A Northern Light

I should start by saying I enjoyed A Northern Light by Jennifer Donnelly. I've read it before, and quite liked and recommended it. Donnelly has given us a strong but flawed heroine, a beautifully detailed historical setting, and a realistic presentation of societal issues.

That being said, I really struggled with a presentational issue. In writing, we have a term called “the hand of the author”. This is when a literary device or technique attracts enough attention that the reader is pulled out of the story and is able to see the hand of the author in the story. This, I felt, was true of Donnelly's use of the vocabulary words at the beginning of chapters. I see the value: built-in vocab for teachers, subtle education for readers, etc. I also see the value in the characterization of Mattie as a studious, intelligent young woman. However, when the reader sees something like this, he or she is reminded that this is a story by someone who loves words, thus being reminded that this is a story. This reminder is particularly unfortunate given the richness of the setting created.

A rule exists among writers: don't write about writers. It's the classic narcissism inherent in any artistic endeavor. We artists love and loathe ourselves so deeply that to put ourselves on the page or canvas is a constant temptation. Usually the reader/viewer doesn't know. Only my readers who know me are able to pick out the personal characteristics I have used in my writing. However, any reader can tell you one thing about any writer: the writer loves words. The writer loves to write. The writer has probably loved these things throughout his or her life. Therefore, any story about a writer suddenly becomes an exercise in psychoanalysis.

Of course, in writing, as in most areas of life, rules are made to be broken.

With this in mind, I'm glad Donnelly broke the rule. I struggled with it, and I even struggled with writing this post. I worried that I was being too picky, that Donnelly gave us a wonderful story, a well-written historical fiction of tremendous value to young readers and I was just nit-picking. Then I realized I was trying to coddle young adult fiction, which would be a slap in the face to one of the basic tenets of judging young adult fiction: is it good literature? In the case of A Northern Light, this is good literature. We have believable and flawed and sympathetic characters. We have stories that don't necessarily end happily. We have a rich setting. We have historical accuracy. We have characters that love words and language and education so deeply that they would do anything to pursue their passion and for this, I accept Donnelly's rule-breaking.

Donnelly, Jennifer. A Northern Light. Orlando: Graphia, 2004. Print.

Absolute Genius: Sherman Alexie

 I will rarely say this about a piece of literature, but The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie is an absolute work of genius. Alexie has created an unlikely main character: a sympathetic, sarcastic victim. More than that, he created a situation in which he could openly, and often humorously, discuss such taboo subjects as masturbation, alcoholism and generational poverty. Alexie achieved the impossible story: an anti-hero talking about things you're not supposed to talk about in an obscenely funny way.

I feel like I have to address the source of my considerations in this particular entry: I recently got the absolute worst literary review of my life.

No.

That's a lie.

I got the worst peer review of my life. My last professorial review, the professor cursed several times and threatened to shoot me. I blame geriatric crankiness. However, in the case of my peer review, a young lady told me she could not finish my story because of the issues I dealt with and the way I dealt with them, ending with: "I just really hope that you can figure out a better way you express his hate and disgust for others without resorting to the vulgar, crass, and easy cuss-words. Good Luck with revision.”

Okay. I'm not saying this review was necessarily wrong.

Crap.

I lied again.

The review was wrong. It was so amazingly wrong, I am actually considering framing it as inspiration for my future work. There was a purpose behind every inflammatory thing my character said. However, this review does expose how I tried and failed to do what Alexie did with Part-Time Indian. I wanted to create a character who lacked self-awareness and was sometimes completely backward in his perception of his surroundings which he described in an extremely sarcastic way, but I still wanted him to be likable. In many ways, I wanted him to be an adult version of Junior. With such a review, I can be assured I did not pull this off nearly as effectively as Alexie.

Here's the thing about what Alexie did: he managed to create an incredibly innocent character dealing with complex issues, and this character developed precisely enough to remain believable. I think the cartoons contributed to this immeasurably. The most striking example of this is in the very beginning. Junior outlines, in the words of a young man, generational poverty, a complex issue pervading every single nation of the world. He describes this issue so simply: “It sucks to be poor, and it sucks to feel that you somehow deserve to be poor. You start believing that you're poor because you're stupid and ugly. And then you start believing that you're stupid and ugly because you're Indian. And because you're Indian you start believing you're destined to be poor. It's an ugly circle and there's nothing you can do about it. Poverty doesn't give you strength or teach you lessons about perseverance. No, poverty only teaches you how to be poor” (13).

My sister is a compassionate ministries pastor. My brother-in-law is a community development professor. I've been inundated with knowledge of poverty. I've worked with the homeless, I've worked with charities, I've rallied on behalf of the disenfranchised, but never in any of my conversations have I ever heard the problem described so perfectly. And what else does Alexie do? He has this moment illustrated with cartoons. Funny ones.

