My Favorite Book of 2017 ...

This month, a remarkable children's book was released into the world. I've been a fan or Laurel Snyder's writing for many years, but her latest book Orphan Island is on a different level. This is the sort of book that keeps other authors up at night. It's THAT GOOD.

A summary from Goodreads:

On the island, everything is perfect. The sun rises in a sky filled with dancing shapes; the wind, water, and trees shelter and protect those who live there; when the nine children go to sleep in their cabins, it is with full stomachs and joy in their hearts. And only one thing ever changes: on that day, each year, when a boat appears from the mist upon the ocean carrying one young child to join them—and taking the eldest one away, never to be seen again.

I was asked to provide a blurb for the back cover of the book. Here's what I said: "Orphan Island is a masterpiece—both timeless and immediate. Snyder’s book, like the island within it, contains all of the joys, wonders, and terrors of childhood. Every young reader needs this book; every grown reader needs it even more."

GO READ IT!

The Pleasures of Re-Reading ...

  This season has been one of re-reading books from my past. This was not deliberate; it just seemed that every time I reached for a new book, the closest at hand was one I had read before. I do not generally re-read books that often. Every five years or so, I find something that impresses me so much that I read it twice over. (Hokey Pokey would be the most recent example.) But beyond that, all my re-reading is the result of research or teaching. My typical attitude is breadth over depth. I tend to read one book from an author and then move on to the next thing.

However, this recent sprint of re-reads has forced me to reflect on what a pleasure it is to come back to a book after time off. To live inside a story more than is absolutely necessary. When I was younger, I re-read books all the time. At around 10 years old, I fell deeply in love with Through The Looking-Glass. (It actually began when I saw a staged musical version of the story.) I proceeded to read chapters from Looking-Glass every night before bed for the next 10 years. Now, when I look back that same book, I struggle to understand why it had so grabbed me. But I do feel a deep appreciation for the book and how it shaped my imagination.

When I think of re-reading, I am reminded of something Jacqueline Woodson once said in an NPR interview. Woodson was being asked to remark about the fact that her older sister was actually the serious reader in the family--and how strange it was that Woodson ended up being the one to devote her life to literature. I don't have the transcript, but I recall her saying something about the fact that even though she did not read many books growing up, when she did read, she went deep. That's something I can identify with. And it's something I had forgotten about as of late.

Why Orphans? Revisiting David and Goliath

This week I found myself briefly stranded without a book, and so I to re-read Malcolm Gladwell's David and Goliath. The book was published in 2013 to largely negative reviews. Reviewers seemed to have tired of his charmingly counterintuitive self-help busines-speak. Many rightly criticized the book for feeling disjointed ... what begins as a motivational talk about entrepreneurs overcoming dyslexia soon migrates to much heavier topics, including child leukemia, civil rights, religious war in Northern Ireland, child abduction/murder, and even the Holocaust. The overall response from readers seemed to be that Gladwell was getting too lofty: better to stick with what you know. Reading the book in 2017, however, I had a different reaction: the weakness of David and Goliath isn't the heavy stuff, it's the fluff at the beginning. (I would include the title among the fluff.) In 2017, the second half of the book is chilling. Nearly every example has profound resonance with the current state of the world. And it seems to go a long way toward explaining why many of the conflicts we find ourselves in are simply unwinnable. It is also a more personal book; Gladwell experienced a sort of personal religious conversion while writing it. Reading it this week, I was struck by how much more human and vulnerable the stories were. The question that rang through the final chapters was, for me, clear: Would you be willing to suffer the way these people have suffered? 

Unlike Gladwell's previous books, David and Goliath is unable to offer up a glib "takaway" that readers can apply at their next board meeting. I suspect a message as bleak as this had no real place in the (comparatively) optimistic world of 2013. But in 2017 the book feels almost therapeutic. It recognizes that there's no easy hack to fixing certain kinds of conflicts. Instead it offers a different kind of message: it asserts that suffering creates people able to truly risk themselves in order to do what is right. In a world full of so much wrong, we need people like that. Those are what history will call heroes.

I have a lot of readers ask my why I write about characters with missing or dead parents. My jokey answer is "because then no one can ground them." But the real answer is much more complicated. It has to do with how extreme loss conditions a person--preparing them to endure extreme pain in the future. My characters suffer over the course of their stories, and to me it seems more cruel to put an unscarred and unprepared person into such dire circumstances.

I'm grateful for this book because the next time someone asks the "Why Orphans?" question, I will have a better answer.

UNRELATED: Those who like Gladwell might enjoy his very excellent podcast series, Revisionist History. I especially enjoyed his episodes about the evolution of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" and his exploration of Generous Orthodoxy.

Mightier than the Sword ...

I've just finished reading AS Byatt's The Children's Book, which is not a book for children. It is a sprawling, virtuosic chronicle about idealistic artists at the turn of the 20th century. The "main" character is based on real-life children's author E Nesbit (named Olive Wellwood) and the book primarily concerns itself with Olive and her family. I'm a big Nesbit fan, so this book was fascinating.

*SPOILERS*

The thing that most struck me in the book was the fate of Olive's oldest and most beloved son, Tom. Tom is beautiful and smart and kind and innocent: he is presented as a character from a book caught in a harsh world. The novel shows Tom's tragic decline as the victim of betrayal: abuse, cruelty, deception, parental infidelity, and (implied) addiction. But none of these are what kills Tom. Instead, it is his mother's writing that drives him to suicide at the end of the book. Since he was a small child, Tom's mother has been writing him a special storybook ("Tom Underground") that was written just for him. As Tom grows up and becomes more and more troubled, these stories serve as a sort of life-line for him. But then his mother mines these private childhood stories in order to create a beautiful and successful stage play. Tom only discovers this on opening night, when he's watching from the audience. Shortly after, he drowns himself.

The book has many disturbing elements, but this was the most disturbing by far: that the selfishness of Olive Wellwood in her writing harmed her son more than anything else. This mirrors a real-life tradition of authors publishing private stories originally created for/with children: Christopher Robin, Alice Liddell, the Davies Boys, etc. None of those children fared well in adulthood. I've never quite understood the nature of such trauma. Like many others, I have always assumed that there must be some other explanation for why the children grew up to be bitter and miserable. (There is no shortage of speculation about abuse.) But Byatt argues in The Children's Book that commodifying and publicizing the private worlds of a child's imagination is trauma enough.

Byatt forces readers to ask if the cost is too high. Yes, we have Winnie the Pooh, Alice in Wonderland, and Peter Pan, but those masterworks came at the expense of real people's happiness. I consider myself a loving father and husband, and I certainly do no conscious harm to my children. But I have always been unapologetic about using details from real life in my books--it's all fair game if it serves the story. Byatt's novel made me reconsider this long-held stance, which is no small thing.

Some Thoughts on Treasure Island

This last week for my Children's Literature course, we read Treasure Island. This is a book I have loved for a long time -- the character of Old Pew was a major influence on Peter Nimble. Recently, I had students watch a lecture by Mike Hill about the subtextual themes of Jurassic Park. Hill does a great job explaining how great stories contain a primal/Jungian undercurrent that runs beneath the surface plot -- in the case of JP it was about the anxiety of creating a family.

The lecture paid off nicely while discussing Treasure Island this week. When we look at Jim Hawkins' journey through Hill's lens, it becomes clear that Treasure Island is the story of a boy who has lost his father and refuses to accept that reality. And so he searches for replacement father figures, all of whom disappoint him in different ways until he can finally accept the truth: he is no longer a child.

I have long thought that the true climax of Treasure Island comes not when they find the treasure, but in a scene right before that, where Jim defies the advice of the morally-upright Dr. Livesey to break his promise to Long John Silver and escape:

"Jim," the doctor interrupted, and his voice was quite changed, "Jim, I can't have this. Whip over, and we'll run for it."

"Doctor," said I, "I passed my word."

"I know, I know," he cried. "We can't help that, Jim, now. I'll take it on my shoulders, holus bolus, blame and shame, my boy; but stay here, I cannot let you. Jump! One jump, and you're out, and we'll run for it like antelopes."

"No," I replied; "you know right well you wouldn't do the thing yourself--neither you nor squire nor captain; and no more will I. Silver trusted me; I passed my word, and back I go."

This is the defining test of Jim's character -- a moment where he places the integrity of his word as an English Gentleman over even his life.

It calls to mind the values of the age so well captured in Kipling's poem "If ...?", another text we read for this class. A daunting list to be sure, but one I think this book strives for:

For those interested, you can see the Hill lecture pasted below. It's worth checking out!

https://vimeo.com/165693758

THE BURNING TIDE - in stores today!

Earlier this year, I took a break from my own novels to play in someone else's sandbox: The Burning Tide is the heartstopping conclusion to the blockbuster Spirit Animals series.

These books are all written by different authors--including names like Shanon Hale, Garth Nix, Brandon Mull, and Marie Lu. Fans of the books are also encouraged to log onto Scholastic's site, where there's a pretty impressive video-game world that fills out the experience. Click here to read an excerpt of the first three chapters. It was great diving into the world of Spirit Animals ... hope you enjoy!

Platform Worldbuilding: The Oz Legacy

When I teach my Children's Literature course, I always start with a lecture on the "Golden Age" of children's literature--starting with Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and ending (to my thinking) with Peter & Wendy. I wrap up the lecture by identifying six Golden Age children's authors who set the template for what the genre would become in the century to follow. On the list is L Frank Baum, who I credit with creating something that has perhaps had the greatest impact on contemporary storytelling: platform worldbuilding.

The 1939 movie has made such a cultural impact that it's hard to remember the Oz books for what they really are. Baum's books weren't just about Dorothy and Toto. There were dozens of Oz stories containing hundreds of characters. The books continued even after his death. Baum himself wrote 18. They were published around the holidays and it was a tradition among children to get the new Oz book for Christmas. He wasn't just telling a single story, Baum was building a WORLD.

