in-law!
Now for some questions about the book and about Kelly’s writing process:
Rachel and Breanna:Did you struggle with weight since Ann’s character does and you write about it in such a believable way in the first person? Or if not, did you feel some of the same feelings that Ann has or go through any of the scenarios in the book?
Yes and yes. I’ve struggled with weight all of my life. Like Ann, I always worried about what people were thinking. When I was younger I wasn’t as big as I felt I was, but because that’s how I thought about myself I made it come true even more. The battle with weight is often more of a mental battle than a physical one. That is true for Ann, her mother, as well as for me and my mother. My mom is a good mom—as is Ann’s; she just has her own struggles in her own head.
Breanna and Lili May: Are any of Ann’s family members based on anyone real? We especially want to know about Gram, because we love Gram and want to know if there’s a real Gram out there. Also Ann’s dad, because he’s so hurtful, and Regina, because she’s so horrible!
Kind of. Gram is a combination of my grandmother, my mother as a grandmother, and me as a grandmother. My grandma used to call people fat ass. She wasn’t trying to be mean, but it felt like it sometimes because that’s not a nice thing to say. She also used to speak her mind. I spent a lot of time with her growing up. She’s passed away now, and I miss her a lot. I loved writing this because it was like she was with me. My mom used to smoke a lot, so that part came from her. (She doesn’t smoke anymore.) She also speaks her mind. I like to wear bright colors and sometimes dress a little weird. Like my grandma and mom, I also don’t hold back on how I feel. All of us will fight for everyone to get along and love our kids and grandkids fiercely.
Ann’s dad is not based on anyone particular. He’s just a guy who gets caught up in his own day-to-day life and Ann just isn’t there every day. I think he loves her in his own way. He’s just selfish.
Regina is based on someone I know, but I can’t tell you who it is because she has no idea it’s her. You see, when someone is that judgmental and self-absorbed they don’t see the meanness even when it’s staring them in the face. They usually only see how people treat them wrongly. That’s true with Regina as well as the real-life “Regina.”
Breanna: How did you choose the characters’ names, especially Liberty and Justice?
Ann comes from an earlier version of the story where she had a screen name of Ann_Onymous. She used that because she felt invisible. But that part of the story was updated and eliminated. I kept her name though because it felt weird to change it.
I’ve always liked the name Libby. Since Mike is a politician, I was brainstorming names that sounded patriotic. Liberty and Justice fit. Plus, I thought they were cute names, and kind of funny, too.
Regina is Latin for queen—the obvious choice.
The Knees started out as a coincidence. I loved the name Raynee, so I chose that to be the friend. Then I noticed that I’d called the other girl Courtney. I jumped on the similarity and added Tiffany and Melanie.
Rachel: Who would you say is the biggest antagonist in the book?
In my opinion, the biggest antagonist is Ann. I know that sounds weird because she’s the protagonist, but the biggest obstacles she had to overcome were her own misconceptions about herself and how others saw her. Yes, there were obstacles with other people—especially Courtney, but overall, those people were reacting from their own selfishness and issues. The biggest battle is within Ann’s own head.
Lili May: Is contemporary realistic fiction your favorite genre to write, and if so, why?
I love writing contemporary realistic fiction because those are the stories that speak to me. I like watching contemporary movies and reading that genre too. (I love John Green and Rainbow Rowell.) However, I also like writing historical fiction. I love history and stories from the past, but more than the facts, I like the people of history. I love that even though times and circumstances change, people are always people.
Rachel: How do you stay on track with your writing?
I don’t. Ha! Deadlines. If someone like my editor or agent gives me a deadline, I do whatever I can to meet it. Sometimes I write just because I need to know what happens to these characters that I think about all the time. I don’t write every day, even though I probably should. I tend to write in sprints and then rest before I sprint into the next story.
Sophia: How did you choose to end the book where you did rather than showing the rest of Ann’s aunt’s wedding and more of what happens with Ann and Jon? Will you make a sequel? I hope you do! (Note: this one includes spoilers, so if you haven’t read the book yet you might want to scroll past this answer for now!)
I ended it where I did because Ann had transformed. Just like in real life, she didn’t totally change, but her mindset and attitudes had changed. How she saw herself and how she saw Courtney and her mom had all changed. She understood that everyone has his or her own stories and issues and that she could only do something about her own. She was on the right track. And we found out that Jon really does like her! Readers can infer that they will start dating after the wedding. And that everything is finally working out for her.
As for a sequel, there isn’t one planned. HOWEVER, Ann and Raynee make cameo appearances in my next book that is due out summer 2015. It’s about a high school cosmetology student who thinks she has her whole life planned out, until it all falls apart. It takes place in the same city—a fictionalized version of my own town, so some of the same places and people are in it.
And finally, some questions about when Kelly was in middle school:
Lili May: Did you want to be a writer when you were in middle school?
I knew I liked writing when I was in middle school. But I didn’t think it was a real job. I thought of it like being a movie star or professional basketball player—sure, some people do it, but only really talented or lucky people can really do it for a living. And I never thought I was that talented or lucky. I’d always imagined myself as a teacher. I still like teaching and have taught grades 3-12 and now teach college writing. Now I know that I can teach AND write. And that it’s not all about luck and talent. It’s more about hard work and doing what you love.
Breanna: Was English your best subject?
Yes! I loved diagramming sentences and dissecting sentences as I read literature. But I also liked algebra and history. Science? Not so much.
Sophia: Did you have any hard writing assignments at school? Was there anything about writing that was a challenge for you then?
I’ve never liked answering essay questions where the teacher was looking for something specific. They always felt artificial to me, and I usually got frustrated trying to figure out what he or she wanted. I preferred to be able to talk about the stories and hear what other people noticed. I also preferred to create my own stories.
I also didn’t usually want to read something if a teacher assigned it. I was stubborn and bratty that way. I wanted to pick out my own books. I’ve gone back now and read most of the books I refused to read in middle school and high school. I like most of them and can see why the teachers picked them, but I still like to pick out my own books.
Thanks so much for reading 45 POUNDS and for taking the time to interview me! You all are awesome! Write on…
Thank YOU, Kelly, for writing 45 POUNDS and for answering our questions! We can’t wait for your next book!
Author photo from kellybarson.com (photo credit: Hal Folk). Book cover image from Goodreads.
I don’t know about you, but I love reading author interviews. I also love giving my students opportunities to interact with real-life authors. So I figured, why not bring these two things together and have students interview authors here on my blog! Welcome to the first installment of this student-author interview series, featuring Amy Rose Capetta. Amy Rose is the author of Entangled, an awesome sci-fi adventure story about a girl named Cade who finds out that she’s entangled at a sub-atomic level with a guy she’s never met and has to travel through space to try to save him.
In this and other author interviews I feature here, my students will share what they liked most about the author’s book, ask questions about the book, and ask questions about what the author was like in middle school. Got it? Okay then! Let’s get started.
First, here’s what some of my middle school students love about Entangled:
Mary G.: I really like the way Amy Rose writes. I think it’s dreamy, surreal, and awesome. The way she writes sounds like the setting she’s writing about somehow. It fits. I also like that even though this book is in third-person, the narration sounds like Cade. I loved that at the beginning things are kind of confusing. I love when books are confusing at first and you have to keep reading to figure things out!
Casey: I also liked that I had to figure things out at the beginning. When I got further on, after Xan was introduced, I liked the action and the adventure that started from there.
Mary D.: I liked how the events weren’t all happy, and I liked the ending, because it wasn’t just happy, but it wasn’t depressing. It was bittersweet.
Now for some questions about Entangled and writing!
Madeline: I see on the first page that Cade wears lots of black and sometimes can’t stand other people. Do you wear black and are you antisocial, too? Or are you more like another character than like Cade?
Antisocial? Oh, yeah. I was a hundred different shades of antisocial. No black in my wardrobe, though! I loved bright colors. My original daydream of Cade (way before I knew anything about the plot,) was about a punk rock girl on a faraway desert planet. Black is traditional for punk and actually smart to wear in hot weather, so when Cade started getting dressed and all of her clothes were black, I went with it.
I wouldn’t say I’m outgoing now, but like Cade, I found a way to connect with people. A lot of what she goes through is a (big, adventurous, sci-fi) version of what I went through at seventeen.
But overall, the character I’m most like is Ayumi—nerdy to the core, buried in her notebooks, doing her own thing.
Quinn: How did you create the world that’s in this book?
The process of creating the world in the book was different from what I’m used to. Before, if a story I wanted to write took place in a fantasy or sci-fi world, I would keep notebooks (like Ayumi!) and make maps of places that didn’t exist. The process of creating that other place could take months. I did all of that for Entangled, but after I started. I let the universe of the story evolve as I wrote. When I had a draft, I went back and made sure it all worked—and I hadn’t changed the names of the planets halfway through.
Mary D.: How much time per day do you spend writing, and how long did it take to write this book?
I get in a good four-to-five hour stretch of writing every day, even when I have other work to do. Whenever I can, I’ll add a second session, which can be shorter, or longer if I’m almost at a deadline! It took me four months to write the first draft of Entangled, and another three to revise it. That was all before an editor bought it, and then there were more revisions, and copyedits. The process of writing Entangled, from start to finish, took eleven months.
Dasha: Do you procrastinate?
I used to procrastinate a lot more than I do now. But I also used to sit still for longer. Now, if I need a break, I’ll take one—get lunch, go for a walk, finally get out of my pajamas. (If people knew how much time writers spend in their pajamas, they would be horrified. Or jealous! Depending on how much you like pajamas.) But I’ve decided that when I’m in writing mode, I have to keep my words on the screen. It allows me to get deeper into the story, and that’s when a lot of the best stuff happens—the surprises, the character development, the humor—basically, the parts I can’t plan.
