The Pictures and the Prose

When the National Book Award nominations were announced earlier in the fall, Gene Yang's American Born Chinese received extra attention because it was the first graphic novel to receive that honor. Not all that attention was favorable, and Wired's "Luddite" columnist Tony Long complained:

...as literature, the comic book does not deserve equal status with real novels, or short stories. It's apples and oranges.

If you've ever tried writing a real novel, you'll know where I'm coming from. To do it, and especially to do it well enough to be nominated for this award,...is exceedingly difficult.

I have tried writing "a real novel" or two or seventeen in my time, and I've tried writing and drawing a couple of "real comic books." They are indeed two very different media. But if the level of difficulty is the criterion for judging their value, I'm taking the easy road by sticking to prose.

In a most classy move, Yang replied on his publisher's First Second blog with praise for...another nominee! (And yesterday's eventual winner, Octavian Nothing, by M. T Anderson). Yang wrote:

One of the most intriguing aspects of the book (for me, at least) is Anderson's use of visual storytelling devices. For example, Anderson uses different fonts and font styles to communicate time, place, and emotion.

There are other, more striking, examples. In an early chapter, the protagonist opens the door to a forbidden room and is startled by a sign hanging on the wall, a sign that reveals the secret behind the peculiarities of his existence. That sign is DRAWN in the middle page. It slaps you in the face on the page turn, much as it does Octavian when he opens the door.

Toward the end of the book (here comes a spoiler, so go away until you've actually read it), after Octavian suffers a gruesome personal tragedy, entire passages of the book are scribbled out with what looks to be a crow quill pen. The pages of angry lines and ink splotches communicate as much or more about Octavian's state of mind as the paragraphs that came before.

No one would argue that M.T. Anderson's book is not a novel, but does Anderson's inclusion of graphic devices diminish the "novel-ness" of Octavian Nothing? Does it make Anderson less of a "novelist"?

Not to me. To me, it shows that he committed to the telling of his story above all else, and that he is willing to use whatever devices modern printing technology affords to communicate effectively.

My only quibble with this argument is that, while "modern printing technology" makes the mix of prose and art much more cheap and flexible than it's been in times past, that novelistic technique is about as old as Anderson's Octavian character, if not older.

As this online exhibit from the Glasgow University Library shows, Laurence Sterne interrupted what little story there was in his Tristram Shandy with such devices as a marbled page, a black page, and a crooked line like this:
And how about that stately, plump S at the start of James Joyce's Ulysses? I'm pretty sure Tristram Shandy and Ulysses are "real novels" within the English literary tradition. But they're not plain prose.

Julian Hawthorne Wets His Pants

Another extract from Twenty Days with Julian & Little Bunny By Papa, Nathaniel Hawthorne's diary of looking after his five-year-old son, Julian, in the summer of 1851.

This is part of the entry for 6 August:

Julian was remarkably uneasy in the village; insomuch that I came away without purchasing some loaf-sugar, which we have wanted ever so long. He was so restless in his movements that I suspected him to be, in his technical phrase, "uncomfortable"; but he positively denied it.

We stopt at Love-Grove; and there again I made inquisition as to this point; but he still said no. He was so restless, however, that I advised him to go home before me, and he accordingly started at a great pace.

I came up with him, on the ascent of the hill, on this side of Mr. Butler's. I heard him squealing, while I was some distance behind; and approaching nearer, I saw that he walked wide between the legs. Poor little man! His drawers were all a-sop. It is a positive cruelty to the child not to put him into such a dress that he may have nature's freedom, at any moment.

Look back here for another, less soppy extract.

Better Than The Westing Game

When it comes to Ellen Raskin mystery novels involving word games, multimillion-dollar inheritances derived from household products, inappropriate engagements, assumed identities, sudden deaths, an epilogue stretching years into the future, and children and adults detecting together, I'm fondest of The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I Mean Noel). Yes, I like it better than The Westing Game.

I'm not claiming that The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I Mean Noel) is clearly better than Raskin's Newbery-winner. The Westing Game is more sophisticated. Its cast is bigger, rounder, and more diverse, with tougher issues to deal with alongside the mystery. There are more layers to its narrative and its mystery (in large part because it's a puzzle deliberately crated to deceive rather than a set of mysterious circumstances). The Westing Games can also boast a swell online archive of Raskin's notes and manuscript, which the University of Wisconsin set up a few years ago.

Nevertheless, I have strong nostalgic feelings about The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I Mean Noel). As I commented on The Magic of Books months back, I think the many devoted fans of The Westing Game could do a lot worse than to check out her first novel. What precisely makes me prefer the earlier book?

1) THE TIMING. My paperback copy of The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I Mean Noel) was printed in 1973, the year I became a "middle reader." The Westing Game was published in 1978, the year I became a teenager. So the first book became available just when I was ready for it, and the latter as I was growing out of kids' mysteries. I liked it, but it didn't grab me and hold on.

