And They All Live Happily Ever After ...Not! Posted by Mary Ann Rodman

 Has this ever happened to you? You've invested hours, days, weeks of your precious reading time in the Novel of the Season. The writing is wonderful, the plot a page turner. The characters have become like members of your family. The  book resides in your brain when you've not reading. This is the best book ever until...

Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am... it's over. It's over and you feel cheated. What a terrible ending! Maybe it was ludicrous, given the 400 previous pages. Maybe you didn't see it coming...and not in a good way. Maybe the writer got tired and looked for the nearest exit ramp.

Endings are your final impression of a book. A sucky ending is not likely encourage you to read another book by that author. And we authors do like return readers. (So do publishers.)

One of the reasons I became a writer was the awful endings of books as I read as a kid. The books available to me in the 60's were primarily written in the 50's and 40's, the Era of Perpetually Happy Endings. No names mentioned, but there were a couple of "teen romance" writers whose plain but brilliant female main character always landed her dream boat by the last page. If Dreamboat had discovered the inner beauty of Plain Jane, I would've been happy, but that's not what happened. In every single book, Jane suddenly became a curvaceous beauty, with a perfect complexion and shimmering hair. I can't tell you the number of times 10-year-old me threw a book across the room, yelling, "Real life isn't like that!" I vowed to myself I'd become a writer of books with Real Life endings.

The first Real Life ending I encountered (although I didn't realize it) was Charlotte's Web when I was 8. I cried for days (one of the few books that have made me cry.) I didn't really think very much about why E.B White chose to end his book that way, until I was in the Vermont College MFA program. Someone on the faculty--if only I could remember who--said, "Endings should be inevitable." Light bulbs! Fireworks! Lightening! Yes! But the lecturer was still talking, "Inevitable doesn't need to be predictable. The ending should be organic to what has come before." Ding ding ding! In two minutes, I learned the secret of a good ending.

Now all I had to do was write one.  

There are people who don't write without an outline, complete with ending. I'm not one of those people. I know the beginning, I know some of what happens in the middle...but the end? The end is always as much of a surprise to me as I hope it is to the reader. If I have to think hard, then the end is neither inevitable or organic. It's just an ending.

In writing both of my middle grade novels, Yankee Girl and Jimmy's Stars, I thought I had the end firmly in mind and then... In Yankee Girl, several new characters came out of nowhere, jumped in the scene and took it to another place all together, with me, racing behind, trying to keep up. Jimmy's Stars had my main character remember something from chapter one--something I had forgotten--that ended the story for me. Organically. Inevitably.

Picture books are a little easier to end, because the story isn't as complicated. However, I had no idea how to end First Grade Stinks. I didn't so much write that one, as take dictation. My daughter came home from school every day with a new complaint about first grade. Why wasn't it cool, like kindergarten? I couldn't use reality here, because my daughter and her first grade teacher never came to terms. I had to let that one "germinate" in the computer files for a year as I contemplated what my character... wanted from first grade...and what she really needed. What she needed was a new attitude. Once she found that...the ending came all in a rush. Happily-ever-after-but with a twist of reality.

Not all my readers appreciate my endings. I've lost count of the kids who've asked  "Why did such and such have to happen?  That was so sad!"   I ask them, "So what would the story be if that thing didn't happen?" The answer is usually, "Well then Ellie/Alice Ann/Lily would be happy." 

"OK, now tell me your version of the story," I say. The young reader starts to retell the story until the troubling plot point. They fumble around for a minute, before saying "And they all lived happily ever after." Pause. "That's not a very good story, my way, is it?" Nope. (No conflict, no story...but that's a different post.) How the character (and author) handle and resolve conflict realistically makes a satisfying ending.

 I'm sure there are kids all over the world, throwing my books across the room, yelling, "What a dumb ending!" But I'll bet they don't say "Real life isn't like that."

And they always ask about a sequel.

P.S. Indulge me a minute. This is my daughter, on the first day of kindergarten, and the same daughter, heading off to her first week of teaching her own Pre-K class. I could not be prouder of her. She also uses "extra story time" as a class reward. If you're a picture book writer and you're my friend, your books are in her classroom library.

