Plenty of our authors who write for young people produce books for different age groups. However, it's usually easy to spot a common sensibility. Even if Hole in My Life and Rotten Ralph are for widely disparate audiences, no reader is going to walk away wondering if they're actually both from the pen of Jack Gantos, for instance.
And then there's Elana K. Arnold, who might be our most chameleonic American children's author currently working. Her YA work, such as the fiery and blood-drenched Damsel and Red Hood, seems a long, long way away from the gentle coziness of A Boy Called Bat, or the low-key delight of What Riley Wore. There aren't any narrative tricks or obvious markers in the prose that serve as a common thread; if I didn't already know that all of these books were hers, I doubt I ever would have suspected that she had produced each one of them.
Since I do know that, however, it's worth digging deeper to see if there's anything that underpins all of Arnold's work. I'd argue that yes, there is a unifying theme: that it's impossible to thrive in the world unless a person can accept themselves for who they are -- and that one's true friends and real family are the people who also provide that acceptance and love.
That's exactly the feeling I got while reading Arnold's newest middle-grade title, The House That Wasn't There. It's a story that follows two characters -- Alder, who has lived in his southern California neighborhood for his whole life, and Oak, who has just had to move from San Francisco to the house next to Alder's. Their initial encounters are rocky, as Oak's family is remodeling their new house, which results in an immediate casualty -- the beautiful old walnut tree that stands between her house and Alder's. Let's just say that this doesn't dispose Alder and his mother to think kindly of Oak and her mother.
I'm not sure it's possible to explain where the plot goes from there without giving the whole thing away. There are strong elements of magical realism at play, along with such more grounded concerns such as learning to navigate shifting friendships, caring for new pets properly, and understanding family dynamics. There's also a beautifully-executed double twist ending that I found deeply enjoyable, and a satisfying emotional arc (filled with that acceptance and love that I mentioned) for both of our protagonists.
As is sometimes the case in stories suffused with magical realism, there are several elements in the book that remain unexplained. This isn't taken to an extreme -- The House That Wasn't There isn't Orphan Islandor A Boy and a Bear in a Boat, those books that seem to deliberately test the boundaries of how many unanswered questions the reader is willing to entertain. But I would caution anyone picking up The House That Wasn't There that, if they expect the novel to be a puzzle box like When You Reach Meor The Westing Game, they may want to adjust said expectations.
Arnold's recognition from the ALA committees thus far has been for her YA work (Damsel was a Printz Honor title in 2019). As I've previously noted, I'm making no attempts to handicap the Newbery this year, but I would say that The House That Wasn't There is of a high enough quality that, should it place this year, I wouldn't be the slightest bit surprised.
Published in March by Walden Pond Press / HarperCollins
Piturniq, an Inuk youth, has begun making a name for himself in his village. He is a talented hunter, and Tagaaq, an elder, is training him to be the next village leader. Pitu's talents don't stop there; with the proper guidance, Tagaaq believes that Pitu will be able to serve as a shaman. However, the shaman who would be able to train Pitu disappeared years ago, and no one knows where he might be.
One day, while Pitu is out hunting, a blizzard hits. He manages to survive the storm, only to find himself transported to the world of the spirits -- a dangerous place filled with frightening beings of enormous power. It will take all of his skill -- as well as finding the right allies -- if Pitu is to make it back home to his village, his family, and the woman he loves.
I found myself captivated by the world of Those Who Run in the Sky. Aviaq Johnston, herself an Inuk author, perfectly conveys the arctic setting and Inuit culture without compromising them or watering them down. The back matter includes a helpful glossary and a thoughtful author's note, but it's entirely possible to enjoy the book without having to constantly refer back. The setup for the main plot is fairly long, but I didn't have any trouble with the pacing -- and the last 50 pages are a thrilling burst of adrenaline.
