Tricia Springstubb's Blog, page 16

Earlier this week I did something I’ve wanted to do for, say, fifty-five years. No, not kiss Paul McCartney. Not discover a star subsequently named  for me, or tame a wild horse  a la National Velvet, or even trounce my little brother in an argument (without resorting to biting him).  This week I–actually ate dinner on a fold-out tray, while watching  TV!

My family worshipped at the altar of the idiot box.  My father bought our first set in 1951–probably among the First on the Block. So many of my childhood memories are tied to TV shows.  All those Sunday nights gathered around Disney’s Wonderful World of Color (which we watched in black and white for years).  How many Saturday afterno0ns did we while away watching World War 2 movies? “Up scope,” intoned  the captain of the submarine, and I’d shiver in fear. I was likewise terrified by those blood thirsty Indians who were always menacing innocent women in bonnets, and by the evil-doers in “Superman. ” How could it take me so long to figure out the same guys won every time?  My friends and I played “Three Stooges” and, later, “Dr. Kildare” (I was so excellent at dying.)  Miserable afternoons when I’d come home from ninth grade, the ugliest and least popular girl in the universe, to slump in front of reruns of “Dobie Gillis” and “Gilligan’s Island” (even as I type those words I’m fighting off the theme song ear worm). Watching the  Beatles on “Ed Sullivan”, I began to cry, and my brother made fun of me, and my mother told him to be quiet this minute, which I still love her for.

But there was one hard and fast rule: no TV during dinner. Not even when we ate actual TV dinners, which made no sense whatsoever.  Like so many of the rules I hated as a child, this one stuck with me.  I’d no more watch the news while we eat than I would put my shoes up on the couch or fail to write a thank you note. 

Except that the other night–I did!  Not at my own house, of course, so the rule did not apply. My friend and I ate salads and watched several episodes of “Girls”, a show so graphic, hideous and hilarious in its depictions of sex that we both kept yelling, “No! No, please!”, then pouring more wine.  The show is a complete fantasy with no relevance to the lives my own 20-something daughters are living, right?  Right? My girlfriend and I have a date to do this again very soon.

Next up: wearing stripes and polka dots together.

When I was growing up, you only had one. Mine had the blonde pony tail and those bubbly bangs, and came dressed in a slim, gray skirt topped by a knitted, dark orange shell and matching cardigan. That cardigan had perfect gold buttons that really buttoned. The shoes, of course–open-toed pumps of torture. (How many of those shoes did I deviously, deliberately vacuum up twenty years later? My daughters were much more careless as children.)  It was the only Official Barbie outfit I ever owned–after that it was all discount knock-offs and clothes I made myself, from sewing remnants my grandmother gave me–and so I especially cherished the accessories it came with: the wooden bowl of yarn, the silver knitting needes, the scissors that really worked.    

My mother bought me my Barbie, chose that outfit.  I wish I could ask her if she remembered, and why she picked it over, say, Suburban Shopper or Roman Holiday or, outfit of my dreams, Solo in the Spotlight, with its glittery black evening gown, pink chiffon stole and long, slinky black gloves. My mother never felt it necessary to express any opinion about Barbie, the way I did to my girls, yet she chose me a working girl model, not an air head or a diva.  She also made me take short-hand and typing in high school, so I’d always have “something to fall back on”.  When I was younger, I actually loved to play Secretary. I’d sit at a table, scribbling on yellow note pads, pretending to answer phones. My favorite thing was to buzz the boss and tell him someone was here to see him.  My favorite character on ”Madmen” is, of course, Peggy, but I have a soft spot for all those sweet receptionists in their bow-blouses and costume jewelry. 

Alice McDermott–it’s time to re-read her. Her childhood was a mirror of mine–the Irish Catholic odyssey from the Bronx out to Long Island. Reading her novel “That Night” was a blow to the heart.  Oh Sheryl! After I grew out of my secretary phase, she was the girl I secretly–very secretly–longed to be. Or at least, I longed to be loved the way she was–insanely, against all odds, the kind of love that makes a boy stand on your front lawn and howl your name in the dark. The scene where Sheryl sits with a younger neighborhood girl, and, for just a few minutes, plays Barbies, is a killer.  Her own childhood is still so tangible–to dress your doll, to make her into a princess or a bride or a rock star! Sheryl remembers that, yearns for it, even as her own possibilities and power slip away.  Such a tender, brutal depiction of what growing-up-girl can be like.