Posted by Mary Ann Rodman

Happy 10th Birthday, First Grade Stinks! (Join Our Giveaway Celebration)

I've celebrated the 10th anniversary of one of my books (blessedly, still in print) each spring/summer for the past two years.  In 2014, it was Yankee Girl (Farrar, Straus and Giroux). 2015 marked ten years for My Best Friend (Viking). This Wednesday, June 29th, First Grade Stinks! (Peachtree) hits the Big Ten milestone.

How I write and sell my books baffles me. Mysterious forces seem to gather when the time is "right." Here is the story behind the story of First Grade Stinks!

Lily, off to her first day of First Grade

My daughter Lily loved, loved, loved kindergarten. She adored art (her favorite subject), recess (tied with art), and "student chores" (watering plants, handing out paper.) Her classroom was a carnival of color;  bean bag chairs for "share time," multicolored "learning" rug, plus bird and hornet's nests, seed pods, African violets, rocks, shells and other please-touch-me items. Soaring over it all, a Chinese dragon kite dangled from the ceiling.

Lily was a happy kindergartner.  She had no reason to believe that first grade would be any different. If I had used my head, I might have warned her.  

I didn't.

Off Lily went that first day, toting her new red-blue-and-yellow backpack. She sang along with Destiny's Child on the radio. At school, she swaggered through the doors. She had this.

At 2:30, a different little girl dragged herself to the car. She shrugged off her backpack as if it contained the weight of the world, and hauled herself up into her safety seat.  Destiny's Child still sang on the radio, but they sang alone.  Dead silence from the backseat. If Lily wasn't in a talking mood, I'd have to wait until she was.

At home, she slouched out of the car and up the walk.  I opened the door and went in, Lily behind me.  Slam!  We don't slam doors in our house.  Ever.  I turned to see my daughter, back to the door, sliding to the floor.

"That's it," she shouted. "I'm never going back. Ever, ever, ever. I hate First Grade.  First Grade stinks!"

Even as my Mom Brain lined up the words to tell Lily that she had to go back tomorrow and every day for the next twelve years, my Writer Brain thought, "First Grade stinks! What a great title for a picture book!"

As I listened to Lily's recital of grievances, I realized that at that the heart of it was First Grade is different.

There's a story there I thought.

Every day that year, Lily came home with yet another complaint.  There was only one recess, not enough art, the kindergarteners had first lunch and took all the chocolate ice cream.

I wrote it all down.

Lily survived First Grade, but just barely. I learned that her teacher was about to retire, due to ill health.  All Lily knew was this:  first grade is different.

With Lily's on-the-spot reportage, my book slowly took shape.

Now for those mysterious forces . . .

Mysterious occurrence number one. I submitted FGS to be critiqued at a writer's conference in Wisconsin.  The editor who read it, loved it, and wanted a copy when we got home.  Turned out she was from Peachtree Publishers and lived fifteen miles away from me.  I doubt we would've found each other had we not gone to that Wisconsin conference.

Serendipitous occurrence--My fairy godmother/art director at Peachtree paired my words with Beth Spiegel's art. Beth found humor and detail with her illustrations that I hadn't noticed when writing. She is still one of my favorite illustrators.

Personal note--The original manuscript had only four named characters; Hayley and her best friend, Ryan, and the two teachers, Ms Lacey and Ms Grey.  The rest of the characters had "names" like "Boy in Red Sweater" and "Girl with Cornrows."  The day the book was to be typeset, my editor called, minutes before I was to meet Lily at the bus stop.

"I need names for these characters," said my editor. "Real ones. Not Boy-in-A- Sweater.  Call me back in half an hour.

Those characters had descriptions instead of names; I stink at choosing names.  Back then, I used baby name books for that purpose. (Now I use websites.) I didn't have time to thumb through a couple of books. I had a half an hour. My creativity's wheels spun in the mud as I trudged up to the bus stop.

The bus squealed to a stop. Thunk-thunk. The doors opened. I was still churning possible names as part of my brain automatically tallied the kids coming down the bus steps.  Kirk. Erica.  Sasha.  

