This week, I am lucky to have a fascinating guest post from Deborah Ross, whose new book, Collaborators, just released this month.

Deborah J. Ross is an award-nominated writer and editor of fantasy and science fiction, with over a dozen novels and six dozen short stories in print. Her work has earned Honorable Mention in Year’s Best SF, and nominations for Lambda Literary Award, Gaylactic Spectrum Award, the National Fantasy Federation Speculative Fiction Award for Best Author, and inclusion in the Otherwise Award List, Locus Recommended Reading, and Kirkus notable new release lists. She has served as Secretary to the Science Fiction Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA) and chaired the jury for the Philip K. Dick Award. When she’s not writing, she knits for charity, plays classical piano, and practices yoga.  

Without further ado, here is Deborah!

History, Gender, and Characters

Collaborators is an occupation-and-resistance story, which at its heart is about the uses and abuses of power. In order to talk about power, I had to address the issue of gender. Gender and race inform every human interaction; from our earliest years, we are trained to respond to others as “like me” or “not like me,” and all too often treat them either kindly or harshly as a result. Rather than delve into 20th Century human gender politics (I wrote the book mostly in 1992-95) I decided to create a gender-fluid alien race in order to highlight the assumptions humans make. I wanted to create a resonance and contrast between the tensions arising from First Contact and those arising from gender expectations. What if the native race — inherently “not the same color/race/ethnicity” as humans — did not divide themselves into male and female? How would that work – biologically? romantically? socially? politically? How would it affect the division of labor? child-rearing? How many ways would Terrans misinterpret a race for whom every other age-appropriate person is a potential lover? Or, in a life-paired couple, each partner equally likely to engender or gestate a child? Maybe by the time we achieve interstellar space flight, we’ll have evolved beyond sexism and racism, not to mention homophobia and religious intolerance. One can only hope.

For my alien race in Collaborators, I also wanted sexuality to be important. I decided that young adults would be androgynous in appearance and highly sexual. Sex would be something they’d enjoy often and enthusiastically with their age-mates. However, the intense intimacy created by sex exclusively with the same person would lead to a cascade of emotional and physiological effects resulting in a permanent, lifelong pairing. The pairing, a biological bond obvious to everyone around the couple, would lead to polarization with accompanying mood swings, aggression, inability to focus. Each partner would appear more “female” or “male,” which would inevitably set up occasions for misunderstanding with Terrans, who think and react in terms of those divisions. The natives, on the other hand, would wonder how people who are permanently polarized can get any work done, and react to Terran women as if they were all pregnant, and therefore to be protected at all costs because their own birth rate is low.

Just as we’ve instituted the canonical talk about the birds and the bees, or sex ed in schools, so the natives would have traditions of preparing their young people, trying to ensure that pairing does not have disastrous political or inter-clan consequences. We know how badly that works in humans, so it’s likely to be equally ineffective with native teenagers, too. 

The central inspiration for Collaborators – that individuals respond in a variety of complex and contradictory ways to a situation of occupation and resistance – immediately suggested many types of characters: the rebel, the idealist, the opportunist, the political player, the merchant willing to sell to anyone if the profit is high enough, sadist who exploits the powerlessness of others for his own gratification, the ambitious person who doesn’t care who his allies are, the negotiator, the peace-maker, the patriot.

I lived the better part of 1991 in Lyons, France, and I was repeatedly struck by how history permeated every aspect. Some buildings showed damage from cannon balls during the French Revolution. Plaques marked places where citizens were executed by the Nazis or Jewish families were deported. After visiting the tiny Musée de la Résistance, I became interested in how many varied ways the French responded to the German occupation. Some protested from the very beginning for religious or ethical reasons, but others went along, whether from fear or apathy or entrenched anti-Semitism, or simply because the war did not affect them personally. Yet others sought to exploit the situation for personal power or financial gain. Some became active only when their own personal lives were affected.

One of the first characters to speak to me arose from an unexpected source. I never knew either of my paternal grandparents, for both had perished in the lawlessness and pogroms in the Ukraine shortly after the first World War. My father told me about  how his mother ran a bookstore that was the center of intellectual (and revolutionary!) thought in their village, how when that village was destroyed, she kept her two children alive as they wandered the countryside for two years, going from one cousin’s house to another but never staying very long. He spoke of her courage, her idealism, and her unfailing love. Some piece of her, or her-as-remembered, stayed with me, and I wondered if I could create a character with that strength and devotion to her children. I began to write about Hayke, who opens the book as he lies in a field with his two children, gazing up at the stars and wondering what these star-people might be like. Hayke had other ideas about what his life was like besides merely following in my grandmother’s footsteps, and everything changed once it became clear to me that the alien race were gender-fluid. Hayke, like my grandmother, was a widow (using the term generically to include both sexes), and one of his children was born of his own body, but the other of his dead spouse’s, and he told me he felt an especial tenderness for the latter child.