Sometimes when I’m writing, when I’m saying the lines of dialogue out loud but softly, to myself, I remember playing Barbies in the backyard with my girlfriends.

That title up there? Typed by my cat, Habibi. It’s almost his dinner time and he was trying to help me here, so I could get onto the far more important business of popping his can of Friskies. I’ll try to be quick here, Habs.

A few years back, someone wrote an article  suggesting that the picture book was on its last legs.  Kids are growing up so fast, the pressure is on to read earlier and earlier, static visuals can’t compete with pixels, etc.  I can only guess that the poor soul has regretted his article as much as the writer who recently said YA was getting too dark and writers ought to clean and brighten up their act.  People–readers, writers and of course librarians–went berserko. 

The picture book is more sacred than apple pie. Everyone remembers at least one favorite  from childhood, I guarantee. Ask anyone–even those you consider the least likely suspect–to name a book they loved as a kid.  Watch them get that look on their faces.  At the library, finding a book that a patron once loved and now wanted to share with a child–”It had a red cover, it was about cats who didn’t want to go to bed, my mother used to make all the voices”–is one of my purest pleasures.

What with this being the 75th anniversary of the Caldecott Medal, and what with my beloved publisher Candlewick having declared this the Year of the Picture Book, it’s a kick to be presenting a workshop tomorrow at the Lakeland Writers Conference. If you can’t be there, here’s a tiny peek at some of what I’ll be saying.

There’s an awful lot to keep in mind when attempting to tell an action-packed, emotionally resonant story in  600 succinct and perfect words. Make sure your theme is child centered and your main character is the agent of change. Keep the focus sharp and tight (sorry, no sub-plots here, unless they’re visual–see below).  Be sure you’ve got that good old beginning, middle and end. You’re not making a point–you’re telling a story. Don’t preach. Children loved to be challenged, but they love, just as much, to be amused.

I always read my work aloud as I write–one reason I tend to work at home, rather than public places. But with a picture book, this is essential. Those few hundred words need to have rhythm (I didn’t say rhyme!) They need to sing. Compare, “Oh how Willie wished he could whistle!” with “Once there was a boy named Willie who wished he knew how to whistle.”

Think in pictures–literal pictures.  Your text must lend itself to illustration, so the more concrete and compelling, the more action and momentum, the better. Even the most genius illustrator will have trouble making a long, talking heads conversation look interesting. Change the settings. Think about that page turn.  I still hold my breath when I get to the part in “Owl Babies” where those little guys ”closed their owl eyes and wished their  Owl Mother would come.”  Page turn. “AND SHE CAME.” Goosebumps, every single time!

It’s a commonplace to say that writing a picture book is as close as you come to being a poet. But I also think it’s as close as I’ll ever get to being a film maker. My words are not just complemented by the art–they’re expanded and enhanced.  When I was writing ”Phoebe and Digger”, I intentionally left details out, so the illustrator would fill them in. I also wrote scenes where  the pictures would directly contradict the words, giving kids the chance to get the joke on their own. What I said before about no place for subplots? Check out that little mouse  in the sweet classic “Good Night, Gorilla” .  He all but steals the show.

Habibi is gnawing my ankle…

That title up there? Typed by my cat, Habibi. It’s almost his dinner time and he was trying to help me here, so I could get onto the far more important business of popping his can of Friskies. I’ll try to be quick here, Habs.

A few years back, someone wrote an article  suggesting that the picture book was on its last legs.  Kids are growing up so fast, the pressure is on to read earlier and earlier, static visuals can’t compete with pixels, etc.  I can only guess that the poor soul has regretted his article as much as the writer who recently said YA was getting too dark and writers ought to clean and brighten up their act.  People–readers, writers and of course librarians–went berserko. 

