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PART 1: Some Basic Principles |
Books for young children are usually short. Young children themselves are usually short. This leads to an assumption that children have small brains, and that writing for them is easy. The reverse is true. Young children have large, active brains, and writing for them is enormously difficult. It is even more difficult than writing for adults, since only the best is good enough for children—the best words in the best places, and the best characters in the best stories. Where do we begin?
We need to read children’s books ourselves
Before we begin it is useful to familiarize ourselves with books which are on sale, and are currently popular with children. If we do not, we might find ourselves writing books similar to those we ourselves read long ago when we were children, most of which are now out-dated, out-moded and entirely forgotten. It is also extremely useful to read, and re-read, the books which have passed the test of time—books which remain popular today, fifty, twenty, ten and even five years after they were published. These are classics, and they have much to teach us. It is also useful to recall the stories and folktales we listened to and loved as children, the stories which we have remembered into adulthood. What do these classic stories have which other books lack?
A good picture book for the young child has most of these qualities:
Where do the ideas come from?
The above list is all very well, but the question writers are most often asked, as if it were a deep secret to be dug up and displayed for all to see, is where do the ideas come from? The best ideas, in my experience, don not come from our heads. They come from our immediate lives, or from memory, and then they are moulded by our imagination into grand stories that affect the hearts and minds of others. Stories created solely from imagination have a flatness about them. They are usually about things that do not matter much. They are here today and gone tomorrow. No one remembers them into adulthood.
However, when we read classic stories that make us laugh or cry, shrivel with fright, or hug ourselves with happiness, it is my belief that we could, if we tried, track the main idea down to a pivotal moment in the writer’s life—or several pivotal moments. These classic stories have the quality of ‘difference.’ They are here today, and here tomorrow, and here the day after, since children’s books and folktales, which are loved and remembered, do more than entertain for a while: they move children profoundly, and having done so they take up residence in their hearts and stay there. They are remembered affectionately, sometimes word for word, into adulthood.
To find an event that could be a good basis for a story it might be useful to tell a friend, or other people in a writing group, about a strong emotional experience remembered from childhood, and start writing with that event in mind. This way, the first draft will not be drawn entirely from the imagination, which will mean getting off to a good, heart-felt beginning.
For instance, here is an anecdote from Tanzania. It is a true story, which was later given more shape and definition, to make it a story suitable for publication. Both examples appear below:
Anecdote:
When I was a little kid my parents went away to the city to work, and I stayed with my grandparents in their village. One day we went off to visit my auntie who lived in a village about three kilometers away. The path to my aunt’s village was sandy, and the grass was so high it curved over the path.
My grandfather led the way, then came my grandmother, then me. We set off.
After a while I smelt something. I thought the smell would go away as we walked past—whatever it was, but it didn’t. I didn’t like it. It made me scared. I told my grandfather I could smell something that was scaring me, and I asked him if I could walk between him and grandma.
‘Of course’, he said.
So I moved into the middle and we went on. But I could still smell whatever it was, and I was still scared. I tried to be calm but in the end I told my grandfather that I was really scared.
‘What are you so scared of?’, he said.
‘I think there’s a lion following us’, I said.
We all turned round, and sure enough on the narrow path behind my grandmother was a lion.
My grandfather stood in front of the lion and looked into its eyes, and gestured with his arms and said quite firmly: ‘Go away! You’re frightening my grand-daughter. Be off with you!’ And the lion turned and walked away. It was incredible! I’ll never forget it.
Story for publication:
Pili was a little girl who lived in a village with her grandmother and her grandfather, because her parents had to work far away in the city. Pili loved her grandmother very much, but she loved her grandfather even more.
One day her grandparents decided to visit Pili’s auntie, who lived in a village about an hour’s walk away. They set off. The track to the auntie’s village was soft, and sandy, and narrow. On either side of the path the grass was so high it curled over, like a cool green roof.
