Okay for Now News

Earlier this year, I reviewed Gary Schmidt's wonderful new book Okay for Now. I learned this week that it's a National Book Award finalist. Congrats to Mr. Schmidt on this well-deserved honor!

Mr. Was Is

I just finished Pete Hautman’s 1996 novel Mr. Was. The story chronicles the life of John (Jack) Lund, which begins in 1979 and ends in 1952. Yes. You read that right. 1979 to 1952. It’s a time travel story that involves a creepy old house, a secret door, and a family saga which cycles back on itself a few times before Jack’s tale is complete.

It’s a fine bit of metafiction, too, set in fictional Memory, MN, which is surrounded by very real and (at least for me) very familiar locations—including my hometown.  Hautman even writes himself into the story, as one simply presenting—for our review—the documents contained in an aluminum briefcase his dad found on a North Carolina beach in the early 1950’s (documents Hautman himself supposedly didn’t read until the 1990’s). While this author interaction with the text adds another layer to the narrative (and another chill factory to the story’s “plausibility”), I only wish the possibilities would have been mined a bit further to really explore the effect of story on its writer (or transcriber). Sort of like the way Wes Craven’s New Nightmare investigates (metaphorically) how the horror genre affects those who create it. All things being equal, though, Mr. Was is a much better story than New Nightmare.

Mr. Was is Hautman’s first YA novel. You can read more about it (and its forthcoming new edition) in a post by the author HERE.

Hautman notes that when he wrote Mr. Was, he did not consider it to be a novel for young adults, but Jack's "experiences as a teen made for better storytelling." And so it was published as YA.

It fits the genre. At least, Mr. Was is half a YA novel—both literally and literarily.  Literally because about half the book takes place while Jack is an adolescent. Literarily because Jack’s life teeters between fate and agency.  Agency, for me at least, is a hallmark of YA (or “coming-of-age”) stories. A protagonist must separate himself from the forces that have pushed and pulled him in different directions throughout his childhood and think and act for himself (for better or for worse). So even beyond agency, or the capacity to act, I would argue he must actually act. Jack does just this, making the decision to travel back in time to prevent a tragedy—even though it means he’ll have to wait fifty years for the opportunity to stop it. 

But, as is the case with any good time travel story, there is the question of fate.  Can anything in the past really be altered?  Because if there ever were a time traveler, any difference that he or she makes in history really doesn’t represent a difference at all—it just is. Things that are have always been and will always be.

Whew! That’s getting a little heady for this blog. But my point is, how can anyone exhibit agency (at least in the realm of time travel) when everything that is has always been and will always be? Plus what happens to Jack in the past further strips him of his agency, but we won't get into that (to both save time and avoid spoiling the rest of the novel for you).

This agency/fate split does not represent a flaw in the novel (nor even a mischaracterization of this novel as YA). To the contrary, it makes the novel stronger and more interesting.  Makes us think about these things—agency and fate.  Even—hopefully—makes young readers question the repetition of history. If we know going down a particular road will take us somewhere bad, can’t we choose a different way the next time 'round?

Recommended for ages 15-18.

On the Long Run

I’ve been reading (among other things), Perry Moore’s 2007 novel Hero.  I’m sure I’ll eventually write a review of it, but for now I'm reading only a chapter or two at a time between other readings. I've become a three or four books at a time sort of guy. Daytime reading. Bedtime reading. Out-and-about reading. And—in Hero’s case—change-of-pace reading. Perhaps that's worthy of a blog discussion sometime, too, huh?

But this morning I came across this great little snippet on running in Hero that I have to share:

Running always gave me time to think. It wasn’t like practicing with a team, when I always worried if I was fitting in with everyone else. When I ran, I never thought about screwing someone else up or ruining the team’s chance to win. It was a solitary activity, and sometimes that felt nice. (Moore 140)

While I would argue there is a team aspect to competitive running—especially in cross country—it certainly is of a different nature than most other team sports. And I otherwise wholeheartedly embrace protagonist Thom Creed’s sentiment here.