Hey, those are names!  Chanting the chain of names, so I would remember them.  I called my editor as soon as I hit the front door.  Those first kids off the bus were thrilled they were "in a book."  The kids who got off after the first five, complained "how-come-we're-not-in-your-book?" (Answer: You should've gotten off first!") Most of those "kids" have now graduated from college...and they still gripe about not "making the book."

Join me in celebrating First Grade Stinks' 10th anniversary.  Please enter our Book Giveaway--details below.  I will be giving away a signed, hardcover first edition trade hardcover.  This edition is no longer available.

Here's the giveaway info:

Use the Rafflecopter widget below to enter to win an autographed First Edition copy of First Grade Stinks! (Peachtree). You may enter via 1, 2, or all 3 options.

If you choose option 2, you MUST leave a comment on TODAY'S blog post below or on our TeachingAuthors Facebook page. If you haven't already "liked" our Facebook page, please do so today! 

(If you prefer, you may submit your comment via email to: teachingauthors [at] gmail [dot] com.)

Email subscribers: if you received this post via email, you can click on the Rafflecopter link at the end of this message to access the entry form.

The giveaway ends July 15 and is open to U.S. residents only.

Please note: the TeachingAuthors team will begin our summer blogging break this Friday. Our posts will resume on Monday, July, 18. We plan to be able to announce the winner in that post.

Posted by Mary Ann Rodman

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Why I Wrote First Grade Stinks

    I don't remember a lot about kindergarten. I was in the "morning class" when three hours was all that educators thought five-year-olds could handle.

My teacher, Mrs. Palmer, looked exactly like "Dear Abby" in the newspaper. I was fire drill captain, or as I proudly told my parents, "If the school burns down, I'm the first one out." I tackled Jimmy R., my kindergarten crush, in the classroom playhouse and kissed him. (It was a decade or two before that happened again.)

     I nearly flunked kindergarten. In addition to such skills as using scissors "responsibly," counting to ten, and reciting the alphabet without singing it, you had to be able to tie your shoes. I tried and tried all year until it occurred to a neighbor that Mom being left-handed and me being right handed made a difference. She had a left handed son who couldn't tie his shoes either.  Moms swapped kids, and both of us skinned out of kindergarten with a day to spare.  Talk about academic pressure.

    Because kindergarten was so unmemorable for me, I looked forward to going through it with my own daughter, Lily. Boy had things changed! Kids wore Velcro strapped sneakers. They were supposed to count to 20 and know the alphabet BEFORE kindergarten. Lily had been in a Bangkok pre-school that was about learning through exploring rather than memorizing. Lily's kindergarten teacher was a Sweet Young Thing whose worst admonition was "someone is not being considerate." Her classroom was a mass of pinatas and Chinese dragon kites and African violets. Lily was proud to be named "Class Gardener" and "Permanent Paper Passer Outer." Sweet Young Thing figured out that Lily was ADHD and at her best when she was "helping"  It must have been a long day for both of them because by then, kindergarten was a full school day. However, Lily and her teacher had a mutual admiration society, even if Lily couldn't quite manage numbers and letters...at least not in their correct order.

    In promoting Lily to first grade, Sweet Young Thing took into account that Lily had spent two years of pre-school and half of kindergarten in a "foreign" environment. She was promoted to the ominously named "transitional" first grade, kids who weren't "reading ready." I didn't give it a lot of thought.  Neither did Lily. She knew she would sail through school, watering violets and passing out papers. What could go wrong?

   I picked Lily up that first day of first grade. She didn't say anything, but I figured she was pooped out, getting used to a new teacher and classmates.

   At home, I unlocked the front door and went in the house, knowing Lily was straggling behind me. Slam! went the front door. We don't slam doors in our house. Ever. I turned to see Lily fling her red backpack across the room, narrowly missing me.  She slumped against the door, crossed her arms, pushed out her lower lip and announced in a voice that I'm sure the neighbors heard. "That's it! I'm never going back! I hate my teacher and there's only one other girl in my class and there's only one recess and the kindergarten kids got lunch first and ate all the chocolate ice cream. I hate vanilla! First grade stinks!"