Grandfather led the way, next came grandmother, and last of all, little Pili. As they walked no sound could be heard. The sun shone. The air was calm. The world was full of peace.
After a while Pili thought she could smell something she didn’t like. She hoped it would go away. Her heart beat fast. She was scared.
But on they walked. They walked, and they walked, and they walked. As they walked no sound could be heard. The sun shone. The air seemed calm. The world seemed full of peace.
But still the smell remained. Pili’s heart beat faster. She was scared. Really scared.
‘Grandfather’, she said, ‘I’m scared. Please can I walk in the middle, between you and grandmother?’
‘Of course’, he said.
So Pili moved into the middle between her grandmother and her grandfather, and they walked, and they walked, and they walked. As they walked no sound could be heard. The sun shone. The air seemed calm. The world seemed full of peace.
But still the smell remained. Pili’s heart beat faster. She was scared. Really scared. Really, really scared.
Finally she said: ‘Grandfather, I’m really frightened.’
‘What is it that frightens you, little one?’, asked her grandfather kindly.
‘I think there’s a lion following us’, she said.
They all turned around. It was true! Behind grandmother was a lion, following them along the narrow path.
Grandfather stood in front of the lion, and looked into its eyes. He pointed down the path and said quite firmly: ‘Lion! Go away! You’re frightening my grand-daughter. Be off with you!’
And the lion turned tail and walked away.
Which only goes to show that lions, like men, understand Swahili!
Who are we writing for?
It is self-evident that we are writing for young children. Perhaps a better question is who are we not writing for?
We are not writing for ourselves, are we? Nor are we writing to impress critics. Nor are we writing for academics. Nor for teachers. Nor for parents. Nor for our adult friends. Nor are we writing for the children we once were—those children no longer exist: they have grown up and become ourselves. We are writing for children who are young now, at the beginning of the 21st century. We are writing for young children the world over, who are seven years old, or younger.
Let us be honest: why are we writing?
We need to be honest, right from the start, about why we want to write for children. If we intend to moralize, teach a lesson, patronize, categorize, marginalize, or show off our own brilliance, we are doing it for the wrong reasons and we’ll need to reassess our motives. We are not writing academically de-constructible literature. Nor are we writing as therapy to eradicate our guilt about the world, and what we have done to it.
We are writing instead to encourage young children to love reading, to inform them, to entertain them, to enchant them, and to affect them. In our writing we are aiming to provide escapist delight, but we will probably be able to rattle children’s values and assumptions a little at the same time. For example, we might say to them through a story: ‘You think you rule the world? Think again, sweetheart!’
Of course in the end we aim to provide children with universal ideals and possibilities, and make them feel good about themselves and their world. They are too young to be allowed to feel otherwise.
Writers of good books for children are always, simultaneously, good teachers of reading and writing, whether they are aware of it or not. Good books ‘teach’ reading more easily than bad books. So it is important for us to write sentences that are not only gorgeous, but easy to understand as well, and to use as much rhyme, rhythm and repetition as possible. We do not need to water down the level of individual words, however, since children need to hear as many different words as they can, before they encounter them later, when they are reading by themselves.
When we picture an adult reading one of our books to a child, one of the aims of our writing should be to enhance the relationship between the reader and the child being read to, through the story we have written—to help them love each other even more than they do already.
And finally, to be honest, let us not forget to admit that we are writing also to make money—it would be foolish to do it for nothing—and to leave our mark on the world, and raise our own self-esteem. If we admit all this, and know why we are writing, we can move along.
What should be taken into consideration?
If we want to write for young children it is essential to stay in touch with childhood, either through memory, or through contact with the real live children in our communities. If we lose touch with children—or our own memories of childhood—we will not have in our hearts and minds all the information we need to write well.
For example, we need to understand the nature of children’s interests, and their emotional needs. We need to know the difference between their literary needs and their literacy needs, and to be able to fulfil both those needs at the same time.
