Meanings and messages

One of the things writers often have to do is encapsulate the essence of a story into a few lines. Sometimes for a pitch, or a workshop or an application for something, but often it’s simply an attempt to answer a well-meaning question from a complete stranger while you’re in line for a sandwich. “Oh you’re a writer! What’s your book about?”

I find this question really difficult.

I can answer it on a surface level, but that’s a bit like offering somebody a Wonka Bar with no chocolate inside. I end up fumbling through mouthfuls of sentences, trying to convey what the story is really about. And once I start, it’s hard to stop. By which time the person behind the counter is irritated and the stranger is very much regretting having asked the question in the first place.

I was thinking a bit about this and why it’s so hard to sum everything up when I came across an essay by the great Ursula Le Guin called A Message About Messages. In her essay, Le Guin talks about the idea that for some, a story - especially if it’s for a young person - ought to contain some kind of message or ‘useful little sermon’. (Which is not the same thing as summing things up neatly, but it has bearing I think, on why it’s hard.) Here’s what she says:

Ursula K. Le Guin. Photograph by William Anthony /The Nation

“Does it ever occur to such reviewers that the meaning of the story might lie in the language itself, in the movement of the story as read, in an inexpressible sense of discovery, rather than a tidy bit of advice?… The notion that a story has a message assumes that it can be reduced to a few abstract words, neatly summarised in a school or college examination paper or a brisk critical review.

“If that were true, why would writers go to the trouble of making up characters and relationships and plots and scenes and all that? Why not just deliver the message? Is the story a box to hide an idea in, a fancy dresss to make a naked idea look pretty?…. I’m not saying fiction is meaningless or useless. Far from it. I believe storytelling is one of the most useful tools we have for achieving meaning: It serves to keep our communities together by asking and says who we are, and it’s one of the best tools an individual has to find out who I am, what life may ask of me and how I can respond. […]

“I don’t have a message for you! What I have for you is a story.

“What you get out of that story, in the way of understanding or perception or emotion, is partly up to you - because, of course, the story is passionately meaningful to me (even if I only find out what it’s about after I’ve told it). But it’s also up to you, the reader. Reading is a passionate act. If you read a story not just with your head, but also with your body and feelings and soul, the way you dance or listen to music, then it becomes your story. And it can mean infinitely more than any message. It can offer beauty. It can take you through pain. It can signify freedom. And it can mean something different every time you reread it.”

When I finished her essay (and it should be read in full, see link below) I realized why I find it so hard to sum up what any one of my stories is about. The act of reading a story is a personal one, it is deeply subjective. You have to read - as Le Guin says, not just with your head, but also with your body and feelings and soul - in order to really understand what the story is about and what it means - to you, as a unique reader - not to you, some kind of generic reader.

Which isn’t to say I should try to get out of summarizing things. I shouldn’t. Publishing is of course a business and pitches have their place. But I’m not going to worry about it in quite the same way, knowing there’s only so much that can be encapsulated into a few lines. In the end, the story must speak for itself - and as Le Guin says, in its own way, to each individual, passionate reader.

Full text of A Message About Messages is printed here in The Wonderbook by Jeff Vandermeer

Ursula Le Guin - an obituary by Margaret Atwood in The Guardian

Neil Gaiman presents a lifetime achievement award to Ursula Le Guin, 2014 National Book Awards

How to keep going?

I was in a writing workshop recently and one of the writers was talking about the hardships of repeated rejection. Her work had been rejected so many times that she asked of everyone, “How do you keep going?”

It is well known that rejection is part of the writing process.  Everyone from J.K. Rowling and Kwame Alexander to George Orwell and Madeleine L’Engle has had to deal with a version of no thanks it’s not for me, or not today or just a flat-out no it’s rubbish and you’ve got no future as a writer.  It’s heartening and laughable to look back at these rejections in hindsight.  But what if you’re not J.K. Rowling? Or Kwame Alexander? And let’s be honest, you’re not.  You can’t be.  There’s only one J.K. and there’s only one of you. 

So how do you keep going in the face of repeated rejection?

For what it’s worth my answer is this:

Write from the heart.  

What I mean by that is write the stories that light you up. Write about the things you care about deeply, the things that matter to you, the things that make you feel alive, human.  Not what you think you should be writing, but the stories that are still there when everything else gets stripped away.  I don’t say this lightly.  I know that writing is hard and that hearts are fragile.  I know that writing can be lonely, demoralising, bewildering, dispiriting.  I know this because I’ve been doing it for years and I’m definitely not J.K. Rowling. 

