One of the magical things about writing for young people is that they tend to be open to just about anything. And as somebody who spends a lot of time inhabiting imaginary worlds, this is something I think about a lot.
I’m working on a new project that is grounded in reality. The main character is a boy who collects Match Attax cards, wears glasses, lives above a launderette and struggles to make friends easily. He thinks he’s not enough. Of anything. But on page 2 something happens that is categorically impossible. The question for me as a writer, is how do I keep the reader from letting go of the story? It helps, but it’s not enough to assume that children are open to anything. So what are the things I need to do to make the unbelievable believable?
It turns out there are lots of things. Specific details, precise word choice, clear setting, evocative description, authentic dialogue, body language, and so on. But there’s something else that goes beyond the nuance and fine tuning of craft. It’s to do with that thing that writers hold close, that thing that lies at the heart of what we do:
truth in story.
Which is, of course, an impossible oxymoron. How can a story be true? It’s fiction.
Here’s what I can say about this project. It’s about the kind of friendship that changes lives. True friendship. A long time ago, Huggers was my friend. He wasn’t a ‘real’ friend, and yet he was. Very much so. I know it sounds naive and ridiculous 30 years later. But it is true. He was a friend to me when I needed one. So this story is going to be for him, and for all other creatures like him, alive in ways that once transcended the limitations of reality. And perhaps, in small but important ways, always will.
This rabbit reminds me very much of my brother’s rabbit when he was younger.
For more on craft and truth in fiction:
How Fiction Works - by John Woods
For a generally inspiring toys and things to wonder at: