Newbery Wayback Machine: The Whipping Boy, by Sid Fleischman (1987)

 

The prince's real name may be Horace, but everyone thinks of him as Prince Brat. He is constantly pulling pranks and causing trouble, secure in the knowledge that he will never be punished. Rather, punishment is reserved for Jemmy, his Whipping Boy -- every time Prince Brat is in trouble, Jemmy must endure whatever corporal punishment is deemed sufficient for the offense.

Jemmy dreams of leaving the castle and returning to his previous life in the streets. What he does not expect, however, is for Prince Brat to show up in his room one night, insisting that Jemmy accompany him in running away. This sounds like a terrible idea to Jemmy, but when the prince gives an order, what is he supposed to do but obey? The unlikely pair quickly run into a whole host of complications -- greedy criminals, a bear, and royal soldiers among them -- leading to a final set piece in the sewers deep beneath the city.

All of this happens at an almost absurdly breakneck pace. The Whipping Boy is, at least in the edition that I read, a mere 90 pages. The plot is constantly in motion, with essentially no downtime. Kids who like a lot of action in their stories may find a lot to like here.

The book does strike me as an unusual Newbery choice, however. I didn't find the characters particularly compelling or well-developed, the setting is off-the-shelf quasi-medieval, and the prose is serviceable, but not more than that. That's not to say that I can't understand why The Whipping Boy was popular; words that Kirkus Reviews used to positively describe it at the time included "rollicking" and "melodrama," and both of those seem fair to me. If that's what the reader is looking for, they'll find it in this story, executed both briskly and well. But I'm still unconvinced that The Whipping Boy has many markers of the kind of literary excellence that the Newbery is supposed to recognize.

Possibly, it just wasn't considered a strong year. The three Honor books were A Fine White Dust, by Cynthia Rylant; On My Honor, by Marion Dane Bauer; and Volcano: The Eruption and Healing of Mount St. Helens, by Patricia Lauber. I know some elementary school kids end up reading On My Honor, but I don't think any of those books are considered upper-tier entries in the kidlit canon. The most highly-regarded books of the year all seemed to come from authors outside the USA -- Brian Jacques (Redwall), Diana Wynne Jones (Howl's Moving Castle), Philip Pullman (The Shadow in the North). 

Sid Fleischman was a man with a fascinating life -- he worked as a professional magician, served in World War II, wrote screenplays, and published adult novels, in addition to his work for children. Though he won the Boston Globe-Horn Book Award in 1979 for Humbug Mountain, The Whipping Boy represented his only appearance on the Newbery rolls. His son, Paul Fleischman, would win the Newbery two years later for Joyful Noise, making them the only parent-child combo to ever take home the gold medal. 

2022 Contenders: The Troubled Girls of Dragomir Academy, by Anne Ursu

 

One of the great pleasures of spending time with an author's work over the course of several books is coming to understand what's closest to that author's heart, what techniques they use, and what motifs constantly recur in their writing. I love getting to explore an author's craft in depth, to see how it grows and develops -- and what stays consistent in it from novel to novel.

Longtime readers will perhaps smile at this point and note that this introduction comes attached to a review of the new Anne Ursu book, The Troubled Girls of Dragomir Academy. Though I can promise that I don't set out to give every Ursu novel my most glowing review of the year, it seems to happen anyway. I'm being honest in my assessments, but I'd be dissembling if I didn't point out near the top that in this case, the review is coming from inside the fan club.

Believe it or not, I haven't actually read everything Ursu has ever written (I still have yet to get to The Cronus Chronicles, and the two novels for adults). I have, however, read her previous three novels (2011's Breadcrumbs, 2013's The Real Boy, and 2019's The Lost Girl), and, when I set those alongside Dragomir Academy, certain similarities begin to emerge.

Maybe most notably, Dragomir Academy shares with its three predecessors what I've come to think of as Ursu's signature plot movement. Each of these four novels painstakingly constructs a full, rich, three-dimensional world -- and then pulls the rug out from under that world, revealing terrible truths behind a beautiful lie.[1] The protagonists then are forced to choose how to react to the blinding sight of these truths, whether to retreat in fear or to push forward no matter how much it hurts -- and Ursu never fails to remind the reader that pressing onward will hurt, even if it's a better choice than being willfully deceived. 

Dragomir Academy follows Marya Lupu, who lives in a village in the country of Illyria, where the citizens live in fear of a magical plague called the Dread, which emerges from the forests to massacre entire settlements. The Dread can only be held at bay by sorcerers -- men who can wield the necessary magic that counters and disperses it. Everyone in the village believes that Marya's brother, Luka, will become such a sorcerer, and a representative from the Sorcerers' Guild is indeed coming to test Luka for magical ability. But the visit doesn't go as planned, and soon Marya has been whisked away and sent to the titular Dragomir Academy, a sort of reform school for problem girls, which is perched high in the remote mountains.

At Dragomir, Marya does her best to fit in, to mold herself into what the school wishes her to be. But she and her new friend Elana Teitler begin to suspect that all is not as it seems, that there may be dark secrets that are woven into the very fabric of the Academy. As conditions outside Dragomir worsen, Marya and Elana's quest to know the truth may in fact be of life-or-death importance.

The Troubled Girls of Dragomir Academy takes as its central argument what I've come to think of as the thesis of Ursu's entire oeuvre. If I may be forgiven the reviewing faux pas of quoting myself -- because I don't know how else to say it -- evil works first by fracturing the relationships between people, and then by destroying each person's sense of their true self. In Troubled Girls, that evil takes a similar form to that in which it appeared in The Lost Girl -- a brutally oppressive culture of patriarchy that poisons everything and everyone it touches.

Tonally, Dragomir Academy is also similar to The Lost Girl, in that the icy bleakness of Breadcrumbs and the looming paranoia of The Real Boy have been replaced by a white-hot rage. If anything, Dragomir Academy ratchets up that anger, to the point that I'm not sure you could actually write anything more furious and still have it function as a middle-grade novel. Its unsparing fire can perhaps be best explained by Ursu's laconic Twitter observation that Dragomir Academy is "my Kavanaugh hearing book." If you put yourself in that mindset, Dragomir Academy's approach won't surprise you,  and book's ending, in which joy, heartbreak, victory, and defeat all collapse into a massive singularity, will also feel completely lived-in. 

It's important to note here that Ursu's flame doesn't burn everything it touches. She's too careful of a writer to take the easy way out; this is not a book in which all of the men are monsters and all of the women are saints. There are male characters who recognize the societal poison of the patriarchy and work against it, and there are female characters who are working for the status quo. Additionally, no one is perfect, and even the most noble figures in Dragomir Academy make mistakes, in a way that makes them feel like real, genuine people.