But I value my work whether or not it gets published. I value my stories because I know that writing from the heart takes courage.  It takes courage and perseverance and immense determination.  So, if you dare to sit down at a desk and even try to write a story, I commend you.  If you somehow manage to get to the end of a first draft, I commend you.  And then… if you manage to go even further and get to a place where you revise your story – and I mean truly revise it, which can involve major changes, starting all over again or recognising that actually there’s something else you needed to say all along, then I whole-heartedly celebrate you. 

Lots of writers talk about winning awards, hitting lists, selling thousands of copies, securing movie deals and so on.  There’s nothing wrong with that or dreaming of those external measures of success. But where I resist that kind of thinking is when it leads to the perceived notion that if you haven’t published anything, let alone won an award, then your work doesn’t matter. That you’re not really a writer.  That your work is not worthwhile.

You are a writer because you write, whether you are published or not.  Daring to tell a story, daring to write from the heart takes courage, perseverance and immense determination.  So, if you show up at your desk, if you do the work, if you dare to write what matters to you and put it down on the page, that alone is something to take pride in.  It is not easy and anyone who says otherwise hasn’t done it.  Cynics will dismiss this idea with a wry shake of the head, as if they know better.  Well, it’s easy to be a cynic.  Much easier than being a writer.  

There’s one other piece of the market side of things that’s worth bearing in mind: there is a significant element of luck that goes into whether or not a book gets picked up.  Editors have an enormous amount of work to manage, fluke timing is a huge part of which emails get read and when. As writers, we don’t get to control that.  The only thing we get to control is whether or not we do the work.  Whether or not we show up.  Whether or not we keep writing.  

Last thing, but it’s important: when you write from the heart you are offering something of yourself to the reader, to one single reader.  And perhaps that reader is you.  Just you.  Or perhaps it’s your best friend, or your daughter or a grandchild.  Or perhaps it’s a total stranger.  But know that each and every single reader is an individual. They matter. You matter. All it takes is for one person to read your work. Perhaps they are even moved by it.  Perhaps you are moved by it. And if your story goes on to touch thousands, then so be it, but know that one single reader is enough.  

When you write from the heart you are being brave. You are working hard. You are being your best self, you are creating and doing what lights you up.  That is not easy. It is something to be proud of.  And for me at least, it’s how to keep going.

113 Countries from above - collection of photographs by Yann Arthus-Bertrand

Lit Hub article : The most rejected books of all time

Love of story

I was talking to a friend recently who was frustrated that her 9 year-old didn’t like reading. She had done a lot to help him improve his fluency, which was fine, but nonetheless he didn’t like it. She wondered if she had been doing something wrong.

Not every child likes to read, not because they aren’t bright or capable or curious, but for a whole range of possible reasons. Perhaps they haven’t been exposed to a variety of stories, perhaps they haven’t found a character that speaks to them, perhaps it takes a great deal of effort to decode the words and it feels like endless work.

One of my children is dyslexic, the other isn’t. They both learned to read at their own pace, but one thing both of them always loved (and still do) was being read to. Not because it was a way of helping them improve as readers (it was) but because it was fun. For all of us. We read books that were adventurous, exciting, historical, funny, sad and everything in between. If it was boring, we put it down. Did I always feel like it at the end of a long day and the dog had been sick or somebody had nits or a meltdown? No. But more often than not we did, because we wanted to know what was going to happen next. We needed to know.

As adults we can teach vocabulary, phonics and the sounding out of syllables and so on. That’s all important, of course it is, but what’s also important is a love of story for its own sake. And that’s what I said to my friend - read aloud to your son, read with him. Take the pressure off. Read the good stuff, the fun stuff, read the books that make both of you want to turn the page. If you don’t know where to start, try your local library, many are offering curbside services, or try the kids’ picks page here, top left. Harry Potter is not the only example of a story that captivates young and old alike... there are thousands and thousands of unique, brilliant stories waiting to be read aloud, just for fun.

Found words

Somebody has been writing these two words all over town. On the back of sign posts, on random bits of pavement, metal trash cans, traffic cones. I love the idea of somebody sneaking out at night with the intention of spreading this particular message during this particular time of division and fear. An act of rebellious inclusivity.

As the 2020 American presidential election looms, I am reminded that words matter. Ideas matter. As any kind of writer, you get to choose your words. You get to choose what you put down on the page, whether anyone else reads the work or not.

I choose to write from a place of heart, a place of inclusivity. In my own small way, it’s all I can do.