   Suddenly, I flashbacked to my first day of first grade, telling my mother that if school was going to be this boring, I wasn't going to college. I remembered my teacher, a troll (henceforth known as Mrs. Troll)who was about to retire after forty-something years of first graders. A woman who yelled a lot, slammed her fist on your desk if she thought you weren't paying attention, and when all else failed, used what I later learned was guilt as a motivator.

"You are thankless, spoiled children," she'd shrill.  "I work and work to teach you to(fill in the blank) but you just won't learn! What is wrong with you?" She didn't know? We were terrified of her. She yelled if we got the wrong answer, yelled if we asked a question.

     I made her mad the first day of school when she said "Now when you can read this big book" (a giant sized version of a pre-primer prominently displayed next to the teacher's desk) you can have your very own book. You let me know when you think you're ready."

    I raised my hand. I had taught myself to read from billboards and TV ads before kindergarten. And while I was sure the words "mouthwash" and "rest area next exit, clean restrooms" weren't in that big book, I had filled in my vocabulary with what are now called "Dolch words").

   "I didn't mean, now." Mrs. Troll squinted at her seating chart. "Mary Ann. I meant after you know how to read."

     "But I know how to read now," I insisted. As an adult who has been a teacher, I can sort of understand her exasperation. Five minutes into the school year and she already been challenged by the likes of me.

     "Fine, then," she said in an-I-dare-you-voice. "Come on up and read for us." She stood behind the book, simpering, waiting for me to fail.

     I didn't fail. Dick and Jane were a snore as literature but I read all 32 pages of it without a mistake.  Now Mrs. Troll was really mad, because she didn't have any primers.  She hadn't counted on anyone learning to read in the first month, let alone first day.  She sent me to the office to requisition my first reader, six weeks early. Although I pride myself on remembering the most insignificant details of my childhood, the rest of first grade disappeared in the mists of trauma.

    Now it was happening again with my own child. As the Mom part of my brain registered Lily's outrage, the writer part thought First Grade Stinks.  What a great title for a picture book!  As I explained to Lily that not only would she be going back to school tomorrow and the next day and the next for twelve years (it was a little early to spring college on her) My own first grade disappointments melded with Lily's.  I started listing my possible plot points.

    The year never got any better for Lily. I grew alarmed when Lily announced at the end of the first week that five kids had been "flunked back" to kindergarten.  I immediately showed up for a teacher's conference.  The teacher (aka Mrs. First Grade) was perhaps my age, but looked older. Much, much older. She had surgery three times that school year (the only days Lily arrived home happy) so I tried to cut her some slack. But Mrs. First Grade affirmed that yes indeed she had just demoted five kids back to kindergarten "because I could tell they weren't going to cut it." (After a week?) She left no doubt that Lily would be joining them if she would "stop being lazy." I already knew that Lily was dyslexic so I asked about special ed testing. "Oh we don't do that until the student has flunked first grade and kindergarten."  What? A classroom of eight-year-old first graders?  My sympathy was wearing thin.

   It wore out altogether when Mrs. First Grade informed in February to tell me she was flunking Lily for the year because "she won't do her board work." I snapped. "You do realize she can't read, right?"  Well, no apparently she didn't. Lily had kept her secret by having the teaching assistant read to her when the teacher wasn't looking. Then Lily, having memorized the story in one hearing, would recite it for the teacher, word perfect, right down to the timing of the page turns. I told the teacher to hand her a random book and ask her to read right then and there. Teacher called me back in ten minutes. "She can't read! I guess she's dyslexic!" You think, person with twenty-five years of teaching "transitional" children?  I couldn't finish writing First Grade Stinks fast enough.

    However, fiction and real life rarely turn out the same. In First Grade Stinks, the main character, Haley, realizes that although the two grades and teachers are entirely different, first grade would bring her the ultimate reward of learning to read on her own!  Haley learns to appreciate her new, less flamboyant teacher.