On a less heavy note, even if Dragomir Academy has fewer Easter eggs than The Lost Girl did, it's not devoid of them. Some are so barely concealed that I'm not even sure they qualify; that Marya's best friend is named Elana, in a book that lists fellow fiercely feminist author Elana K. Arnold in its acknowledgments, is maybe less Easter egg than homage. On the other hand, the fact that "Illyria," which certainly sounds like a fantasy kingdom, was also an old name for portions of the Balkans -- and that "Dragomir" is a common name in that part of the world even now -- is the sort of thing that's unlikely to come to the attention of most readers, but is delightful nonetheless. 

I don't even really try to predict the Newbery anymore; I have no idea whether or not The Troubled Girls of Dragomir Academy will be the book that puts Ursu up on the podium. But dangit, this is an amazing novel, and I hope it finds its way to many readers. I'll be here in the Anne Ursu Fan Club box seats, cheering it on.

Publication in October by Walden Pond Press, who were kind enough to send me a review copy

[1]There are parallels here to what Ursu once wrote, "This is what writing is like--the world looks fuzzy and obscure and then in one moment, for no reason, a corner of the veil lifts and suddenly you see the stories that have been lying there the whole time." 

 

Newbery Wayback Machine: The Tale of Despereaux, by Kate DiCamillo (2004)

The Tale of Despereaux likely needs little introduction from me. It exists in the rarified air of A Wrinkle in Time, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, The Giver, and Holes -- Newbery winners that are eventually encountered by just about everyone who spends time with children's books. The last time that School Library Journal and Fuse #8 ran their Top 100 Children's Novels poll, Despereaux ranked #51, a placing that, if anything, undersells the book's popularity.

Kate DiCamillo is one of the most important American children's writers of the 21st century. She had already vaulted to prominence with her debut book, Because of Winn-Dixie, which had netted her a 2001 Newbery Honor, but Despereaux, her third novel, truly cemented her place in the firmament. Despereaux features all of her trademarks: an unlikely hero; a sweet relationship between a human and an animal; and moments of gentle humor mixed in with moments of deep tenderness. 

The novel's structure builds as several plot threads are introduced -- one in which the titular hero, a tiny, misfit mouse, meets and falls in love with a princess, and then is thrown into a dungeon; one in which a rat named Chiaroscuro, torn between his love of the light and the dark nature of ratly culture, accidentally causes a national catastrophe; and one in which a small girl named Miggery Sow is sold by her father into a life of hardship and abuse. All of these stories converge in the second half of the novel, culminating in an ending both thrilling and compassionate. 

Despereaux isn't a novel without flaws -- I may be in the minority, but I remain unenthused by the persistently intrusive narrator, and some of the descriptions of Miggery Sow start to shade uncomfortably into the physiognomic. However, they're minor flaws, and the book on the whole is a triumph. 

The 2003 publishing year featured an embarrassment of riches in American children's literature. In addition to Despereaux, the year included two highly-regarded books that would end up as Honor titles (Kevin Henkes' Olive's Ocean, and Jim Murphy's An American Plague), two classic picture books (Mo Willems' Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus!, and Mordecai Gerstein's The Man Who Walked Between the Towers), and Gregor the Overlander, the book that introduced a pre-Hunger Games Suzanne Collins to a wide audience. Even with that competition, however, Despereaux was and remains an uncontroversial choice for the gold medal. 

2020 Contenders: The Library of Ever, by Zeno Alexander

Lenora is extremely rich, but she isn't happy. Her parents are away traveling, and her nanny insists on dragging Lenora on various boring errands, instead of giving her a chance to explore the city. However, the nanny does have to stop at the library, and while they're there, Lenora manages to slip away...and find her way into a much, much, much larger library, one with patrons ranging from a robot from the future, to a spacefaring tardigrade, to a small boy with a missing cat. Lenora convinces Malachi, the seemingly-magical Chief Answerer, to give her a job as Fourth Assistant Apprentice Librarian. This begins a series of adventures that will take Lenora into the future, on a quasi-Fantastic Voyage journey into an ant colony, and into direct conflict with a mysterious group of people with a vendetta against the very concept of the library itself.

The easiest comparison for The Library of Ever is The Phantom Tollbooth, with its bored protagonist who finds his way into another world full of whimsical characters, surreal adventures, and paeans to knowledge and learning. Now, The Phantom Tollbooth is one of the greatest achievements in American children's literature, and it's awfully hard to write anything in a similar vein that doesn't suffer by comparison. The Library of Ever doesn't hit the heights of Tollbooth, and doesn't come particularly close. What it does do, however, is avoid embarrassing itself; if it's not the "instant classic" that the somewhat hyperactive back cover blurb on the ARC declares it to be, it's a fun, breezy read, one amply seasoned with interesting trivia and colorful details.

I think that, if I were still a child, I would have really, really enjoyed The Library of Ever and its bookworm-turned-adventure heroine. As an adult, it roused my normal suspicions about books that lean heavily on tropes about the importance of Story and Knowledge and Libraries. (Once again, let's all return to Rachael's Maxim: "Story and imagination celebrate themselves when deployed effectively.") This particular novel manages to thread that needle better than most -- I don't have the same kind of grumpiness about The Library of Ever that I did about, say, Okay For Now -- doing so mostly by steering into its conceit and not trying to pretend that it's anything other than wish fulfillment for the kind of kids who show up at the library multiple times a week.

I'm actually just guessing about the Newbery eligibility of The Library of Ever -- Zeno Alexander seems to be a Lemony Snicket-style pen name, and I haven't found any information that might indicate who the person behind the nom de plume is. I'm not sure it matters, since the novel doesn't match up all that well in a literary sense against this year's strongest books. I do think it will find its readers, and that those readers will enjoy Lenora's adventures, as well as those to come; a sequel is promised for 2020.


Published in April by Imprint/Macmillan

2019 Contenders: A Friendly Town That's Almost Always by the Ocean, by Kir Fox and M. Shelley Coats

Davy Jones and his mother have just moved to the town of Topsea, and Davy is having a hard time adjusting to his strange new surroundings. His locker at school is at the bottom of the swimming pool, the mail is delivered by seagulls, and everyone seems to believe that dogs are a myth. On top of that, Davy is trying to work through his emotions regarding the recent loss of his father. Fortunately, he's developing a group of friends who can help him through, even in the strangest of circumstances.

