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Happily, this tapestry will be housed in a museum, at least for the next few months. I love the way humanity dreams up new art forms, especially ones as out there as this is...
Once upon a time there lived a girl whose mother—the kindest mother in all the world—had died and whose father had married again.
The wedding had barely ended before the new wife began to reveal her true nature. She was snobbish, mean, and foul-tempered. Ooh, she was horrid!
And she was especially cruel to the girl, whose beauty made her own two daughters look positively hideous. The stepmother couldn't stand this.
Meanwhile, Cinderella's big, bright eyes brimmed with tears. "But, Fairy Godmother, how will I get to the ball?"
The fairy godmother was surprised that her goddaughter couldn't seem to figure anything out for herself. However, with another wave of the wand, she changed a pumpkin into a carriage, six white mice into horses, and a stray rat into a coachman.
"Be sure to leave before midnight," she warned Cinderella as she helped her into the elegant carriage.
Cinder Edna took the bus.
"You are disgusting! Absolutely yucky!" said her stepmother. "All you think about is dirt. For all the time you spend in that fireplace, we ought to call you Cinderhazel."This witch can't fly right, but she loves dirt. Could it be that she and the prince have something in common? A little-known but entertaining read-aloud, especially at Halloween. Really, though, it works any time of the year.
"Ooooh, would you?" asked Hazel.
But most of all—and this is what I was looking forward to the very, very most—I was done with all that boyfriend crap. Finished with the 24/7 Brian Nelson cable station that had been running nonstop inside my skull since July. No more feeling like I was some fluttery girl who doesn't have anything better to do all day long than think about her boyfriend. Because I did have better things to think about, thank you very much, because I am not the kind of girl who has boyfriends; I'm the kind who's just friends with boys, which is totally different and which I'm actually kind of good at. I'd pulled the plug on that Brian Nelson cable station for good.It's a real gift to be able to watch D.J. struggle to grow into herself in Dairy Queen, The Off Season, and now Front and Center. Catherine Murdock is so adept that she even manages to let us know that D.J. will probably end up being an incredible basketball coach in ten or fifteen years. But this and other messages, such as the cow metaphor used so well in Dairy Queen, never call unnecessary attention to themselves. Which reminds me of D.J.'s own self-effacing style. Even so, D.J., the messages, and these three books still manage to shine. Read them, please. You will be very glad you got to know D.J. Schwenk.
That's why it felt so nice to be getting back to school. Because after five months I was back to being plain old background D.J. That's how I thought about it, anyway. In photographs of course I'm always in the background—it's a family joke, actually, that us Schwenk kids could go to school naked on picture day because we're all so crazy tall. But I mean that I was returning to the background of life. Where no one would really notice me or talk about me or even talk to me much except to say "Nice shot," and I could just hang out without too many worries at all.
I done it. I stopped time.Hampton plays football on a virtually unbeatable high school team because his best friend Blaine and Blaine's father have taught him to play hard and well. Over the years, Hampton has relied heavily on those relationships, with his own father gone and his mother largely unavailable. But during Hampton's senior year, he finds himself becoming aware of a disconnect between his vision of the world and Blaine's outlook on life. Hampton thinks of himself as slow, but he's starting to realize that it's not because he's stupid; instead, he mulls things over. Unlike Blaine, Hampton has trouble putting his thoughts into words on the spot.
Every single player on that football field locked up stiff as them wax figures they got over in the Pawtuska Wild West Wax Museum. Made quite a picture, the stadium lights blazing overhead like fractured stars and the football froze slick and hard as a rocket against the night sky, our outside linebacker's fingers stretching just an inch too short to do a thing but let it fly over. I had to admit it was a thing of pure beauty, that pass, even if it was the enemy quarterback that thrown it. Tight spiral. Perfect arc. That boy had talent. But, sorry to say, it wasn't going to be enough. Not with me freezing time like I could.
Course, time didn't really stop. I didn't wave no magic wand or poof out a cloud of fairy dust or crank up some science-fiction machine with spinning gears and flashing lights on it. Thing was, I'd focus so hard that I'd squinch everything down so it seemed like time froze just long enough for me to look and see what I'd have to do next. That was my talent, the one and only thing I knew how to do better than anyone else around.
Once upon a twice,Children will relate to "riskarascal" Jam, who thinks the grown-ups are no fun and are overreacting with their numerous "preycautions." For their part, parents and teachers will enjoy reading Once Upon a Twice out loud; it rolls off the tongue much like Margaret Mahy's recent book, Bubble Trouble.
In the middle of the nice,
The moon was on the rice
And the Mice were scoutaprowl...
They runtunnel through the riddle—
Secret ruts hid inbetwiddle—
But one mousling jams the middle!
Whilst he goofiddles, others howl:
"Who's the holdup? What's the matter?"
Night's qui-etiquette is shattered!
Great idea, good target audience, so why am I not completely on board this train? Only that after The True Story of the Three Little Pigs by A. Wolf, and The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales, I expect to be dazzled by Scieska's imagination. I know I'm holding him to an unfair standard, yet it's one he has set himself. The Trucktown books are delightful, but they're just a little too commercial and even ordinary for me. They remind me of the Thomas the Tank Engine books, only with greater craftsmanship.
The trucks in Trucktown are recurring characters; not surprisingly, most of them resemble small boys (and a few girls). Other key ingredients are lots of action in the form of crashing and bashing, the closely related factor of crashing and bashing words that are fun to shout, and humor along the lines of the Three Stooges. Yep, the guy knows his audience! So, for example, in Truckery Rhymes we get things like this:
Three LOUD trucks.