   In real life, Lily hated everything about first grade except for physical education and art.  She never did learn to read that year but was promoted to second grade anyway. We changed school systems. She tested into special education in second grade, where she stayed until she graduated from high school (in the college prep track and with a high B average.) Reading will always be a challenge for her but she has developed a repertoire of coping mechanisms. She is in college now,  Guess what her major is.  Go ahead.  Guess.  Pre-K special ed!

    "After all," she says, "I've had years and years of thinking how I would teach things differently."

     I guess Lily's first grade didn't stink entirely.

Posted by Mary Ann Rodman
                                   

With a moo moo here and a moo moo there

     I might have mentioned this before, but in a former life, I was a drama major. Perhaps this is why I think of picture books as "performance pieces." After all, picture books are meant to be read aloud. Jill started off this topic with her discussion of rhythm and rhyming picture books. Jill is a far braver soul than I. I have published six picture books (with another on the way) and none of them rhyme. My brain doesn't work that way.

    This is not to say that my stories don't have rhythm. They do. Jill covered this pretty well in her last post so I won't belabor the point here. I'll just say that if you aren't sure if your story has that "swing," read it out loud.  Better still, have a non-judgemental friend read it to you. If you find yourself stumbling over your own words, or if your friend's voice hits a word that sounds like an out-of-tune piano key, go back to Jill's post. 

     So if I don't rhyme, how do I (hopefully) hold my listener's interest?

     Repetition, for one thing.  There's nothing like a little group participation, whether you are reading to one child or seventy. If you want a good example of that, check out my First Grade Stinks. The title is also the main character's catch phrase whenever she is frustrated by yet another unfamiliar aspect of a new grade and teacher.  After awhile, the listener will chime in as well. (Loudly.)

    I love to play around with words. I'm a big believer in alliteration. In Camp K-9, Roxie goes to camp with a Pooch Pouch and makes friends with Pearl the Pug. A word of caution. Be spare with the mirroring consonants. When my daughter was small, there was one particular picture book (no titles mentioned here) that her father and I tried to hide at storytime.  Why?  Seemingly every word in this book began with the letter "p." It was not a short book either.  Two pages into it and my husband and I were sputtering and stuttering like Porky and Petunia Pig. Sometimes, we got so flusterated that certain expletives (not written by the author) slipped into the narrative. Not good.  Not good at all.

     My favorite writing technique (in novels as well as picture books), is the use of sounds.  (There is a polysyllabic word for this that I can't spell, and I am using a computer that doesn't have autocorrect.)  The stories I remember from my own childhood were actually songs, like "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" and "The Wheels on the Bus."  When I began writing my own stories, without really thinking about it, a "moo moo" here and a "cluck cluck" there showed up on my pages. Sounds are fun to write, fun to read, and give the listener another opportunity to "read along." (The only one who doesn't enjoy my "sound technique" is the copy editor who sends me notes questioning the correct spelling of "va-va-varoom.")

    If you want to see me go crazy with the sound effects, check out Surprise Soup.  In fact, when I was writing it, I began by listing all the kitchen sounds I could thing of.  Here is a partial list: chippity-chop (a knife), ka-rickety-ritch (a manual can opener), splishety-sploosh, slippety-slop, shakety-shake (ingredients going into the soup pot.) Once I had a list of thirty-something sounds, the story wrote itself. 

    A successful picture book is one that a child wants to hear over and over (and that the reader can read over and over without wanting to rip out his/her hair.) I think playful language is the grace note that adds zip and zing to "Jill's swing," and a little fun for the adult reader as well.

   Don't forget that the deadline for our latest book giveaway Forget Me Not by Carolee Dean is this Thursday, Oct. 11.  Good luck!


Posted by Mary Ann Rodman

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year! As any student will tell you, the new year doesn't begin January 1; it's the first day of school. Today it's heading toward another 95 degree day here in Atlanta, but it's "the new year"; the first day of school.

If you've read First Grade Stinks, which is based on my daughter's struggles to adjust to a new teacher, you might guess that "Happy New Year" is not the way we greet the first day of school at my house. My daughter is now a sophomore in high school, but the first week of school is always Mr. Toad's Wild Ride with new teachers and schedules and lockers. It's a lot to juggle.