Furthermore, The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I Mean Noel) is very much of its time--of my childhood's time. It takes place in a New York City when a bunch of shaggy-haired, jeans-wearing hippies are ready to protest at the drop of a hat. Not that I've ever lived in New York or ran with such a crowd, but I liked the idea that they'd be available if ever I needed someone sprung from a pesthole of a jail.

2) THE GRAPHICS. Until this book, Raskin had been creating delightful picture books in her unique graphic style: Spectacles, And It Rained, Nothing Ever Happens on My Block. As part of her transition to novelist, she created drawings to start each chapter of The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I Mean Noel).

Furthermore, those drawings incorporate typographical elements, which have long fascinated me. The characters' bodies are made up of words and phrases important in the following chapter. The central character's flowered dress and upholstery are rendered in asterisks.

3) THE FOOTNOTES. Reading the book last week, I realized that they're a forebear of Lemony Snicket's authorial interjections.

4) THE FARCE. The plot of The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I Mean Noel) is undoubtedly silly, the central character undoubtedly flat (in E. M. Forster's sense) and immature. In real life, she'd never get to adopt twins; she'd be referred to therapy instead. But now that we're all adults, do the characters in The Westing Game behave any more realistically, especially Mr. Westing himself? At least The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I Mean Noel) doesn't take itself so seriously.

That's Not Flying! That's Falling with Style

From Chris Dulabone of the Tales of the Cowardly Lion and Friends comes word Superfly Monkey, a new flying monkey toy. Well, it's more of monkey slingshot, with the little creatures' front limbs yanking out like Stretch Armstrong's to launch them into the air. In the words of the Wicked Witch of the West, it won't be so much fun after someone loses an eye.

Eric Gjovaag turned up another version of the same toy. This one screams as it flies! Just the sort of thing an irrepressible uncle-type like myself might choose for a stocking stuffer.

In the original Wonderful Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum wrote of the "Winged Monkeys." The 1939 MGM movie's screenplay changed that to "Flying Monkeys," producing the phrase that's more famous these days. These toy monkeys may or may not fly (they more plummet), but they definitely don't have wings. Instead, they wear little hoods, capes, and masks, available in a variety of colors.

Someone Will Take This Man's Money

Folks who work in publishing know that book reviews are important, but book advertising is even more rare and therefore often more revealing about companies' priorities and plans. Today's New York Times Book Review included its pre-holiday roundup of top children's picture books for the year and a fine crop of ads. Among them:

• Adam Gopnik's recent essay collection about raising kids in New York City--not a children's book, of course, but the ad placement's a great way to reach the adults reading these pages.
• A two-page layout from HarperCollins--count the celebrity picture books! the movie tie-ins! the repackaging of successful titles. Yes, it's Christmas time in the city.
• Candlewick congratulating M. T. Anderson on his National Book Award nomination while it awaits the revision for Part 2.
  

And then an unusual ad caught my eye: a quarter-page notice inviting editors and agents to HenrySparks.com, a website offering an unpublished fantasy manuscript for middle-grade boys. The author, Keith Lewis, seems to be a natural entrepreneur--former sports trainer and financial executive. And he seems to have jumped into the children's-book biz with the same gumption and willingness to invest up front.

Unfortunately, his synopsis--or maybe his manuscript--doesn't offer much plot to sell. As far as I can tell, ingenious eight-year-old Henry builds submarine with "slow," seventeen-year-old Homer. They meet an electric eel named Ernie, who proves telepathic and chummy. Then they all go back in time to encounter the most red-hot adventurers of recent years, pirates! But not to fear, there's also a pirate chaser with an allegorical name slightly more subtle than a John Bunyan character.

What drives Henry? What are his foibles? What challenges does he face? What defines Homer apart from his fondness for Henry? What motivates Ernie's friendliness? What conflict will grab readers' interest? Where are the moments of suspense? What do Henry's family, the space program, and fuel cells (which pop up in the synopsis's last paragraph) have to do with everything else? And what does it say about our society's class aspirations when "Plebian" is the name of a villain?

Lewis's ad invited serious inquiries only, so obviously it's not for me. But looking at how much money he's willing to invest already, between this website and the NYTBR ad, I suspect he'll get a lot of inquiries from people who are very serious about offering their services. Self-publishing services. Manuscript marketing services.

Nevertheless, just like publishers' ads, this ad might be revealing about the future. In the current slushy environment, we authors may no longer be able to let a manuscript speak for itself. We might have to be entrepreneurs while publishers act as venture capitalists with the money and manufacturing and marketing expertise. But we still have to have an excellent idea for our start-ups.

Elizabeth Allen, Good-Deed-Doer

This weekend the Pennsylvania Library Association starts its annual meeting. Part of its business is to award Elizabeth Allen, director of the Schlow Center Region Library in State College, Pennsylvania, a certificate of merit for "making outstanding contributions during the last five years in Pennsylvania."

In those years, Allen oversaw a major physical expansion of the regional library--a huge fundraising, construction, and logistical job. (See a video of the work here.)