I’ve never excelled at sports that involve nets, balls, pucks, goals, etc.  And I’ve always worried about batting or passing or pitching or catching (or, rather, failing to do these things) when teammates rely on me.

When running, though, I can let my mind go. Obviously, I need to watch for traffic and uneven surfaces and whatnot. Plus if I'm training for competition, there are workouts where a great deal of focus is needed. But if I'm just out on a nice long run (say an hour or more), my mind is able to sort things out. I'm not worried about how I look.  I'm not thinking about how I might embarrass myself by missing an important basket or letting a grounder roll between my legs. I'm not afraid of letting anybody down. And I am not focused on a goal.

I just am.

I'm up, I'm moving, I'm away from the television, computer, phone, anything that might stake a claim on my attention. I'm just running.

Throughout high school and college, I worked out several essays while pounding pavement, then plopped down at my computer after practice and pounded pages. And still today, I enjoy a good run (although they’re less frequent and of shorter duration than they once were). I can flesh out characters, develop scenes, polish dialogue, or  ponder books I’ve been reading.

And while I walk a lot with my son now, it's a different sort of experience. I certainly think about reading and writing and life in general while we walk, but for those most part, strolls are our time. I’m focused on my son, enjoying his company, taking in the river, admiring houses and flowers and trees.

 

Running is my time—time in which my mind takes me where I need to go. And sometimes that feels nice.

Moore, Perry. Hero. New York: Hyperion, 2007.

John Hughes and Dialogue

I’ve recently been doing a lot of dialogue work. In other words, I’ve not written much recently.  Because I, like many, find authentic, interesting dialogue difficult to write.

But good dialogue is essential to a good story.  Dialogue can advance plot, reveal character, or simply make a scene pop.

When I’m stuck, I try a number of things.

For one (by suggestion of a faculty member at Hamline), I look for words in the news, on a random page in the dictionary, on a bus or truck driving by on the street—interesting words, unique words, words I wouldn’t necessarily think of using in my story—then force myself to add them to a scene.  Play around. See what happens. 

I also turn to John Hughes—specifically his teen canon of the 1980’s—Sixteen Candles, Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and Some Kind of Wonderful.

Hughes once said, “I always liked character stories best—put two or more people in a room and get them talking—that’s the whole reason I got into this in the first place.”

And his films are just that—interesting, authentic teens talking.  And often the pairings are unexpected—the hot girl and the geeky guy, the popular jock and the nerd, the dangerous guy and the quiet girl. Hughes forces these high school stereotypes into a room together and lets them loose, writing first, asking questions (and revising) later.

As a result, he's given us some of the most enjoyable teen films ever made.  Sure, the clothing, hairstyles, and music are dated, but the dialogue still feels fresh, original.

In addition to putting people in situations they wouldn't normally be in (with people they wouldn't normally be with) to get a conversation going, Hughes avoids slang and other language that falls flat. You won’t find a lot of gnarleys or awesomes or wickeds in his work.  There are some, sure. And certainly it’s sometimes appropriate to use slang to represent a particular time period or place or connect with a specific audience. Or just for fun. But Hughes doesn't overuse it—and neither should we. Mostly Hughes uses unique turns of phrase, making his stories memorable, highly quotable, and ultimately timeless. 

So I watch his films not to get specific ideas for dialogue but for inspiration on how to craft speech that is interesting and fresh—dialogue that will bring deeper understanding of  characters and their situations. In short, I want to write dialogue that will make a story pop.

Nearly two years after his death, and decades since he made his most influential films, Hughes is still an inspiration for his unique and honest portrayals of youth. And he built his best stories on characters and their words. 

Favorite quotes:

 “You killed the car.”

“You’re not dying—you just can’t think of anything better to do.”

"Only the meek get pinched. The bold survive."