The picture book is more sacred than apple pie. Everyone remembers at least one favorite  from childhood, I guarantee. Ask anyone–even those you consider the least likely suspect–to name a book they loved as a kid.  Watch them get that look on their faces.  At the library, finding a book that a patron once loved and now wanted to share with a child–”It had a red cover, it was about cats who didn’t want to go to bed, my mother used to make all the voices”–is one of my purest pleasures.

What with this being the 75th anniversary of the Caldecott Medal, and what with my beloved publisher Candlewick having declared this the Year of the Picture Book, it’s a kick to be presenting a workshop tomorrow at the Lakeland Writers Conference. If you can’t be there, here’s a tiny peek at some of what I’ll be saying.

There’s an awful lot to keep in mind when attempting to tell an action-packed, emotionally resonant story in  600 succinct and perfect words. Make sure your theme is child centered and your main character is the agent of change. Keep the focus sharp and tight (sorry, no sub-plots here, unless they’re visual–see below).  Be sure you’ve got that good old beginning, middle and end. You’re not making a point–you’re telling a story. Don’t preach. Children loved to be challenged, but they love, just as much, to be amused.

I always read my work aloud as I write–one reason I tend to work at home, rather than public places. But with a picture book, this is essential. Those few hundred words need to have rhythm (I didn’t say rhyme!) They need to sing. Compare, “Oh how Willie wished he could whistle!” with “Once there was a boy named Willie who wished he knew how to whistle.”

Think in pictures–literal pictures.  Your text must lend itself to illustration, so the more concrete and compelling, the more action and momentum, the better. Even the most genius illustrator will have trouble making a long, talking heads conversation look interesting. Change the settings. Think about that page turn.  I still hold my breath when I get to the part in “Owl Babies” where those little guys ”closed their owl eyes and wished their  Owl Mother would come.”  Page turn. “AND SHE CAME.” Goosebumps, every single time!

It’s a commonplace to say that writing a picture book is as close as you come to being a poet. But I also think it’s as close as I’ll ever get to being a film maker. My words are not just complemented by the art–they’re expanded and enhanced.  When I was writing ”Phoebe and Digger”, I intentionally left details out, so the illustrator would fill them in. I also wrote scenes where  the pictures would directly contradict the words, giving kids the chance to get the joke on their own. What I said before about no place for subplots? Check out that little mouse  in the sweet classic “Good Night, Gorilla” .  He all but steals the show.

Habibi is gnawing my ankle…

That title up there? Typed by my cat, Habibi. It’s almost his dinner time and he was trying to help me here, so I could get onto the far more important business of popping his can of Friskies. I’ll try to be quick here, Habs.

A few years back, someone wrote an article  suggesting that the picture book was on its last legs.  Kids are growing up so fast, the pressure is on to read earlier and earlier, static visuals can’t compete with pixels, etc.  I can only guess that the poor soul has regretted his article as much as the writer who recently said YA was getting too dark and writers ought to clean and brighten up their act.  People–readers, writers and of course librarians–went berserko. 

The picture book is more sacred than apple pie. Everyone remembers at least one favorite  from childhood, I guarantee. Ask anyone–even those you consider the least likely suspect–to name a book they loved as a kid.  Watch them get that look on their faces.  At the library, finding a book that a patron once loved and now wanted to share with a child–”It had a red cover, it was about cats who didn’t want to go to bed, my mother used to make all the voices”–is one of my purest pleasures.

What with this being the 75th anniversary of the Caldecott Medal, and what with my beloved publisher Candlewick having declared this the Year of the Picture Book, it’s a kick to be presenting a workshop tomorrow at the Lakeland Writers Conference. If you can’t be there, here’s a tiny peek at some of what I’ll be saying.

There’s an awful lot to keep in mind when attempting to tell an action-packed, emotionally resonant story in  600 succinct and perfect words. Make sure your theme is child centered and your main character is the agent of change. Keep the focus sharp and tight (sorry, no sub-plots here, unless they’re visual–see below).  Be sure you’ve got that good old beginning, middle and end. You’re not making a point–you’re telling a story. Don’t preach. Children loved to be challenged, but they love, just as much, to be amused.