The closest parallel I can think of to A Friendly Town That's Almost Always by the Ocean is actually a work for adults: the podcast/book/theatrical production series Welcome to Night Vale. Both take place in universes filled with Fortean/Lovecraftian weirdness, but are actually less about their settings, and more about the bonds of friendship and love that develop and grow even in the strangest surroundings. Both also work hard to develop a sense of mystery and wonder; there are far more plot hooks in A Friendly Town than there are resolutions, and I got the feeling that the book hardly even scratches the surface of Topsea's secrets. (This is the first in a planned series, and my ARC includes a teaser for the second book.)

That said, A Friendly Town doesn't quite have the emotional complexity of WTNV (or of its best point of comparison in children's media, the television series Gravity Falls). That's not really a knock on A Friendly Town, however, especially since the story that the book tells may come to a good stopping place, but clearly isn't finished. I also doubt that anything about the book will mitigate its appeal to its target audience -- budding horror/comedy readers and future Haunted USA viewers should be all over A Friendly Town like ants on candy.

The Newbery may be a harder hill to climb. A Friendly Town certainly has memorable characters and a fascinating setting, but it can't match the thematic power of something like The Button War, or the wistfully elegiac tone of The Penderwicks at Last. But be that as it may, I fully expect this to be a popular title at libraries, and a great title to booktalk.


Published in April by Disney/Hyperion

The Winner's Circle: The Girl Who Drank the Moon (2017)

For our fantastic three-way review of this year's Newbery winner, The Girl Who Drank the Moon by Kelly Barnhill, we came up with a few burning questions each, and then asked and answered them in an online chat session, so you could bear witness to our witty repartee. Without further ado...

First, let's try to summarize the book in thirty words!

Rachael: Babies are left in the woods to be claimed by an evil witch. The baby-claiming witch is not actually evil, but there is evil afoot. Also dragons and swamp monsters.

Sam: Plutocrats, propagandists, and sadists are defeated by an Indigo Child, a failed bureaucrat, an ex-ninja nun, a witch, a swamp god, and a motley host of other characters.

Rachael: Show-off.

Tess: Creepy town ruled by totalitarian regime requires yearly infant sacrifices. One of these babies is secretly adopted by a witch, grows powerfully magical, and learns to conquer fear with love.

What did you think of Barnhill's world building?

Sam: I appreciated Barnhill's ability to mention things in passing, to give the impression that the world extends beyond the boundaries of the book covers. Her world's "creation story" is a good example of this - we get a sort of poetic form of it, but we never really get into the details of it.

Rachael: I'm not sure if that's a bug or a feature, but I agree that we only get a fuzzy idea of the parameters of this world. What I did like was the way she reveals it in sort of slow, concentric circles - first just the Protectorate, then Xan and the other towns, and then some sense of the history and origins.

Tess: For some reason, I thought the book was going to be set in east Asia, or some east Asian inspired fantasy locale. I think because the cover, which is really lovely, has paper cranes on it, and reminded me of the covers of some of Grace Lin's books. Also because the first character we meet in earnest is named Xan. And the walled city of the Protectorate reminded me of walled palaces I have visited in China and Korea. When I realized that the setting is not meant to be Asian, or Asian inspired, that the fantasy world of the novel isn't meant to be comparable to anywhere specific in our real world, I had trouble adjusting. So I guess you could say that's evidence that Barnhill's world building didn't really work for me. I found the poetic fuzziness a little distracting. Instead of just accepting Glerk is a world-creating bog monster with multiple appendages, I kept really wishing there was a more detailed description or even an illustration of him. That's just me though! I could see how it would totally work for another reader.

What did you think of the political undertones of the story?

Sam: I'm gonna be honest here and say that I thought the politics of the book gave it some of its weakest moments. I'm thinking specifically here of the Elders of the Protectorate, whose contempt for the populace and unabashed love of luxury goods and status symbols don't provide for much in the way of nuance or depth. It would be a more interesting book, I think, if its villains had more complexity.

Tess: Reading this book within the context of our current political climate, I found the political undertones of the story very intriguing. The idea of a government controlling its citizens through fear fueled by misinformation and isolationism really resonated with me. And the message that that can be combated and corrected with hope, love, and acceptance is one I think is important for readers, particularly young readers, to be exposed to.

Rachael: I found that it hit close to home as well, given our current political climate. That makes me wonder how it will age, though.

What did you think of the pacing? 

Tess: The pacing, honestly, wasn't my favorite part of the novel, but historically books where the focus shifts chapter by chapter, especially when the chapters are short, are hard for me. I felt like there were several distinct storylines going on, and not necessarily simultaneously, and the shifts in perspective from one character to another weren't seamless for me, so the pacing felt very stop-and-go, and made me feel generally impatient.

Rachael: I had the same kinds of feelings. It reminded me a little bit of Keeper [by Kathi Appelt, 2012] in that there was a constant sense of urgency, but after it didn't lead anywhere for a couple of hundred pages, I lost interest. Too much of a sense of "building to something big" without enough momentum to carry it along.

Tess: I think the "hurry up and slow down" pacing worked a little better in Keeper because the sea is a constant motif in that book, and the pacing felt a bit like the rising and falling of tides. The pacing in that book felt more purposeful than the pacing in this book.

Sam: I felt like it would have been a lot better of a book if the first 200 pages or so had been condensed down to 50. When the plot finally gets rolling, it's consistently interesting, but that doesn't really happen until everyone finally leaves the farm. I remember when I was taking poetry writing classes, I'd consistently be asked to chop off the first two stanzas of whatever it was I'd written, since that was just whatever I had to get out in order to write my way into the meat of the thing. I'm not sure we need all that backstory. The various visits to the tower and all the details of Stargirl's childhood? It's all beautifully written; I'm unconvinced it actually NEEDS to be there.

Rachael: That's the thing - the sentence-level prose is lovely. I feel like that should be mentioned.

Sam: Yeah. Any given sentence is truly wonderful. I just wanted it to meander less and just briefly hit the points that we actually need to know when we get into the meat of the plot.

What did you think about the choice to have so many adult characters in a children's novel?

Tess: Personally, as a librarian, I love books like this, where there are equally interesting adult and child characters, because I can suggest them to any age group, particularly folks looking for a "family read" that everyone in their family - little kids, big kids, parents, grandparents - could hypothetically enjoy.

Sam: I think you make really good points, Tess! I'd also add that I think part of the reason that this decision works is that Barnhill pulls the neat trick of letting us see many of the most important adult characters as children. We get scenes from Antain and Ethyne's childhood, flashbacks to Xan's, and even bits of Sister Ignatia's. I think that makes it even easier for a child reader to identify with the adult characters.

