About Books: I Think I Will Have to Eat You Now

         

With a title like that, I surely can't be serious?

Well, no I wasn't.

This started as a joke. I wanted to see if I could write a children's book, even though I had, until then, never seen myself as a children's book author.

But why not?

For one thing, preschool books are often written in poetry form. While I've written poems from time to time, my poetry teacher's little sermon on why he gave me an A always comes back to haunt me. 

Normally, I didn't ask teachers about grades, but in the case of my college poetry-writing class, when my grade report arrived, poetry was marked NG. I went to his office to find out if that meant "no good." Yes, I was being sarcastic. At 20 I thought I was a much better writer than I actually was.

He explained that it meant "no grade," and I wasn't alone in receiving that on my report. He hadn't turned in the grades on time. But he assured me that the following term my grade point average would be fixed and reflect where I was.

"What did you think you got?" he asked. 

I have always hated teachers asking that question. If I say a grade that's too high, they think I have too high of an opinion of myself -- or perhaps that kind of reasoning is the result of 12 years of nuns deflating any vague hint of self-worth that I ever showed (that may be the subject of a future blog). If I say a grade that's too low, I might give them ideas that perhaps that's what I truly deserved and they might lower my grade.  

"I don't know?" I replied wondering if I should be so bold as to say a B. He hated the fact that I'd tried for a few weeks to write villanelles, and pointedly asked me to stop in front of the whole class. He made fun of some of my rhymes as contrived and overused. This was the Snydley Whiplash guy who was also my first short story writing teacher as well as my guidance counselor. While I could joke with him at times, I didn't think he thought much of my writing.

"Well, you got an A, of course."

Before I could congratulate myself on being a better poet than I'd thought, and that all of his attempts at humiliation were simply his way of making me a better poet, he followed up that statement with, "I had to give you an A since you handed in at least twice as many poems as anyone else in the class."

So it was quantity, not quality for which I was graded. Or maybe he just wanted to make sure my feet were firmly planted on this earth.

No, there was more.

"But I want you to promise me that you'll never ever try to become a professional poet.  You just don't have the talent."

Then why, regardless of how many poems I handed in, did he give me an A? I would grade according to quality. But I wasn't going to argue the point. An A was better for my GPA than any other grade.

Of course, his telling me not to become a professional poet gave me ammunition for humor whenever I went to his office. He happened to hate Hallmark cards. So, whenever I stopped by, I'd casually say something like, "I was thinking of trying to get a job working for Hallmark. I bet they'd like my poetry." It was worth it to see the look on his face.

Of course, if I'd ever applied to Hallmark, I would have also tried to get them to start a line of humorous sympathy cards. After all, when do you need cheering up more? And after that, who knows? Divorce cards? Your cheating heart cards?

But his disparaging remarks stayed with me, and I didn't imagine even Sam I Am would be satisfied with my rhymes. And after trying to find a rhyme for tiger, I became frustrated, and decided to write a story without rhymes.

Next on the list of necessary things for a children's book are pictures. I may be able to write, but art was never my strong suit. In high school, when we were forced to take an art class when I would have had much more use for typing than trying unsuccessfully to color in the lines, I consistently got the lowest grade in the class for my work. My drawing is generally on the level of a three-year-old, although I have progressed to coloring like a six-year-old. I can, at least, tell you what's wrong with my work, but I have no idea how to fix it.

Well, I was writing a story for three-year-olds, so why not have drawings on their level?

I gamely started my story, tongue firmly planted in cheek, about a baby tiger who is left behind when the circus leaves town. He approaches one animal after another in an attempt to find home. Each one, in an attempt not to be killed, plays with him, shares food, and makes suggestions. But none of what they do is very helpful, so when he finishes playing with each one he thanks them and says, "I think I'll have to eat you now," to which each animal gives him some justification why it would be bad manners to eat them after all they've done for him. Then they pass him along to the next animal until he finally meets a human. Humans, of course, can fix things.

What I was trying to do was something like what the creators of Rocky and Bullwinkle had done: create something for children that adults could get a chuckle out of.

I read my story to a class of third graders. They had questions, like what was the Tiger's name (he didn't originally have one) and where was his mother. They insisted he needed a name, so they each wrote their suggestion on a paper and the papers were put in a hat. Then the teacher pulled one out, and that's how Isaac the Tiger was named.

The third graders were very kind about my art. They told me my pictures were very good, except, "and I don't want to hurt your feelings," one little girl said, "but your bunny looks like a dog." (Bunny pictured above)

So, I asked the third graders if they would be willing to draw some pictures for me, and they jumped at the chance. Many of their pictures were so good that I hope some of the now college-age students are pursuing art.

I can't say I've sold many copies of that book, but it was fun working with eight- and nine-year-olds, and getting their perspective. And for something that started out as a joke, I think it turned out okay, even without poetry.