I always read my work aloud as I write–one reason I tend to work at home, rather than public places. But with a picture book, this is essential. Those few hundred words need to have rhythm (I didn’t say rhyme!) They need to sing. Compare, “Oh how Willie wished he could whistle!” with “Once there was a boy named Willie who wished he knew how to whistle.”

Think in pictures–literal pictures.  Your text must lend itself to illustration, so the more concrete and compelling, the more action and momentum, the better. Even the most genius illustrator will have trouble making a long, talking heads conversation look interesting. Change the settings. Think about that page turn.  I still hold my breath when I get to the part in “Owl Babies” where those little guys ”closed their owl eyes and wished their  Owl Mother would come.”  Page turn. “AND SHE CAME.” Goosebumps, every single time!

It’s a commonplace to say that writing a picture book is as close as you come to being a poet. But I also think it’s as close as I’ll ever get to being a film maker. My words are not just complemented by the art–they’re expanded and enhanced.  When I was writing ”Phoebe and Digger”, I intentionally left details out, so the illustrator would fill them in. I also wrote scenes where  the pictures would directly contradict the words, giving kids the chance to get the joke on their own. What I said before about no place for subplots? Check out that little mouse  in the sweet classic “Good Night, Gorilla” .  He all but steals the show.

Habibi is gnawing my ankle…

That title up there? Typed by my cat, Habibi. It’s almost his dinner time and he was trying to help me here, so I could get onto the far more important business of popping his can of Friskies. I’ll try to be quick here, Habs.

A few years back, someone wrote an article  suggesting that the picture book was on its last legs.  Kids are growing up so fast, the pressure is on to read earlier and earlier, static visuals can’t compete with pixels, etc.  I can only guess that the poor soul has regretted his article as much as the writer who recently said YA was getting too dark and writers ought to clean and brighten up their act.  People–readers, writers and of course librarians–went berserko. 

The picture book is more sacred than apple pie. Everyone remembers at least one favorite  from childhood, I guarantee. Ask anyone–even those you consider the least likely suspect–to name a book they loved as a kid.  Watch them get that look on their faces.  At the library, finding a book that a patron once loved and now wanted to share with a child–”It had a red cover, it was about cats who didn’t want to go to bed, my mother used to make all the voices”–is one of my purest pleasures.

What with this being the 75th anniversary of the Caldecott Medal, and what with my beloved publisher Candlewick having declared this the Year of the Picture Book, it’s a kick to be presenting a workshop tomorrow at the Lakeland Writers Conference. If you can’t be there, here’s a tiny peek at some of what I’ll be saying.

There’s an awful lot to keep in mind when attempting to tell an action-packed, emotionally resonant story in  600 succinct and perfect words. Make sure your theme is child centered and your main character is the agent of change. Keep the focus sharp and tight (sorry, no sub-plots here, unless they’re visual–see below).  Be sure you’ve got that good old beginning, middle and end. You’re not making a point–you’re telling a story. Don’t preach. Children loved to be challenged, but they love, just as much, to be amused.

I always read my work aloud as I write–one reason I tend to work at home, rather than public places. But with a picture book, this is essential. Those few hundred words need to have rhythm (I didn’t say rhyme!) They need to sing. Compare, “Oh how Willie wished he could whistle!” with “Once there was a boy named Willie who wished he knew how to whistle.”

Think in pictures–literal pictures.  Your text must lend itself to illustration, so the more concrete and compelling, the more action and momentum, the better. Even the most genius illustrator will have trouble making a long, talking heads conversation look interesting. Change the settings. Think about that page turn.  I still hold my breath when I get to the part in “Owl Babies” where those little guys ”closed their owl eyes and wished their  Owl Mother would come.”  Page turn. “AND SHE CAME.” Goosebumps, every single time!

It’s a commonplace to say that writing a picture book is as close as you come to being a poet. But I also think it’s as close as I’ll ever get to being a film maker. My words are not just complemented by the art–they’re expanded and enhanced.  When I was writing ”Phoebe and Digger”, I intentionally left details out, so the illustrator would fill them in. I also wrote scenes where  the pictures would directly contradict the words, giving kids the chance to get the joke on their own. What I said before about no place for subplots? Check out that little mouse  in the sweet classic “Good Night, Gorilla” .  He all but steals the show.