Even though the ground action takes place in an area roughly the size of Western Europe and most of the characters live or come from the central nation, Chacarre, I didn’t want all the national territories to be the same. I wanted differences in language, dress, attitudes toward authority, etc., between Chacarre and its rival, Erlind, and also within Chacarre itself. Every once in a while, a new character would surprise me, like Na-chee-nal with his “barbarian” vigor and his smelly woolen vest, or Lexis, the dangerously repressed academic poet.

The Terrans presented a different challenge because they were more homogeneous than the natives. They inhabit a single spacecraft and although there is a natural division between crew and scientific personnel, for the most part their goals are shared and their hierarchies are well-defined. Left unchecked, that’s a recipe for boring, so I added some friction, a few divergent motives, a highly stressed environment . . . and into this walked Dr. Vera Eisenstein, eccentric genius. Most of the inspiration for her character came from the women engineers and physicists I’d gotten to know (thank you, Society of Women Engineers!) with a touch of Dr. Richard Feynmann thrown in. She doesn’t play by anyone’s rules, she cares far more about science than diplomacy, she’s simply too good at what she does to disregard, and her mind never stays still. I had a ball cooping her up in the infirmary and watching what kind of trouble she’d get into, but I didn’t realize at first that she would become a pivotal character, one capable of acting for the greatest good despite the depth of her loss. I’d been thinking about her passion in terms of science, not in terms of her capacity for love nor in terms of her ruthless commitment to understanding everything she sees around her, whether it is a problem in laser spectroscopy or alien psychology or the nature of her own grief. In the end, that dedication to truth, inner and outward, made her the ideal person to reach across the increasingly blood-drenched rift and find a mutual, nonviolent path forward for both the Terrans and the natives whose lives have become entangled in theirs.

Collaborators Order Links

Amazon (ebook and trade paperback) https://www.amazon.com/Collaborators-Deborah-J-Ross-ebook/dp/B08747XP15/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=deborah+j+ross+collaborators&qid=1597367139&sr=8-1

B & N (ebook, trade paperback, and hardcover/laminated cover) https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/collaborators-deborah-j-ross/1136878756?ean=9781538013151

Kobo   https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/collaborators-10

Ingram:

Trade paperback: 9781952589003

Hardcover/dust jacket: 9781952589027

When I sat down to read Bud, Not Buddy, I thought for sure that my takeaway from this book would be all about voice. After all, Bud’s voice is soooo strong. His voice is funny and distinct and part of what makes this book so memorable. But even more important than voice, to me, was the way Christopher Paul Curtis was able to place himself so believably in the mind of a child.

As children’s book writers, it’s our job to place ourselves in the minds of children. It’s what we attempt to do each and every time we sit down to write. But too often, I think, we tell the stories in our books (at least in our early drafts) through a child’s point of view that is filtered through the brain of an adult. What we need to do as writers is sit down and really remember what it feels like to be six, eight, ten, and twelve years old. To remember the emotions, the joy, the fear, the confusion, the powerlessness, the body sensations. In the early pages of Bud, Not Buddy, Bud thinks: “It’s at six that grown folks don’t think you’re a cute little kid anymore, they talk to you and expect that you understand everything they mean….Six is a bad time too ‘cause that’s when some real scary things start to happen to your body, it’s around then that your teeth start coming-a-loose in your mouth…it shakes you up a whole lot more than grown folks think it does when perfectly good parts of your body commence to loosening up and falling off of you. Unless you’re stupid as a lamppost you’ve got to wonder what’s next, your arm? Your leg? Your neck?” (4-5)

Through each and every moment of this book, Curtis stays firmly in the point of view of a child. This leads to misunderstandings and humor throughout the book, when often the reader suspects a few things Bud does not (for example, that the dark item in the shed is not a vampire bat….).

Some writers may find it difficult to stay so closely inside the mind of a child. In the workshops I teach, I often see emerging writers struggle with point of view, often switching point of view or shifting into the point of view of an adult character when they are struggling to get some piece of information across. But I see this constrained child point of view as an opportunity, not a limitation. It is an opportunity to really FEEL what your character is feeling, to experience that character’s emotions. When your character is afraid, what does it feel like in his or her body? Are her shoulders tense? Stomach tight? Being true to your character’s limited point of view is going to create a much stronger connection between reader and protagonist than if you hop around. And staying firmly inside the head of your child character is going to make that character feel much more real to readers than if the child character thinks, speaks, and behaves in a way we suspect is a bit “adult-like.”