“A: You can never go too far. B: If I'm gonna get busted, it is not gonna be by a guy like that.”

"We're all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that's all."

"Andie, hon. Listen, it's after 7:00. Don't waste good lip gloss."

“His name is Blane? Oh! That's a major appliance, that's not a name!”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself! It’s bad for your complexion!”

 “I’d rather have you not see me and like me than see me and hate me. ‘Cause I can’t afford to have you hate me, Keith!!!”

“You break his heart, I break your face.”

Book Review: The Things a Brother Knows

In Dana Reinhardt’s The Things a Brother Knows, Boaz returns to his family’s home outside of Boston after three years in the military, including a long tour in Iraq. The community regards him a hero. But his younger brother Levi, now 17, doesn’t know what to think or feel about him. Levi has never felt close to his brother, and Boaz’s decision to join the Marines when he graduated from high school further separates them. Most of Levi’s family is opposed to the war. Levi isn't all that interested in the politics of it; he’s just mad at his brother for leaving. For ditching out on Christina, his girlfriend. For torturing their poor mother. For delaying—perhaps forfeiting—the promising future he had (and all of the hopes and dreams his parents had for him to go to a great college and have a long and prosperous career). And for bringing three years of worry to their home.

So when Boaz gets back, Levi expects—or at least hopes—things will be better.  Hopes to have his brother back. Hopes life will return to normal for the family, like it was before Boaz left. And I think maybe he hopes to feel connected to his brother (even if he doesn’t know it right away).

The Things a Brother Knows by Dana Reinhardt
Wendy Lamb Books, 2010

But Boaz has changed.  Other than to emerge for meals, he spends all hours sequestered in his room. He won’t ride in any kind of car, truck, or bus—he even walked home from the airport. And Levi can hear him screaming softly (yes, softly) from his room in the middle of the night. But when Boaz’s computer breaks down and he borrows Levi’s laptop, Levi is able to snoop through his brother's internet doings and learn Boaz has been frequenting military message boards and blogs, watching videos, and downloading maps.

So when Boaz announces to the family that he plans to hike the Appalachian Trail—alone—Levi knows it’s a lie. The maps Boaz downloaded were not of the Appalachian Trail. So he’s even more mad at Boaz. For lying. For delaying the return to normalcy. For putting his family through hell again.

For leaving part of himself in Iraq.

After Boaz departs, Levi tracks him down using the little evidence he left behind. At first Levi tries to get him to come home, to give up whatever crazy mission he’s on and get started on his recovery. But Boaz won't budge, and the best Levi can do is join him on the hike (which Boaz reluctantly agrees to). Along the way, Levi begins to realize that maybe this long walk is just the opportunity he’s been waiting for—a chance to get to know his brother.

The Things a Brother Knows is pitch-perfectly narrated by Levi. It's often funny. Always interesting. Brutally honest. It's a fascinating examination of the effects of war on the family members of those serving on active duty. Levi is angry at his brother for the way he's been acting—and for leaving in the first place—but he's plagued by guilt for having those feelings.

And what's most remarkable about this novel, I think, is the hashing out of the relationship between the estranged brothers. I’m convinced that the handling of emotional relationships between male characters is integral to how boys—especially reluctant male readers—receive literature (and whether or not they will be lifelong readers). So convinced, in fact, that I wrote a critical thesis on the subject, focusing on the role of emotional conversations between boys. You see, if a novel is completely devoid of emotionality, it will not resonate with any reader. That’s not to say it wouldn’t be a pleasant read, but it certainly wouldn’t leave a lasting impression, wouldn’t make you want to go out and read another book. Or another. Or another after that. But if a story is overtly emotional (or inappropriately emotional), readers—especially male readers—will likely dismiss it as unrealistic and shy away from the book altogether. But Reinhardt, in this novel, provides the perfect example of how to handle such crucial conversations.