Habibi is gnawing my ankle…

That title up there? Typed by my cat, Habibi. It’s almost his dinner time and he was trying to help me here, so I could get onto the far more important business of popping his can of Friskies. I’ll try to be quick here, Habs.

A few years back, someone wrote an article  suggesting that the picture book was on its last legs.  Kids are growing up so fast, the pressure is on to read earlier and earlier, static visuals can’t compete with pixels, etc.  I can only guess that the poor soul has regretted his article as much as the writer who recently said YA was getting too dark and writers ought to clean and brighten up their act.  People–readers, writers and of course librarians–went berserko. 

The picture book is more sacred than apple pie. Everyone remembers at least one favorite  from childhood, I guarantee. Ask anyone–even those you consider the least likely suspect–to name a book they loved as a kid.  Watch them get that look on their faces.  At the library, finding a book that a patron once loved and now wanted to share with a child–”It had a red cover, it was about cats who didn’t want to go to bed, my mother used to make all the voices”–is one of my purest pleasures.

What with this being the 75th anniversary of the Caldecott Medal, and what with my beloved publisher Candlewick having declared this the Year of the Picture Book, it’s a kick to be presenting a workshop tomorrow at the Lakeland Writers Conference. If you can’t be there, here’s a tiny peek at some of what I’ll be saying.

There’s an awful lot to keep in mind when attempting to tell an action-packed, emotionally resonant story in  600 succinct and perfect words. Make sure your theme is child centered and your main character is the agent of change. Keep the focus sharp and tight (sorry, no sub-plots here, unless they’re visual–see below).  Be sure you’ve got that good old beginning, middle and end. You’re not making a point–you’re telling a story. Don’t preach. Children loved to be challenged, but they love, just as much, to be amused.

I always read my work aloud as I write–one reason I tend to work at home, rather than public places. But with a picture book, this is essential. Those few hundred words need to have rhythm (I didn’t say rhyme!) They need to sing. Compare, “Oh how Willie wished he could whistle!” with “Once there was a boy named Willie who wished he knew how to whistle.”

Think in pictures–literal pictures.  Your text must lend itself to illustration, so the more concrete and compelling, the more action and momentum, the better. Even the most genius illustrator will have trouble making a long, talking heads conversation look interesting. Change the settings. Think about that page turn.  I still hold my breath when I get to the part in “Owl Babies” where those little guys ”closed their owl eyes and wished their  Owl Mother would come.”  Page turn. “AND SHE CAME.” Goosebumps, every single time!

It’s a commonplace to say that writing a picture book is as close as you come to being a poet. But I also think it’s as close as I’ll ever get to being a film maker. My words are not just complemented by the art–they’re expanded and enhanced.  When I was writing ”Phoebe and Digger”, I intentionally left details out, so the illustrator would fill them in. I also wrote scenes where  the pictures would directly contradict the words, giving kids the chance to get the joke on their own. What I said before about no place for subplots? Check out that little mouse  in the sweet classic “Good Night, Gorilla” .  He all but steals the show.

Habibi is gnawing my ankle…

That title up there? Typed by my cat, Habibi. It’s almost his dinner time and he was trying to help me here, so I could get onto the far more important business of popping his can of Friskies. I’ll try to be quick here, Habs.

A few years back, someone wrote an article  suggesting that the picture book was on its last legs.  Kids are growing up so fast, the pressure is on to read earlier and earlier, static visuals can’t compete with pixels, etc.  I can only guess that the poor soul has regretted his article as much as the writer who recently said YA was getting too dark and writers ought to clean and brighten up their act.  People–readers, writers and of course librarians–went berserko. 

The picture book is more sacred than apple pie. Everyone remembers at least one favorite  from childhood, I guarantee. Ask anyone–even those you consider the least likely suspect–to name a book they loved as a kid.  Watch them get that look on their faces.  At the library, finding a book that a patron once loved and now wanted to share with a child–”It had a red cover, it was about cats who didn’t want to go to bed, my mother used to make all the voices”–is one of my purest pleasures.