Storytelling utilizes three main tools: character, setting, and action. At various points in history, popular stories have emphasized one or another of these elements. Presently, we are entering an age that celebrates setting above all. Today we value not just compelling narratives (Shakespeare) or characters (Dickens), but settings rich enough to contain a multitude of characters and plots. Think of visionaries like Tolkien, Gygax, Lucas, Roddenberry, Jack Kirby -- their legacies are not single narratives so much as entire universes. Part of the reason this brand of storytelling has ascended is because it allows the creation of franchises--which are very valuable. Another bigger reason is because it fits more seamlessly into interactive storytelling (video games); what is World of Warcraft if not an ever-expanding narrative landscape?

One might argue that Scott or Homer worked within this tradition, but I think the real innovator was Baum. In Oz, Baum created a place that could contain infinite stories ... which was a pretty radical concept at the time. So the next time you see yet another Star Wars movie in the cineplex, or yet another version of Zelda at Gamestop, thank Baum. or curse him.

Children's Literature Reading List ...

Every fall I teach a class at Hogwarts Chatham University's MFA program. It's a great opportunity to spend time with young writers and talk about children's literature! This year, I'm shaking up my standard reading list, and I thought I'd share it for those who want to play at home:

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by JK Rowling

A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett

Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson

Peter & Wendy by JM Barrie

Magic Marks the Spot by Caroline Carlson

The Golden Compass by Phillip Pullman

Charlotte’s Web by EB White

The Crossover by Kwame Alexander

Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt

A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness

A Monster Calls (movie) dir. JA Bayona

Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis

Crenshaw by Katherine Applegate

The Secrets of Story by Matt Bird

A lot of thought goes into the selection of a reading list. Even the best books can get stale over time, and it's important to strike a balance between books that teach well (Peter Pan, Charlotte's Web) and books that excite me (A Monster Calls, Crenshaw). This year, I decided to multitask and include a number of books that tie into my own current work in progress ... which is to say that there are CLUES about my next novel buried in this list!

Spirit Animals: Burning Tide Cover Reveal

So ... I have another book coming out this year! It's an installment in the juggernaut Spirit Animals series, created by Brandon Mull. It's a fantasy series about a band of kids who each have magical animal companions. It was really fun taking a break from my own characters to spend a little time in another author's world--I even got to kill off a main character! (True story: freedom to kill a character was a requirement for my taking the job.) Here's a summary from the astonishingly comprehensive Spirit Animals fan wiki, which I used quite a bit while writing the book:

Long before humans walked the land, it came to Erdas. Wicked, patient, and hungry, it has slept beneath the surface of the world. Now the Wyrm is awakening.

Conor, Abeke, Meilin, and Rollan are four heroes who are split between worlds, braving separate paths in order to stop this evil. With a strange and unlikely new group of allies behind them, the young guardians have a real chance at saving their home—but they will have to move fast.

An ancient trap exists, hidden within the folds of Erdas itself. Though it has the power to end this war for good, the means of starting the trap have been lost. The young heroes only have one shot. They must work with their spirit animals to uncover a secret older than time. If they can’t, then everything will be consumed.

Find out more over here!

It's done!

I am delighted to announce that after more than 4,000 hours of writing, Sophie Quire & the Last Storyguard is finished!

This book has been without question the most difficult challenge of my career. Two years is a lot of time for most writers, but for me it was a sprint that very nearly broke me. More than a few times, I considered abandoning the book altogether. But every time I got to that point, I thought of Sophie -- mending books in a city that no longer read stories -- and I knew I had to finish.

Sophie Quire is technically a companion to my first novel, Peter Nimble & his Fantastic Eyes -- but it is also a standalone story with a different hero set in a different world. The combined books are in many ways an examination of what it means to live in a world that has lost its sense of enchantment. Peter Nimble and Sir Tode are a major part of the story ... but it is not their story. The tone is darker and the stakes are much higher. Also, it has way more monsters! The book will come out Spring 2016.

I cannot wait to share this story with the world.

Book Reviews and the Epidemic of Niceness

Children's literature maven Monica Edinger recently wrote a thoughtful response to a recent Slate piece on the "epidemic of niceness" that plagues the modern publishing industry.[1. if the name sounds familiar, I posted about her last year]  Both writers voice their frustration over the dearth of negative book reviews online.[2. This is a problem that goes beyond just books. Just a few weeks ago, there was the notorious fanboy uprising against the reviewers who dared criticize the latest Batman movie.]   Here's an excerpt from the original article:

"But if you spend time in the literary Twitter- or blogospheres, you'll be positively besieged by amiability, by a relentless enthusiasm that might have you believing that all new books are wonderful and that every writer is every other writer's biggest fan. It's not only shallow, it's untrue, and it's having a chilling effect on literary culture, creating an environment where writers are vaunted for their personal biographies or their online followings rather than for their work on the page." Jacob Silverman, Slate

For me, reading is too often an experience of discovering that the emperor has no clothes. When that happens, I feel betrayed by my community (Somebody should have warned me!).  And yet, when I read an openly negative book review, it turns me off.  While I agree to the importance of quality criticism, quality criticism is no fun.[3. As Edinger points out, things get even more complicated with children's literature because adults are not the primary/sole reader. Who wants to be the jerk who disparaged a child's favorite book?]