An exercise:

Sit down with a pen and paper and think about a time between the ages of eight and twelve. Who were your best friends? How did you feel about your parents? What were you afraid of? What were your favorite foods? Who were the kids in your class at school? What did your bedroom look like? What secrets did you have? Did you have any special objects, or belongings, that were important to you (like the items in Bud’s suitcase)? How much freedom did you have to go places on your own? What was your favorite activity to do with friends? Did you have any hobbies?

Try to place yourself back in the point of view of your younger self. This is a good exercise to repeat time and time again to remind ourselves what it feels like to be a child, which will in turn help us write better books for children.

Next Up: Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell!

xoxo,

Tara

Wow, I feel like I got so behind on this challenge! I haven’t forgotten about it – I promise! I had planned on reading But, Not Buddy for my next Newbery book, but I’ve been distracted because I’ve been reading so many other books lately. I’ve been doing research for a new project I’ve been working on, reading manuscripts for the creative writing class I teach, and reading ARCs of some of the new books that are coming out this year. I’m part of the Electric Eighteens debut group, and we’ve been passing around ARC copies and reading everyone’s books before their releases. There are some AMAZING middle grade and YA books coming out this year – I feel so lucky to be part of this wonderful group.

So that is why I got behind, and now, instead of writing about Bud, Not Buddy (which I will talk about next time), I wanted to write instead about the 1986 Newbery winner, Sarah, Plain and Tall. We read and discussed it in my children’s book writing class this week, and it was so fascinating to return to this book I loved so much as a child and discuss it with a group of writers.

The lesson that I took from Sarah, Plain and Tall is all about simplicity. It’s such a powerful novel that when I remember reading it as a kid, I remember it being much longer, but it’s actually only around 9000 words. This novel is beautifully and compactly written. The language is simple. Everything that does not need to be in the novel is stripped away. We get only what is absolutely necessary to the story. The complexities of character relationships are revealed in very subtle and specific details that speak volumes. For example, Anna’s inner turmoil about the fact that her mother died giving birth to her brother, Caleb, is painted so vividly with the simple phrase “Mama died the next morning. That was the worst thing about Caleb.” MacLachlan allows the details to stand on their own, without over-explaining things to the readers.

The plot, too, is not too complex, or cluttered up with subplots or extraneous characters and events. Every event and character serves an important function in the story. Even Maggie, who plays only a small role in the novel, serves as a “mirror” character: like Sarah, she too, was a mail order bride.

Another thing that’s lovely about this book is that it is historical fiction, but MacLachlan never states in the book what year it is, nor does she bog the reader down with historical information. She allows the historical details to stand on their own: they are part of the world the characters move in, and the characters are a product of their setting, but MacLachlan uses only what she needs for the story and nothing more. I’ve heard some writers worry that there isn’t a big market for historical fiction lately, but I think we simply need more historical fiction that is written like this: simple and spare, with compelling characters and engaging stories that kids will love.

Want a writing challenge? Check the simplicity of the language in your work-in-progress by pasting a section into this Fry Graph Readability Tool. It will give you information about the grade level associated with your vocabulary and sentence lengths.

xoxo,

Tara

The Girl Who Drank the Moon (2017 winner) by Kelly Barnhill

It took me much longer to read and respond to this book than I thought it would! It has nothing to do with the quality of the book – it’s fabulous – but I was a bit of a slow reader because I was also preparing for the beginning of the semester, finishing up round two of my edits on UNWRITTEN, and brainstorming/outlining a new project I am working on. Plus the book is nearly 400 pages, quite a bit longer than most of the middle grade published today. Which actually brings me to my main topic: what I learned from this book.

Do not be afraid to break the rules!!!!

By its very length alone, this book starts breaking rules. Most middle grade is around 45,000 words. Fantasy middle grade can go as high as 65,000 words because of the world-building involved, but this one clocks in at over 80,000.

The book doesn’t just break the size rules, though. Some of the main things children’s writers are told over and over are:

1. Children don’t want to read about adults. Stick to a child’s point of view.

2. Child protagonists must solve their own problems. Get the adult characters out of the way.

This book does neither of these things. For much of the book, we are in the point of view of adult characters. Luna, our protagonist, begins the book as a baby, and so we see her from the point of view of others:

Xan, a witch

Gherland, the grand elder

Antain, who starts as a boy but grows up and is an adult for much of the book

As the novel continues, we also enter the point of view of:

The madwoman

Sister Ignatia

Glerk, a bog monster

Other than the brief period where Antain is a child, Luna is the only child point of view in the book. For about a third of the book, she is younger than the intended audience (another “rule” – kids don’t want to read about children younger than themselves). And in the end (though I don’t want to give anything away), she doesn’t solve the plot’s main problem on her own: she does it with help (and instruction) from adults.

How does Barnhill get away with breaking so many rules? Why does the book work so well?

I think as children’s writers, it can be easy to get caught up in “the rules.” Though there are good reasons for these “rules,” it is also important to know when to break them. The story’s demands must always take precedence over any rules, and an author must make choices based on what is best for the story.