Those Who Run in the Sky is more YA than juvenile, but I think you can argue that it scrapes the top of the Newbery age range. If I were evaluating the book for the Newbery and using the award criteria, I'd note that it's outstanding in its interpretation of theme, development of plot, and especially, delineation of setting. The delineation of characters is somewhat weaker, and though the style is appropriate, the prose overall is more workmanlike than exceptional for most of the novel. Those Who Run in the Sky was published in 2017, and I would have loved to have included it in our Maryland Mock Newbery reading list that year. I don't know that I would have voted for it over Landscape with Invisible Hand (my favorite from that list), or Orphan Island (our MMN winner), but I think it would have sparked some fascinating discussions. (For what it's worth, recognizing that it's just my opinion, and Your Mileage May Vary And Probably Will, I do think I would have voted for Those Who Run in the Sky over that year's actual Newbery winner, Hello, Universe.)
Sadly, Those Who Run in the Sky wasn't eligible for the Newbery, as Aviaq Johnston is from Nunavut, and still lives in Canada. If I could change one rule about the Newbery, it would actually be the prohibition against Canadian authors specifically; the American Library Association has many Canadian members, and the ALA annual conference has actually been held in Canada six different times (most recently in 2003, as an ALA/CLA joint conference). It frustrates me that we welcome participation from Canadian librarians on our committees and boards, but don't allow Canadian authors to compete for what's possibly the most prestigious literary award we hand out.
Alas, I don't make the Newbery rules. What I can do is encourage you to read this book, buy it for your library, and get it into the hands of kids who will appreciate it. A sequel, Those Who Dwell Below, was just published last month, and I'm excited to see how Pitu's story continues beyond the confines of this novel.
Sometime back in 2011 or 2012, I was at a library conference, wandering the exhibits, and happened by the Zonderkidz booth. Jonathan Friesen was there, signing copies of his new book, The Last Martin. He was kind enough to sign one for my daughter, and I passed the book on to her after the conference.
This is the kind of story that's happened dozens of times during the course of my library career. But this time was different, because my daughter devoured this book, returning the verdict that The Last Martin was her FAVORITE BOOK EVER. To this day, that's an opinion that she stands by. Regardless of what other books she may read in the future, I think it's safe to say that, at the very least, The Last Martin stands as one of the defining novels of her childhood.
In the wider world, Friesen is an author who's picked up a big ALA award (the 2009 Schneider Award, teen division, for Jerk, California), and The Last Martin garnered starred reviews from Kirkus and School Library Journal. The book didn't show up in the Newbery rolls in 2012, however, nor did it make the Notables list. As of this writing, it's still in print, but doesn't seem to have attracted a significant following outside of my daughter -- the most recent reviews on Amazon and Goodreads are both from 2016.
But, that's the thing about books. Sometimes, a book simply happens to be the perfect book for a reader at a specific point in time, regardless of said book's popularity. When I think back on the books that I remember with exceptional fondness from my own childhood, that list includes well-known titles such as Corduroy, The Hobbit, and Interstellar Pig. It also includes an obscure, mostly forgotten Barbara Dillon/Chris Conover picture book, The Beast in the Bed. Ranganathan's Third Law of Library Science, after all, is "Every book its reader," and that's as true now as it was in 1931, when Ranganathan wrote it.
As for The Last Martin, it's the story of middle schooler Martin Boyle, an unassuming budding writer, who lives with his little sister, Lani, his frenzied, germophobic mother, and his father, a professional military reenactor. On an annual visit to the family cemetery, Martin makes the startling discovery that, beginning with the 1790 birth of his military hero namesake, there has always been a Martin Boyle -- and that every time a new Martin is born, the previous Martin dies. Since Martin's aunt is six months pregnant, and plans to name her new baby boy Martin, does this mean that the current Martin is cursed to die in three months? It's up to Martin and his ragtag group of friends -- his best buddy, Charley; his crush, Julia; and Poole, a Huck Finn-esque orphan who's been living in an abandoned boxcar in Martin's backyard -- to solve the mystery and end the curse before Martin's time runs out.