It is also useful to know what kinds of ideas might challenge their thinking, based on the society in which they live at the start of the third millennium. It is polite to consider the ethnic group to which they belong, their gender, and their religion, if any. When we write we are not necessarily hide-bound by all this information, since that might cause us to censor ourselves too much, and might, in turn, lead us to write bad, banal stories which bore kids to death. Having said that, we should be as open-minded as possible. We need to be able to share ideas across cultures, and to avoid indoctrination in one direction or another. Access to different kinds of information is important for individual development, and for our understanding of other communities.
So although we have to pay attention to religion, ethnic group, and gender to target specific groups, we must not let this destroy our artistic goals. Questions such as: ‘Will the reader be offended?’, should not constrain us, nor limit our creativity. We might wish to write about another religion, ethnic group, or gender, in such a way as to provide enriching and surprising elements for our readers, allowing them to become open to new ideas, and other people’s perceptions of the world.
For example, at the beginning of the 21st century we need to consider gender stereo-typing. Is it still appropriate to show the females in the story only in the house, the kitchen, and the garden, and caring for the family? Would it be possible to make the main character a female - a bold, exciting, brave, decision-making female - who has adventures, and wins through, in spite of adversity? This would provide excellent role-models for girls.
Any stereo-typing should be avoided, such as making children who wear glasses into weaklings, who are brainy but hate sport; or old people shown as doddery and incapable of caring for themselves; or disabled people who are pitied for what they can’t do, instead of being celebrated for what they can do; or people of a certain race or religion mocked for who they are, and what they believe.
Of course we need to consider the maintenance of the solid cultural values which underpin the society in which we live and write. Sensitivity and respect are essential. Acknowledging this sensitivity, without falling into the trap of stereotyping, is a difficult balancing act, to which much thought should be given.
Finally we have to keep in mind the fact that adults buy and read the books we write. The words will be channeled through an adult reading aloud to a child. Pleasing the adult is certainly important, and must not be forgotten, but the child is more important and must never be forgotten.
Children are so clever it is startling
Little kids are as bright as buttons and they are perceptive when they are talked down to. They loathe being patronized. Their critical faculties are highly developed, and much more than most adults realize. In fact they are altogether smarter than most adults give them credit for.
They love the challenge of fascinating, ‘difficult’ words. They adore rhyme, rhythm and repetition. They like the thrill of a really riveting story. Because they are young, they do, of course, have a comparatively limited concentration span that must be taken into account. And even though they are clever and confident, they do need constant reassurance regarding their safety in a turbulent world.
Here are some of the things that delight children which we might weave into our stories:
And here are some of the things children are ambivalent about, which we might also weave into our stories:
Taking the illustrator into account
Now that we understand the nature of children and childhood, what interests them, and why we want to write for them—and now that we have come up with an excellent idea—certain practical aspects of writing need to be clearly understood, such as the number of pages required, and how to work with an artist.
The printing process means that a picture book is always thirty two pages long and many of those pages are pictures. We need therefore, to cut our text ruthlessly, in order, if possible, to keep the story under 600 words. There is no room for much more text. Little children will often look at the pictures and then say: ‘Turn the page! Turn the page!’, so there is not enough time to read a lot of text on a page.
It is important to keep the pictures in mind. We DO NOT have to say everything in the words. The pictures might tell as much as half the story, which means much of the setting and tone, let alone the plot, can be left to the illustrator. We need not write anything that can be shown in the illustrations. Illustrators love the challenge of filling in our blanks, as it were. We should try not to make life too hard for the illustrator, upon whom so much of the success of our story will depend. For example, a story about chickens is difficult to illustrate, because it is hard to create and differentiate expressions in chicken’s faces.
The publisher will choose the illustrator, and work with the illustrator, and instruct the illustrator. It is not the business of the writer to interfere in matters of illustration, no matter how much writers might wish to impose their will. Writers write. Illustrators illustrate. Each has to be given the appropriate professional space and respect. Imagine how we would feel if illustrators told us how to write. . .
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