May B./Caroline Starr Rose: Reflections

Ten years ago, I was spending these heated summer days reading through 160+ books written for children and teens.  Picture books, middle-grade books, history books, biographies, verse novels, novels—you name it.  I'd been asked to chair the Young People's Literature Jury for the National Book Awards.  I was serious, as I tend to be, about the responsibility.

Among the books that rapidly made its way to the top of my pile was Marilyn Nelson's Carver: A Life in Poems.  Here was George Washington Carver's life told with lyric majesty.  Here was poverty and agriculture, botany and music, and I loved every word. Nelson's book would go on to be among the National Book Award finalists that year.  It remains a book I return to repeatedly, cite often, keep tucked into a special corner of my shelves.

It seems fitting, then, that I have spent much of this warm, quiet day with Caroline Starr Rose's magnificent middle grade novel-in-verse in hand.  It's called May B. and it takes us to the Kansas prairie, where young Mavis Elizabeth Betterly, a struggling reader in school, has been sent fifteen miles from her home to help a new homesteader out.  Tragedy strikes, and May B. is soon alone—fending off winter and wolves and the flagellation of self doubt until:

It is hard to tell what is sun,
what is candle,
what is pure hope.

That is May B., thinking out loud. That is the quality of the prose that streams through this book—timeless, transcendent, and graced with lyric spark, moving, always, the consequential story along:

She rocks again.
"The quiet out here's the worst part,
thunderous as a storm the way
it hounds you
inside
outside
nighttime
day."

And:

He had that look that reminds me
someday he'll be a man.

Caroline Starr Rose is both a teacher and a writer (and a fine blogger).  She wondered, she writes, how children with learning differences, such as dyslexia, made their way, years ago, and May B. arose in part from that question, as well as from Caroline's own love for social history.  I listen for rhythms in the books I read, and I found them aplenty here.  I look for heart, and found that, too—abundant and dear. Special books fit themselves into special places, and May B. has a new home here on my shelves—right beside Ms. Nelson's Carver and Jeannine Atkins' Borrowed Names, where versed, artful, backward-glancing works for younger readers go. 

A non sequitur, perhaps:  When I finished reading May B. an hour or two ago, I realized something.  I have at long last collected enough fine young adult literature of different genres and slants to teach that YA course that I have so often been asked to consider.  Ideas form.

May B. is due out from Schwartz & Wade Books, January 2012.

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The Heart is Not a Size: responding to a reviewer's gentle prod

In her generous review of The Heart is Not a Size, Jeannine Atkins, a professor of children's literature at the University of Massachusetts-Amherst and the author, most recently, of the wondrous Borrowed Names—wrote:  I loved learning about Mexico, though might have liked seeing a bit more of the landscape the girls move through, because seeing anything through Beth Kephart’s eyes is a treat.

It's the sort of prodding most writers need—that what if? question asked charitably from one with a knowing eye.  And it's a prod that comes, oddly, on the very day that I discovered (much earlier, this morning) that much of what has been ailing Small Damages, my ten-year odyssey of a novel that takes place in southern Spain, might be pinned to my growing unwillingness to trust the reader to dwell with me in that gorgeous, glorious landscape.  I have felt, increasingly, the writerly need to hurry things up in my books, to move plot along, and especially with Small Damages I have given Carmona and its Necropolis, for example, too short a shrift, have moved too quickly through bullrings. 

Jeannine's words, found this afternoon after a long day of corporate consulting, are oddly timely and reassuring.  Press harder.  Go deeper.  I will.  Thank you, Jeannine.

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Borrowed Names/Jeannine Atkins: Reflections

In 2001, as readers of this blog know, I had the privilege of chairing the National Book Awards Young People's Literature Jury.  Nothing prepares one for a job like that except, perhaps, a lifetime of disciplined reading.  I brought discipline, at the very least, to the table.

One of the most interesting books I found along the way was Marilyn Nelson's Carver:  A Life in Poems—a book loved onto the finalist list.  Here was a man's life and an era's history rendered by the kind of poet who studies her history and applies her craft and gives the reader more than prose could actually bear.  I thought for awhile about trying to write a book like that; I don't think many of us are up to it.  Instead I wrote the autobiography of a river (Flow) and continued wishing for more books of Carver's sort—steeped in history, generous with story, graced with the touchstone lines that leave one halted in one's tracks.

I read such a book today.  It's called Borrowed Names, and it's written by Jeannine Atkins, who teaches children's literature at the University of Massachusetts-Amherst.  I've known of Jeannine through her blog.  I wanted her book to be as good as this one assuredly is. 

With Borrowed Names, Jeannine tells the stories of Laura Ingalls Wilder, Madam C.J. Walker, and Marie Curie—the writer, the entrepreneur/philanthropist, and the scientist—and their daughters.  All three mothers were born in 1867.  All three daughters grew up fierce and widely seeing.  In a series of vignettes, we learn the arc of those lives, those loves, those relationships—a format that yields so much more than traditional biography.  I'd wager to say that you don't know these historic women until you've read this book.  History needs Atkins' brand of poetry to render it this persuasively alive.

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