What with this being the 75th anniversary of the Caldecott Medal, and what with my beloved publisher Candlewick having declared this the Year of the Picture Book, it’s a kick to be presenting a workshop tomorrow at the Lakeland Writers Conference. If you can’t be there, here’s a tiny peek at some of what I’ll be saying.

There’s an awful lot to keep in mind when attempting to tell an action-packed, emotionally resonant story in  600 succinct and perfect words. Make sure your theme is child centered and your main character is the agent of change. Keep the focus sharp and tight (sorry, no sub-plots here, unless they’re visual–see below).  Be sure you’ve got that good old beginning, middle and end. You’re not making a point–you’re telling a story. Don’t preach. Children loved to be challenged, but they love, just as much, to be amused.

I always read my work aloud as I write–one reason I tend to work at home, rather than public places. But with a picture book, this is essential. Those few hundred words need to have rhythm (I didn’t say rhyme!) They need to sing. Compare, “Oh how Willie wished he could whistle!” with “Once there was a boy named Willie who wished he knew how to whistle.”

Think in pictures–literal pictures.  Your text must lend itself to illustration, so the more concrete and compelling, the more action and momentum, the better. Even the most genius illustrator will have trouble making a long, talking heads conversation look interesting. Change the settings. Think about that page turn.  I still hold my breath when I get to the part in “Owl Babies” where those little guys ”closed their owl eyes and wished their  Owl Mother would come.”  Page turn. “AND SHE CAME.” Goosebumps, every single time!

It’s a commonplace to say that writing a picture book is as close as you come to being a poet. But I also think it’s as close as I’ll ever get to being a film maker. My words are not just complemented by the art–they’re expanded and enhanced.  When I was writing ”Phoebe and Digger”, I intentionally left details out, so the illustrator would fill them in. I also wrote scenes where  the pictures would directly contradict the words, giving kids the chance to get the joke on their own. What I said before about no place for subplots? Check out that little mouse  in the sweet classic “Good Night, Gorilla” .  He all but steals the show.

Habibi is gnawing my ankle…

That title up there? Typed by my cat, Habibi. It’s almost his dinner time and he was trying to help me here, so I could get onto the far more important business of popping his can of Friskies. I’ll try to be quick here, Habs.

A few years back, someone wrote an article  suggesting that the picture book was on its last legs.  Kids are growing up so fast, the pressure is on to read earlier and earlier, static visuals can’t compete with pixels, etc.  I can only guess that the poor soul has regretted his article as much as the writer who recently said YA was getting too dark and writers ought to clean and brighten up their act.  People–readers, writers and of course librarians–went berserko. 

The picture book is more sacred than apple pie. Everyone remembers at least one favorite  from childhood, I guarantee. Ask anyone–even those you consider the least likely suspect–to name a book they loved as a kid.  Watch them get that look on their faces.  At the library, finding a book that a patron once loved and now wanted to share with a child–”It had a red cover, it was about cats who didn’t want to go to bed, my mother used to make all the voices”–is one of my purest pleasures.

What with this being the 75th anniversary of the Caldecott Medal, and what with my beloved publisher Candlewick having declared this the Year of the Picture Book, it’s a kick to be presenting a workshop tomorrow at the Lakeland Writers Conference. If you can’t be there, here’s a tiny peek at some of what I’ll be saying.

There’s an awful lot to keep in mind when attempting to tell an action-packed, emotionally resonant story in  600 succinct and perfect words. Make sure your theme is child centered and your main character is the agent of change. Keep the focus sharp and tight (sorry, no sub-plots here, unless they’re visual–see below).  Be sure you’ve got that good old beginning, middle and end. You’re not making a point–you’re telling a story. Don’t preach. Children loved to be challenged, but they love, just as much, to be amused.

I always read my work aloud as I write–one reason I tend to work at home, rather than public places. But with a picture book, this is essential. Those few hundred words need to have rhythm (I didn’t say rhyme!) They need to sing. Compare, “Oh how Willie wished he could whistle!” with “Once there was a boy named Willie who wished he knew how to whistle.”