There is, however, one safe place where negative reviews thrive: the celebrated book

While I  bite my tongue about contemporary books I dislike, I am more than comfortable speaking out against boring old books.  I am not alone here; the internet is awash in snarky takedowns of overrated classics.  For more contemporary targets, one only need look at the upper echelons.  For every hundred glowing reviews of Freedom, you can be sure there will be a BR Meyer review attacking it. 

Sometimes these dissenting voices come off as prophets, other times they come off as attention-hungry trolls (Armond White, anyone?).  I think there is a sense that a successful work can afford to be taken down a few notches.  Perhaps this is true, but since when has that been the purpose of criticism?

In Edinger's comments, she mentions that SLJ's Heavy Medal blog stands out as a place where honest criticism is alive and well.  I agree with her, and I think the blog gets away with that because of its conceit:  any book mentioned there is already a contender for the Newbery.  There is no such thing as a bad book on that blog, only varying levels of good.

I think the success of Heavy Medal speaks to a larger point.  Perhaps the reason bad books do not get panned is because we subconsciously know they are undeserving of critical engagement?  And perhaps this is the way it should be?  What is the value of our greatest literary minds attacking Fifty Shades of Grey, a book that has no literary aspirations? 

Let us save our very best criticism for our very best books -- because those are the books whose flaws are worth discussing, and those are the authors who we want to see grow. 

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Obscure Adaptations of Kidlit Classics

I'm a fan of the science-fiction blog Io9.  A few weeks ago, they posted a pretty nifty piece of forgotten versions of famous movies.  Among the list were several children's literature adaptations, all of which are free watch on YouTube.  (Hooray for the public domain!)  Highlights include silent versions of Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan as well as a saxiphone-laced Finnish adaptation of The Lord of the Rings.  Click any of the below images to read the whole list: 

 

The Matilda Prototype

I've recently been reading a lot of short stories by Edwardian master Saki (the pen name of HH Munro).  The stories are largely wonderful -- a combination of funny and macabre that I haven't seen since Roald Dahl.  Speaking of Dahl, he was a huge fan of Saki.  Here's his blurb on the back of the Complete Works:

"In all literature, he was the first to employ successfully a wildly outrageous premise in order to make a serious point. I love that. And today the best of his stories are still better than the best of just about every other writer around." - Roald Dahl on Saki

Why is this interesting?  Well, I have recently been thinking about Betsy Bird's SLJ poll of the top 100 children's books -- in her piece on Matilda, Betsy mentions a rumor that the character of Matilda was originally conceived to be "a nasty little girl, somewhat in the same vein of Belloc’s Matilda Who Told Lies and Was Burned to Death.  Revision after revision turned her instead into the sweet little thing we all know and love today."

This seems like a good comparison, but for the fact that Belloc's Matilda is not terribly smart.[1. she's basically a "Boy who Cried Wolf"]  So imagine my surprise and delight when a few weeks ago, while reading Saki's short story "The Boar-Pig", I encounter a shrewd little girl named Matilda Cuvering whose sole mission in life is to terrorize stupid adults.  In the story, Matilda humiliates and extorts a pair of social climbers trying to crash a garden party.  And she doesn't limit her wrath to adults:

"I was told to imitate Claude, that's my young cousin, who never does anything wrong ... It seems [My aunts] thought I ate too much raspberry trifle at lunch, and they said Claude never eats too much raspberry trifle. Well, Claude always goes to sleep for half an hour after lunch, because he's told to, and I waited till he was asleep, and tied his hands and started forcible feeding with a whole bucketful of raspberry trifle ... Lots of it went on to his sailor-suit and some of it on to the bed, but a good deal went down Claude's throat, and they can't say again that he has never been known to eat too much raspberry trifle."

Of course, we'll never know for certain whether Dahl had this character in mind when he created Matilda Wormwood, but I can't help but wonder.[2. For those interested, I also wrote about Matilda and helicopter parenting here.]

Whence Science-Fiction?

Ever asked yourself why science-fiction came about in the 19th century?  Recently I listened to a series of interviews that Bill Moyers conducted with science-fiction wizard Isaac Asimov.[1. Asimov Fun Fact: he is one of the only authors in history who has published books under all ten major headings of the Dewey Decimal system!]  Asimov gave a description of the origins of science fiction that really grabbed me:

"The fact is that society is always changing, but the rate of change has been accelerating all through history for a variety of reasons. … It was only with the coming of the industrial revolution that the rate of change became fast enough to be visible in a single lifetime. So people became aware that not only were things changing, but they would continue to change after they died. And that was when science fiction came into being (as opposed to fantasy and adventure tales) because people knew that they would die before they could see the changes that would happen in the next century so it would be nice to imagine what they might be."

Sounds pretty dead-on, if you ask me.  If you want to watch the whole interview, click the link below:

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Roald Dahl's Rosetta Stone ...