Grandad's Book Club

My family is spread out all over the world. I’ve got close relatives in the UK, Italy, Germany and across the United States. Seeing one another is tricky at the best of times, but throw in a pandemic and it may be years before we’re able to get together again in person. So when my daughter and I talked about missing some of the people we love so much, she decided to set up a virtual bookclub - particularly for her grandfather. Honestly, I have no idea how it’s going to go. Grandad is not exactly a sweet old man with twinkly eyes who wears a sweater vest. He has a wicked sense of humour, swears quite a bit and can’t stand to be bored. He also likes to read gory murder mysteries and lengthy political biographies. I’ve explained to both of them that the idea of a book club is to open yourself up to something new, see where it takes you… to be open to possibility. So we’ll see - children’s literature today has come a long way since the 1940s. It still has a long way to go in lots of ways, but there are plenty of fantastic reads for them to choose from. Even so.

To start off, my daughter has selected One for the Murphys by Linda Mullaly Hunt. It’s about a young girl who goes into a foster home and tries to find her place in a world full of challenging contradictions. It’s funny, heart-breaking and deeply moving. I’m not sure if Grandad will get past page two. But I hope he does and if so, I suspect he will be delighted and surprised by what he finds. But more than anything, I hope it proves to be a way for them to overcome some of the barriers we’ve all been struggling with and with any luck, bring them closer together in all the ways that matter most.

We’ll see… sharing a story is a simple thing to do, but it can also be magical.

The thing about writing for children

Bicycles sometimes fly. Animals write in webs. Other dimensions are just a wrinkle away.  A broken plano plays by itself, abandoned and ghostly in the middle of a forest.

Writing for a child means there is no limit to the wonder and possibility of the life inside your story. Cynics are not allowed the last word, they are powerless in the face of an unbridled imagination. Which isn’t to say it’s easy (or easier than writing fiction for adults). It’s not. But the thing about writing for children is that the ending is never hopeless. It may be difficult and complicated, heartbreaking or sad, but in one way or another that thing with feathers that perches in the soul - that thing perseveres, come what may.

I’ve thought about this a lot lately, why I write for children. I used to think my stories were an offering of sorts, a way of serving some distant unknown reader whoever, wherever they might be. But a friend recently told me to think about writing from the inside out, not the other way around. And that’s when I realised that perhaps the young reader I’m trying to reach is not ‘out there’ at all. Perhaps the young reader I’m trying to reach is the child I used to be: a doubtful eleven year-old. A girl who needs to know that somehow all things kind, just, magical and wondrous still matter on the other side, among grown ups.

But looking at the adult world of today, do I believe this, truly? In all honesty, I’m not sure. But then that thing with feathers beats its wings, and I feel the power of it. And I know that it’s okay to doubt, but not okay to stop or give up. So yes. Yes is what my stories say to my eleven year-old self, and to anyone else who reads them. All things kind, just, magical and wondrous still matter.

Two sentences

I’m going to share two sentences (one of which is a question) from the opening of a book called Figuring by Maria Popova. As I share them, I’m going to think about what happens when a sentence extends for a whole page and why writers sometimes choose to do that. (These particular sentences do not have much to do with children’s literature per se, but they do have something to do with craft and with everything that’s happening now in the heartbreaking, exhausting, mind-bending month that is June 2020.)

“All of it - the rings of Saturn and my father’s wedding band, the underbelly of the clouds pinked by the rising sun, Einstein’s brain bathing in a jar of formaldehyde, every grain of sand that made the glass that made the jar and each idea Einstein ever had, the shepherdess singing in the Rila mountains of my native Bulgaria and each one of her sheep, every hair on Chance's velveteen dog ears and Marianne Moore’s red braid and the whiskers of Montaigne’s cat, every translucent fingernail on my friend Amanda’s newborn son, every stone with which Virginia Woolf filled her coat pockets before wading into the River Ouse to drown, every copper atom composing the disc that carried arias abroad the first human-made object to enter interstellar space and every oak splinter of the floor boards onto which Beethoven collapsed in the fit of fury that cost him his hearing, the wetness of every tear that has ever been wept over a grave and the sheen on the beak of every raven that has ever watched the weepers, every cell in Galileo’s fleshy finger and every molecule of gas and dust that made the moons of Jupiter to which it pointed, the Dipper of freckles constellating the olive firmament of a certain forearm I love and every axonal flutter of the tenderness with which I love her, all the facts and figments by which we are perpetually figuring and reconfiguring reality - it all banged into being 13.8 billion years ago from a single source, no louder than the opening note of Beethoven’s Firth Symphony, no larger than the dot levitating over the small i, the ‘I’ lowered from the pedestal of ego.