Three LOUD trucks.
See how they ZOOM.
See how they ZOOM.
They all jumped over the muck and goo.
They skidded and screeched and their mufflers blew.
Did you ever see such a crazy crew?
As three LOUD trucks.
Three LOUD trucks.
As you can see, this particular entry in the series is a set of poems that parody well-known Mother Goose rhymes. One question I have is whether the kids listening to this know the original rhymes and get the connection, or whether that joke is mostly for parent readers. It might be fun to read the two side by side, letting children in on the joke.
As is often the case with a series, some of the rhymes are hampered by the inclusion of character names. If you don't know the characters from reading other books in the series, will you be able to relate to the Trucktown nursery rhymes? Another question Scieska seems to face is just how many things can trucks do, especially if your goal is almost always to have them crash?Wrecker Rosie sat on a wall.The three illustrators involved in this project are highly gifted. Each truck has a face and a personality, which isn't that easy to render, when you think about it. The colorful, slightly cartoonish art suits the good cheer and high action in the Trucktown books.
Wrecker Rosie made it all fall.
All the town's tow trucks
And all the town's rigs...
Did whatever Rosie said after that.
He shrugged his shoulders,In a day when "do your own thing" has permeated our culture, it's actually a risk to write a book like this one, with a message about doing your duty. What impact does fulfilling your responsibilities have on the lives of others? Read about Jane Yolen's dancing scarecrow for a new take on a very old question.
And a grin
Just like a corn row,
And as thin,
Broke out along
His painted face.
He gave a leap—
And left his place.
Zero is...the sleds on the hillside when the snow turns to slush....And perhaps my favorite:
Zero is...the blossoms in the garden just before the buds open.
Zero is...the kites in the sky once the wind stops blowing.There are very few great picture books about math, but I'm going to put Franco and Arihara's book right next to Schwartz and Kellogg's How Much Is a Million and Hutchins and Denton's A Second Is a Hiccup on my bookshelf.
Paul's book is personable and pleasant; it is also a focused guide to the craft of picture book writing. Up until now, the only good book I've found about picture book writing is Uri Shulevitz's Writing with Pictures, and that's really directed at illustrators. The topic is generally addressed as a chapter or two in longer books about writing for children—which isn't enough page time to provide sufficient guidance.Oh, that's easy for him, I thought. His life is full of exciting adventures. He races motorcycles. He skydives.
I slumped lower into my seat, feeling snail-small....
Where was the drama in my life?
Who would buy a book, I wondered, about the shortest route between home and school, or how to make play dough, or stretch a pound of hamburger into dinner for six, or how to sew?
HOW TO SEW!
Just like in a cartoon, a lightbulb went on in my head.
Sewing!
I don't sew buttons. I don't sew hems or mend rips. I sew patchwork—quilts and pillows, dresses and toys, curtains and Christmas decorations. Once I even covered an entire room in tiny fabric squares. I couldn't wait to get home and start on Eight Hands Round: A Patchwork Alphabet.
...I thought my stories were so fabulous that an editor would call me with an offer as soon as she read them. When months later my stories finally returned with form rejection letters, I convinced myself these editors didn't know what they were missing.Fortunately, the now-successful picture book author is willing to share the subsequent results of her study with the rest of us. Paul addresses topics including story concept, plotting and characterization, strong first lines and titles, the minimal language of a picture book, rhythm and rhyme, practicing with a dummy book, researching the market, and many others. I especially like her chapter titled "The Importance of Word Count," in which she provides sixteen strategies for paring picture book text.
After many form rejection letters (I'm a slow learner), it dawned on me—I had serious learning to do.
The Woodpecker Man began to sweep the triangle back and forth over the garden, like a water diviner searching for a hidden spring. They could see his face now, drawn and sharp, with sunken cheeks between a long pointed nose and thin, bloodless lips that seemed to be muttering to an invisible companion. Slowly he hopped forward, his fingers curled tightly round the triangle's base, the woodpeckers fluttering in his wake. As he passed the triangle across the back of the house, it began to twitch. The Woodpecker Man froze and slowly raised his head. Holding it at arm's length, he licked a finger and ran it lightly over the three sides. There was a low humming in the air. On the bedside table the wand began to vibrate, as if someone had switched on a little battery inside it. The Woodpecker Man stared up at their window, took off his hat, brushed it with his arm and bowed. George pulled Sylvie back, frightened.A few minutes later:
The kitchen door was scraped open. There was a fluttery whoomph in the air, like the sound of a train plunging into a tunnel, fast and feathery. Something fell onto the kitchen floor—a mug or a plate—then a whole sideboard full seemed to smash to the ground. The air below was filled with beating wings. The wand began to buzz again, as if sending out a signal. Sylvie ran across the room.Another intriguing aspect of the book is that even when a human can understand what animals are saying, the "words" are appropriately alien, an odd kind of poetry. For example, the fox tells Sylvie,
"He know it's here. Quick, George, the trapdoor, before they find their way up."
George scrambled over, and together they began to pull on the rope. Below, they could hear the Woodpecker Man hopping through the room, and the scratch of birds' feet as they followed him down the corridor towards the stairs.
You gloamcubI was not surprised to learn that Tim Binding had written two adult novels before writing this one. Sylvie and the Songman is definitely for children, but it is eerie and thought-provoking and rich, much more literary than some of the newer children's books that read like Saturday morning cartoons. The kid who will curl up in a quiet place with this book and luxuriate in Sylvie's adventures will never feel the same about music—or animal songs—again.
I teeth you I blood the ground
We pad paw we snout the trotting ground
We leg the mufflesongs