Casey: How and when did you get into writing?
I got into writing early. I had a third grade teacher who loved all things fantasy. I always loved to write, but combining it with the love of adventure and other worlds is what really made an impact. I had a hard time focusing on the “real world”—and I still do. I think that most adults narrow things down too much. The world is a lot stranger than we think it is. That’s why I love science! It’s a great reminder of that, and a great source to steal ideas for stories.
Mary G.: You say at one point that Cade has light brown skin, so I imagined her being biracial, but then on the cover she looks white. How did you imagine her looking? Does the girl on the cover look like the Cade you imagined?
That is a fantastic question. I could go on and on and on about this subject, but here’s the short answer:
In the future that I imagined, over 1,000 years from now, pretty much everyone is what we would now consider biracial (or, really, multiracial.) Leaving Earth in small numbers, and being lumped together as an undesirable group by nonhuman species, had a big effect on the humans. The remaining population is scattered, so there’s still a lot of genetic variation.
When I imagined the human characters, I wanted to make it clear we weren’t in an all-white future. (Which would be creepy and make no sense.) The publisher was totally on board with a cover that featured Cade’s light brown skin tone, but the original cover didn’t look very sci-fi or futuristic, so the blue was added. The thing that I’ve always liked about the girl in the picture is that her features read as somewhat Asian to me, and with a brown skin tone and a mix of Caucasian and Asian features, she would be a multiracial Cade, like I imagined. Is the Cade on the cover a little different than the Cade in my head? Sure. But I’ve always liked the idea that we can all have different but valid images of a character. The Cade in my head is probably different from the Cade in yours, too, and that’s sort of cool.
Dasha: Did you get ideas or inspiration from other authors or books? If so, which ones?
Definitely! I am always inspired by other books and authors. In this case, I read a lot of sci-fi when I was a teenager, but about 98% of it felt like it was written by male authors, about male characters, for male readers. I wanted to write a space epic that didn’t read like there should be a No Girls Allowed sign stapled to it.
Now for some questions about Amy Rose in middle school:
Dasha: What was your favorite class and your favorite book?
I loved science classes. I can still recite a lot of the periodic table and draw a mean Punnett square.
My favorite books around that time were the His Dark Materials trilogy by Philip Pullman, which starts with The Golden Compass. I was waiting for the third book to come out, and I read the first two over and over and over…Books in a trilogy didn’t come out a year apart from each other then! More like five.
Casey: Was there a writing or literature club in your middle school, and if there was were you in it?
There was no writing or literature club in my middle school. Do you have that? I would have loved it. In middle school I did start writing my first long stories. They were hand-written in multiple composition notebooks, then typed and shared with my best friend. He was amazing and actually read them. (Did I mention they were long? Really long. Like, longer than Entangled.) It was pretty great to send him a copy of a published book, and say thank you.
Mary D.: What did you want to be when you grew up?
I wanted to be a writer. I was so single-minded. (I guess I still am.) And I was so lucky to be surrounded by supportive people who didn’t tell me that it was impossible.
Madeline: What was your favorite dessert then, and what is it now?
So hard to pick! I have a monstrous sweet tooth. I even worked as a baker for a while.
Then: strawberry shortcake
Now: dark chocolate, all the time, everywhere, with anything, on top of anything
Thanks for being our first guest, Amy Rose!
If you haven’t already, definitely check out Entangled, and then you can look forward to the upcoming sequel, Unmade!
Photo of Amy Rose from amyrosecapetta.com, photo credit: Cori McCarthy. Book cover image from Goodreads.com
During my first semester of graduate school at Vermont College of Fine Arts, I was working on a novel about a very anxious girl beginning her freshman year at a very intense prep school. I really loved this anxious girl, and I really loved her science-obsessed best friend and her kind, stressed-out dad and the adorable, math-genius boy who had a crush on her. But…well…not a whole heck of a lot happened in the novel draft. And it definitely didn’t have a catchy premise I could sum up in a sentence.
When I started my second semester of grad school, my new advisor told me there were a lot of wonderful things about this character, her voice, and her world, but what I had written didn’t yet qualify as a story. That was a little bit hard to take. I mean, lots of things qualify as stories. An off-the-cuff monologue about some silly thing that happened on the subway ride to work could get categorized as a story. But my novel-in-progress couldn’t?
My new advisor helped me identify a true inciting incident that would happen early on in a new draft and shake up this poor anxious girl’s world. We realized that everything I had written so far was like a prequel. The true story should begin a full year later.
Determining where to start the book was a great first step. But my advisor also encouraged me to raise the intensity of the set up. “What if the girl’s overachieving brother died when they were young and that’s why getting perfect grades and being the perfect daughter is so important to her?” she suggested. “Or what if at the end it becomes clear that she’s been hospitalized for an eating disorder?”
I wanted to take my advisor’s advice (she is indisputably brilliant), and I certainly wanted to improve my book. But I really didn’t want to give this girl a dead brother or an eating disorder. That was partly because I didn’t envision this book being a grief novel or a novel about body image issues. It was also partly because I haven’t had to deal with an eating disorder or the death of someone very young and close to me, so I didn’t think I could write that kind of story authentically.
Eventually, after I’d started the story over a few times and it still wasn’t working, my advisor said something that sparked an epiphany. She explained that readers tend to expect that the main character in a novel will be going through something bigger than what they themselves have been through. If you don’t give the main character something significant to work against, readers might not feel as invested in his or her journey. I didn’t have to use the dead brother or eating disorder idea—she wasn’t saying I had to choose one of those. But I couldn’t just rely on character and voice, even now that I was starting the story closer to an inciting incident. I had to figure out how to give my character a more specific, significant obstacle to work against.
A couple of years later, when I was ready to send out queries for a book I’d started my third semester (I put the one from first and second semester aside for a good long break), I began to read a lot of agent interviews and blogs. This Publisher’s Weekly article “New Trends in YA: The Agents’ Perspective” suggests that a strong contemporary realistic submission has two key things: “a strong voice and a good hook.” Suzie Townsend shared a similar recipe for hooking an agent in this great blog post (which happens to reference one of my favorite books, Saving Francesca). She explains: “Voice + Character + Set up = Hooked!”
I think the “hook” or “set up” agents describe is similar to what my second-semester advisor was talking about when she encouraged me to start my novel-in-progress in the right place and develop specific, significant obstacles. But I still wonder: how can a writer be sure that her hook is hooky enough? Especially a writer like me, who loves character and voice first and a dramatic story second?
In the same blog post, Suzie Townsend offers a helpful explanation of a hook. She says that starting in the right place is crucial, and she adds, “Great first lines are a definite plus and a set up that can be summed up in a concise sentence or two (this is also called a logline) is even better.”
Beyond this, different people seem to have different opinions about what makes a hook hooky enough, which certainly isn’t earth-shattering news, since reading tastes are subjective. I’m probably not ever going to be the kind of writer whose books have really dark and edgy or glamorous-splashy hooks. That’s not to say that I have anything against dark and edgy or glamorous-splashy books! That just isn’t my style. When I was querying agents, I would read successful query examples and lament over how many of the books that had landed agents had hookier hooks than mine did. Now that I have an agent and my book is on submission, I like to read Publisher’s Marketplace sales reports and worry that the books that are selling all sound more dramatic than mine.
This is probably not a wise thing to do. What I probably should do is try to make sure that my stories start in the right place and have specific, significant obstacles and a set up that can be described concisely. I can also be on the look out for books that fit my sensibilities and have strong hooks, so that I can learn from the work of other authors. Some contemporary realistic books I’ve read (and loved) recently that feel like my kind of book and have especially effective set ups include Corey Ann Haydu’s OCD Love Story, Sara Polsky’s This Is How I Find Her, and Sara Zarr and Tara Altebrando’s Roomies. And I can push myself to expand my ideas of what kinds of set ups I could pull off authentically, by finding ways to connect the experiences I’ve had with the experiences I’m imagining for a character.
That sounds much wiser, doesn’t it? I’d also love to hear about any other effectively hooky books you’ve read recently or any thoughts on what a hook is and what makes one strong!
As part of the middle school advisory program at my school this year, we’ve been focusing on the theme of integrity. From the start, most of my advisees already understood the first definition that’s listed in a print or online dictionary when you look up the word integrity; they already knew that having integrity means being honest and showing strong moral principles.
But they weren’t as familiar with the definition that appears second. They didn’t know, until we looked up the word together, that integrity also means “the state of being whole and undivided.” So after we spent some time grappling with the first definition of integrity as we debated the honest, moral thing to do in different scenarios, we moved on to the second definition.
According to a piece by Connecticut Friends School on the Friends Journal website, having integrity means letting your inner life match your outer life. Living with integrity means honoring your passions and talents and sharing them with others. Inspired by these ideas, I asked my advisees to take turns teaching the group about something that is important to them: something that makes them who they are, but that the rest of us might not know about.
So far, we’ve learned French and Mandarin words from students who speak those languages at home. One student used diagrams and a YouTube video to show us how she navigates a slalom course. One took us outside on a very cold day and taught us how to throw and catch a lacrosse ball. One brought in Saudi food to share with us, and one taught us a hip-hop dance (which none of the rest of us could really do…but we all tried!).
Here, some of us are attempting the dance…
At this point in the school year, I know all of my advisees pretty well. But this activity has reminded me that there are plenty of things I don’t know about them. They have full lives outside of school—lives that are sometimes rewarding and sometimes frustrating, sometimes energizing and sometimes draining. It’s been really wonderful to find out more about their varied interests and areas of expertise.