Elizabeth Allen is also my Aunt Betsy. Back in the summer of 1976, when I was ten, I discovered that the Schlow Library had an unusually fine collection of Oz books--including several I hadn't seen even at Harvard's Widener Library. (Hey, I was a determined little ten-year-old.)

I took my first trip away from home and my first airplane flights as an "unaccompanied minor" to visit Aunt Betsy and her library. She thus made an "outstanding contribution" to my growing up (such as it is). Central Pennsylvania is very lucky to have her.

Yip Harburg Would Be Pleased

Language Log offers a graph from Blogpulse of the number of times bloggers have used the phrase "ding dong," as in "Ding, Dong, the Witch Is Dead." There was a big spike on 7 June, when Abu Musab al-Zarqawi was killed, and another right after Election Day.

Poem for Polychrome

There's a tradition of "poetry Fridays" among some children's-lit blogs, which I usually remember about Saturday morning. But today I'm in time to contribute this acrostic in honor of Polychrome, the Rainbow's Daughter, from The Road to Oz and other books by L. Frank Baum.

Rainbow daughter, dancing light
On an arc that sails the skies,
You enchant our earthbound sight,
Gladdening our misty eyes.
Brave the fog! Defy the night!
If it’s dry, put off good-byes!
Vanishing’s so...impolite.

Verse copyright (c) by J. L. Bell

Series as a Genre Unto Themselves

Roger Sutton just wrote about the issues provoked by sequels and series, asking how reviewers and prize judges can evaluate them. Must one know the ultimate ending of the series to gauge the first volume? Must readers have read the foregoing volumes to appreciate a later entry? And if part 2 is better than part 1 or part 3 (The Empire Strikes Back, anyone?), can it satisfy without a true beginning or end?

As one example of the quandary, on the Child_Lit email list, Charlie Butler started a list of classic twentieth-century British children's books with E. Nesbit's Five Children and It. For my money, the first sequel, The Phoenix and the Carpet, is superior because of the superior character of the Phoenix (pictured above, at least according to the BBC). And the third book, with its look at mankind's past and future, has more philosophical depth than the first. Clearly, the sequels couldn't have existed without the first book, but the series as a whole outweighs that beginning. In the end, I think it's best to consider this Nesbit series as a whole.

As I discussed in this posting about Diana Wynne Jones's The Pinhoe Egg, sequels that closely follow a preceding book offer a pleasure different from standalone books. They offer variations on the familiar rather than the thrill of discovery.

Series also sell differently, of course, as we see in how children's bestseller lists now routinely separate series titles from standalones, lest the latter be crowded out entirely by volumes of The Magic Tree House. Of course, that can make it awkward when a successful single title spawns gobs of sequels--what was once respectable enough to merit a place on the main list might get shunted off to the category of books that sell too much.

Only some series are planned from the beginning (Harry Potter, A Series of Unfortunate Events, Percy Jackson), and others forced into separate volumes by length (The Lord of the Rings, Octavian Nothing). But most series start out as standalone titles, and they evolve into series because of that most powerful motivator for writing: ready money.

Book 1 sells a bundle. More readers means more people wondering, "What happened next?" (even if, as in Wicked, the main character is D-E-A-D, dead). Publisher and agent drop hints about the wisdom of revisiting that well. Author can't help but think gratefully of those characters and that world. And before we know it, as Bobcat Goldthwait said about the need for Police Academy 4, "There were so many unanswered questions!" crying out to be addressed.

Sometimes sequels really do address questions that the original volume couldn't touch. Bruce Coville's My Teacher Is an Alien started as a catchy title suggested by packager Byron Preiss and grew into a series with depths that its beginning never hinted at.

L. Frank Baum's Oz books managed to be all types of sequels: incremental, planned, and then ground out endlessly. They come in four layers, defined by how long he imagined his series to be when he wrote:

• The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, planned as a standalone novel
  
• The Marvelous Land of Oz, focusing the Scarecrow and Tin Woodman, who had become Broadway stars
• the next four books, written under one contract; each starts with Dorothy on a journey, and the set ends with her settling in the Emerald City and Glinda cutting Oz off from the Outside World
• the last eight books, published annually as long as he lasted with no overarching structure

The sequel phenomenon may be especially strong in children's books because there's such a tradition of series, many very good and even more beloved. Of the past twenty-five years of Newbery winners, I count at least half a dozen that inspired sequels or were sequels.

Compare that to Pulitzer-winning novels in the same period. In serious adult fiction, an author may already have to be at the top of his game (as in Updike, Roth--and I do mean "his") to get away with such a commercial move as writing a sequel. Larry McMurtry's sales remain high, but was his literary star higher before he started writing sequels to Lonesome Dove?

Avoid More Clichés, and Other Clichés

A while back I linked to a couple of lists of cliché situations to avoid in fantasy because, those writers said, they're overused.

Last month, Agent Kristen's Pub Rants offered a list of cliché phrases to avoid in a fantasy synopsis.

Oddly enough, it doesn't include the word "unwitting."