 Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt / Farrar, Straus, and Company, 1975
Here I’ve chosen the opening line from one of my favorite books and authors. The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. You can feel this one, this lazy-hazy approach to storytelling. You connect to the truth of it, understand the atmosphere. The mood is set, giving us a distinct lyrical voice, one we can cozy into. The theme is introduced: the incongruity of time standing still and time advancing. Notice the use of the thematic word "live-long"—a brilliant choice for a tale about immortality. Despite its gentle way, however, the word choice and metaphor also create tension, a precariousness you know will tip. The wheel must drop from its stop-breath moment, and the pivotal questions are: When, how quickly, and which way? Or, to be precise to the plot: What’s going to happen this first week of August? The line itself is timeless. cover art by Natalie Babbitt  "Navajo Youth" Edward S. Curtis (1868-1952) Reading the first line of a book is like meeting someone for the first time, hearing their voice, getting a sense. An impression, right or wrong, or yet-to-be seen. You meet the narrator, whether directly (first person), or indirectly (omniscient), or somewhere in-between. I believe every line should be as perfect as the writer can produce, but for the first line, that's absolute. It should be as perfect as poetry, every word selected with purpose and care, no matter its length. Consider Dickens’ 119-word “It was the best of times …” or Melville’s “Call me Ishmael.” The first line is a promise to the reader the book is worth the read. The job of the writer is to make good on the promise. Here I’ve chosen the first line from a novel I picked off a discount table (the unfortunate fate of some good literary works), attracted by its cover, title, and on closer look, the reviews, jacket copy, and photographs by Edward S. Curtis, the turn-of-the-century photographer of North American indigenous tribes, around whom the story revolves.  Let me tell you about the sketch by Leonardo I saw one afternoon in the Queen’s Gallery in London a decade ago, and why I think it still haunts me. The Shadow Catcher by Marianne Wiggins / Simon & Schuster, 2008 The first line in The Shadow Catcher is a subtle tug, a beckoning gesture. "Let me tell you ... it still haunts me." It includes two of the themes—art and memory—and introduces the structure, that of overlapping a faraway past (signified by “Leonardo”) with a recent past (“a decade ago”) with the present (notice the present-tense form). By stating the time of day of this remembrance, the author quite naturally inserts a strong motif found throughout the book; that small phrase “one afternoon” conveys an entire scene of shadow and light and hence the feeling it evokes, a quiet connection it's likely to make within the reader. It also conveys the quality of light in the photographs of Curtis, and sets a tone. Read the line without it and you’ll see.  FLATIRON BUILDING, NYC / graphite on paper I've passed by this landmark often in my visits to Strand Books in the East Village of Manhattan. Inspired by Steichen, Stieglitz, and my own take on the essence of the iconic place.   The structure of this piece is based on the centuries’-old cumulative verse, The House That Jack Built, which begins-- This is the house that Jack built. This is the malt that lay in the house that Jack built. This is the rat that ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the cat that killed the rat ... And so on. There was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly is similar. Unlike those nursery rhymes, however, This is the world follows a sequence to its cyclic conclusion, with a promise—or portent—of starting over, ad infinitum. History repeats, as it's been repeatedly said.  20”x10” graphite powder on print paper (folded, burnished, unfolded), which I call a dry monotype  detail / the nature of the medium and process can create a haunting effect  Photo taken by laptop camera, Hilton Hotel, Hampton Roads, during the Virginia Association of School Librarians 2012 conference, where Lana Krumwiede and I gave talks titled “Opening Worlds,” on how speculative fiction can inspire children to use their minds and imaginations for dealing with reality. It was the last day; I was packed and ready to check out. An idea came to me for a picture book about a cloud. An end-of-the-day kind of book, good for bedtime, when dreaminess and wonder play with what the mind knows as reality. The idea ran quickly to another, and another, another, arriving, through the years, at a current series of seven, each one related to something glorious in nature that comes into our everyday lives (the moon, a star, the wind ...) with a STEAM-based glossary.  Thanks to a cloud that came into my room. [Future post (fingers crossed) ... If a Contract Lands in Your Hands] First line from my first-of-the-year picture book story ... Sit, stay, and hear a tale of two dogs -- along with the last line Wow-wow! Hey-hey!  First oranges of the year, outside my window.  First Wordle game, where you try to guess the day's word within six tries. It helps to know lots of five-letter words, which are some of my favorites in the English language: light, aloft, earth, ocean, night, orbit, float, cloud, being, truth, fiery, agony, laugh, learn, dream ...  First cloud photo.  First walk in the woods.
Peace in 2022, people. (First blog of the year.)  Boxwoods & Company / graphite on paper
I’d like to share the creation process behind a particular piece, which involves both the technical and spiritual aspects of my work. Early dawn, fresh air, light. I woke with a vision in my head: the boxwoods and the seatless, wrought-iron chair around back, on the pile of castaways waiting to be picked up and sent elsewhere into the world (the haulers were coming tomorrow). I fetched the chair, set it there with little thought other than what I had envisioned — its concept, mostly. Sitting opposite the scene, I first drew the outline of the bushes, with the shadow areas more developed, and the chair. I had sipped some water on rising, hadn't eaten a thing, and hunger called. Do a sketch, quick, capture the sense, go break my fast. But, no. That would be lazy, and an artist will rather starve and delve into his work, than be full and wanting. My eyes said look, and I saw it was not yet the boxwoods. Certainly not those boxwoods, and I had certainly not captured my first love, so to speak. I kept going, and going, trying to avoid drawing all the leaves alike, which is quick and easy, but ends up looking mundane. It isn't true. This far in, the drawing looked too controlled; there was little authenticity. I don't knowingly think these thoughts, I just respond, feel it. I got a bristle brush, dipped it in graphite powder, and flung that onto the drawing. Randomness with individuality makes a far more interesting piece. Call it nature or science or art — they share similar, if not the same, qualities. I took a small knurled knob I'd found on the ground when I was getting the chair earlier, and ran that over the graphite in places. Modified randomness. I drew more lines, more leaves, added the pot to the left, with its dying plants. All artists know how it goes. When do you stop? When you know it's breathing on its own.  A few of the nearly 400 picture books I and two others had the honor and enjoyment of reading and selecting for the 2021 SCBWI Golden Kite awards, best picture book text. Jaz has enjoyed them, too. See more about the awards here. |
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