Teachers have their own juggling act with new students of wildly varying personalities and abilities. I now realize that the perennial first day writing assignment, the dread "What I Did on My Summer Vacation," was not meant as an instrument of torture while the teacher re-arranged her seating chart.

The "five paragraphs, no erasures, spelling counts" essay was supposed to give the teacher an idea of how well we could write. For me, it was an introduction to the Wonderful World of Writers Block.

As the kids around me scribbled away about trips to the Wisconsin Dells or Riverview Amusement Park, I thumped the eraser end of my pencil on the desk. Here was my summer; checking out library books and reading them in my self-built "clubhouse" while consuming a bag of Brach's Wintergreen Mints. (They didn't melt in the heat.) The end. Every year I got a C for the brevity of my writing...and lots of erasures.

At some point, teachers stopped asking for that vacation essay, and I stopped having writer's block. I had forgotten that fear of the page, the fear of "looking stupid", until I began teaching young writer's classes. My very first student, a fifth grade boy, stalked into the room, threw himself into a chair, and with narrowed eyes, informed me that his teacher had "sentenced" him to my Saturday afternoon workshops so he would "learn" to write. When we began our opening exercise (which I no longer remember), I watched the boy bounce the eraser end of his pencil on the table. Deja vu! Thanks to this particular boy (who I later learned was mildly learning disabled, but turned out to be an articulate writer), I developed this lesson.

Writing Workout: New School Year Writing Lesson

LESSON PLAN (appropriate for fourth through eighth grade)
Objective: To free the student from "fear of writing" and to show them that they can always find something to write about (also known as brainstorming...but don't tell them that)
Goal: Fluidity of thought in writing. Secondary goal, the concept of first and second drafts.

Lesson: Give the students a word or a phrase as a writing prompt. Do NOT use the word "summer"! Use something generic like "fall" or "school" or even "happy New Year." (I would not use the word "teacher" unless I was very, very brave!)

Instructions. Tell the students they are to write for the next ten minutes without thinking or stopping. They must keep their pencils moving. They are to write the first thing that comes in their head that relates to the prompt, and then write whatever thoughts follow. It is not important that they "stay on the subject." Spelling, punctuation, and grammar do not count. Do not write in paragraphs or even complete sentences. If nothing comes to mind, write "blank blank blank" until something does. Remind them that this is only for ten minutes, and they must keep writing.

At the end of ten minutes, they are to stop. They now must revise their work by adding punctuation, arrangement on the page, and corrected spelling. They are not to leave out anything they have written, including the blanks.

The purpose of this assignment is not to assess the student's ability to write in complete, well-punctuated sentences with perfectly spelled words. This is to show them that everyone has something to say, and that if you let yourself go, you can say it on paper. Emphasize that spelling and punctuation is something that you can correct the second time around, but not the first. (I can spend all day fiddling with the placement of a semi-colon, or I can produce ten pages of miserably spelled and punctuated prose that I can clean up in the second draft. I choose the latter!)

The student's final paper will look something like this. This is my stream-of-conscious "poem" using the prompt "fall":

Football football
Rah rah rah
I hate football
Running and running
Get that ball!
Run this way
Run that way
Yea!
We score a goal.
Who cares?
Jump on the guy
with the ball.
Grunt grunt grunt
Clunk clunk clunk
Heads butt
Helmets crunch
Fans go wild
Scream and yell
Stomp'em! Kill'em!
Just like war
Hate like war
Hate the other team
We don't know them
but we hate them
Because they have the ball
and
we
don't.

So I'm not Emily Dickinson. That's not the point. The point is written self-expression.
You have the whole rest of the year to turn your students into Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson (kidding...a little bit).


IN MEMORIAM: Those of you who have read Jimmy's Stars know that the novel was based on stories from my mother's family, particularly those about my Uncle Jimmy. I was saddened to learn that the "real" Jimmy, my Uncle James Smith, passed away in Florida this week at the age of 84. RIP Uncle Jim. Thanks for the memories. (That's Uncle Jim in his Merchant Marine uniform picture above.)