On a purely literary level, I can see why The Last Martin didn't win any ALA awards. The characterization is often cartoonish, some of the pacing seems occasionally off, and the prose is competent without being particularly noteworthy. But I can also see why my daughter loves it -- there's mystery, humor, romance, and a group of friends banding together to overcome a seemingly insurmountable problem.
And maybe the lesson I should take from the book is that a novel doesn't have to be "perfect" to be enjoyable. I spend a lot of time evaluating and analyzing books, enough so that I sometimes forget that a story can sweep you away and draw you in even if it doesn't check every box that a literary award-winner would. The Last Martin has plenty of flaws, but it also tells a fascinating story -- a story that has found at least one lifelong fan.
The Lost Boy's Gift is the story of nine-year-old Daniel, who is living with his mother after his parents' divorce. The pair moves to While-a-Way Lane, in the town of Falling Star Valley, in the shadow of Pointy Mountain. Daniel begins meeting many of the other residents, including next-door-neighbor Tilda Butter, who can talk to animals; quirky postman Dewey Wonder; and Annie, the Lemonade Girl. Adventures ensue, including some involving a school production of Peter Pan, and a cloud of benevolently magical fireflies.
Really, how much you'll like Kimberly Willis Holt's latest novel comes down to how that last paragraph made you feel. Perhaps you'll think it sounds enchanting and delightful; if so, the book won't disappoint you. Personally, The Lost Boy's Gift made me feel like I'd just overdosed on Pixy Stix. I don't have a particularly high tolerance for capital-W Whimsy, and boy howdy, does this novel trade in Whimsy. (The library in Falling Star Valley has a Ferris wheel. I'd dearly love to sit in on that library's budget meetings.)
Lest you think that I'm a pure killjoy, I should note that The Lost Boy's Gift does some things very well. Daniel's character felt real and alive to me. He's the sort of kid who's got a good heart, but at the same time, he can't keep his hands off of anything, and many adults who encounter him come away from the experience deeply exhausted. I've met kids like that in real life, and Daniel could easily be any one of them. His struggles in coming to terms with the breakup of his parents' marriage also felt genuine and lived-in.
The plot is less careful; some elements felt to me like they had little payoff (Agatha Brown's secret love of the saxophone), and some felt less than wrapped up (Daniel's gift doesn't show up until the very end, and I'm not really sure what its full significance is). Younger readers may not mind this, but I think the Newbery committee may take note.
Lots of people like Holt's work: our very own Tess loved Dear Hank Williams, and When Zachary Beaver Came to Town won the National Book Award. This is the first of her novels that I've read, and I didn't particularly enjoy it. How much of that is due to my reading preferences is open to question, of course. I think the book is unlikely to show up on Newbery Day, however.
Published April 30, 2019, by Christy Ottaviano Books/Henry Holt/Macmillan
Yes, once more, I greet you from a stop on a Walden Press blog tour. This one, however, is, if such a thing is possible, even more exciting than usual, because this one is for The Lost Girl, the new book by Anne Ursu. Ursu happens to be my favorite active children's author (which, given how much I love so many others, is high praise indeed), to the point that, although I promise that what follows is an honest review, I'm not sure I can even pretend that it's an unbiased one.
Here's how the back cover describes The Lost Girl:
"When you’re an identical twin, your story always starts with someone else. For Iris, that means her story starts with Lark. Iris has always been the grounded, capable, and rational one; Lark has been inventive, dreamy, and brilliant—and from their first moments in the world together, they’ve never left each other’s side. Everyone around them realized early on what the two sisters already knew: they had better outcomes when they were together. When fifth grade arrives, however, it’s decided that Iris and Lark should be split into different classrooms, and something breaks in them both. Iris is no longer so confident; Lark retreats into herself as she deals with challenges at school. And at the same time, something strange is happening in the city around them: things both great and small going missing without a trace. As Iris begins to understand that anything can be lost in the blink of an eye, she decides it’s up to her to find a way to keep her sister safe."