An example: With one sentence, Reinhardt has Levi (likely unbeknownst to him) set the stage for an important talk with his brother: “One of the things about walking I always appreciated is the way you don’t have to look someone in the eye.”  By hiking together, Levi and Boaz are moving, being active. The physicality of it tempers the emotional acuteness that might keep either or both from talking. They loosen up, let their guards down. There’s something about activity that makes many young men feel okay to talk—on the basketball court, during a run, while wrestling or fighting.  Plus, as Levi notes, they don’t have to look at each other. You know that saying, “the eyes are the window to the soul?” Well, if you don’t feel like you’re peering into someone’s soul (or worse—someone’s peering into yours), you might be willing to say some personal things without feeling too vulnerable (or feeling you seem to vulnerable).

The novel sneaks up on you. Levi’s narration is quick, funny, and spirited, and the characters (especially Levi’s friends Pearl and Zim and his grandfather Dov) are quirky and amusing. But all of that serves as a balance to the levity of the situation with Boaz. And when the brothers finally reach the end of their hike—their destination—you feel like you’ve gone the distance with them.

Highly recommended for ages 14-17. 

Gene Yang at Hamline!

Just learned some great news! Gene Yang, author of the 2007 Michael L. Printz Award-winning American Born Chinese, is joining the faculty in the MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults program at Hamline University. He was met with great enthusiasm (including from yours truly) when he spoke at the January residency in St. Paul.  For any of you aspiring graphic novelists out there (especially those who write for younger readers), this should serve as another nudge to check out Hamline! Peruse the website to learn more (and see what other amazing faculty are involved).

New Book Review: Oil Spill! Disaster in the Gulf of Mexico

Oil Spill! Disaster in the Gulf of Mexico is a new non-fiction book by Elaine Landau that chronicles the Deepwater Horizon explosion and oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico last year. It’s broken into several sections that cover the explosion, stoppage of the leak, the devastating affects on sea life and local economies, and suggestions for what concerned readers can do.

Landau does an excellent job of illustrating that there were no quick, neat, or easy solutions. Stopping the leak and conducting the clean up have been “messy” jobs. And without being preachy, she suggests concrete things readers can do to prevent such disasters in the future (like writing a congressperson about exploring and investing in cleaner energy, or—closer to home—reducing the amount of energy you use to decrease our dependence on fossil fuels).

Oil Spill! Disaster in the Gulf of Mexico

by Elaine Landau

Millbrook Press, 2011

I like the multi-pronged approach of the book, viewing the story from several perspectives to get a sense of the breadth of the disaster and what it took (and continues to take) to counteract the devastation. But it makes everything feel a bit distant. I wish there was a unifying thread in Oil Spill, tying together the separate sections of the book. As it stands, it’s like a collection of interesting topical essays about the disaster.

But Oil Spill is very readable. I appreciate the list of other disastrous spills at the end of the book that contextualizes how serious the Gulf spill is. And the glossary of terms is helpful for young (and older!) readers.  I’m struck by the violence of much of the terminology used by people addressing this disaster: top kill, junk shot, dead well, etc. It’s appropriate, I guess, since it’s almost like we’re at war with the disaster. Battling. Fighting. Defending sea life (and a way of life) on the Gulf Coast.

And the book is timely. Not only because the Gulf region is still feeling the affects of the spill (and will for quite some time). But because we’re constantly reminded of the volatility of our energy sources. Wars and political upheaval in the Middle East (Egypt, Libya, Iraq, Afghanistan, etc.) affect the price of oil. An earthquake and tsunami in Japan have caused crises at nuclear facilities. These are things that all of us need to think about—even kids. Maybe specially kids. Someday today’s children will take the reins on energy use and policy. And Landau manages to present a compelling read that asks them important questions without being pessimistic or (as I said before) preachy.  It’s not an angry book. But it also doesn’t gloss over the tough stuff. Oil Spill challenges its readers to think about the real world consequences of meeting contemporary energy needs.