of earth. Then it began to snow.
* * *
Footnote: Wells has produced no eminent artists, writers, or musicians. However it can claim one heavy-handed educator by the name of John Keate, born in 1773, who became a headmaster at Eton. Finding the boys in need of discipline when he arrived, he reintroduced the birch. Itâs claimed that he flogged eighty boys in one day, a good workout for the arm. One wonders what the boys did to deserve such a thrashing.
WHY I STOPPED WRITING CHILDRENâS LITERATURE
âKeep Coolâ became my mantra in December 2005, after the phone rang for the third time. I knew by then that a short message would be left, expounding the callerâs disappointment in me. The first two calls had been surprising rants which made my invisible antennas, not unlike the antennas of ants, start vibrating.
I, a poet, was suddenly controversial over my chapter book Marisol , a 140-page novel about a little girl (Marisol) living in Pilsen, a primarily Latino area of Chicago. The fictional Luna family plans to move from Pilsen to the suburb of Des Plaines, twenty-five miles east, which, as it so happens, is also noticeably Latino. Marisol is not happy about their in-state migration â a drawing on page 20 shows her frowning, hand on chin. Sheâll have to say good-bye to friends, school, neighbors, and Rascal, her cat, who has mysteriously disappeared the day before the move â childhood drama but, alas, nothing like the drama that followed the little bookâs publication.
A little history: in 2003, I had been contacted by an American Girl editor, asking if I would be game to write a chapter novel for their series about preteen girls. I listened with the heartbeat of a tree sloth, calmly, because I was a veteran â how many times had I heard of writing projects that would bring me fame and fortune? The editor explained that the book would accompany a doll or, more accurately, that the book would be one of the dollâs accessories, along with costumes and matching clothes that real ten-year-old girls could wear. This doll, yet unnamed, would be the 2005 Girl of the Year. At this my heart, with its freight of blood, began to pick up speed â this wasnât a prank call after all. When I suggested Fresno, my hometown, as a setting, the editor said Fresno was not an available locale â the 2004 Girl of the Year had been Kailey, a California surfer. The editor said that the narrative should be set either in New York City or Chicago. And the girl should be a dancer.
A ballet folklórico dancer, I suggested, picturing Marisol in a flaring dress the colors of the Mexican flag.
Possibly, the editor remarked.
I agreed to the project, a wholly new venture for me. I wrote a complete draft in a month (in the end, Marisol would do tap and jazz), then tinkered with the prose, listening to the parent company (Mattel) about adding the details that would make Marisol hip â she needed a cell phone, for instance. Because she also would need a carrying case for her dance costumes, could I mention the carrying case once or twice in the narrative? I was getting the picture now, and dutifully added a purse and necklace â merchandise, in other words. I realized that this doll was a commercial project, most certainly. But why was it necessary to sell the glittery top hat as an extra?
Once I finished writing Marisol , I didnât think much about the manuscript or the doll. I was at work on a new book of poems, titled A Simple Plan , which included âBean Plants,â possibly the best thing Iâve written, a longish effort, lamentable in tone, a poem about how even a short-lived bean plant suffers â arms out like our crucified Jesus. I quote the beginning:
You say you were four and suffering insomnia,
That you lay in bed and sometimes crept
To look at your brother, then returned
To struggle with the sheets, thumb in your mouth
For the taste of something solid.
* * *
Footnote: Wells has produced no eminent artists, writers, or musicians. However it can claim one heavy-handed educator by the name of John Keate, born in 1773, who became a headmaster at Eton. Finding the boys in need of discipline when he arrived, he reintroduced the birch. Itâs claimed that he flogged eighty boys in one day, a good workout for the arm. One wonders what the boys did to deserve such a thrashing.
WHY I STOPPED WRITING CHILDRENâS LITERATURE
âKeep Coolâ became my mantra in December 2005, after the phone rang for the third time. I knew by then that a short message would be left, expounding the callerâs disappointment in me. The first two calls had been surprising rants which made my invisible antennas, not unlike the antennas of ants, start vibrating.
I, a poet, was suddenly controversial over my chapter book Marisol , a 140-page novel about a little girl (Marisol) living in Pilsen, a primarily Latino area of Chicago. The fictional Luna family plans to move from Pilsen to the suburb of Des Plaines, twenty-five miles east, which, as it so happens, is also noticeably Latino. Marisol is not happy about their in-state migration â a drawing on page 20 shows her frowning, hand on chin. Sheâll have to say good-bye to friends, school, neighbors, and Rascal, her cat, who has mysteriously disappeared the day before the move â childhood drama but, alas, nothing like the drama that followed the little bookâs publication.
A little history: in 2003, I had been contacted by an American Girl editor, asking if I would be game to write a chapter novel for their series about preteen girls. I listened with the heartbeat of a tree sloth, calmly, because I was a veteran â how many times had I heard of writing projects that would bring me fame and fortune? The editor explained that the book would accompany a doll or, more accurately, that the book would be one of the dollâs accessories, along with costumes and matching clothes that real ten-year-old girls could wear. This doll, yet unnamed, would be the 2005 Girl of the Year. At this my heart, with its freight of blood, began to pick up speed â this wasnât a prank call after all. When I suggested Fresno, my hometown, as a setting, the editor said Fresno was not an available locale â the 2004 Girl of the Year had been Kailey, a California surfer. The editor said that the narrative should be set either in New York City or Chicago. And the girl should be a dancer.
A ballet folklórico dancer, I suggested, picturing Marisol in a flaring dress the colors of the Mexican flag.
Possibly, the editor remarked.
I agreed to the project, a wholly new venture for me. I wrote a complete draft in a month (in the end, Marisol would do tap and jazz), then tinkered with the prose, listening to the parent company (Mattel) about adding the details that would make Marisol hip â she needed a cell phone, for instance. Because she also would need a carrying case for her dance costumes, could I mention the carrying case once or twice in the narrative? I was getting the picture now, and dutifully added a purse and necklace â merchandise, in other words. I realized that this doll was a commercial project, most certainly. But why was it necessary to sell the glittery top hat as an extra?
Once I finished writing Marisol , I didnât think much about the manuscript or the doll. I was at work on a new book of poems, titled A Simple Plan , which included âBean Plants,â possibly the best thing Iâve written, a longish effort, lamentable in tone, a poem about how even a short-lived bean plant suffers â arms out like our crucified Jesus. I quote the beginning:
You say you were four and suffering insomnia,
That you lay in bed and sometimes crept
To look at your brother, then returned
To struggle with the sheets, thumb in your mouth
For the taste of something solid.
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