This is a perfectly reasonable and accurate description of the book. Along the same lines, "Johannes Vermeer (Dutch, 1632-1675), c. 1664. Oil on canvas, 72.5 cm × 64.7 cm." is a perfectly reasonable and accurate description of The Concert. It tells you everything there is to know about the work except for why it's so beautiful, and so special.
Mentioned, albeit cryptically, in the book, so not a purely gratuitous reference.
So why is Ursu's new book so beautiful and special? I guess I'd have to say that, in that odd way in which these words apply to a work of fiction, it's 100% true. Every character, every relationship, every detail of this world feels lived in, cared for, and real. Ursu has always excelled at this kind of truth in her writing, and The Lost Girl is as impressive a demonstration as ever.
I don't dare give too much of the meticulously-constructed plot away here. But longtime Ursu readers will recognize the overall themes that have long interested her. How do people who don't "fit into" the world nonetheless make their way in it? What does becoming a better human being cost? And what is the nature of the most dangerous destructive force in the world -- the evil (to be reductive) that we all face?
As in her previous books, Ursu seems to argue in The Lost Girl that the answer to the last question is that evil works first by fracturing the relationships between people, and then by destroying each person's sense of their true self. This was true in Breadcrumbs, it was true in The Real Boy, and it's true in this novel as well.
Though there are plenty of differences between the two books, I actually found myself thinking that The Lost Girl was what Breadcrumbs might have looked like with a radically changed underlying emotion. Where Breadcrumbs was bleakly, desperately sad, The Lost Girl is instead charged with what I can only describe as ferocity. As she makes perfectly clear in the introduction, Ursu is furious about society's treatment of women and girls, and has absolutely no patience for anyone or anything on the giving end of that treatment. Indeed, The Lost Girl is the most "of its historical moment" book Ursu has written; unlike her previous two novels, The Lost Girl does have a proper villain (though it takes a very long time for this to become clear), and at one point, that villain uses language that's either directly taken from a certain world leader's Twitter account, or so close as to make no difference.
The thing about Ursu's ferocity, however, is that it cuts both ways. She fiercely loves her protagonists, and the other supporting characters who are trying, as well as they know how, to do the right things. The climax, especially, includes a moment that's as close to a combination of a fist pump and a group hug as I think Ursu is capable of writing, and it's amazing.
If I say that The Lost Girl is not my favorite Anne Ursu book, it's only because Breadcrumbs is my favorite children's book of all time, full stop. The Lost Girl is certainly my favorite children's book I've read in a long, long time, one that feels vital, alive, necessary. You should read this book. You need to read this book. I have two copies, so I'll even loan you one of mine if you want.
*****
One other thing, which I wanted to separate from my review of/cheerleading for the book, but nonetheless wanted to write about. For longtime Ursu readers, The Lost Girl is as full of Easter eggs as a Marvel trailer, and I found them delightful. Here are a few that I found:
1) Iris and Lark attend Barnhill Elementary, and past and present teachers and staffers at Barnhill who are mentioned or make appearances include Ms. Messner, Ms. Urban, Ms. Snyder, Ms. Baptiste, and Ms. Ruby. If you know that Ursu is central to a closely-knit group of children's and YA writers who include Kelly Barnhill, Kate Messner, Linda Urban, Laurel Snyder, Tracy Baptiste, and Laura Ruby, this is utterly delightful, and feels like a loving tribute to dear friends. There's also a Mr. Anderson, whom Ursu stated is named after a beloved teacher of hers, Rod Anderson.
2) The Lost Girl features twins who live in Minnesota. Ursu is a MASSIVE baseball fan, and her team of choice is the Minnesota Twins. (Remember the signed Joe Mauer baseball that played such a key role in Breadcrumbs?). I'm sure the reference wasn't the only reason for the choice of setting and characters, but it still made me smile.