A few weeks back, awesome teacher Mark Holtzen wrote in with a question.  His class was just finishing a unit on Roald Dahl, and he wanted me to share with them how Dahl has influenced my writing.  I figured my response might be of interest to readers of The Scop: 

I think one of the things that makes Roald Dahl so fascinating is the way he writes grown-up characters.  A lot of people talk about how he always makes the adults in his books mean or stupid ... but that's only half the story.  For every Trunchbull there is a Miss Honey -- a person who helps the hero become who they were meant to be.  When I think of my favorite characters in Dahl's books, I think of the wonderful grownups who guide and care for the young heroes:

Miss Honey from Matilda

The Queen from The BFG

The Old Man from James and the Giant Peach

 

Grandpa Joe from Charlie & the Chocolate Factory

When I ask myself why Dahl would make sure that every book has at least one good adult character, I can't help but think of the final page of Danny the Champion of the World:

So based on what he's saying there, it seems like his adult characters -- good and bad -- are actually meant to be a lesson for young readers about how to grow up.  Dahl wants everyone who reads his books to see the difference between a dreadful parent and a delightful one ... and hopefully resolve to become the latter.

This is something I tried to remember while writing Peter Nimble.  The book has its share of awful grownups, but there are also one or two adults in Peter's life (The Professor, Sir Tode, Simon) who are a bit more "sparky" ... and having those grownups in your life makes all the difference.

Maria Tatar and Child Worlds ...

First off, a note for the locals: I'm having a signing this Sunday at 5pm at lovely Laguna beach books!  You should come by and say hello!  For directions and more info, click here.  If you can't make it, I'd love for you to spread the news by Tweeting the word -- just click here!

ON TO REAL BUSINESS:  This week there was a kerfuffle about a NYT op-ed by children's lit scholar Maria Tatar called "No More Adventures in Wonderland."[1. Scop readers will remember that I reviewed one of Tatar's books earlier this year.]    Tatar argues that children's books of the present lack the "redemptive beauty, cathartic humor and healing magic of an earlier time." 

Lots of people in the kidlit community got very upset by this article.  I urge you to read the comments at the  School Library Journal's Heavy Medal and Fuze #8 blogs.  I generally agree that Tatar is exercising some willful blindness (I'd hardly call Peter Pan a "redemptive" figure), but I also think the children's publishing community does themselves a disservice by automatically shouting down an established children's literature scholar such as Tatar. 

For my money, the best response has come from Monica Edinger, who took a moment to consider why Tatar chose Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland as her touchstones.[2. You may recall from a previous post that Monica Edinger is always right about everything. Nice to see her holding up the tradition!]  Edinger rightly observes that both books were very much about the act of constructing a world in which actual children (the Liddels and the Davies) were meant to play.  In fact, story details in both Neverland and Wonderland were actually taken from these children's own playtime adventures.

Perhaps what Tatar is trying to say is that in this current market of well-plotted, well-written stories -- ones that adhere closely to the rules of dramatic structure -- we lose the chance to create worlds that are incomplete ... places that invite a child not to re-create the actions of a hero, but to inhabit the same spaces as the hero inhabits?

This subject looms large in my mind right now because my wife is currently writing a dissertation that deals with the role of "child worlds" in early children's literature.  Tatar might have given the wrong diagnosis, but her op-ed still speaks to a legitimate difference between books of today and books of the past.  Any contemporary reader of Alice in Wonderland will have to admit it contains a pretty lack-luster story ... but what a world it creates.

For a completely different view on the subject, I urge people to check out this recent article from Salon magazine that argues for the value of teens reading adult fiction -- darkness and all.

---

GUEST POST: Harry is a Tool, Aang is a Hero

Hey, Readers!  Today I have a treat for you lucky folk in the form of a wonderful guest post by my friend Rob.  Some months ago, Rob and I found ourselves in a debate about stories that include a "chosen one" (read about it here).  Rob has some interesting ideas -- including a theory as to why Harry Potter isn't really a hero.  I'll let him explain ...

*          *          *

Hi.  I’m Rob.  Jonathan and I were good friends back when I was handsomer and less hairy.  I live in South Korea (not the scary one), and write a blog about South Korea.  I’m no expert in fantasy or young adult books, but I am a breathless lover of awesome things and a frustrated thinker-abouter (some editors prefer ‘think-abouterer’) for things that try to be awesome but fail: for example, stories, songs and raspberry sorbets.

We once discussed what Jonathan called “prophecy stories,” stories featuring “Chosen Ones” like Harry Potter, Ender Wiggin and King Arthur, here, here, here and here.  “Chosen Ones” have some great destiny expected (sometimes prophesied) of them.  Now, I thrill to a great hero story, but not any old hero thrills me: I’m not easy.  So let’s talk about some “Chosen Ones” I adore:

 **Spoiler Alerts** for The Harry Potter Series, Ender’s Game, and Avatar: The Last Airbender (TV series)

Harry Potter started off as my favorite hero ever.  The first three books were fun and gripping, the characters were lively and hilarious.  Courage, cleverness, and awesome friends helped Harry, and the author threw him a rope when he got in too deep.