This activity also has implications for fiction writing. I think it’s a helpful exercise for writers to ask themselves what their characters might teach a group of classmates if they were asked to share an interest with the group. Lissy, the main character in my YA manuscript REBOUND, came to life when I discovered her passion for baking (which is definitely the interest she would share with a group of classmates). As soon as I made her a baker, her voice became more distinctive and she became more likable, because she turns into the best, most confident version of herself when she bakes.
On the other hand, it also might be telling if a character does not have a clearly defined passion. In the YA project that I’m working on now, the main character has a very clear goal that she’s fixated on, but it’s not an internally driven passion—it’s an externally driven obsession. Recently, I realized that if she were one of my advisees and I asked her to share one of her interests with the group, she wouldn’t know what to share. I could picture her listening to other people’s presentations and beating herself up because she doesn’t have a true passion. And in fact, it’s important to her character and her journey that she doesn’t yet have an interest that makes her feel whole and accomplished when the book begins.
As you can probably tell, I’ve found it really interesting to think about what it means for me, my students, and the fictional characters I read and write about to live with, or in pursuit of, this version of integrity. I hope it might be helpful for you to think about that, too!
I recently read Maria Semple’s Where’d You Go, Bernadette? after a few people, including my good friend Laura Sibson, had enthusiastically recommended it. (Laura wrote a post that was partly inspired by the book here.) I loved the book, and I also loved Maria Semple’s short story “Dear Mountain Room Parents,” which appears at the end of the Kindle version of Where’d You Go, Bernadette. Both the book and the story are epistolary: written in letters/documents/emails, although the messages in the book are woven together with some narration and the story includes emails only.
So here is my holiday gift to you—a gift for which I can claim absolutely no credit, admittedly—a link to the hilarious short story, which was originally published in The New Yorker. Go ahead and read it now, if you haven’t already. And you’re welcome.
After you’ve read it, if you’re anything like me, you might find yourself itching to write your own version of the story for fun. Back in October, I posted about how I often assign my middle school students “fanfiction” challenges that invite them to use the characters, setting, or style of a published piece. I thought that Semple’s short story would inspire a lot of fun writing, so I shared it with my eighth grade students and encouraged them to write their own stories consisting of one person’s emails.
I did one, too, and it was a great writing exercise: it forced me to create a brief story with a clear beginning, middle, and end, and to develop a character primarily through that character’s voice. I think epistolary stories and novels often feature especially engaging first-person voices because so much of what we know about each character comes from how that character expresses herself, so writers really give the characters trademark expressions or ways of putting together sentences. I know this is a busy time of year, but after the holidays, I recommend this exercise, especially for people who want an excuse to play around with a first-person voice.
Here’s my story. I cheated a little bit, bringing a second narrator in at the very end to close it out. I’d love to see what anyone else does with this prompt, too! Enjoy!
Holiday Concert Dress Code: A Reminder
We look forward to seeing you on Thursday night at the annual Winter Concert! This is just a friendly reminder that your children should come dressed all in black. Young ladies should not wear spaghetti straps, and they must wear tights or leggings underneath if they choose to wear skirts. After all, it’s cold outside!
Have a joyful evening!
Hello again, parents,
There seems to be some confusion in response to my last message, so this email is to clarify that young gentlemen should not come wearing spaghetti straps or skirts without tights or leggings, either. In fact, the gentlemen should wear slacks (and the ladies may wear slacks as well—perhaps that is simpler if everyone does).
Finally, please bear in mind that “slacks” does not mean those track pants with glaring white or neon stripes down the sides.
Some of you seem to have two remaining concerns about the concert dress code, even after my clarifying email. The first concern stems from some parents’ feeling that there was not enough notice about the dress code. Thanks to lengthy emails from several of you, I realize that some of our families need to go out and purchase black shoes and/or clothing at what feels like the last minute. I understand that the need to fit in a last-minute shopping trip in the midst of the holiday season might create some anxiety and/or resentment.
Let me assure you, however, that my email from earlier today was, as I noted then, a reminder, following up on this month’s “What’s New in Sixth Grade?” e-newsletter. Those who actually read the newsletter have had a full three weeks’ notice about the concert dress code. I didn’t want to have to bring this up, but because of the electronic tracking system, I can tell that only one-third of the recipient list took the time to open the newsletter. Perhaps in the future, more of you will at least glance at the updates that your children and I work hard to prepare.
Second, others of you seem to believe that we at Evergreen Middle are “stifling the creativity,” “banning the freedom of self-expression,” and/or “suffocating the inner light” of our sixth graders by prescribing a limiting dress code for the concert (which, I will remind you, is one evening only).
Please know that your children’s creativity, self-expression, and inner light are very important to all of us at Evergreen Middle. We are simply attempting to create a cohesive and visually appealing look for the winter concert so that the audience can focus on the beautiful music your children will be creating.
Thanks in advance for understanding!
We all now know that Madison G’s grandmother feels that black is an inappropriate color for children to wear because it is too “adult” and “sexy” (which is difficult to understand in light of my explicit comment that no one should wear spaghetti straps and/or skirts without tights). In addition, Tyson’s babysitter has shared with us all that, in her opinion, nothing could be more visually appealing than a stage full of children wearing festive, colorful holiday outfits that “welcome Baby Jesus into the bleak, wintery world.” I do want to reiterate that this is a holiday concert, and not a Christmas concert.
However, contrary to what seems to be the accepted belief, especially among those of you—I won’t name names—who think it is appropriate to accost me at the ShopRite deli counter to question a grade on a spelling quiz, I cannot give over all of my time to debating every minute detail of your children’s education.
Therefore, fine. Let your children come to the concert in ugly Christmas sweaters, bumblebee costumes, Eagles jerseys and sweatpants—whatever they feel like. God forbid I attempt to enforce a rule every now and then.
Dear Sixth Grade Parents,
Ms. Peridot has been asked to resign from her job as lead sixth grade teacher, effective immediately. We all wish her the best in the next chapter of her life. The assistant teacher, Miss Lucy, will take over, with help from Madison G.’s grandmother, a retired teacher with thirty-two years of experience, and Decker’s father, who is currently taking some time off from his job as a corporate lawyer, until we can hire a replacement.
Looking forward to seeing you at tomorrow’s concert!
Last Friday morning as I was having breakfast before school, I read this blog post entitled “The Paradoxical Extremes of Middle Grade Students: A Holiday Memory,” and I teared up a bit. In the post, Braden Bell, a choir director and author, describes his experience with a talented but silly group of eighth graders and the lovely, unexpected gift they gave him at a winter concert. It’s a touching post that you should definitely read, and Bell’s story captures the most frustrating and wonderful part of my job as a middle school teacher: the way middle school students can be goofy and rambunctious one moment and then amazingly thoughtful, mature, and—as Bell puts it—magnificent the next.
When I read that blog post on Friday morning, I didn’t realize that I would get to experience a similar kind of moment, when students would surprise me with their compassion and interest, at school that very day. You see, it had been a long week for me and for the sixth and seventh grade students. They’d had a big day on Wednesday, when they’d presented major social studies projects during the day and again in the evening, and the weeks between Thanksgiving and winter break are always hectic with concerts and assemblies and general excitement.
My friend, author Lyn Miller-Lachmann, was visiting my sixth and seventh grade classes on Friday, and I was nervous. We’d scheduled the visit for that day because Lyn was already going to be in the Philadelphia area for a bookstore event in the evening, but now it seemed like really bad timing. The sixth and seventh graders were tired and preoccupied. When I’d read them the first four chapters of Lyn’s middle-grade novel Rogue the day before and reminded them about the visit, they hadn’t seemed very enthusiastic. None of them had told me that they were coming to the optional Q and A I’d arranged during lunch, even when I said there would be candy. I wanted the students to be invested and energetic so that they’d really get something out of Lyn’s visit. I wanted Lyn to have a good experience at my school. I wanted to feel like the time and energy I’d put into planning the visit had been worth it. But as I headed to school on Friday, I thought I might be disappointed.
When the sixth graders came in a little late from P.E., cutting short the already brief time they had with Lyn, I was discouraged. But then, sure enough, they participated in the discussion Lyn led and did a really nice job with her writing activity. That was a relief…but the seventh graders were the ones who’d seemed especially exhausted. And there was still that lunchtime session. What if nobody showed up?
Sixth graders working on Lyn’s writing activity.
And then something wonderful happened. The first class of seventh graders came in—this group of students who had barely reacted when I’d read them the first chapters of Rogue the day before—and one student put her hand up immediately to ask Lyn a question. After Lyn answered it, more students raised their hands. One student informed Lyn that he’d read the whole book the night before and that it’s awesome before asking her some great questions about which parts of the book are based on her own experiences. Lyn could barely even get to the writing activity because so many students wanted to ask questions and tell her about their experiences.
Seventh graders eager to participate!
I had to cut things off with that class so that Lyn and I could go down to the cafeteria to get lunch, and when we came back up to my classroom with our food, there were already a few students there. Phew, I thought. This is a respectable turnout. This is actually going okay. Then more students came in, so we pulled over another table, and then even more came in, so we added more chairs. Eventually, we had to start another table because we couldn’t fit everyone around the first two. And, okay, the students were eager to accept the candy I offered, but they were also eager to talk to Lyn!
One tricky thing about teaching is that the outcomes often don’t feel like they match my input. There are times when I put a lot of work into planning a lesson or a field trip that feels like it flops, and that can be demoralizing. But last Friday reminded me that I don’t always know what students are getting out of what I am offering them. Sometimes they might seem checked out when they are actually very much checked in. And it’s worth it to try to give them experiences that I think will be meaningful because sometimes, they will throw themselves in and take more out of those experiences than I could have hoped.