Rachael: Xan also has something of the childlike adult in her, in the tradition of Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, etc. I think that makes it work as well.

What did you think of the ending? 

Rachael: I'm of a few different minds. On one hand, I love a book with lots of threads that finally come together in a satisfying way in the conclusion. On the other hand, as we discussed in the pacing question, I think Barnhill spends too much time stringing us along so that I was worn out as a reader before we got to the finish line. One thing I did appreciate though was Luna's reunion with her mother. It was nice to see a book that didn't feel the need to leave a child motherless in order for her to grow.

Sam: I agree with you on that last point especially, Rachael. I was kind of put off by the ending as a whole though, to be honest, and it had to do with the treatment of Sister Ignatia. She's spent the whole book as this implacable presence, and then we suddenly get an explanation for what's actually driving her. But... the book drops that idea almost as soon as it picks it up, and seems almost to forget about her during the coda. I don't always expect a redemption arc - the Grand Elder doesn't get one, and that seems fitting - but the treatment of Sister Ignatia at the end seemed remarkably incurious to me.

Rachael: I agree.

Tess: I also had mixed feels. As for the eruption that was coming that only Luna's extreme magic could save everyone from? Honestly? Meh. Especially since we don't even get to see what happens, we just get a flash forward to some time afterward. But I enjoyed all the stuff about the literal fog lifting from the Protectorate as its citizens get to live free from the tyranny of Sister Ignatia and her puppet Elders. And I actually loved the stuff about how even though Luna's mother is back in her life, she still loves her adoptive family, much like the star children who eventually return to the Protectorate. Their love is described as "multiplied, not divided" which I thought was really beautiful.

If you had to pair this one with another children's book or author, what would you choose?

Sam: So, this is maybe unfair of me, but as I was reading The Girl Who Drank the Moon, one of the things I felt like I was coming to understand even more was the genius of Anne Ursu. Ursu and Barnhill are both from the same group of Minnesota children's writers; heck, Ursu is actually thanked in the notes for The Girl Who Drank the Moon. They share similar concerns, such as the place in society for people who don't quite fit in, what happens when a normal-looking world is actually terrifying just below the surface, and how it's impossible to fully understand the world and everything in it. But Ursu is, IMHO, one of the most talented and meticulous of all of our American children's writers. Ursu carefully, methodically, only ever gives you shades of gray, and Barnhill can't resist the broad stroke. Barnhill may be more of a crowd-pleaser; it's probably easier to love The Girl Who Drank the Moon than it is to love Breadcrumbs for a lot of people. But the difference between the two is the difference between a good book and one of the most jaw-dropping achievements in modern children's literature.

Tess: Those are some deep thoughts Sam. I was just thinking that generally kids at my library love books about characters who discover they have magic powers and have to learn how to use them, so my instinct is to pair this book with books like the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling, and the Percy Jackson series by Rick Riordan. But those books center on male protagonists, so I'm especially happy for this book's female representation.

Sam: You're probably thinking more like an actual children's librarian making actual recommendations to actual children than I am! And I definitely agree with you on the female representation issue.

Rachael: My mind keeps going to Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, for some reason. I think it's because I connected with this book more as a mother than as an imagined child, and there's no better portrait of motherhood in children's lit than Mrs. Frisby.

Any closing thoughts?

Sam: I think we've all learned a valuable lesson here.

Tess: LOL

Rachael: Um... I liked this book better than it sounds like I did?

Tess: There you have it folks!

Newbery Wayback Machine: The Graveyard Book, by Neil Gaiman (2009)

Plenty of Newbery-winning authors have had thriving careers outside the confines of children's literature. Will James and Walter Edmonds were bestselling adult authors; Joseph Krumgold was an MGM scriptwriter, as well as one of the earliest filmmakers to work in the then-new nation of Israel; Laura Adams Armer and Robert Lawson were both award-winning visual artists; Esther Forbes won the 1943 Pulitzer Prize for History; Sid Fleischman was a professional magician; Maia Wojciechowska was, among many other things, a professional tennis player and instructor.

However, you can make a good case that Neil Gaiman is the most famous person ever to take home the Medal. As the author of Sandman and American Gods; winner of the Hugo, the Nebula, the Eisner, the Bram Stoker Award, and the (UK) National Book Award; scriptwriter for film (Beowulf, MirrorMask), TV (Doctor Who, Babylon 5), and radio (Good Omens); occasional voice actor (The Simpsons, Jay and Silent Bob's Super Groovy Cartoon Movie); and advocate for intellectual freedom and refugee issues, he's a cultural figure recognized far beyond the children's literature world. 

Although Gaiman's interests are obviously wide-ranging, he's put out a consistent stream of children's books in and around his other projects. (I count at least 15 titles aimed primarily at children in his bewilderingly long bibliography.) He's been eligible for the Newbery since he moved to the United States in 1992, but The Graveyard Book, which took home the 2009 Medal, remains the only time that the Newbery committee has chosen to recognize his work.

The Graveyard Book follows the childhood of Nobody "Bod" Owens, a boy who, following his family's murder, is adopted by the spirits who occupy the local graveyard. The structure of the novel is largely episodic, although it's always leading up to the final confrontation between Bod and the shadowy man and organization who killed his family.

Readers familiar with Gaiman's other work will recognize the themes that so often occupy him: a group of people who protect human society, but can never take part in it; the notion that there are things so traumatic that it would be a great mercy to be able to forget them; the sense that something enormous is happening just outside of the field of human vision. As I read it now, The Graveyard Book felt to me almost like a dry run for Gaiman's 2013 adult novel, The Ocean at the End of the Lane, which follows these threads into a darkness beyond what would be explorable in a children's book. (Interestingly, Gaiman has confirmed that the two books take place within the same universe; Liza Hempstock, the ghostly witch who befriends Bod, is related in some way to Lettie Hempstock, the heroine of Ocean.)

On a personal level, I've always admired Gaiman's work more than I've liked it; his obsessions don't match mine particularly well, and his meticulous turns of phrase sometimes feel to me too carefully manicured. Despite that, however, I recognize that he's a magnificently talented craftsman, and that his concerns do resonate with a great many readers. The Graveyard Book is a marvel of writing, and remains well-loved. The committee had an embarrassment of riches to consider for the 2009 Newbery -- in nearly any other year, Savvy, by Ingrid Law or After Tupac and D Foster, by Jacqueline Woodson would have been prohibitive favorites for the award, and of course, Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games (which, it could be argued, might have scraped the top of the Newbery age strictures) would become a worldwide cultural phenomenon. But it's almost impossible to fault their choice: The Graveyard Book seems well on its way to becoming a classic.