Then, in book four, Harry’s preparations for the Triwizard Tournament were as last-minute and half-hearted as his quest for a date to the Yule Ball.  When Harry learns he won the tournament because somebody wanted him to, a hero would think, “That should have been my hide. I’d better not bank on luck again.”  The time had come to start kicking butt through resourcefulness and preparedness, not courage and luck.

Cue training montage: 

Harry forms Dumbledore’s Army.  He also lies about his connection with Voldemort, quits Occlumency, walks into more traps, and fails to get the information Dumbledore needs without JK Rowlicis... oops I mean felix felicis.[2. A description of felix felicis can be found here]  Instead of watching a kid learn from mistakes and improve, we watch Harry beat himself up for his mistakes and resent a lot of stuff.  Holden Caulfield, yes.  Heroic, no.

But the undoing of Harry the hero is this: long ahead of time, Dumbledore and Snape knew Harry had to die to destroy Voldemort[3. As revealed in Deathly Hallows, pg 686]  Except they didn’t tell Harry!  In Chamber of Secrets, Dumbledore says,  “It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are,” but by hiding vital information until it was far too late for Harry to do anything but sacrifice himself, Snape and Dumbledore (mostly J.K. Rowling) robbed Harry of real choice.

And that means I read seven books to learn Harry’s a weapon aimed by Dumbledore and Snape, or a cog in Rowling’s plot mechanism: less heroic either way.  It means the first three books telling me he was the crucial choice-maker in the series, were misleading me.

Yet I give Ender Wiggin a pass, though he had no choice in Ender's Game, either.  Why?  Because once he learned the consequences of his choices, he took ownership of them.  Because heroes live with their choices, and learn from them, and change (heroes don’t walk into another trap in book five, and another in Godric’s Hollow, despite what happened to Cedric and Sirius).

Also, nothing in Harry Potter reaches the level of nuance and insight Ender displays here:

          “In the moment when I truly understand my enemy, understand him well enough to defeat him, then in that very moment I also love him. I think it's impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves. And then, in that very moment when I love them--"

         "You beat them."

Ender Wiggen was special from birth, but he was also recruited for his talent:  Ender had to pass a test before going to Battle School to fulfill his destiny.  Excalibur didn’t magically come out of the stone for him.  His talents, though, made him especially suited to perform his task.[4. Jonathan here: Rob also made a generous comparison between Peter Nimble and Ender Wiggen, which I cut because it made me blush.]

Finally, which “Chosen One” checks every box?  My favorite hero right now is a boy named Aang, from the awesome Nikelodeon cartoon series “Avatar: The Last Airbender”.

In Aang’s world, some people can “bend” or control one of the four elements -- Earth, Air, Water, and Fire.  The Avatar is a continually reincarnating person with power to control all four, tasked with keeping the four elements in balance.  So ... imagine the Dalai Lama was a diplomat with superpowers.  But Aang ran from his Avatar training, and got frozen in ice for a century while the Fire Nation took over.  Now, he must take up the responsibility he once shirked, master all four elements, and then defeat the Fire Nation king to restore balance.

 Traveling with a team of friends, Aang masters the four elements.  He learns, in his training and in his relationships.  Aang deals with the guilt of abandoning the Air Nation (who were wiped out).  He is also a kid, and acts like one.  He plays pranks, cracks people up, and makes faces at babies.  The supporting characters are humans too, with strengths and flaws, journeys, and tough choices.  They suffer loss, and even grieve.  They learn from mistakes.  Or they don’t.  Each earns the fate they receive.

For the final battle, sprits of previous Avatars encourage Aang to kill the Fire King.  Aang’s journey has made him hate killing, so he is unwilling to live with having made that ultimate choice.  Instead, Aang negotiates a new path, true to his values as well as his duty as Avatar.  By balancing his individuality and his destiny, Aang’s “Chosen One” journey is totally satisfying.

These stories show me I like heroes who take control of their situations, earn their victories, and own their choices - including mistakes.  Their authors put them in situations where they are real people with real choices, not just props and placeholders.  Without these elements, even “Chosen Ones” (perhaps especially them) fail to move me.

 Call me picky.

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Thanks for the fantastic insights, Rob!  Bloggers Matt Bird and Tanner Higgin have been after me to watch Avatar for ages now ... between your three recommendations, I find myself with no choice but to check it out!  Ooh, look!  It's on Netflix ... (promptly wastes the entire afternoon)

Great Books That Turned Me Off From Reading

The above picture is from Kelly Butcher's excellent blog, the Lemme Library.  Note the second name on that checkout list![1. I would be lying if I said the thought of Peter Nimble checking out a book also read by Lucy Pevensie and Edward Tulane didn't make me cry a bit!]  Yesterday I had the honor of teaming up with fellow Abrams' author Tom Angleberger to write a guest post for Kelly on a topic very dear to my heart: What to do when you hate a classic

It's a lively conversation and definitely worth checking out if you've ever felt at odds with the critical mass.  (Tom may or may not refer to Peter Pan as "dreck!")  In the post, I mention three books that I was forced to read in school that turned me off from reading:  The Yearling by Marjorie Rawlings, A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, and Romeo & Juliet by ... some dude ... can't remember his name ...