How can we know this and still succumb to the illusion of separateness, of otherness?”

Brainpickings.org - Maria Popova’s treasure trove of a blog. Here’s just one example of a post that weaves together so much: A Poem for Peter: A Lyrical Illustrated Tribute to Ezra Jack Keats and the Making of the First Mainstream Children’s Book Starring a Black Child

Hang on to your hope

Towards the end of this collection, Letters of E.B. White, is a letter I come back to often. It was written in March of 1973 but it seems especially pertinent now. I re-read it the other day and found myself abandoning the project I had been working on and starting something new - something in search of compassion and hope.

There will always be a need for different kinds of stories. We need the stories that grapple with cruelty and suffering head on, but we also need the stories that reaffirm, lift and inspire. As a reader I like to read both, but as a writer in this particular moment, I don’t seem to have a choice. I feel compelled to explore the boundaries of hope and joy amidst sorrow and uncertainty, to search for wonder in impossible places. This pandemic comes on the heels of history chequered with terrible acts of war, periods of devastating cruelty and a woefully inadequate response to the climate crisis. And yet buried within our shared history are glimpses of selflessness, courage and integrity, small acts of kindness and great acts of love. I see them happening today too.

I come back to this letter because I can relate to both points of view. The letter is addressed to a man named Mr. Nadeau, who had written to E.B.White, expressing his loss of faith in humanity. I understand exactly where he was coming from, but I can also understand E.B. White’s heartfelt response, copied out below.

In the end, it’s right to wind the clock nonetheless, to hang on to your hat, to hang on to your hope. Why? Because integrity and compassion are still very much alive.

North Brooklin, Maine

30 March 1973

Dear Mr. Nadeau:

As long as there is one upright man, as long as there is one compassionate woman, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness.

Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say, the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society—things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed, sometimes rather suddenly. It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet. But as a people we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. Man’s curiosity, his relentlessness, his inventiveness, his ingenuity have led him into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable him to claw his way out.

Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.

Sincerely, 
[Signed, ‘E. B. White’]

E.B. White with his grandson - from Letters of E.B.White collected and edited by Dorothy Lobrano Guth.

Old Fox Books

This is my local bookstore. It’s a beautiful place, inside and out. I would like the world to know (or at least you, Mum, my one devoted reader) that it is open for business by phone.  They can send your book wherever it needs to go. If you possibly can, give them a ring any time between noon and 3pm EST on 410-626 2020. I have just ordered the extraordinary new collection of poems entitled Ledger by Jane Hirshfield for my dear friend, Casey. It’s the kind of poetry that makes you gasp, it’s stunning. And it’s accessible to everyone, even if (like me) you find poetry intimidating sometimes.

This gorgeous picture was taken by the super talented Ana Fallon @ AnaFallonPhotography

One last thing to make you smile: I commissioned the picture above to give as a gift to my lovely sister-in-law. She met a young man here a few years ago and they recently got married. I’m not kidding when I say indie bookstores are MAGICAL PLACES. Please call them and order a book if you can. And if you’re not sure what to order, feel free to check out the kids’ picks page on your left and surprise a child with something. Or order a copy of Ledger for yourself, it’s the kind of work that makes the world a better place.

Old Fox Books website

The Poetry Foundation on Jane Hirshfield

Ana Fallon Photography

Thus begins a tale… Picture by Ana Fallon Photography.

On connecting

This is a book that isn’t a story. There’s no plot per se. Nor is it laid out as a series of conversations, or happenings - it’s even looser than that. I’m sharing it now because it’s one of those texts that defies categories in lots of ways, and it has struck a chord with so many readers. Is it a children’s book? Yes. Is it for children? Sort of. Is it for grown ups who sometimes feel like we’re riding through a snowstorm and nobody really knows the way? I think so.

From The Boy, The Mole, The Fox and The Horse by Charlie Mackesy

There’s a lot of social distancing happening in the world right now and with good reason. But I would encourage everyone to find ways of connecting with each other too, ways of staying close. Reading the same book can do that, the pages invite readers to share the same imagined space, right up close. Reading the same book enables all of us to transcend walls and borders and closed doors. And right now, that’s a really good thing.

Text and illustration by Charles Mackesy

Charlie Mackesy’s official website

Youtube video of Charlie Mackesy talking and working about the book

Buy a copy through your local bookstore here