I wish I could say how and why this works. Yeah, on the surface, I get that he's simultaneously off-setting and deepening the sadness of the story with these illustrations. As a reader, we're both taken out of the sadness and thrust into it with the reminder that this is a kid talking. I see that. But, wow, the finesse with how he pulls this off is absolutely gorgeous. I think Alexie is probably a grand example of a natural writer: he just has a “feel” for when these illustrations would add or detract from the story. He walks a beautifully fine line. The one time I questioned his use of the illustrations was when his sister died. I was concerned that the drawing of his sister on the cover of the romance novel “burning love” was a little excessive and out of character. Even then, though, I didn't question it so strongly that I was taken out of the story altogether.

A brilliant move by the illustrator of this novel was the different style of drawing. When Junior was giving particular consideration to an issue, the sketch would be more refined, more exact, like his drawing of Gordy on page 117, or his drawing of him and Rowdy on page 218. His more cartoonish illustrations remind me of manic-depression. Some of the illustrations are just useful, funny sketches. They're not necessarily off-setting any darkness or anything like that. These are the typical pictures. Then, he'll draw something funny about an absolutely dismal situation, like when he's losing it over his sister's death on page 204. These are the manic drawings, the depression so deep that the sufferer has nothing left to lose with wildness, with irreverence.

Overall, I cannot say enough good things about this novel. The writing is pitch-perfect, the drawings are excellent and the subject matter is flawless. I have no intentions to teach, but if I did, this book would absolutely be on the curriculum.

Alexie, Sherman. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. 1st ed. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2009. Print.

Speak: A Critical Reading

Growing up, I often found young adult literature lacking. Emerging into adulthood, I was left with a sense that adolescent lit was phoned in: Sweet Valley High, Babysitter's Club, etc. The writing was weak, the plots were weaker, but this was what I was given. Had I realized what else was out there, I wonder how my reading and writing would have been affected. Would I have been less inclined toward disillusionment? Would I have seen meaning from an earlier age?

Speak was published my freshman year of high school. I didn't, however, hear anything about it until my early twenties, when I happened to pick it up at Barnes and Noble. Still stinging with the sense that young adult books were lacking, I was shocked to realize there was a world of actual literature aimed at youth. Speak was a prime example of this.

Melinda's voice is consistent, believable and relatable throughout the novel. She is an unlikely heroine to whom a teenager could honestly relate. She's wry, self-deprecating, quietly and weirdly observant: she's the every-loser. The reality of high school is that everyone, no matter their social status, at some point sees him- or herself as, like Melinda says, “Outcast”, capital O (Anderson 4). Teachers are alien and bizarre, if not sadistic, like Mr. Neck. Parents don't notice or “don't have time for” their teen children (88). Anderson importantly places adult characters who show concern and compassion for youth. Although she displays the popular concept that Adults Don't Understand, she also lets her young readers know that there are adults willing to listen and help. Adults like Mr. Freeman.

Speak doesn't talk down to its readers. Told through an adolescent voice, the observations are keen and biting (“A predator approaches: gray jock buzz cut, whistle around a neck thicker than his head. Probably a social studies teacher, hired to coach a blood sport”) (5). The subject matter is realistic and serious, beyond the boyfriend problems in Sweet Valley. Anderson allows readers into the deep and meaningful pain of a young woman dealing with issues no one should ever face.

This story is heavy in symbolism, another way in which Anderson delivers a literary young adult novel. The symbolism of Melinda as a dying/dead/blossoming/renewing tree is scattered throughout the book. In the first grading quarter, she paints trees struck by lightening: “I try to paint them so they are nearly dead, but not totally” (31). The second grading period finds her working with a linoleum block, in which “there is no way to correct mistakes” (54) and she tries to carve what “looks like a dead tree” and she “can't bring it to life” (78). Some hope begins to emerge in the third quarter: “underground, pale seeds roll over in their sleep. Starting to get restless. Starting to dream green” (133). During the fourth and final marking period, Melinda cares for her home's lawn. She rakes leaves and clears the ground, allowing air to “pale green shoots of something alive [that] have been struggling under the leaves” (166). Her father furthers this concept of renewal when he explains why a man is taking a chain-saw to a tree: “By cutting off the damage, you make it possible for the tree to grow again. You watch – by the end of summer, this tree will be the strongest on the block” (187). Finally, Melinda acknowledges her assault and her survival in terms of trees: “I'm not going to let it kill me. I can grow” (197). This symbolism continues in the form of mouths and mirrors and shards of glass.

Anderson even brings some existential questioning into the mix, questions of God and freedom and dualism. We see this idea of duality both in Melinda and the things around her. Her couch is described as having two personalities (15), the cheerleaders “operate in two realities simultaneously” (30), and, most importantly, “the two Melindas fight ever step of the way” (132). We see Melinda's struggle to reconcile what has happened to her with who she believes herself to be. The idea of freedom is seen as an ugly truth (Mr. Freeman, a significant name, characterized as ugly) (10) and God is questioned in the form of an assignment Mr. Freeman gives: “is he going to make us thrash around with this ridiculous assignment without helping us?” (32). This is, possibly, how Melinda views God: why is God forcing her to suffer without giving her any reason for her suffering, any reason for this task she must endure?

Anderson has created a gorgeous example of a problem novel. The reader accompanies Melinda through every step of her pain, her dealing with being raped, the realities of the situation. We are guided from the beginning, struggling stages through to Melinda's final acknowledgment and survival. I'm nearly certain that any teen who has endured similar trauma would find some comfort in Speak: Melinda survived, so can I.