Anyway, a few readers expressed a desire to learn what about those particular books bothered me so much.  I thought I'd take a crack at answering the question here! 

First off, a disclaimer:  I am not saying these books are actually bad, only that my experiences with them were negative.  But the fact remains that they did more damage than good. 

The Yearling - I read this book in seventh grade Language Arts class.  Nothing too pointed in my criticism beyond the fact that this book had nothing to do with me or my life.  By that age, I was enough of a reader to know that there were many wonderful, exciting books out there.  But instead of reading Ray Bradbury or SE Hinton, we were stuck with this story of a farm kid and his pet deer.  What was the damage?  The choice of text led me to believe that great stories (which I read at home) and English Literature (which I read in class) were completely unrelated things.

Romeo & Juliet - I read this play in grade ten.  There is a common problem in pop culture where Romeo & Juliet is peddled as a love story when it's actually a cautionary tale.  Even as a young adolescent, I could tell that whatever Romeo and Juliet had going on between them was not real love -- certainly not an ideal to aspire to.  And yet the play was presented to me as some kind of timeless love story.  I remember reading it and thinking, "If this is Shakespeare's idea of true love, then he doesn't really know much about the world."  What was the damage?  When I later read other Shakespeare plays (Hamlet, Midsummer Night's Dream), I was unreceptive; I had already made up my mind that this was a writer who had nothing to teach me.[2. Of course I could not have been more wrong on this point -- I owe a tremendous debt to both Julie Taymor and Niel Gaiman for setting me straight!]

A Tale of Two Cities - I don't know what makes educators think that this book is a good introduction to Dickens -- yes, it's short, but it is also devoid of Boz' trademark humor and charm.  I read this in my junior year of high school, and I hated every word.[3. Looking back now, I think I struggled because I lacked the necessary historical context.  To really appreciate this book, you need to have a sense of both the French Revolution and the Victorian social reform movement -- only then can you start to understand why Dicken's English readers would be interested in things that transpired half a century earlier in a different country.]  I already knew and liked some of Dickens more kid-friendly stories (Oliver Twist, A Christmas Carol), and I deduced wrongly from Tale of Two Cities that this was what happened when authors wrote "serious" books ... they got boring.  I suppose a positive effect of this experience was that it drove me to further embrace children's literature as the sort of stories I wanted to write![4. It took me even longer to come around to Dickens; I didn't start reading him again until I went to graduate school and met an pretty young Victorianist with pigtails!]

So those were a few classic books with which I really struggled.  I've since gone back and re-read the latter two, and I have to say they were better the second time around.  I'm not sure whether a different teacher could have gotten me to respond to the books or whether I was simply too young.

My wife and I were discussing this topic yesterday, and I asked her what the solution might be. She said the best thing for her in high school was a (wonderful) English teacher who alternated between fun and challenging texts:  students read one difficult assigned book, and then they read one book of their choosing (from a list).  Seems like a nice carrot-and-stick compromise!

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THE GIVING TREE: A Picture Book Without a Hero

Few picture books seem to be so divisive as Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree. [1. The movie Blue Valentine contains a charmingly direct critique of the book, which you can read about here. Also a nice article on Silverstein's unlikely rise to kidlit stardom here.] While the book has no shortage of fans, many other people protest how the story sentimentalizes (and promotes) a one-way relationship in which a Tree gives and gives and gives without ever getting so much as a “thank you” from the capricious, selfish boy.

This criticism puts me in a mind of one other great doormat in literary history: William Dobbin from Thackeray’s Vanity Fair.[2. Mary and I have long hoped to one day name a dog “Dobbin” … it is a good name for a loyal friend. (Also, for the curious, the title of this post is a reference to Vanity Fair’s subtitle: “A Novel Without a Hero”.] In a nutshell, Dobbin is a sweet, loyal soldier in love with the vapid-but-beautiful Amelia Sedley. Dobbin spends much of the book as Amelia’s friend, caretaker, and confidant -- putting up with an endless stream of abuse in the process. At first a reader admires Dobbin’s loyalty and firm character, but slowly we start to get the feeling that we are not watching a hero, but a chump.

One of the most shocking (and delightful!) moments in the book comes late when Amelia -- who has since fallen on hard times -- finally condescends to accept Dobbin’s oft-repeated proposal of marriage. And that’s when something wonderful happens: Dobbin rejects her! He finally shows some self-respect and demands a woman who actually appreciates him for who he is. Awesome.

Unlike Vanity Fair, The Giving Tree does not have this satisfying reversal -- at no point does the Tree stand up for herself. Instead she continues to be exploited and (the narrator would have us believe) continues to be “happy”.

What could Shel Silverstein have been thinking?