3) There is a calico cat in The Lost Girl. Ursu loves cats in general, but calico cats in particular. As evidence, I present to you this song, which was based on online conversations I had with Ursu several years ago.
"Anne Ursu Loves Our Calico Cat"
And one last bit, which made me happy. Really happy. To help explain why, here is a picture of me for reference:
The photogenic one is Senator Harriet J. Hedgington, Esq.
OMG THIS BOOK HAS A HEDGEHOG IN IT AND HIS NAME IS MR. PRICKLES AND IT IS THE BEST THING EVER.
True, Mr. Prickles is a very minor character, who advances the plot for a couple pages in the middle of the book, and then yields his space to the larger story. But he is there. And, especially since "Anne Ursu's new book has a hedgehog in it" is essentially a sentence algorithmically designed to insert joy directly into my soul, Mr. Prickles will always be there in my heart.
*****
One final addendum: here is the schedule for the full blog tour!
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.
Ten-year-old Livy and her family are visiting her grandmother in Australia for the first time in five years. Livy can't remember almost anything about her previous visit, but soon finds someone who remembers it very well indeed -- Bob, a strange green creature who's been living in Gran's closet, waiting for Livy's return. Although Bob remembers Livy perfectly, his memory before that is a complete blank. Against the backdrop of Gran's drought-ridden farm and town, Bob and Livy begin trying to unravel the mystery of Bob's past and identity.
I enjoyed the time I spent with Bob immensely. It's a sparkling blend of whimsy, melancholy, mystery, and magical realism. The novel is constructed of chapters in alternating voices, one from Livy's perspective, followed by one from Bob's. Both voices are strong and complex, with solid characterization. The setting -- a desiccated, half-withered rural town and its surrounding farms -- is also carefully rendered.
In reading Bob, I noted its structural similarities to Rebecca Stead's other work. Bob starts with several disparate plot strands, and then winds them ever-closer together until they whirl into a unified whole. It's the same technique that undergirds When You Reach Meand Liar & Spy, and although the target audience for Bob might be slightly younger than that of those two novels, the basic plan is no less effective. I'm much less familiar with Wendy Mass's career, but I do note that the prose in Bob is less sparse and open than Stead's usual style (and the novel is also not set in New York City), so perhaps that's Mass's doing.
At any rate, Bob is a first-rate book, and one that I'd recommend highly. It's still too early to get a sense of its Newbery chances, but I imagine that this is one that will at least get some discussion from the committee.
Publication in May by Feiwel and Friends / MacMillan
"Nine on an island, orphans all / any more the sky might fall."
Sometimes you finish a book and you're not sure whether you've just read the best book of the year or witnessed a train wreck. It seems to happen more and more often to me. I feel like I should be getting more confident in my critical assessments as I get older, but instead I increasingly find myself going, "Huh! That sure was a book!" or, "Okay, I guess that's the kind of thing we're publishing these days?"
Orphan Island is a hell of a thing. The premise is simple: nine children (each one year apart in age) live on an idyllic island. Once a year a boat comes to bring a new toddler (a Care) and takes away the oldest child (the Elder), who is approaching adolescence. It invites inevitable comparisons to Hokey Pokey, by Jerry Spinelli, of course, and for its first half Orphan Island seems to occupy that same allegorical space. We don't know how the children get there, or why, or how the island takes care of them. It just does. We do know that Jinny, the eldest child this year, is having a hard time letting go of childhood.
As an aside, Jinny is an admirably unlikable character. She feels like a real twelve-year-old. She's bratty and selfish and makes just about all of the mistakes it's possible to make on an island where nothing can go wrong.
Anyway, the book seems to be following a fairly predictable trajectory in which Jinny will grow and mature and generally get her shit together, and then she will leave the island and it will be bittersweet but necessary. But then the plot takes an unexpected turn. (Spoilers follow.)