Anderson, Laurie Halse. Speak. Platinum ed. New York, NY: Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 1999. Print.

Y YA?: Literacy History

I've always been a reader. Well, okay, almost always. Like everyone, I endured the first few years in which I was still developing motor skills and verbal skills and so forth. Plus, there was that unfortunate period during which reading wasn't socially acceptable. From the beginning of my time on earth, though, my mother read to my sister and me. She read to us before we understood language, but we became accustomed to the cadence of her voice, a book in her hand, the pleasant grate of pages turning. My sister and I memorized the books so we could pretend to read. My first read words were based in pure rote learning, from Sesame Street books to Millicent's Ghost (Lexau). Gradually, though, the words came from somewhere other than memory, sometime before kindergarten. My standing on my own two literary feet, though, was not the end of storytime with my mom: the three of us still read together, the stories growing with us.

Despite this passionate beginning, I lost my identity in middle school. Until sixth grade, my straight A's were effortless. Middle school algebra was a punch in the face: I got my first C and decided I wasn't smart. I was lost. I was used to smart kid activities: learning, science experiments, swapping stories of achievements. I didn't know what not-smart kids did. I knew learning was out. I assumed science experiments were only acceptable if they involved explosives and/or reptiles (i.e. loud/gross = awesome, educational = lame). One thing I knew for sure: not-smart kids did not read. So, I stopped. From sixth to eight grade, I didn't pick up a book.

By high school, though my image of myself as the intellectual equivalent of an inbred Chihuahua had not improved, I had developed a certain Screw The World attitude that allowed me to become to exception to the “not-smart kids don't read” rule. This decision, to summarize, led to my now being a 27 year old bookbat, convinced I will one day be found dead or mangled in a pile of books (a “bookalanche” to those in the know).

Naturally, my mom was a gigantic influence in my reading life; Mrs. Schuppan was a close second. As my third grade teacher, Mrs. Schuppan struggled regularly to keep me engaged. I always got my work done early and done correctly, so I had copious time to sit and wait. This I did with great patience, never distracting my classmates, never causing problems. Mrs. Schuppan, however, recognized the waste of time. So, she started me writing stories. And how does one best write stories? Read stories. Her class that year became a constant cycle of reading and writing, priming me for what I would later become.

I wish I could remember more specifically what I read during this time, but due to sheer volume of material, I can't recall titles or stories. I know I didn't stick to genres: I loved everything. The readings from January 13^th brought to light how appropriate this multi-genre approach to reading is to approaching young adult literature. “Young adult literature consists of a number of different genres or categories that serve unique purposes . . .: fantasy, science fiction, horror fiction, contemporary realistic fiction, adventure, mystery, humor, historical fiction, biography, nonfiction/information, poetry, drama, short stories, comic books, graphic novels, and magazines” (Bucher 13). As young adult literature stands, the type of story doesn't matter so much as if the goals of YA list are met. In terms of these goals, I appreciate the criteria determined by Elaine Murphy's class in their critical approach to literature:

• “The literature must contribute to a dismantling of false stereotypes and offer balance by presenting diverse views of a topic.
• “The literature must provide opportunities for discussion that may foster community relations and respect for diversity.
• “The literature must provide opportunities for discussion of our common humanity . . . in an effort toward understanding, compassion, empathy, and an enhanced understanding of oneself.
• “The literature must provide opportunities for discussion of the human condition depicted in a variety of times, places, and situations. The values and emotional base of the work, regardless of setting, must have some universal resonance.
• “The literature must be developmentally appropriate and relevant.
• “The literature must promote higher level critical thinking skills and allow students to make connections with their own experiences and previous knowledge . . .” (Murphy 110).

I'm excited for my future in young adult literature. With my youthful multi-genre interests, my writing options are limitless: realism or fantasy, traditional novels or comic books, and so on. Most important, though, is the message conveyed. Young adults deal with so much, there is no shortage of topics or approaches to those topics. Consider S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders: Ponyboy and the other characters make so many mistakes in dealing with being on the fringe. They have zero guidance, but they teach themselves along the journey. On the other hand, Judy Blume's Forever . . . is sort of a perfect situation scenario: Katherine has communicative parents, supportive family friends and she makes informed sexual decisions with this foundation. These are two different topics and situations for the main characters, but the reader of either novel is likely able to relate to and learn from each.

My sister and I, avid YA readers we are, consider YA lit the final refuge of creativity. Anything can happen in young adult literature and that, to a reader and a writer, is absolutely gorgeous.

1. Blume, Judy. Forever . . . New York: Simon Pulse, 1975. Print.
2. Bucher, Katherine. Young Adult Literature: Exploration, Evaluation, and Appreciation. Second ed. 13. Excerpt.
3. Hinton, S.E. The Outsiders. Speak, Platinum Ed. New York: Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 1967. Print.
4. Lexau, Joan M. Millicent's Ghost. New York: Dial Press, 1962. Print.
5. Murphy, Elaine. “In Search of Literature for the Twenty-First Century.” English Journal. 90.3 (2001): 110.