On Monday night, my fiancé and I went to see The Day of the Doctor, the Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Special, at a movie theater nearby. On our way home, we ended up talking about a question that’s come up several times before: How far ahead do the Doctor Who writers plan? When each new Doctor has been introduced, how precisely have the upcoming story lines been plotted out?
Mike has a hunch that the writers plan out most developments pretty far ahead of time, but I’m not so sure. Yes, the stories are complicated and “timey-wimey,” so it makes sense that some plans would certainly have to be laid out in advance. But my writing experience leads me to believe that the best-laid plans don’t always pan out. Plus, the kind of fun, creative storytelling that makes Doctor Who enjoyable seems to result from a balance of flexibility and structure that’s heavy on the flexibility.
I’m no Steven Moffat, but one of the biggest writing lessons I’ve learned over the past few years is that I can’t plan my stories too carefully. This has been a difficult lesson for me to accept, because I love to plan ahead. Uncertainty stresses me out. Slowly but surely, though, I am beginning to trust that uncertainty is a crucial part of the writing process.
I still think it’s helpful to have some idea of where I’m going. In both of the manuscripts I’ve worked on recently, I’ve spent some time early on figuring out a crossroads scene—a scene near the end of the book in which the external and internal story arcs cross and the main character must make an irrevocable choice—and that’s been hugely helpful. (Caroline Carlson, a talented writer, lovely person, and fellow VCFA alumna describes the crossroads scene in more detail in her post on how she plans a story, here.)
Then, to give myself what my VCFA advisor Shelley Tanaka called another “goalpost” to write toward, I’ve figured out one or two other pivotal scenes, too. In my YA manuscript Rebound, I found it helpful to think about the story in three acts, and I drew upon a section of Nancy Lamb’s The Writer’s Guide to Crafting Stories for Children called “The Throughline as Lifeline” to plan a pivotal scene. Lamb explains, “Somewhere at the closing of the second act of a screenplay, or the end of the middle of the book, the character’s conscious desire breaks down. […] This breakdown exposes a deeper motivation that propels the character forward, a motivation he was originally unaware of” (63). In Rebound, I knew what would happen in this end-of-the-middle scene, in which my character would give up on her conscious desire. (Well, I basically knew. I had to change the location and circumstances when I substantially revised my first draft and rewrote most of the second half of the novel from scratch, but the basic event stayed the same.)
In the manuscript I’ve been plugging away at this fall, I couldn’t come up with an end-of-the-middle scene in which the protagonist’s conscious desire breaks down, so I drew upon one of Martha Alderson’s ideas from The Plot Whisperer and figured out a pivotal midpoint scene instead. Alderson posits that the midpoint of a novel should be the second major turning point, or the second energetic marker. At this point in the story, Alderson explains in this blog post, “Something happens to force the protagonist’s willing and conscious commitment to the successful completion of her goal.” This month, I made it to the midpoint scene, and now I’m going to give the book a little bit of room to breathe before I read back over the first half and come up with my next goalpost to aim for.
But as helpful as it is to have planned out a scene that I can write towards, I continue to be struck by how many details and plot lines I never could have come up with ahead of time. In Rebound, the two things that people who have read the book consistently seem most enthusiastic about are things that surprised me when I figured them out. In my new project, I wrote one seemingly unimportant line of narration, in which the main character compares a school year to a pregnancy because both last for nine months, and when I read that over, something clicked. I decided to see what would happen if I made the protagonist’s mom pregnant and let her write her whole story as an extended letter to the miracle baby, and suddenly the project felt a lot more exciting.
So how far ahead do the Doctor Who writers plan? I have no idea, and judging by the number of hardcore Whovians out there, I’m sure many other people can make a more educated guess about that question than I can. But in my own writing, I’m glad I’m gradually learning the lesson to plan strategically, but plan out less than I think I should.
L. Marie invited me to write a guest post for her blog series on space, so I reflected on safe spaces, both real and fictional. Check out my guest post, the rest of the space series, and all of the other terrific stuff on L. Marie’s inspiring, entertaining blog!
Last year, after we finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird, I gave my eighth grade students a creative writing assignment. “Write your own chapter,” I instructed them. “It could be an extra scene that takes place during or after the events of the novel. It could be a secondary character’s take on an event that’s in the novel, or it could even be a secondary character’s take on an event that isn’t in the novel.”
“So basically, we’re writing To Kill a Mockingbird fanfiction,” one student said.
I paused for a moment. She had told me before about how she posts fanfiction online. “I guess you are,” I agreed. “Yeah.”
That wasn’t an unusual assignment for me to give a class. I love having students write something creative that is in some way inspired by what we are reading together. Sometimes, especially with poetry, we’ll mimic the style or format of a model text. Other times, I’ll ask students to write a letter or journal entry from the perspective of a character, or I’ll have them re-tell a scene from the perspective of a secondary character, or write an epilogue if they don’t like the way a book ends. Recently, I’ve given both seventh and eighth grade students the option of writing a fictional story they make up completely or using characters or events from a book we are reading. Some students love the chance to create characters, a setting, and a plot from scratch. But for other students, beginning with the characters, setting, and even events from a published story frees them up to do their best, most vibrant writing.
It had never really occurred to me until last spring when my eighth grade student made that comment that I might be encouraging students to write fanfiction. And I still didn’t think much about what fanfiction is or why people write it until I read Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell.
In Fangirl, the main character, Cath, is a dedicated and accomplished fanfiction writer. She’s obsessed with the Simon Snow series—and in particular, Simon’s relationship with his roommate, Baz—and she has a massive audience of online readers.
I loved many, many things about Fangirl, but I especially adored one passage, in which Cath explains why she’d rather write fanfiction than “original” fiction. “I know Simon and Baz,” she tells her creative writing professor. “I know how they think, what they feel. When I’m writing them, I get lost in them completely, and I’m happy. When I’m writing my own stuff, it’s like swimming upstream. Or…falling down a cliff and grabbing at branches, trying to invent the branches as I fall” (262). Her creative writing professor responds, “That’s how it’s supposed to feel” (262).
I can certainly relate to Cath’s description of how difficult it is to write her “own stuff.” And I think it’s pretty easy to feel that, if writing your “own stuff” is so exhausting and terrifying, then you must not be cut out to be a writer.
I’ve read research about how struggling readers often don’t enjoy reading, and therefore they don’t read much, and therefore their reading skills don’t improve. I think it might similarly be true that people who find it difficult to write creatively (…which is probably pretty much everyone…) might not go out of their way to do much creative writing, even if they might ultimately be great at it.
Reading Fangirl reminded me that writers of all ages and experience levels can benefit from writing tasks that don’t feel like falling down a cliff and grabbing at branches that may or may not exist. Sure, as Cath’s professor cautions, fanfiction generally can’t be published in a traditional way (although retellings of fairy tales, Jane Austen novels, and Shakespeare plays sometimes can). And for students who are really interested in writing, there probably is a point at which they should be pushed to write something truly original.
But luckily, as Cath’s writing professor also points out, writing one’s “own stuff” doesn’t have to mean creating a world from absolutely nothing. Professor Piper encourages Cath to start an original story with “something real.” “With one day from your life,” the professor suggests. “Something that confused or intrigued you, something you want to explore. Start there and see what happens. You can keep it true, or you can let it turn into something else—you can add magic—but give yourself a starting point” (307-308).
With something as disorienting and frustrating and exhilarating as creative writing, I think it’s important to find some kind of grounding—some kind of starting point, which could be a moment from real life, or, at times, inspiration from another story—before “falling down the cliff” of a new project. You’ll still be grabbing for branches on the way down, but at least maybe you’ll have some sense of where they might be hanging…or where you should put them, if you have to invent them yourself.
Rowell, Rainbow. Fangirl. New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2013. Print.
Today I’m back with the final post in this series about creating an engagingly fallible first-person narrator. We’ve gone over four strategies for helping readers to recognize a first-person narrator’s fallibility; writers can incorporate narrative distance, construct an audience and purpose for the narrative, make the most of syntax and diction, and have the narrator omit details or emotional reactions.
Now we’re ready for my final strategy! Authors can also create secondary characters that act as measuring sticks for the main character’s behavior and views.
Last week, I described Chris Lynch’s novel Gold Dust, which takes place in 1975 Boston and tells the story of Richard, a boy who loves the Red Sox and wants his new friend Napoleon, a black boy from Dominica, to ignore the racism he faces and embrace the sport of baseball. Lynch uses two secondary characters, Beverly and Butchie, to make readers think twice about accepting Richard’s views at face value.
Beverly is an enlightened girl who acknowledges the racism in her neighborhood and becomes Napoleon’s girlfriend. Throughout the novel, she points out the problems with Richard’s behavior, both to Richard and to the reader. When Napoleon gets sick after spending too much time playing baseball outside with Richard, Beverly says, “Napoleon is from a tropical climate. […] You could kill him, forcing him to be like you” (132). On the surface, Beverly just means that Richard could hurt Napoleon by forcing him to spend so much time in the cold, but her statement suggests to readers that Richard could also damage Napoleon by encouraging him to forget his heritage and pretend that racism doesn’t exist.
While Beverly is different from Richard because she is more open-minded than he is, Butchie provides another kind of contrast. Butchie’s actions and statements throughout the novel confirm that Napoleon is right: it is impossible for him to block out racism because he cannot escape it. While Richard is well-meaning but misguided, Butchie is downright cruel.