I’ve recently been spending a bit of time with the book, and I think I’ve found some things in the text that actually complicate the offensive “doormat reading”. Let’s dive in …

2) WHAT KIND OF LOVE? An essential assumption of the doormat-reading is that the book's relationship is meant to be an allegory for romantic love.[4. This is a moment where CS Lewis' exploration of The Four Loves becomes very helpful in articulating such differences. I would argue that Giving Tree haters assume it is a story of "eros" love, whereas defenders see the book as a portrait of "agape" love -- the love that transpires between God and mankind.] However, there are clues in the book that indicate that the dynamic is much closer to parent/child than girl/boy. Consider the fact that the boy moves from child to old man, while the tree essentially stays in a fixed state, always older and wiser. Consider the fact that the Tree shows no jealousy or feelings of betrayal when the boy courts a girl under her eaves. Consider the fact that at every stage, the boy comes to the tree as a provider, rather than a romantic companion. I don’t know why, exactly, but I am much more comfortable with the doormat reading when it is taken out of a romantic setting. No matter what happens, the parent in a parent-child relationship always maintains a degree of dignity and power.

1) "BUT NOT REALLY" Every scene in The Giving Tree ends with a refrain: "And the Tree was happy." Some readers see this phrase as a tacit endorsement of the relationship -- and the boy’s terrible behavior. This, however, assumes that the author is being completely straightforward with the word “happy.” Wouldn’t it be nice if Shel Silverstein found a way to indicate that the refrain “And the Tree was happy” was, in fact, ironic? Lucky for us, he does just that! Right before the final scene, Silverstein adds a twist: “And the Tree was happy … but not really.” Of course this does not instantly negate all of the Tree’s aforementioned happiness, but it does point to the fact that the author understands the difference between declaring oneself happy and actually being happy.

3) "I AM VERY TIRED" I have long maintained that an author cannot hide from his ending: the final scene of every story works as a key with which the reader can unlock and interpret every scene before it. Throughout much of The Giving Tree, it does indeed seem as though Silverstein is sentimentalizing a doormat relationship. The end, however, tells a different story. In the final scene the boy returns to the Tree one last time, now old and decrepit. He is made to remember all the things that he has taken from the tree, each one more humiliating than the last ("My teeth are too weak for apples," "I am too tired to climb," etc.). While he does not openly apologize for his past behavior, I do think that some sense of remorse is implicit in his tone.[4. You will notice that this is the only scene in the book in which he does not directly ask for anything from the tree. Perhaps because he is too ashamed?]

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I suspect the one thing missing for people are the actual words "I'm sorry." The old man may be sad and humiliated, but he is not repentant in a way that we wish he were. To this I would answer that an overt apology would undermine the entire book. The point of unconditional love is that it has no conditions.

Of course, we will never know what Uncle Shelby meant to say in his book. However, I tend to believe that if there are two valid readings of a text -- one of which makes the book awful, and the other makes it better -- we would be best served to grab hold of the reading that lets us enjoy the book. Call it an Occam's Razor of Interpretation.

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Toward a Definition of Children's Literature

This morning I read an engaging rant on a topic close to my heart:  Whither the children's book?[1. thanks to Fuse #8 for pointing me to the story!]  The post came from Australian Judith Ridge's excellent book blog, Misrule.  "Misrule" is the name of a cluttered, sprawling home (think Von Trapp family crossed with the Lost Boys) in Ethel Turner's Australian classic Seven Little Australians.[2. Seven Little Australians is a delightful book that, along with The Paper Bag Princess (Canada) and The Wonderful Adventure of Nils (Sweden), seems to have been relegated to "local favorite" rather than part of the larger international canon.  This is a pity.] Mary and I have, in fact, long dreamed of one day christening our own home "Misrule" and then filling it with lots of ill-mannered children.

Ridge's post bemoans what she sees as a trend in the book industry of labeling books written for children as "Young Adult" ... some even going so far as to call chapter books "Young Young Adult."  This is obviously a market-directed phenomenon, and thus something that will pass after a few more YA movies flop at the box office[3. Note how Cowboys vs. Aliens and The Walking Dead are not being touted as a comic book adaptations -- quite the change from five years ago when everything was boasting its comic creds.]

Of course, this new trend begs an old question:  what is children's literature? It's a slippery question because for every rule you put down (Rule #1: "Children's Books Feature Child Protagonists"), you can find an adult book featuring the same trait.

After many years of wrestling with this definition, I came across one trait that might actually apply to every children's book ... and is virtually antithetical to adult literature.  It is something my wife (who studies Victorian children's literature) learned while working with children's literature scholar June Cummins.  Are you ready?

children's literature assumes a teachable audience

This is not limited to books with obvious morals.  Nor does it specify that this "teachable audience" must be a literal child.  Rather, it specifies a tone in which the author is speaking to a reader who is still unformed in his/her opinions.

I understand that this is an infuriatingly-vague definition.  It's akin to "defining" comedy as being anything that's funny.  But unlike the a posteriori checklists obsessed with reading level and plot specifics, Cummins' definition is both parsimonious consilient.[4. Which my freshman geology course instructed me was essential for any good scientific theory! Go college!]

What really excites me about this definition is that it might also be applied to YA books ... and it goes a long way toward explaining why some Young Adult titles feel like adult books and others feel like children's books.

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