Newbery Wayback Machine: The High King, by Lloyd Alexander (1969)

Lloyd Alexander was a favorite writer of mine as a child -- in addition to the Chronicles of Prydain, I enjoyed The Cat Who Wished to Be a Man and The Wizard in the Tree -- but for whatever reason, I haven't spent much time with his work in recent years. As such, although I didn't exactly approach The High King with no preconceptions, I did feel like I was able to come to it with relatively fresh eyes at least.

One of the more interesting things to me about The High King as a Newbery winner is its place in its series: it's the fifth (and last) of the Chronicles of Prydain. Although books that were sequels had won before (The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle, 1923), and would win again (Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, 1977; Dicey's Song, 1983; and A Year Down Yonder, 2001, among others), The High King marked the first time that a book further along in its sequence than first or second took the medal. Interestingly, as of this writing, it's only happened once since then: when Susan Cooper's The Grey King, the fourth book in her The Dark is Rising series, took the 1976 Newbery.

Alexander, in his author's note, claimed that The High King could be read on its own. After reading it without refreshing my memory of the others, I can tell you that this is...sort of true. It's certainly possible to follow the basic plot, and Alexander is careful to drop a bit of backstory into his descriptions of people and places in order to make sure the reader is up to speed. (Spoilers follow.) However, much of the middle of the book follows our protagonist, Taran, as he travels across Prydain gathering people to his banner in preparation for the confrontation with the forces of Arawn, the Dark Lord. The gist of what happens is that Taran is able to muster a mighty force because of the connections that he's made during his adventures in previous books. These passages lack the punch they're supposed to pack when read in isolation; they come across more as "here's someone you've never heard of! and they love Taran! they totally have so much history together!" None of this is really Alexander's fault -- and when one reads the entirety of the Prydain books, it's a weakness that completely disappears -- but it does mean that, no matter what the author's note claims, you really should start at the beginning with this series.

The general arc of The High King holds no surprises for anyone with a grounding in epic fantasy. What makes the book work is the characters -- the open-hearted and self-effacing Coll, the blusteringly good-hearted Fflewddur Flam, the ruthlessly utilitarian Pryderi. Taran himself is much more three-dimensional than many other fantasy heroes, which gives the story much more emotional heft than it might otherwise possess.

That said, he's still not the most interesting character in the book, which would be the brilliant and courageous Princess Eilonwy. I've seen a lot of memes and articles about the Harry Potter series that make the claim that it would be deeper and more satisfying if it were centered on Hermione; I think that kind of argument definitely applies to The High King. Taran is fine, but Eilonwy is amazing, and if the story were recast as her heroic journey, it might well be perfect. This feeling is strong enough that it colors my view of the ending. It makes logical sense, as the story is laid out, for Eilonwy to give up her powers as an enchantress and stay with Taran out of love, but my inner feminist wanted to see her sail off to the Summer Country as an enormously powerful, immortal, and fearless woman.

Regardless of my quibbles, I don't have a real argument against The High King taking the Newbery. The 1968 publishing year was a rich one: the Honor books were To Be a Slave and When Shlemiel Went to Warsaw and Other Stories, and the committee gave nothing to Ramona the Pest, Escape from Witch Mountain, or A Wizard of Earthsea. That's a list of classics, but The High King stands worthily with them, and is certainly a legitimate choice to put at the top.

2016 Contenders: Milo Speck, Accidental Agent, by Linda Urban

Once an author has written a few books, we often tell ourselves that we know what to expect from them. A Kevin Henkes book will be an existential crisis for elementary schoolers, in the form of a lovingly detailed miniature. A new Jack Gantos title will feature a hapless protagonist in an environment inexorably spiraling out of control, laced with dark humor. Anything by Kate DiCamillo will be funny, but the kind of funny that wears its heart proudly on its sleeve, and it will likely feature at least one animal character.

I thought I had Linda Urban pegged too, as a writer of subdued, carefully-crafted contemporary realism -- someone who would fit well in a group with Cynthia Lord, Gin Phillips, and The Thing About Luck-era Cynthia Kadohata. I never did get around to reading Hound Dog True, but that seemed like a valid assessment of both A Crooked Kind of Perfect and The Center of Everything.

However, Milo Speck, Accidental Agent blows that theory completely away. It's a rollicking, funny, fantasy adventure that's bold and clever, and on the surface at least, has nothing to do with anything Urban has ever written before. In the Author's Note, Urban names Roald Dahl and Edward Eager as her primary influences, and that should give you an accurate idea of how the book reads.

The plot isn't easy to summarize, but involves the adventures of Milo Speck, who falls through a clothes dryer and into the land of Ogregon. Hijinks involving ogres, giant turkeys, secret agents, and more follow. It's the sort of inspired lunacy that often attracts young readers -- it would shock me if this doesn't end up being Urban's book with the most popular appeal.

Surprisingly -- at least to me -- Urban transitions to this mode with apparent effortlessness. Milo Speck is a charming novel that made me smile on numerous occasions. The ending sets up the possibility of a series, so this may not be the last we hear of our accidental protagonist.

I do think, just based on the way the awards committees tend to lean, that Milo Speck is much less likely to receive any accolades than Urban's previous books, even if it may well prove to be a lasting favorite with readers. It does, however, prove that sometimes, reaching beyond your comfort zone leads to unexpected success.


Published in September by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

2016 Contenders: The Jumbies, by Tracey Baptiste

Corinne La Mer has never believed in jumbies, the supernatural creatures that some think haunt the forests of her island. However, after she chases an agouti into the forest on All Hallows' Eve, the evidence mounts that the jumbies may be much more real than Corinne had ever believed -- and that she and her ragtag group of friends may be the only ones who can stop them.

There's a lot in The Jumbies to admire. At its heart, it's a pure folktale story, one based in a deep understanding of several strains of Caribbean lore. (Author Tracey Baptiste is originally from Trinidad, and has stated that the concept for the book was inspired by a traditional Haitian story.) Corinne is a likable protagonist, and her fellow islanders are also interesting and sympathetic -- especially the orphaned brothers, Bouki and Malik. The island setting, with the ominous shadow of the forest always hanging over everything, also comes alive within the pages.

The Jumbies isn't without flaws, however, and I think the primary one is what I usually call "the Paradise Lost problem": an antagonist who is so strongly written, and whose motives can be construed sympathetically enough, that the ostensible point of the book is undercut. The villain of The Jumbies is Severine, the ruler of the other jumbies. She despises the humans, and is willing to fight in any number of ways to control or defeat them, and Corinne is her main target.