After a pretty inauspicious year as Elder, the boat comes for Jinny, and she just... doesn't get in. She drags the thing up on the sand, collects the new Care, and determines to continue business as usual. Some of the other children warn her that she's breaking one of the very few rules that seem to hold their reality together, but Jinny doesn't care. Until reality starts to fall apart. The snakes are suddenly venomous. The winds that keep the children from falling off the cliffs are no longer functioning. The chickens stop laying. Children start getting hurt.
A lot of the reviews I've read have been frustrated with the ambiguous ending of Orphan Island. Jinny does end up leaving in the boat, along with the new Care (who is on the verge of death), but nothing is explained. Here are just a few of the things Snyder never tells us: How does the island work? Who created it, and why? Where do the children come from? Where do the children go? When Jinny leaves, will it fix the island, or is she leaving her fellow kids behind to starve? What are they supposed to do when all of the books in their little library fall apart (this one made me especially anxious)?
To those people, Laurel Snyder replies, basically: being twelve is weird and horrible and you have no idea what's happening to you or why. She wanted to replicate that experience in novel form. I'm... really not sure yet whether she has succeeded! I do know that she has created a world that is strange and vivid, populated with characters who feel like real children. I know that this is an ambitious book, and I have a feeling I will be thinking about it for a long time. It also features clear, strong, uncluttered prose - in that sense, I think it's Snyder's best work yet.
For those reasons, I would not be surprised if this one comes up for discussion at the Newbery table, but I wonder if it's too divisive to win. Either way, I plan to pass it along to my almost-twelve-year-old. Though she may refuse to read it, because she's bratty and contrary.
This past weekend, I was having brunch with two of my favorite people, Sam and Rachael, and the inevitable topic of conversation among a gathering of book lovers came up: “Whatcha reading?” I told them I was reading Crenshaw by Katherine Applegate. They asked if I was liking it. I sighed. I said I didn’t know how I felt about it. I told them the basic plot, and Sam said “Oh, it’s like Harvey for kids.” And I realized he was exactly correct, and that indeed I didn’t know how I felt about a Harvey for kids.
Harvey, for those who aren’t familiar, is a play by Mary Chase, which was famously adapted to a 1950 film starring Jimmy Stewart. It’s the story of a man named Elwood P. Dowd, who has a friend named Harvey, who he says is a six foot tall walking rabbit. Elwood’s family wonders if they should have him committed. There are clues that lead you to question whether Harvey is imaginary or just invisible to everyone but Elwood, but the general consensus is that he’s suffering from a delusion, but it’s a delusion that isn’t hurting anyone, least of all kind and caring Elwood, so he is spared the sanitarium.
Crenshaw is very much a nod to Harvey. Applegate even opens the book with a quote from the play. It’s the story of a boy named Jackson. Jackson is a fifth grader who loves facts. He’s very logical, values honesty, and wants to be scientist. When he was in first grade he had an imaginary friend, a very large talking cat named Crenshaw, but that’s baby stuff, and he’s outgrown Crenshaw. Or so he thinks. Much to his chagrin, Crenshaw has shown up in his life again.
Come to find out, Jackson met Crenshaw when his family was homeless. Both his parents lost their jobs. In addition to struggling financially, Jackson’s dad was also diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. When they could no longer afford to live in their house, the entire family - Jackson, his parents, his sister Robin who was just a baby then, and their dog Aretha - moved into their minivan. Times were very hard, and having a friend helped, so Crenshaw became a part of Jackson’s life. Eventually Jackson’s parents saved enough money for an apartment and re-establish some stability.
That was years ago, but lately Jackson’s noticed some serious signs of insecurity - a distinct lack of variety of food in the pantry, frequent yard sales, his parents arguing about applying for assistance - and he’s frankly scared to be homeless again. He’s also frustrated by his parents who insist on changing the subject when it arises or feigning that things are better than they are. It’s about this time Crenshaw reappears.