Lynch uses these two secondary characters as foils, to show contradicting reactions to Napoleon’s presence and to provide a gauge for Richard’s behavior. Readers can better evaluate Richard’s reliability by comparing him to Beverly on the one hand and to Butchie on the other. If you are writing a first-person narrative, think about whether you might develop secondary characters that function as gauges for your narrator-protagonist, as well, and be on the lookout for such secondary characters in your reading.
That brings us to the end of this series on how to clue readers in to an engaging first-person narrator’s fallibility. As I’ve said before, I love the intimacy of a good first-person narrative, and I think it’s a powerful reading experience to identify with a narrator while also recognizing his or her limitations. When readers see a narrator’s limitations, that doesn’t mean that they won’t identify with the narrator. If anything, I think readers can feel even closer to characters they recognize as fallible because they can see those characters’ “invisible selves.”
In her lovely essay collection The Invisible Child: On Reading and Writing Books for Children,Katherine Paterson explains that a character in a novel has both a visible self and an invisible self. Internal narration allows readers to see characters’ invisible selves—the parts they keep hidden from others, and maybe even from themselves. Paterson suggests that the writer’s job is to see deeply into a character’s invisible self and to depict that character honestly and lovingly. Paterson explains, “It is my hope, of course, that children will […] be able to see themselves in [these characters] and then as they come to love and forgive these people on the page to be able to love and forgive their deepest selves” (48).
Paterson isn’t talking specifically about first-person novels, but this quote gets at the heart of what I like most about a nuanced first-person story. When readers experience a story through the eyes of an engagingly fallible narrator, they can see beneath the surface of the narrator’s account. They can understand, connect to, and accept that fallible character, and that reading experience can help them to understand and accept other people and even themselves.
Lynch, Chris. Gold Dust. 2000. New York: Scholastic, 2002. Print.
Paterson, Katherine. The Invisible Child: On Reading and Writing Books for Children. Dutton’s Children’s Books, 2001. Print.
Pretty soon, I’ll post the final installment of my series on engagingly fallible first-person narrators, but in the wake of Banned Books Week last week, I wanted to post something else while it’s fresh in my mind.
After A.S. King visited my school last spring and gave three amazing presentations to grades 7-9, several students read one or more of her books. The other eighth grade English teacher and I love her novel Everybody Sees the Ants and wanted to capitalize on students’ excitement after the visit. We got permission to teach Everybody Sees the Ants in eighth grade English this year, and we just started the book at the end of last week.
Students are very enthusiastic about reading the book, but a couple of interesting comments from students have gotten me thinking. Yesterday, an eighth grader who is not in my class told me that she really likes Everybody Sees the Ants so far “even though it’s kind of inappropriate.” When I pressed her on what she meant by “inappropriate,” she referred to some curse words early in the novel. And then one student in my class came in today and asked, “Why are we allowed to read this when there are some curse words and stuff in it, but we get in trouble for swearing and we’re not allowed to play songs with curse words at school dances?”
That’s not an easy question to answer, but I think it’s an important one to address. So I ended up dropping part of the lesson I had planned today and asking the student to pose his question to the class. Here’s what my eighth grade students came up with:
Audience matters. Dances include 6th-8th graders, but our English class only includes 8th graders.
What you read is different from what you say. It’s not okay to direct curse words at other people, but when you’re reading a fictional story that includes curse words, that’s not the same as directing those words at other people, and that doesn’t encourage you to direct curse words at other people.
Most middle schoolers have seen and heard “worse” than what’s included in edgy YA novels.
The topic/message/theme matters. Some songs have negative messages that are demeaning to women, for example, but YA books usually have positive messages.
Language should match content. Certain stories are going to need curse words in order to be realistic. A.S. King couldn’t have believably written about Nader McMillan, the bully character in Everybody Sees the Ants, without including some swearing.
Context matters. You can’t take the curse words in a novel out of context; you need to look at why they’re there.
It’s different to read a book in English class, when the teacher has some control because he/she has read the book before assigning it and can lead discussions, than to play a song at a dance, because teachers wouldn’t have time to listen to each song beforehand and decide if each one is okay or not.
What do you think? Anything you’d add to my students’ list of reasons why they are allowed to read a book like Everybody Sees the Ants (or John Green’s Paper Towns or Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, both of which they’ll read later this year) when they aren’t allowed to use or play songs with curse words in other situations? Any other thoughts on the challenges of giving books with mature content or language to adolescent readers?
Also, my eighth grade students were primed for this discussion because last week, in honor of Banned Books Week, they read this article about Rainbow Rowell’s novel Eleanor and Park, which was challenged by a group of parents in Minnesota, and this report from the Parents’ Action League that was behind the challenge. I highly recommend checking out both links.
And, um…don’t get used to me updating this blog daily. I’m not sure what got into me, posting two days in a row! But I’ll soon get back to my every-other-week-ish schedule.
Happy last day of September! After a busy couple of weeks that included an author Skype visit for my seventh and eighth grade students with Katie Quirk, who wrote our summer reading book A Girl Called Problem; a two-part interview about my YA novel on L. Marie’s wonderful blog (here’s part 1 and part 2); and the purchase of a new car, I’m (finally) back to share the next strategy for crafting an engagingly fallible narrator.
In recent posts, I’ve gone over how writers can use narrative distance, audience and purpose, and syntax and diction to reveal the limits in a first-person narrator’s perspective. Today, I’d like to talk about omission. It turns out that writers can encourage readers to see our first-person narrators as fallible through what we leave out as well as what we include.
In his historical novel Gold Dust, Chris Lynch uses omission to emphasize his narrator Richard’s vulnerability and to show distortions in Richard’s point of view.(Warning: this discussion of Gold Dust is going to include a spoiler, so if you want to remain spoiler-free, you shouldn’t read the sixth paragraph. Although if you’re anything like me, being told to skip a paragraph probably ensures that you’ll read it, and immediately. Oh well. At least I tried to spare you.) Anyway, Gold Dust takes place in 1975 Boston, where the government has instituted a plan to desegregate schools by busing students out of district. The book opens when Napoleon Charlie Ellis, a black boy from Dominica, joins Richard’s school and doesn’t exactly receive a warm welcome from many of his white classmates. Throughout the novel, Richard wants Napoleon to embrace life in Boston and Richard’s favorite sport: baseball. He criticizes Napoleon for seeing racism everywhere and claims that Napoleon could be happy if he did not insist upon looking for negatives.
However, Lynch equips readers to realize that Richard’s views aren’t quite reliable, in part by omitting any real discussion of Richard’s family. When Napoleon asks Richard about his family, Richard resorts to self-deprecating humor and distancing sports talk: “Oh, no, this was really not my idea of chat. No batter, no batter. Humm, baby. I got it, I got it. That’s my idea of a personal statement” (52). This internal monologue shows that Richard uses baseball to connect with other people and is uncomfortable opening up.
Richard not only refuses to tell Napoleon about his family, but he also refuses to confide in the reader. By the end of the novel, we know countless details about Richard’s approach to hitting and his devotion to the Red Sox, but all we know for sure about his family is that he lives with only his father. We get the idea that Richard’s father might be racist because Richard doesn’t think his dad would want to meet Napoleon, but we don’t get any details.
Lynch also leaves readers to infer that Richard’s mom has died in an accident based on one indirect comment. Richard tries to articulate how he felt when Napoleon forced him to acknowledge that the crowd at Fenway Park cheered more enthusiastically for a white player than for a black one. He explains: “You know the moment. Like when an important paper comes back with a large F on it. When your father tells you he has searched everywhere but it seems the dog just won’t be coming back. Or there’s a phone call and you’re the only one home, and the person on the other end is sorry but there has been an accident” (185). Up until this point, Richard has not mentioned his mother or offered any reasons for her absence, and even here, he distances himself from the revelation, posing it almost as a hypothetical situation and then returning to his talk of baseball.
Lynch’s omissions of family details make Richard a sympathetic character: a wounded boy with little adult guidance. But these omissions also signal that readers should be wary of Richard’s views because Richard is not always able to open up and he doesn’t like to confront what is difficult.
If you are writing a first-person novel, consider whether your narrator might have hot-button issues that are too intense for him to get into, and be on the lookout for hot-button issues as you read first-person novels. When writers keep a topic off-limits, that can alert young readers to a character’s emotional wounds, making the character sympathetic while also encouraging readers to consider the accuracy of his perspectives.
Lynch, Chris. Gold Dust. 2000. New York: Scholastic, 2002. Print.
Well, I’ve made it through the first full week of the school year, and I’m back to continue my series on strategies for creating an engagingly fallible first-person narrator. In the last two posts, I’ve covered two big-picture strategies for showing readers that a character’s perspective is not entirely reliable: writers can incorporate narrative distance or create an audience and purpose for the narrator’s story. In this post, I’ll focus on a sentence-level strategy. Writers can also use syntax and diction to help readers evaluate the soundness of a narrator’s perspective.
Basically, syntax is word order and sentence structure, and diction is word choice. Bruce Brooks uses syntax and diction to suggest his narrator Jerome’s fallibility in The Moves Make the Man, which I also mentioned in my last post. At the very beginning of the narrative, Brooks makes effective syntactical choices when Jerome explains that he snuck into his friend Bix’s room to find a notebook and saw Bix’s baseball glove discarded in a corner:
[It was] tossed in the front corner of the room, and you know I had to pick it up and sniff it and then I couldn’t help but started to cry, first time I ever cried about Bix, feeling like I had lost something and then feeling like I did not know if I ever had it. Bix was gone and worse the Bix I used to dig was gone even before he went and I didn’t know where either of them was but he left his glove behind, which he must be unhappy about regardless of being the old Bix or the new. (9)
In this passage, Brooks uses two heaving run-on sentences with grammatical blips such as “I couldn’t help but started to cry” to convey Jerome’s confusion. The syntax in this passage—in which ideas and feelings pour out, one rushing into the next—suggests that Jerome is wounded and desperate, grasping about for understanding. After these two long sentences, Jerome regains control. He finishes narrating his trip to Bix’s old room with clipped, active sentences: “When I smelled the glove I could tell it was oiled the right way. I chucked it back in the corner and climbed out” (9). Here, Brooks uses syntax to reveal Jerome’s method of coping with things that upset him. Jerome lets his emotions pour out but then reins them in and resumes his usual self-assurance.