Think in pictures–literal pictures.  Your text must lend itself to illustration, so the more concrete and compelling, the more action and momentum, the better. Even the most genius illustrator will have trouble making a long, talking heads conversation look interesting. Change the settings. Think about that page turn.  I still hold my breath when I get to the part in “Owl Babies” where those little guys ”closed their owl eyes and wished their  Owl Mother would come.”  Page turn. “AND SHE CAME.” Goosebumps, every single time!

It’s a commonplace to say that writing a picture book is as close as you come to being a poet. But I also think it’s as close as I’ll ever get to being a film maker. My words are not just complemented by the art–they’re expanded and enhanced.  When I was writing ”Phoebe and Digger”, I intentionally left details out, so the illustrator would fill them in. I also wrote scenes where  the pictures would directly contradict the words, giving kids the chance to get the joke on their own. What I said before about no place for subplots? Check out that little mouse  in the sweet classic “Good Night, Gorilla” .  He all but steals the show.

Habibi is gnawing my ankle…

That title up there? Typed by my cat, Habibi. It’s almost his dinner time and he was trying to help me here, so I could get onto the far more important business of popping his can of Friskies. I’ll try to be quick here, Habs.

A few years back, someone wrote an article  suggesting that the picture book was on its last legs.  Kids are growing up so fast, the pressure is on to read earlier and earlier, static visuals can’t compete with pixels, etc.  I can only guess that the poor soul has regretted his article as much as the writer who recently said YA was getting too dark and writers ought to clean and brighten up their act.  People–readers, writers and of course librarians–went berserko. 

The picture book is more sacred than apple pie. Everyone remembers at least one favorite  from childhood, I guarantee. Ask anyone–even those you consider the least likely suspect–to name a book they loved as a kid.  Watch them get that look on their faces.  At the library, finding a book that a patron once loved and now wanted to share with a child–”It had a red cover, it was about cats who didn’t want to go to bed, my mother used to make all the voices”–is one of my purest pleasures.

What with this being the 75th anniversary of the Caldecott Medal, and what with my beloved publisher Candlewick having declared this the Year of the Picture Book, it’s a kick to be presenting a workshop tomorrow at the Lakeland Writers Conference. If you can’t be there, here’s a tiny peek at some of what I’ll be saying.

There’s an awful lot to keep in mind when attempting to tell an action-packed, emotionally resonant story in  600 succinct and perfect words. Make sure your theme is child centered and your main character is the agent of change. Keep the focus sharp and tight (sorry, no sub-plots here, unless they’re visual–see below).  Be sure you’ve got that good old beginning, middle and end. You’re not making a point–you’re telling a story. Don’t preach. Children loved to be challenged, but they love, just as much, to be amused.

I always read my work aloud as I write–one reason I tend to work at home, rather than public places. But with a picture book, this is essential. Those few hundred words need to have rhythm (I didn’t say rhyme!) They need to sing. Compare, “Oh how Willie wished he could whistle!” with “Once there was a boy named Willie who wished he knew how to whistle.”

Think in pictures–literal pictures.  Your text must lend itself to illustration, so the more concrete and compelling, the more action and momentum, the better. Even the most genius illustrator will have trouble making a long, talking heads conversation look interesting. Change the settings. Think about that page turn.  I still hold my breath when I get to the part in “Owl Babies” where those little guys ”closed their owl eyes and wished their  Owl Mother would come.”  Page turn. “AND SHE CAME.” Goosebumps, every single time!

It’s a commonplace to say that writing a picture book is as close as you come to being a poet. But I also think it’s as close as I’ll ever get to being a film maker. My words are not just complemented by the art–they’re expanded and enhanced.  When I was writing ”Phoebe and Digger”, I intentionally left details out, so the illustrator would fill them in. I also wrote scenes where  the pictures would directly contradict the words, giving kids the chance to get the joke on their own. What I said before about no place for subplots? Check out that little mouse  in the sweet classic “Good Night, Gorilla” .  He all but steals the show.

Habibi is gnawing my ankle…