There were things about Crenshaw that were problematic for me.
For one, the character of Crenshaw is kind of pompous. I mean, he’s a cat, so I suppose that’s to be expected. But there are moments I felt he was impatient with Jackson, who is befuddled by his return. He alludes to being smarter than Jackson, which I guess could be true, but isn’t very friendly, and what is an imaginary friend supposed to be if not friendly?
There are a few Harvey-esque moments where you may question whether Crenshaw is truly an invention of Jackson’s stressed imagination, or if he’s… well… something else? So I guess you could categorize the book as magical realism, and if you go into it prepared for that kind of story you may enjoy it more than I did.
Another, totally valid in my opinion, way to read Crenshaw is as a horror story.
I recently had an in-depth online conversation with several friends about whether or not Halloween, and “scary” things in general, have been too toned down, to make things “kid-friendly.” What prompted the conversation was during a twilight walk through my neighborhood I realized that Halloween here had basically turned into “orange Christmas,” with twinkling lights replacing any more menacing decorations. Even the jack-o-lanterns looked cute. Traumatizing children is a real concern, of course, and caregivers should know and respect their children enough to not expose them to things they can’t handle yet. Trick-or-treating is supposed to fun. But it’s also supposed to be scary! Is it right to throw away traditions so we won’t upset anyone? Is it wrong to spook our kids every now and then, especially when we know danger isn’t actually present? I cited Grimm fairy tales, and an Austrian Krampuslauf, as examples of safe but scary things for children. Maybe I was a weird kid, but I liked creepy stuff, like Tim Burton movies, and Alvin Schwartz books, when I was young. And I tend to believe experiencing fear through media can help children be resilient when forced to face fear in real life. Are there monsters in my closet? Definitely not. The conversation unexpectedly meandered into a discussion about what is actually scary in the world - things like war, hunger, and social injustice - and how long we ought to protect children from these things, to maintain their innocence. I had not considered a correlation between the horror of ghosts and witches and things that are realistically scary. Like becoming homeless. And I think this idea very much colored my reading of Crenshaw.
Jackson is scared of his family being homeless again. He’s scared there won’t be enough to eat. He’s also scared when his dad has to use a cane, and I think it’s safe to say he’s a bit scared of the enormous talking cat he didn’t invite back into his life, showing up all over the place, making him question his own sanity. I could see this book truly distressing a sensitive reader. I work in a public library where homelessness and hunger are not far-fetched concerns for many in our service area, and I know kids who are housing insecure and food insecure. By the way, I want to give big ups to the librarian in this book, who is helpful and non-judgmental. Way to be, fictional librarian. You are a hero.
I found the ending of Crenshaw to be a bit ambiguous. Throughout the book the reader is lead to believe Crenshaw is only present when Jackson is in need (even if he doesn’t think he is in need). When Jackson’s family’s financial troubles appear to be resolved, at least for the time being, we presume Crenshaw will go away again, but he doesn’t. I was unsatisfied by this, because I wanted Jackson to be “okay” and I’m not sure him continuing to see and hear things others cannot constitutes being okay. But if Harvey is the precedent, I suppose it’s fine to just leave the story there?
I think Crenshaw is probably under consideration for the Newbery, however I don’t know how strong a contender it is. I don’t think it's as finely crafted as Applegate’s 2013 winner The One and Only Ivan. But it is a thought-provoking, opinion-inspiring novel, so the committee will at least have a possibly rollicking, possibly raucous, discussion about it ahead of them. Let the literary throw-down commence! Oh, and...
The Phantom Tollbooth. The Little Prince. Breadcrumbs. The House with a Clock in its Walls. Circus Mirandus.