Brooks also uses diction to help readers understand more about Jerome’s emotions than Jerome articulates. Jerome often peppers his sentences with “man,” “baby,” “jack,” and references to himself in the third person. But this smooth talking usually occurs just after Jerome has felt insecure. After he describes breaking into Bix’s room to get the notebook, he writes, “I am not a trespasser. I am not a thief either. I am Jerome Foxworthy, and that’s it, jack” (9). The first two sentences here are technically false; Jerome has just trespassed on private property and taken something that is not his. But because he wants to emphasize his own virtue, he punctuates his self-justification with the cocky last sentence.
To hint at your first-person narrator’s buried emotions and defense mechanisms, consider giving him verbal tics that come out in tense moments, and let the emotion of difficult scenes shape the prose you write, whether that means halting fragments, heaving run-ons, or something else. Or if you are reading a first-person novel, pay attention to the syntax and diction to see what they reveal.
Brooks, Bruce. The Moves Make the Man. 1984. New York: HarperTrophy, 2003. Print.
Welcome back to my series of posts about how to create an engagingly fallible first-person narrator! Last week I defined fallible narrators and offered one strategy for helping readers recognize an engaging narrator’s fallibility: incorporating narrative distance. Today I’ll move on to another effective technique: setting up an audience and purpose for a first-person narrator’s account.
In her excellent book Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them, Francine Prose admits that she “tricked” herself into writing her first novel and her first published short story by writing what she calls “framed” narratives: stories within stories that one character tells another character as the reader “eavesdrops” (85). According to Prose, this strategy worked because it helped her figure out the answers to some important questions: “Who is listening? On what occasion is the story being told, and why?” (85). The answers to these questions are important, according to Prose, because they determine the voice and tone of the narrative and they suggest which details the writer should linger on and which details don’t belong.
In addition, I would add that when writers specify a narrator’s audience and his purpose for telling a story, we give young readers tools to evaluate how honest the narrator is being—both with himself and his listener—and what important information he might be leaving out.
In Bruce Brooks’s The Moves Make the Man, the thirteen-year-old narrator-protagonist Jerome Foxworthy reveals his purpose and audience right at the start: he is writing his story to make sense of why his friend Bix ran away and to silence the people who are criticizing Bix. In the first chapter, Jerome explains that he, a black teenager, went to Bix’s stepfather’s white church and heard the preacher suggest that Bix was “bad and crazy.” That sermon motivated him to write Bix’s story. He says:
When I came home from that church I was angry at the lies being told. Not just that they told that Bix was bad and a runaway—because there was some bad growing in Bix, and he did run away and that is that. But those people did not understand worth a penny.
That is when and why I decided to write this story of Bix. Of Bix and me, mostly, I guess it has to be. I may not understand it all yet myself, but I got all summer ahead of me […]. (5)
From the start, readers know that Jerome is angry with Bix’s stepfather and the other people who do “not understand worth a penny.” His anger and his determination to prove those people wrong shape his voice and influence what he includes in his story.
In an article about the irony of first-person narrators in YA fiction (which I referenced a couple of posts ago), scholar Mike Cadden discusses this novel and points out that young readers might not realize that Jerome doesn’t seem to tell the whole story of what happened with Bix. But I’ve had seventh grade students read The Moves Make the Man, and they haven’t just taken Jerome’s words at face value; they’ve understood that he exaggerates his own strengths and might not share every detail. I think this clearly stated purpose at the beginning of the novel helps young readers to look out for the gaps and exaggerations in Jerome’s account.
Writers don’t have to be quite as specific about the audience and purpose as Brooks is in The Moves Make the Man; we can also simply hint at the audience and purpose of a narrative. Katherine Paterson hints at the audience and purpose in her novel Preacher’s Boy. Paterson clues young readers into her narrator Robbie’s fallibility in part by having him address an unnamed audience. Early in the novel, after Robbie has mentioned his father, the preacher, he explains his family dynamics. He says:
I have Ma and Beth, who’s fifteen and practicing hard at being grown up. Then there’s Letty, who’s only five but who always loves to think she’s helping. And…Elliot. It’s hard to tell you about Elliot. If you could see him…But you can’t. He’s almost two years older than me and about a foot taller, but, well, Elliot’s simple in the head. That’s the best I can explain it. (6)
This passage hints that Robbie has a clear audience in mind for his story, so readers are left wondering, if only on a subconscious level, to whom Robbie addresses the story, why he feels motivated to tell it, and how his audience and purpose influence what he shares and what he leaves out. Also, the direct address and halting sentences in this passage show how difficult it is for Robbie to tell his story. Robbie often seems very sure of himself, but Paterson uses direct address to reveal that he’s not as together as he’d like to be.
I am playing around with the strategy of specifying an audience and purpose in the project I’m working on now. I’m doing this partly so that readers can understand more about my sometimes-prickly protagonist’s feelings than she is able to admit; partly because one of my VCFA advisors, Franny Billingsley, pointed out that invoking an audience can add to the sense of urgency in a story; and partly because I wanted to make sure that this first-person narrator sounds different from the narrator in the other book I’ve been working on.
This technique brings with it its own challenges, and, like the strategy of using narrative distance, it’s sort of a macro-strategy. If you want to use a narrator who’s looking back from a distance on the events of the story or addressing a specific audience, you probably need to decide that early on because those choices will shape a lot of what you write. In the next posts, I’ll address some micro-level techniques you can use at any point in the writing process.
Brooks, Bruce. The Moves Make the Man. 1984. New York: HarperTrophy, 2003. Print.
Cadden, Mike. “The Irony of Narration in the Young Adult Novel.” Children’s Literature Association Quarterly 25.3 (2000): 146-154. Project MUSE. Web. 28 July 2011.
Paterson, Katherine. Preacher’s Boy. New York: Clarion Books, 1999. Print.
Prose, Francine. Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them. New York, N.Y: Harper Perennial, 2007. Print.
Last Monday, I shared some information about the rise of first-person novels for children and young adults and some thoughts on the challenges and benefits of writing in the first person. As promised, today and in my next few posts, I will be offering some ideas about how writers can create engagingly fallible first-person narrators.
First, let me explain what I mean when I talk about a fallible narrator. Scholar Greta Olson makes a helpful distinction between an untrustworthy narrator, who distorts the truth on purpose, and a fallible narrator, whose perceptions of herself, others, or events are in some way limited or misguided. A fallible narrator isn’t lying to the reader, but she may have some defense mechanisms or blind spots, or some feelings she hasn’t processed yet or can’t quite admit to having.
For instance, in the project I’ve recently started working on, the main character, Whitney, defines herself by her academic achievements and spent her first year of high school getting herself on track to get into Princeton, so she is devastated when her parents pull her out of her elite private school before the start of her sophomore year. Whitney has to switch to public school because because her mom is pregnant and her parents are having some financial struggles, so they can no longer afford her tuition. But for a number of reasons that have to do with long-standing family dynamics, the difficulties of her mom’s pregnancy, and her extremely successful older brother, she feels like her parents have given up on her and no longer care. She fixates on winning a scholarship to a prestigious boarding school and doesn’t give her new school or anyone she meets there much of a chance.
Now, I love Whitney and I feel for her, but I also know that some of her impressions of her parents and the people at her new school aren’t entirely accurate. I want readers to feel close to her and understand where she is coming from…but I also want them to recognize the limitations in her perspectives and root for her to grow. I don’t want them to take all of her thoughts at face value and think, “Yep, this poor girl’s parents really hate her, and every single person at her new school is a moron. Sucks to be her.” So how can I, as a writer, make sure I am giving tween and teen readers enough guidance to spot the flaws in Whitney’s perspective, even as they (I hope) identify with her, sink into her world, and see things through her eyes?
I’m not alone in facing the challenge of creating an engagingly fallible narrator. Most first-person narrators are fallible in some way, and I would venture to guess that most writers don’t want readers to take everything their narrators say at face value. Luckily, kids and teens are pretty savvy, so we can be subtle, and there are many techniques that writers can use (and teachers can tune students into) to help readers pick up on the fact that a narrator-protagonist is fallible. In this blog series, I’m going to focus on five.
First up: narrative distance. One way that an author can help readers evaluate a narrator’s perspective is to build in a gap in time between when the narrator experiences the events of the story and when the narrator tells the story. That way, the writer can let the now-older narrator-protagonist’s insights peek through.
Sara Zarr uses this strategy in her novel Sweethearts. Zarr’s narrator-protagonist, Jennifer Harris, was a lonely, overweight child. She only had one friend, Cameron Quick, but Cameron disappeared long ago. By the start of the novel, Jennifer has lost weight, acquired a new stepdad, transferred to a different school, and reinvented herself as Jenna Vaughn. When Cameron reappears during Jennifer/Jenna’s senior year of high school, he disrupts her seemingly perfect life, and she has to confront the parts of her past that she has struggled to keep buried.