Baptiste makes no secret of the fact that we're meant to dislike Severine; her own author's note states, "Severine is everything I expect a jumbie to be -- tricky, mean, and selfish -- with the added bonus of thinking she's better than everyone else." It's true that Severine displays these characteristics, and is a formidable opponent. On the other hand, she's someone who has lost a great deal; her sister is dead, and her island has been invaded by humans, who have no respect for the forest, and who don't even acknowledge the existence of her and her kind. Severine's methods leave something to be desired, but it's easy enough to see her as an anticolonialist leader of the mistreated indigenous inhabitants to make her demonization problematic. (Baptiste tries to deal with some of this in the ending, with a discussion of discovering "a way to live together," but by that point, the accumulated weight of the narrative is too great to be brushed quickly aside). Severine also clearly wants to have a family again, and if those desires have been twisted and warped in her head, they're still hard for me to completely discredit.

I hope many children find and enjoy The Jumbies. It's a lovely blend of the familiar and the new, and I think plenty of readers will like it. I think it's too internally conflicted to entirely succeed, however, and I think that will keep the book from rising to the top of the Newbery heap.


Published in April by Algonquin / Workman

2016 Contenders: The Cottage in the Woods, by Katherine Coville

Fellow fans of The Wind in the Willows: have you ever tried to pin down exactly how big Toad is? Most of the time he seems to be the same size as Ratty, Mole, and Badger - that is, the size of a real toad. But he's always stealing motorcars from people, and presumably they are people-sized motorcars. And then there's the scene where he borrows the clothes of a human washerwoman and escapes from prison... oy.

I think Grahame gets away with this kind of logistical nonsense due to the slippery, dream-like tone of the novel. I mean, one moment everyone's being sensible and Edwardian, and the next moment Rat and Mole run into the god Pan. Clearly, the laws of physics are not operating in a consistent manner (so if Toad wants to part his hair in the middle, I'm going to roll with it, even if Beatrix Potter disagrees).

What works for Grahame does not serve Katherine Coville as well in her new gothic-fairy-tale-parable-mashup novel. The Cottage in the Woods retells the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears from the point of view of Baby Bear's governess Ursula, recasting Papa Bear as a wealthy gentleman bear and Goldilocks as a traumatized enfant sauvage. The whole thing takes place in the Enchanted Forest, where enchanted animals coexist uneasily with their human counterparts.

Coville has done an effective job of spoofing the traditional gothic governess narrative - too effective, I would say. Ursula's habits, mindset, and manners are so recognizably and consistently those of an early nineteenth-century English lady that it's jarring when we are reminded of her bearish attributes. I kept being thrown out of the story as I wondered how a bear would play a pianoforte with its claws, or why exactly a bear would need the tight corsets that Ursula is constantly complaining about.

(It's telling that when I just did a Google image search for "bear corset," I got lots of pictures of corsets with bears on them, but no pictures of bears in corsets. And this is the INTERNET we're talking about.)

And then there's the romance. In keeping with the conventions of the genre, Ursula falls in love with a dashing young bear above her station, and then spends several chapters pining after him. This really made me question the intended audience. I just don't think that Ursula's hand-wringing internal monologues about filial duty would hold the interest of many middle grade readers.

Oh, and I haven't even mentioned the weird political plot: the sinister Anthropological Society is busy campaigning for human rights which, in this case, means curfews and other apartheid-like limitations placed on the rights of enchanted animals. That's an awfully heavy topic, and its resolution is disconcertingly blithe (though in keeping with the sentimental tone of the novel as a whole).

The Cottage in the Woods is a valiant effort, with more than competent writing and several well-developed characters (and some truly bad baddies), but ultimately it falls short of the mark. 

Published February 10th 2015 by Knopf Books for Young Readers

2015 Contenders: The Mark of the Dragonfly, by Jaleigh Johnson

What is The Mark of the Dragonfly by Jaleigh Johnson? Is it Steampunk? Is it Sci-fi? Is it Fantasy? IT'S ALL THE THINGS.

Piper is an orphan living in Scrap Town 16. She makes a living scavenging junk found in meteor fields. She's an eerily talented machinist, and hopes to one day make enough coin to leave for better prospects in the Merrow Kingdom's capital city.

One day, after a particularly harrowing meteor shower, she happens upon a destroyed caravan, with a girl inside, who mysteriously bears the mark of the dragonfly: an intricate tattoo sported only by favorites of the King himself. Piper nurses the girl back to health...to find she's quite a peculiar person. Anna is obsessed with order and organization, seemingly constantly preoccupied with analyzing whether things make logical sense to her, and her head is filled to the brim with information, not all of it practically useful. Before Piper can decide if she's made a huge mistake inviting this strange girl into her life, they're confronted by a man who claims to be related to Anna. Anna has no clear memory of him, and certainly bad vibes about him, so Piper and Anna flee the man, and the scrap town, aboard the 401, an old but beautiful train. Anna's dragonfly buys them passage, but not the trust of the train's head of security, Gee, a young man with a chip on his shoulder, and inhumanly green eyes.

The story takes off from here, as we try to unravel the mystery of who Anna is, and why anyone would be after her.

This book has got a bit of everything: Mythology, high speed chase scenes, cross-bow show-downs, magic, plot twists, even a little chaste romance. Also: A whole heck of a lot of GIRL POWER.

In regards to its literary merit, I found it to be well written, with dynamic characters, and a carefully constructed story line. Some may see Johnson's world building as a mish-mash of genres, but I liked it! Who says you can't mix your fantasy with your sci-fi? Probably the same fascists who don't want you mixing chocolate with peanut butter. It only makes the book more appealing, in my opinion. I can already think of a ton of kids who are going to be so hyped when I tell them about this book.

Is it a contender for the Newbery? I say why not? It's kind of "out there," but so were When You Reach Me and The Graveyard Book, and it got a starred review from Kirkus, which is typically a good sign. I think it's definitely praise-worthy, and I hope it's at least on the committee's radar. If nothing else, it gets two thumbs up from this humble librarian.

*****

Today's guest reviewer is Tess Goldwasser, Youth Services Librarian, St. Mary's County Library, Maryland. Tess also writes about picture books at Kid's Book Blog.