For example, if everyone followed the “rule” about not writing stories about adults, then we wouldn’t have characters like:

Mrs. Piggle Wiggle

Frog and Toad

Amelia Bedelia

Kids LOVE these stories about adults. The key here is that these characters are very “child-like” – their concerns, characters, and story problems are very similar to ones children face. For example, Amelia Bedelia, who has the best intentions but never seems to quite follow directions the way she is supposed to, has a problem that many (if not all) children can relate to: misunderstanding directions/doing things wrong. (Also, she is silly! Kids love the humor of these books!) Are kids going to want to read stories about adults going to a nine-to-five job and fighting traffic and stressing about the mortgage? No! But they can relate to adult characters like Frog and Toad. Or Xan, Gherland, and Glerk, who in Barnhill’s novel function in much the same way adults do in fairy tales. They represent fantasy and magic, as well as good and evil. Gail Gauthier gives an interesting discussion of adult characters in children’s books here.

Barnhill’s entire novel reads very much like a fairy tale. It is filled with magic, myth, and fantastical creatures. She is not afraid to tackle tough subjects like the nature of evil, forgiveness, and mortality.

Luna, the protagonist, does not solve the final problem on her own, but in this book, the ending feels just right. Barnhill has created multiple plotlines, with multiple points of view, and she has crafted an ending so that all of these separate plotlines converge and come together in the end to form one satisfying conclusion. Barnhill’s ending feels just “right” — I suspect it is much more satisfying than if she had imposed a different ending on the story, one that made sure Luna did everything on her own. It feels right that all of these characters we have been following throughout the story should work together in the end. Barnhill did not sacrifice the demands of the story to arbitrary rules.

(I could write an entire essay on how brilliant Barnhill’s ending is, by the way. It takes real skill to make so many plotlines come so perfectly together the way she did.)

This just barely skims the surface of all the lessons I could glean from this book, but as I was reading, it was the lesson that popped out at me over and over again. Break rules!

Are you looking for a challenge? Here’s an exercise:

Create an adult character in the vein of Amelia Bedelia, Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, Xan, Glerk, or Frog and Toad, one you think kids will be willing to follow. What will make this character appeal to kids? Why are their interests and conflicts ones that will resonate with kids?

Next up on my list: Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis

2018 is here! And now I can finally say: “I have a book coming out this year!”

2018 is bound to be an exciting year for me as I see my novel go out into the world. (October!) I am so grateful to everyone at Jolly Fish for taking a chance on my book and making my dream come true.

I am also happy to say goodbye to 2017.

2017 was probably the most tumultuous year of my life, filled with both extreme highs and lows. I dealt with some serious health problems and lost a family member to cancer, but I also started a new job teaching creative writing (that I love!) and sold my first novel. It has been a year of whirlwind emotions, but I leave it feeling strong and confident.

I also leave it feeling mentally exhausted.

It is time to refill the creative well. For me, there is no better way to inspire myself to write, and to write better, than reading good books. I became a writer because I am at heart a reader. I didn’t read nearly as much in 2017 as I usually do, and my writing suffered for it. I was less productive. I read A LOT of student manuscripts this year, but I didn’t read as many books as I usually do. I’d love to say I was too busy, but I did manage to find time to watch thirteen seasons of Gray’s Anatomy on Netflix…..

So this year, I have a plan.

A couple years ago, I read about Mr. Schu’s Newbery challenge. (You can learn more about it here.) The idea is to read all of the Newbery-winning books in chronological order, starting with the 1922 winner, The Story of Mankind by Hendrik Willem van Loon. Every year, I look forward to reading the Newbery and honor books (and the Printz books as well): many of them remain my favorites. I decided to take the challenge. I started with the 1922 winner, then moved on to the 1923 winner, Hugh Lofting’s The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle.

And then I quit.

There were so many books I was looking forward to reading (and rereading) but I felt obligated to plow through these early books first, and they were taking a bit of the fun out of it. I wanted to start reading stories, and instead I was reading a long history book, followed by a novel I didn’t care for. It made the challenge stressful, and that was the last thing I wanted.

This year, I start over. I am going to do the challenge my way. I am still going to make my way through the list, but I am going to read the books in whatever order I want. I am going to see what I can learn about writing from each one. I am going to feel inspired.

I am going to learn.

I am going to grow.

I am going to read.

Here’s to 2018 being the year of good books! First on my list is The One and Only Ivan by Katherine Applegate. I’ve already read it (twice) but I chose it because I am assigning it to my writing students in my spring Writing Children’s Books course (you can find info about that here). This week, I’ll see what writing lessons I can glean from it and post them here.

If you would like to join me in this challenge, the full list of Newbery winners can be found here.

Happy Reading!

xoxo