At the very end of Sweethearts, Zarr reveals that Jennifer/Jenna has been looking back on the events of her senior year in high school from several years later, after she has been to college and had other life experiences. Even though Zarr doesn’t specify when Jennifer/Jenna is telling her story until the end, she uses the distance in her narrator’s perspective to ensure that readers won’t take Jenna Vaughn’s words at face value and believe that she is perfectly happy before Cameron returns. This excerpt from the beginning of the novel suggests the precariousness of Jenna’s happiness:
Jenna Vaughn had made it. I had made it. It was my last year of high school and no one had ever found me out. I even had a boyfriend, Ethan, who picked me up for school every day and liked to snuggle and was only sometimes impatient with me.
The problem was that Jennifer Harris didn’t always cooperate, and there were still days I could hear her scratching at the coffin lid, particularly on her—my—birthday. (15)
If you look at this passage carefully, you can see the temporal distance shaping the narrator’s perspective, especially in her description of Ethan. Jenna the high school senior likes Ethan because he gives her rides to school and cuddles with her—nice attributes in a boyfriend, certainly, but nothing earth-shattering. Lurking behind those descriptors is the sense that the older narrator now realizes that a boyfriend might offer something more. And then there’s the most poignant part of the passage: the fact that Ethan is “only sometimes impatient” with her. This phrase shows how hard high-school-senior Jenna has to work to make sure that she is always acting in a suitable, Jenna Vaughn fashion. Just in those few words, Zarr gives readers the sense that Jenna thinks she’s lucky to have found someone who will put up with her, and she’s going to stay on her guard, striving to keep herself from doing anything annoying, so that she won’t elicit her boyfriend’s justified impatience. Thanks in part to her distance from the events of the story, the narrator is able to make Jenna’s insecurities very clear to the reader.
Incorporating narrative distance doesn’t mean that the reader won’t feel close to the main character. Writers can still focus on the narrator’s in-the-moment impressions, and readers can still identify with the main character. Other novels that feature a first-person narrator who looks back on the events of the story from a specified point in time (some closer to the events and some further removed) include Rebecca Stead’s When You Reach Me, Judy Blundell’s What I Saw and How I Lied, and Katherine Paterson’s Jacob Have I Loved.
If you are writing (or reading) a first-person novel, ask yourself whether your narrator is recounting his or her story as the events play out or after they have happened, and, if after, how long after. Then consider how the narrator’s distance from or proximity to the story would shape his or her point of view.
Using narrative distance can be an excellent way to suggest limitations in a fallible narrator’s perspective, but I wanted to write Whitney’s story from a more immediate vantage point. Soon, I’ll share some strategies writers can use when writing the stories of characters who are closer to the events they are recounting. I hope you’ll tune back in then!
Olson, Greta. “Reconsidering Unreliability: Fallible and Untrustworthy Narrators.” Narrative 11.1 (2003): 93-109. Project MUSE. Web. 28 July 2011.
Last week, I recommended five books that I’d especially enjoyed reading this summer. Looking back on that post, it occurs to me that my five recommendations have something in common other than my admiration: they’re all written in the first person.
I know that isn’t unusual, especially since most of those books are contemporary young adult novels. And I’m not complaining. I’ve heard plenty of people say they get impatient with seeing one first-person YA book after another, but I love the intimacy of a good first-person story, and I usually write from that POV, too.
Recently, I finished (for now) working on one first-person contemporary YA novel and shifted to another. One of the biggest challenges for me right now is making sure that the voice of the main character in my new project rings true and stays distinct from the voice of the main character in the project I was working on before. Because I have first-person narration on my mind, today I’m going to share some thoughts on the rise of the first person in fiction for children and young adults, its challenges, and its possibilities.
When the “I” Trend Began
I did some research on the history of the first person in fiction for young(ish) people a couple of years ago, when I was beginning my critical thesis at Vermont College of Fine Arts. I learned that writers of young adult fiction began to embrace the first person in the 1950s, after the publication of The Catcher in the Rye in 1951. According to the late children’s book editor Jean Karl, before then, the consensus was that books for young readers “must never be told in first person” because first person was “too difficult for children” to negotiate (200). But in the years after The Catcher in the Rye came out, first-person point of view became the default choice for what scholar Lois Kuznets calls the “problem-oriented domestic story,” in which the adolescent narrator defines himself “in direct opposition to surrounding adults” (188-9).
Limitations of the First Person
Lots of people raise valid concerns about first-person narration. Sometimes first-person narrators provide too much internal narration, and then a story can drag or the protagonist can come across as self-centered. Sometimes first-person narrators sound too much like other first-person narrators. Sometimes they lose credibility if they notice details during heated moments that nobody would be likely to pay attention to.
There’s more, too. Henry James scorned the use of first person, especially when the protagonist is a child or adolescent, because young people “have many more perceptions than they have terms to translate them” (qtd. in Kuznets 190). So in Henry James’s view, when writers confine themselves to the thoughts a young person can articulate, they sacrifice richness of language and restrict their ability to capture what that young person thinks, sees, and feels.
Also, Kuznets points out that when writers use first-person narrators, they encourage readers to feel a “quick, relatively unquestioning identification” with the protagonist, and Kuznets is concerned that this unquestioning identification reflects a “naïve” way of reading because readers should learn to think critically about what they read and to see beyond one protagonist’s point of view (189).
Scholar Mike Cadden has a similar concern. In his article “The Irony of Narration in the Young Adult Novel,” he points out the paradox of first-person YA novels: authors strive to capture an authentic and engaging adolescent voice, but unless they are, in fact, adolescents at the time of writing, their first-person teen or tween voice can never actually be authentic (146). The problem here, for Cadden, happens when an adult narrator knows that her narrator-protagonist has some limited or misguided views, but she conveys the narrator-protagonist’s perspective so convincingly that the target readers accept that perspective fully without seeing any of the flaws in it.
Sheesh. When there are so many challenges for people who want to write first-person fiction, why bother?
Benefits of the First Person
For me, there are a few main reasons. First, I love the intimacy of a first-person novel, and kids and teens do, too. Second, it’s a lot of fun to craft and to read a distinctive first-person voice. I’m not saying a third-person voice can’t be idiosyncratic and engaging, because it certainly can. But I adore first-person voices that capture the essence of a specific character and let me, as a reader, get to know/admire/worry for/love that character in a deep way. (Some of my favorites include E. Lockhart’s Ruby Oliver from The Boyfriend List and the other Ruby books; Louise Rennison’s Georgia Nicolson from Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging; and Jaclyn Moriarty’s Lydia and Emily from the Ashbury/Brookfield books.) As a writer, I like to try to create characters whose voices capture their distinctive, charming, and—yes—sometimes limited ways of seeing the world.
Third, as I said last week in my notes about Lisa Graff’s Umbrella Summer, I love books that feature fallible narrators, who are some way limited or misguided in their perceptions, especially when readers know that the narrators are fallible. This can happen in books that are written in other POVs, too. But it’s especially powerful to identify intimately with a first-person protagonist and to recognize the flaws in that protagonist’s ways of seeing herself, others, and/or the world. It’s a moving reading experience to know and love the character deeply, while also rooting for that character to change or grow more self-aware.
In both my critical thesis and my graduate lecture at Vermont College, I considered ways that writers of middle grade and young adult first-person fiction can help readers to see the limitations in their narrators’ perspectives so that readers both identify with and see beyond the characters. Inspired by Ingrid Sundberg’s excellent series on organic architecture in fiction (which you should check out if you haven’t already), I’m going to feature some of those strategies in my next few blog posts. In the meantime, I’d love to hear your thoughts on all things first person: pet peeves, favorite first-person narrators, challenges you’ve faced, and more!
Cadden, Mike. “The Irony of Narration in the Young Adult Novel.” Children’s Literature Association Quarterly 25.3 (2000): 146-154. Project MUSE. Web. 28 July 2011.
Karl, Jean. “The Process of Finding the Voice in Realistic Fiction for the Middle-Aged Child.” The Voice of the Narrator in Children’s Literature: Insights from Writers and Critics. Ed. Charlotte F. Otten and Gary D. Schmidt. New York: Greenwood Press, 1989. 199-205. Print.
Kuznets, Lois. “Henry James the Storyteller: The Development of a Central Consciousness in Realistic Fiction for Children.” The Voice of the Narrator in Children’s Literature: Insights from Writers and Critics. Ed. Charlotte F. Otten and Gary D. Schmidt. New York: Greenwood Press, 1989. 187-198. Print.
Recently, I was looking through my credit card statement and was surprised (and a little bit concerned) to see how many books I had downloaded to my Kindle this summer. I used to live close to the central branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia, so I often popped in there to stock up on books, and during the school year, I borrow lots of books from our school library. But for a stretch of this summer, I was averaging one new Kindle book a week. Oops.
I bought so many Kindle books this summer partly because I got hooked on the convenience and immediate gratification of purchasing a book with just one click, and partly because I have sped through a lot of very engaging books recently. So while we still have a bit of summer left, here are some recommendations for summer reads* brought to you by my excessive Kindle purchasing. (*I have a feeling they would be just as enjoyable in any other season, too.)
Love and Other Perishable Items by Laura Buzo
Fifteen-year-old Amelia is in love with her co-worker, Chris. He’s charismatic, funny, easy to talk to…and twenty-one years old. This smart, humorous book offers sections from Amelia’s perspective and excerpts from Chris’s journals. It’s fun to get both of their takes on some of the same events and to observe the difference in how Amelia and Chris see themselves versus how they come across to each other. Buzo offers a fresh take on first love and the gradual transition from childhood into adulthood.