2015 Contenders: The Riverman, by Aaron Starmer

I was still listening to A Snicker of Magic when I picked up The Riverman. I say "picked up" rather than "started reading," because I took it off the shelf and started scanning the first page with no real intention to continue. Then I read the first line: "Every town has lost a child." Everything about the sentence was the polar opposite of A Snicker of Magic - simple and declarative where ASoM is folksy and meandering; dark where ASoM is light*. I had to read on.

The rest of the paragraph delivered on the grim promise of the first line, and so did the rest of the page, and the chapter. At some point the blurb on the back cover caught my eye, and I thought, "Oh, right: this is the one Jack Gantos blurbed." I don't know if you've noticed this, but El Gantos rarely blurbs, so when he says, "Dive into this book and you may never resurface," you can probably take him at his word.

Brandy described this as what would happen if Far Far Away and Hokey Pokey had a book baby. That's not a bad description, except that I would probably add Coraline to the mix. And maybe, like, Stand by Me? And even Twin Peaks? As Travis said: "What WAS that?"

I think part of what sets this book apart (aside from the excellent, razor-sharp prose) is that it combines a few different genres into one novel (the author even says as much in his note at the beginning). On one level, it's a book about an alternate universe, in the tradition of Alice in Wonderland, Coraline, or yes, Hokey Pokey. On another level, it's a coming of age story about two childhood friends drifting apart as they near adolescence. And on yet another, it's about the menace that lurks beneath the placid surface of eighties small town America.

That setting is a perfect fit for the "missing children" theme, by the way. If, like me, you grew up in the eighties, you probably remember the kidnapping hysteria of those years. Starmer really captures that feeling here, and he maintains a sense of tension throughout much of the novel by not spelling out whether the imaginary world is real, or whether the disappearances result from a more mundane evil. It is a testament to his strength as a writer that I really didn't know where the plot was heading until the end.

Ah, the end. It really muddies the waters of this novel's Newbery chances. I thought the ending was weirdly inconclusive, and not in keeping with the structure of the rest of the novel, until I realized that this book is the first in a planned trilogy. And I'm not sure it really stands alone... too many plot threads are left unresolved.

It is, however, brilliant, and I can't wait to read the next book. 

*The first line of ASoM is actually about a town too, and there's a question: are you the kind of reader who's drawn in by "Every town has lost a child," or by "`They say all the magic has gone up out of this place,' said Mama."

Published in March by Farrar, Straus, and Giroux.

2015 Contenders: A Snicker of Magic, by Natalie Lloyd

The town of Midnight Gulch, Tennessee used to be plumb full of magic, but now all that’s left are traces – a snicker of magic here and there.  When Felicity Juniper Pickle rolls into town with her family in a beat-up green van known as the Pickled Jalapeño, she’s not looking for magic, she’s looking for a place she can put down roots.  She’s hoping that Midnight Gulch, her mama’s hometown, will be the place where her mama’s wandering heart will finally settle down.  And despite the fact that, as Felicity herself says, “Making new friends, in a new place, when you’re the new girl, is harder than fractions,” she soon encounters Jonah, a sweet and generous boy who shares secrets, granola bars, and stories, and the two become fast friends.  It’s Jonah who encourages Felicity to participate in the school talent show.  Felicity has her own snicker of magic: the ability to see words representing the thoughts and feelings of people around her, and to shape those words into poems.  Unfortunately, when it comes to expressing her words in public, she becomes tongue-tied and awkward.  But if participating in the talent show will keep her family in Midnight Gulch for just a little longer, she’s willing to try it.  In the meantime, she learns about an old curse, the one that emptied the town of most of its magic, and which may have had a profound effect on her own family.  If Felicity finds a way to break the curse, will the magic come back?  And will Felicity and her family be able to stay in Midnight Gulch?

Stories like this one immediately bring to mind words like quirky and folksy, and it is both of those things.  However, the elegance of the language and the author’s brilliant ability to string words together elevates this book above other quirky, folksy Southern stories.  Consider, for instance, Felicity’s observations in the following paragraph:

“A rebel beam of sunlight pushed through the clouds, shining through the rain beads stuck to the screen and glass.  And then that strange, golden rain light shone warm and pretty over Oliver’s books.  I wondered if the sun had missed the books, had waited as long as it possibly could to shine over those spines again.  I knew how that felt, to love a story so much you didn’t just want to read it, you wanted to feel it.”

Like Felicity, this book revels in words and language.  In fact, if it has a fault, it’s that occasionally the pacing is sacrificed in favor of intricately described detail.  Characters are lovingly drawn – maybe a bit too lovingly in some cases (is wheelchair-bound Jonah a little too perfect?  Is Felicity’s little sister Frannie Jo precocious beyond believability?).  But the story never gets completely bogged down in sentiment, and there are nice, subtle touches of humor that keep the mood light.

I’m going to admit: I’m not a fan of the folksy Southern story.  So, when a book like this causes me to sit up and pay attention. I know it’s one to keep an eye on.  It’s early yet to be making predictions, but I’d be surprised if we don’t hear more buzz about this book when award season rolls around.

Published in February by Scholastic

*****

Today's guest reviewer is Misti Tidman, Children's Librarian at the Licking County Library System (Ohio).  She is a fellow 2014 Morris Seminar participant, and blogs at Kid Lit Geek.

 

2014 Contenders: Far Far Away, by Tom McNeal

Far Far Away is the story, as the narrator tells us at the outset, of a boy, a girl, and a ghost. The ghost, who is also the narrator, happens to be the spirit of Jacob Grimm, one half of the famous Grimm brothers. The boy is clairaudient - able to hear spirits - and the girl is an ebullient mischief-maker. Their story, and the story of their fairy-tale-ish town, Never Better, would be an idyllic one, if it were not for one additional character: the sinister Finder of Occasions. It is also this character's presence that calls into question whether the book falls within the prescribed Newbery age grange. When he makes his move, the story grows very dark indeed.

What do the Newbery criteria have to say about age-appropriateness?

2. A “contribution to American literature for children” shall be a book for which children are an intended potential audience. The book displays respect for children’s understandings, abilities, and appreciations. Children are defined as persons of ages up to and including fourteen, and books for this entire age range are to be considered. 

Many books fall obviously inside or outside the "up to and including fourteen" range. The Year of Billy Miller is in. Looking for Alaska is out (forgive the old example - I haven't read any YA this year, unless you count the title currently under discussion). Some books are more difficult to categorize. Age of protagonist can be a indicator, but not always - Hattie Ever After feels like a solid middle grade book, despite the fact that Hattie is seventeen or eighteen. Violence and/or sexual content can also catapult a book out of the Newbery range. If all else fails, you can fall back on a rule of thumb I think I first read on the child_lit listserv: a true children's book always ends on a hopeful note.