That's a list of books that exist in an uneasy space between pure fantasy and true realism. It's a list of books that, regardless of their varied endings, don't shy away from the world's darkness. It's a list of books that demonstrate what I'm starting to think of as Rachael's Maxim: "Story and imagination celebrate themselves when deployed effectively."
It's a list of classics.
Yes, that's a bold claim to make about Circus Mirandus, a debut novel that's hardly been out for a month, but I believe that, if we come back to this discussion in twenty years, it's a claim that will have been vindicated. There aren't many recent children's books that have made this kind of first impression on me, and I actually sat in the car after work, just so that I could finish the last five pages without having to wait another day.
Circus Mirandus is the story of Micah Tuttle, a ten-year-old boy who lives with his Grandpa Ephraim. Grandpa Ephraim, a benevolent figure whose closest point of comparison might be Grandpa Joe from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, has cared for Micah ever since he was small. He's shared with Micah the Tuttle secrets of knot-tying, and he's regaled Micah with tales of the Circus Mirandus, a magical circus that Grandpa Ephraim visited as a child during the dark days of World War II. But now Grandpa Ephraim is desperately ill, his detestable sister, Great-Aunt Gertrudis, is making Micah's life miserable, and darkness seems to be settling into this formerly happy home. The only possible lifeline is that, when Grandpa Ephraim was a boy, the Circus Mirandus' greatest magician, the Lightbender, promised him a miracle -- a miracle that Grandpa Ephraim hasn't yet requested.
So begins the adventure. It would be criminal to reveal much more of the plot, but it's a grand one that takes Micah to the heights of ecstasy and the depths of despair. Along the way, he meets a host of memorable characters -- his newfound best friend, Jenny Mendoza; Chintzy the parrot; the mysterious proprietor of the circus, Mirandus Head; and many, many more. All of them felt real and solid to me, and even the worst of them turn out to have motivations for their unpleasantness. The prose is captivating, and the book is willing to look into some very bleak places. The scene that includes the final performance of the Amazing Amazonian Bird Woman, in particular, is one of the most devastating passages I've read in a children's novel. And yet, if all of the characters don't achieve redemption, the book still manages to end on a defiantly upbeat note. Circus Mirandus has received a tremendous amount of hype -- Dial/Penguin must have spent the GDP of a small country on the book's promotion, and the movie rights have already been sold. But for once, the hype is entirely deserved. This one's a winner, folks. Published in June by Dial/Penguin
I've never read any of Alice Hoffman's YA or adult work, but every sentence of Nightbird made me understand why she's so highly regarded. The imagery is brilliant, and Hoffman's depictions of a little New England town that time passed by are both evocative and spot-on. It reminded me in some ways of reading Hawthorne, although Hoffman's tone is much more cheerful.
The problems come when trying to evaluate the book as a larger whole. Although the main character, Twig, comes through fairly clearly, I felt almost like the secondary characters -- Twig's friend Julia, Julia's sister Agnes, Twig's brother James (the quasi-title character), Twig's mother -- were placeholders, waiting to be fleshed out in the final version. The plot also seemed awfully convenient, even before the impossibly upbeat ending.
Nightbird is part of a grand tradition, where the younger generation repairs the mistakes of their forebears in a way that's at the least quasi-mystical, and often fully magical. From The Secret Garden (1911) all the way to Saving Lucas Biggs (2014), this trope has proved to be fertile ground for children's novels -- including many genuine classics.
However, the flip side of using well-worn themes is that an author runs the risk of failing to really add anything new, and I think that may be the case here in Nightbird. The whole thing felt a bit tired to me, rather than archetypally powerful, and I'm not sure the Newbery committee will feel differently enough to give Nightbird the medal.
On the other hand, the prose is so lovely that I found myself hoping that Alice Hoffman will write some more middle-grade novels. Even if this one doesn't fully work, I think that what it does well shows that Hoffman is an author whose voice is a great addition to the middle-grade world, and I hope she gifts us with another book soon.