45 Pounds (More or Less) by K.A. Barson
Ann Galardi is determined to lose forty-five pounds before she has to stand up in front of a crowd of people wearing a bridesmaid’s dress at her aunt’s wedding before the end of the summer. Ann is easy to root for because she is an active character with a great sense of humor and a clear goal. Her journey is triumphant, but her struggles to lose weight and feel more comfortable in her own skin definitely aren’t sugar-coated. K.A. Barson includes endearing secondary characters, rich friend and family dynamics, and a touch of romance in this debut novel.
Nantucket Blue by Leila Howland
Last summer, I went to Nantucket for the first time since I was a kid. I’m not going to make it there again this summer, but at least I got to revisit the island alongside Cricket, the main character of Nantucket Blue. Cricket gets a job as a chambermaid so that she can spend the summer in Nantucket, where she plans to support her grieving best friend and pursue her long-time crush, but nothing goes according to her plan. I enjoyed the book’s vivid setting, the romance that catches Cricket by surprise, and the way Howland weaves in some of Cricket’s mother’s journal entries from a summer she spent in Nantucket as a teen and doesn’t shy away from having Cricket make major mistakes and then confront the consequences of them.
Golden by Jessi Kirby
Golden is part mystery, part romance, and part coming-of-age novel. Parker Frost has done everything she was supposed to do all throughout high school, and her hard work has paid off: she’s gotten into Stanford, and now she’s one of the finalists for a scholarship that would make it financially possible for her to go. The scholarship was established in memory of Julianna Farnetti and Shane Cruz, a “golden” couple everyone adored, who died in a car accident after graduating from high school ten years ago. When Parker gets her hands on the journal Julianna kept during her senior year, she becomes fascinated with finding out what really happened to Julianna and Shane. I have a soft spot for stories about single-minded, studious types rethinking what’s most important, and I like the way Kirby includes Julianna’s journal entries within Parker’s story.
Umbrella Summer by Lisa Graff
Ten-year-old Annie Richards is worried about all of the bad things that could happen to her. She bandages up her ankles to prevent sprains, makes a game of riding her bike as slowly as possible rather than racing, and spends her free time reading a book about diseases. Other people try to get her to lighten up, but Annie knows she’s right to be cautious, because nobody was cautious enough to save her brother Jared, who died. This is a beautiful, sad, and funny book about Annie’s process of dealing with her grief and re-engaging with her life. I love books with fallible first-person narrators, who strongly believe something that the reader knows is a bit misguided. It’s such a poignant reading experience to understand where a character is coming from and come to love that character, but also root for her to get past a belief that is holding her back, and Annie is such an endearingly fallible main character. This book made me wish I taught younger students because I would love to use it as a read-aloud with upper-elementary-school kids.
When one of my wonderful writer friends recently read the revised version of my YA novel-in-progress, she had a lot of insightful things to say. Most of her comments helped me problem-solve small places in the novel where something wasn’t quite working so that I can finish making the book as strong as it can be. But two of her marginal comments especially got me thinking, not just about my work-in-progress but about young adult literature more generally.
In one place, she circled a curse word and asked if it was the only place in the book where my main character swore (it wasn’t exactly, but it was stronger than words she’d used other times). And in another place, she noted that the main character never drinks throughout the novel, which might make her seem kind of young. My friend wasn’t suggesting that I should haphazardly throw in a handful of curse words and some teenage drinking; she was simply making an observation so that I could reflect on how I want the character and novel to come across. But it’s true that the absence of swearing and drinking might be conspicuous, especially for readers who read a lot of contemporary realistic YA and have developed certain expectations for the genre.
First I had to think about why I hadn’t included cursing and drinking. The cursing part was pretty simple. The main character in my novel is a fairly innocent 16-year-old, and curse words wouldn’t fit her voice, unless she was trying to impress someone by talking tougher. I toned down the one word that had stood out and moved on.
Marissa and Summer from The O.C.
The teen drinking thing was a little more complicated. Because I teach middle school students, I am aware of how many 11-13 year olds read young adult novels instead of or in addition to middle grade books. While I believe that kids and teens generally do a great job of choosing books they’re ready for, I sometimes worry about how drinking (and drinking and driving) is normalized if there is alcohol in everything that adolescents watch and read. When teen alcohol use feels authentic to a character and is important to a character’s journey, I have no objections to it, but I don’t like the idea of having characters pound beers or swig cocktails for no particular reason.
I also didn’t drink when I was a teenager, so drinking doesn’t immediately come to mind as part of the universal teen experience for me. Although when I really think about it, the fact that I chose not to drink in high school really didn’t mean that alcohol wasn’t part of my teen life—I had some fear and discomfort around alcohol that impacted what I did and who I hung out with and would probably come into play if somebody were going to turn teen-me into a character in a YA novel.
After some reflection, I decided that I think it’s important that there are books out there that will appeal to middle school students who are advanced readers and ready to read about teenage experiences, but maybe not quite ready for all of the content in some YA books. I imagine my tween/teen self and some of my students reading my work, and that probably does influence which characters I choose to focus on and which stories I want to tell. But on the other hand, I can’t just say, “Well, I don’t want my main character to drink because I don’t want young readers to get the idea that everybody drinks in high school.” I need to be true to the characters I’ve created.
So I spent some time thinking about how the main character in my novel would feel about alcohol, and then I needed to determine whether there were any places in the story where she would be likely to have a drink. I knew she wouldn’t be a big drinker—she’s pretty cautious and likes to be in control—but I also knew that she would have drank a little bit at parties with her ex-boyfriend, because she wanted very badly to fit into his world, and she would probably test out drinking some of her dad’s alcohol at a certain point in the story (her dad’s job is actually related to alcohol) when she is annoyed with him and trying to become a more daring person. When I tried bringing her dad’s vodka into a particular scene, it added to the tension and awkwardness and felt like the right choice.
It was a helpful exercise for me to think consciously about the role that swearing and alcohol should or should not play in my YA novel, so I invite you to think about how drinking/swearing/sex/etc. come across in your own writing or in the books you’ve read. How do you decide whether or not to include these things, and have you been struck by books you’ve read that include gratuitous curse words or references to partying or that steer clear of these references entirely? Do you think about your intended audience as you write or wonder about the appropriate audience for books you read? And have you ever felt that your affection for and desire to protect young readers is at odds with your ability to tell or recommend a good story?
I thought I would finish revising my novel-in-progress a while ago now. But the last couple of months of the school year included two multiple-day school trips to chaperone, a few weddings and a bunch of other special events to attend, and hours and hours of grading. Then, two days after my last meeting at school, during an amazingly fun and special weekend away, Mike and I got engaged and soon began looking at places to get married next June.
So summer was here and it was time to get back to writing—I’d promised myself I would—but instead I was visiting wedding venues, going to doctors’ appointments I didn’t have time for during the school year, seeing people I hadn’t spent much time with lately, and completing my scuba certification dives. Lots of fun, lots of excitement, but still not much writing.
When I lamented the fact that I’d wanted to finish this revision by July 10th (a self-imposed deadline I’d already pushed back from May 1st, June 1st, and then July 1st) and now I wasn’t sure I’d be able to, Mike said something that made me stop and think.
He said, “Sometimes, you have to choose your book.”
He was right, of course. I often struggle to choose my book over other things now that I’ve finished my MFA program and no longer have deadlines that somebody else set for me. It can feel selfish and antisocial to prioritize writing. It can feel scary to commit to something I’m not always sure I’m all that good at. And slogging through revisions usually isn’t as rewarding as working with students, or as fun as meeting up with friends, or as entertaining as watching Doctor Who on the couch, or as exciting as looking up wedding stuff online.
But if I never choose my book over other things, then how can I expect to make progress with it? How can I beat myself up about not finishing my novel when I consistently let it fall to the bottom of my priority list?
So for the past week, I have chosen my novel. I opted to stay home and work rather than going away for the Fourth of July weekend. I sat my butt in a chair, turned off the internet, and wrote for two hours at a time, at least a couple of times a day. By Sunday night, I had finished my revision, and yesterday I sent it off to a couple of generous first readers. But finishing that revision took making a conscious choice and a sacrifice.
When I was a kid and went to Sunday School at a Presbyterian Church, a Sunday School teacher once told my class that we had a choice in everything we did, even showing up at Sunday School. (I’m not sure if this statement was linked to a Bible story we were discussing or if people were misbehaving and the teacher was trying to convince everybody that deep down they wanted to be there or what.) Most people in the class were very vocal in their disagreement. They insisted that they didn’t choose to do their homework, or to go to school every day, or to come to church on the weekend. They had to!
“You always have a choice,” the teacher repeated.
“Well, maybe,” some kids reasoned. “But if we chose not to do our homework we’d fail and get held back, and if we never went to school we’d be breaking the law, and if we refused to come to Sunday School we’d be in major trouble with our parents.”
“Those are still choices,” the teacher maintained.
Looking back, I see that the teacher was right, in a literal sense. But as there were back then, there are still plenty of choices that really aren’t on the table for discussion. I don’t feel like I’m making a choice, for example, when I turn in my grades and comments when they’re due at school.
The tricky thing, though, is that it’s easy to lose track of the fact that we’re making choices all the time. It’s easy to begin to feel like there just isn’t time for writing (or exercising or dating or sleeping enough or whatever it is) without recognizing all of the moments when we make choices that prioritize other things. We’re not going to be willing or able to reconsider many of those choices. But we might need to think twice about some of them.
I’m not going to choose writing every time. I’m often going to choose my relationships or my teaching job, and I’m okay with that. But it seems like a manageable goal to choose my writing some of the time, so I am going to try to be brave enough and self-aware enough to do just that.