So how does Far Far Away measure up? Jeremy and Ginger, the main child characters, are fifteen - a little older than the Newbery range, but children do "read up." There's no sexual content more prurient than a chaste kiss on the lips. And the violence, while present, is more suggestive than graphic. Finally, the ending is categorically happy and hopeful, as befits the fairy tale structure.

BUT.

For its last third, just before the happy ending, the book turns into a true horror novel. There's no bloodshed or brute violence, but things grow uncomfortably dark. Darker than we imagine our Newbery books to be. As dark as real life can get, in fact.

At first that section made me say, "Welp, definitely not a Newbery contender!" And obviously, I won't be handing it to my seven-year-old. But I thought back to what I was reading when I was thirteen and fourteen, and you know what? Those were the years when I discovered Stephen King. I was reading The Shining, Misery, Carrie, etc. And I wasn't the only one. We were also passing around Flowers in the Attic in those days, and whatever V.C. Andrews lacked in literary quality she definitely made up for in pure creepiness. And, heck, in school we were reading Guy de Maupassant and Poe. For all their historical distance, those guys still pack a creepy punch.

Can we really say that Far Far Away is less appropriate for fourteen-year-olds than Maupassant and Poe? When we're supposed to be considering books for the entire age range?

I have a feeling that Far Far Away will make people too uncomfortable to get any Newbery love, but I would argue that it does fall within the Newbery range. And yes, by the way, it is distinguished - in character, in setting, in theme, in style, but probably most of all in plot. I can't think of another book this year that so effectively and methodically tightened the suspense noose. And when the trap was finally sprung, the payoff was dark - yes - but deliciously effective.  

Published in June by Knopf Books for Young Readers

2014 Contenders: The Fortune-Teller, by Paul B. Thompson

When last we saw Mikal and Lyra, at the end of The Brightworking, they had escaped the destruction of the Guild of Constant Working's Hall in the city of Oranbold, carrying with them Orichalkon, a magic artifact in the shape of a bronze head. However, we find out almost immediately upon beginning The Fortune-Teller that the evil wizard Harlano, Mikal's former master, is hot on their trail, trying to get Orichalkon back for his own nefarious purposes.

The Fortune-Teller has essentially the same strengths and weaknesses as its predecessor. It runs from adventure to adventure at full tilt, always keeping the reader entertained, but at the cost of some character and world development. This is a conscious choice on Paul B. Thompson's part, and I think it works well for an audience just learning to cut its teeth on fantasy novels. I would have preferred a book with more detail, even if it didn't move as quickly, but I understand the authorial decision at work here, and I can respect it. (The fact that there isn't a map to help with the somewhat confusing geography, however, is a serious omission.)

There are some series -- even fantasy series -- where beginning with a book in the middle isn't particularly problematic. I remember as a teenager starting Alan Dean Foster's Spellsinger series with the eighth book (Chorus Skating), and not having any real trouble picking up the storyline. However, a reader picking up The Fortune-Teller without having read The Brightworking will be at a severe disadvantage; this is a series that should be started at the beginning. Similarly, the book ends with a cliffhanger -- to get any kind of resolution, readers will have to continue to the third (and final) entry in the series, The Battle for the Brightstone, which is scheduled to be published in September.

I don't expect The Fortune-Teller to earn any ALA awards -- it's designed to be a popular, rather than a literary book, and it's not the kind of novel that has hidden literary depths. But it's a lot of fun, and beginning fantasy readers could do a lot worse than this series.


Published in January by Enslow.

2014 Contenders: The True Blue Scouts of Sugar Man Swamp, by Kathi Appelt

"I am not the person to review this movie. Perhaps you will enjoy a review from someone who disqualifies himself at the outset..."
            ~Roger Ebert, on Sex and the City (2008)

I can safely say that I am not the person to review The True Blue Scouts of Sugar Man Swamp. I disliked it intensely, but it's hard for me to figure out how much of that is the result of failures on the part of the book itself, and how much of it is simply because the book is built of tropes, settings, and characters that don't do anything at all for me. I will try to separate the two, but I feel like it would be unfair of me not to state my conundrum up front.

The plot involves a pair of raccoons (the Scouts of the title) and a twelve-year-old boy, who work in parallel ways to save Sugar Man Swamp from the twin threats of an overzealous land developer and a rampaging group of wild hogs. There are also angry snakes, a lost Chrysler DeSoto, an overnight radio host, cane sugar pies, and the Sugar Man himself, a sort of cryptid protector of the swamp with the unfortunate habit of sleeping very deeply, and for a very long time.

I'm largely immune to the charms of the literary deep south, but the setting is actually quite well done; the oppressive humidity, intolerable insects, and sultry laziness of the bayou all come to life. More problematic is the aw-shucks folksiness of the prose, which struck me as affected rather than charming -- especially when paired with an intrusive narrator whose closest point of comparison might be the voiceover guy from the old Dukes of Hazzard TV show. Rachael (who once made the mistake of trying to sell me on The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making) can tell you that I have a long-standing aversion to intrusive narrators of any kind, but the one in True Blue Scouts felt particularly like someone was reading (and commenting) over my shoulder.

I didn't feel like the characterization was strong either. The villains (both human and porcine) reach near-Snidely Whiplash levels of cartoonishness, and in a year that's given us the careful nuance of The Water Castle and The Real Boy, I don't think that cuts it. The heroes felt a bit flat to me as well, but it was the treatment of the antagonists that struck me as especially dubious.

Finally, the pacing and structure of True Blue Scouts seemed questionable to me. This is a long book -- 371 pages in my ARC -- but it's cut up into 104 chapters, with most of the chapter breaks bringing a change of scene, disrupting the flow of the story. The pacing is leisurely, full of odd digressions and interludes that don't go anywhere, but the tone of the book is insistent, even alarmist, which made me feel rather like the novel was crying wolf at me for most of its duration. (This, by the way, was also my complaint about Keeper, Kathi Appelt's previous book, so make of that what you will.) I was particularly disappointed in the lack of payoff for the story elements involving the ivory-billed woodpecker, which was treated as a major motif for most of the book, but which just fizzled out at the end.

Many of the early reviews of True Blue Scouts are overwhelmingly positive -- Monica Edinger loves it, and it's received stars from Publishers Weekly, Booklist, Kirkus, and School Library Journal. I don't think it works, and I wouldn't put it on my Newbery list, but as I said at the beginning, I'm not really the right reviewer for this book, so feel free to take my opinion with as many grains of salt as you have available.


Publication in July through Atheneum / Simon & Schuster