“Grandma’s been staying with us since she got sick,” reads the opening line of The Bird Feeder, which gently ushers readers into a difficult, necessary story. “That means now I can visit with her anytime I want,” reads the next line, letting the reader know that, while this story might be sad, there are also lovely moments ahead—promise.
The narrator loves their grandmother, so the new arrangement is a welcome change. Together, they watch the bird feeder outside her window and create drawings of the birds they see. They especially admire the cardinals, which are Grandma’s favorite. Then Grandma moves to a new home. “Do you remember when I told you about the hospice?” asks the child’s mother, giving readers the opportunity to learn as well. “You told me it’s where Grandma will go when she needs to be more comfortable,” the narrator answers.
The child brings the bird feeder to the hospice so that Grandma can watch the birds through her new window. They continue to watch birds and draw, but they also enjoy bowls of purple Jell-O and visits from a therapy dog, and a pair of cardinals build a nest in the tree near the feeder. The days pass quietly and eventually, Grandma dies. “I’m glad Grandma saw the baby birds,” the narrator says. “I’m sad she won’t see them leave their nest.”
Few books handle death and dying as gracefully as The Bird Feeder. Author Andrew Larsen and illustrator Dorothy Leung don’t shy away from the realities of a hospice facility, including a nurse with gloves and a stethoscope, and a hospital bed with guardrails that nonetheless looks comfortable and homey. “I thought [the hospice] would be scary. But it’s not,” the narrator reveals. “It smells like pancakes.” Particularly poignant is the spread where the narrator and their mother say goodbye to Grandma as she sleeps, her lips turned down and eyes closed. The narrator sees three baby birds in the nest outside and squeezes their grandmother’s hand three times.
Being present with someone who is dying can be one of life’s most remarkable experiences, and The Bird Feeder avoids portraying death as something that happens invisibly or behind closed doors. Larsen and Leung depict a difficult subject with dignity, leaving readers with a reminder that we can continue to remember and honor our loved ones, even after they are no longer with us.
Few books handle death and dying as gracefully as The Bird Feeder, a difficult, necessary story that contains many moments of loveliness and poignancy.
Two of America’s most distinguished figures in children’s literature combine their formidable talents to create a moving biography of the great Maya Angelou. In Maya’s Song, Newbery Honor author Renée Watson (Piecing Me Together) chronicles the pivotal milestones and emotional touchstones of Angelou’s extraordinary life in a series of lyrical free verse poems, lavishly illustrated with four-time Caldecott Honor recipient Bryan Collier’s vibrant watercolor and collage artwork. The result, like Angelou herself, is an American treasure.
In addition to plays, essays and poetry, Angelou penned seven autobiographical works, and it would be a challenge for any biographer to encompass all the details of her complex, eventful life. Watson handles this challenge easily in a 48-page picture book format.
Watson’s beautiful, heartfelt poems provide young readers with both historical and emotional context, while a concluding timeline provides factual highlights. In 1993, Angelou became the first woman and first Black person to present an original poem at a presidential inauguration. She achieved another first in 2022, when her likeness became the first portrait of a Black woman to be featured on the U.S. quarter.
Watson’s exquisite poems are enhanced by Collier’s evocative art. In his illustrator’s note, Collier (All Because You Matter) invites readers to examine the way he uses color, especially blue, to illuminate Angelou’s tumultuous childhood, which included a devastating sexual assault by her mother’s boyfriend. The trauma she experienced and the man’s subsequent murder left Angelou mute for five years. It’s impossible to tell Angelou’s life story without this event. Watson does so with sensitivity, telling readers that “When Maya was seven years old, / her mother’s boyfriend / hurt her body, hurt her soul,” placing the focus on Angelou’s recovery through literature, poetry and the love of her family, especially her grandmother and brother.
Angelou was many things: a poet, a dancer, a singer, a world traveler, an award-winning author and a civil rights activist who counted figures such as James Baldwin and Martin Luther King Jr. as friends. Most of all, she was an inspiration. In her author’s note, Watson describes being moved to tears the first time she heard Angelou speak. “I have held Maya Angelou’s words close to me my whole life,” she writes. “Her words guide me, heal me, inspire me.” Young readers who meet Angelou through Maya’s Song will surely look at her face on the U.S. quarter with a better understanding of the remarkable woman who earned such a tribute.
Through lyrical poems and lavish watercolor and collage artwork, Renée Watson and Bryan Collier create a moving biography of the remarkable Maya Angelou.
How would a middle schooler navigate an unspeakable tragedy? That’s the subject Liz Garton Scanlon beautifully explores in Lolo’s Light, her second middle grade novel.
Twelve-year-old Millie is thrilled when she gets her first babysitting job. Her older sister isn’t available, so Millie gets to watch their neighbors’ 4-month-old baby, Lolo. The Acostas make the job easy, putting Lolo to bed before they leave so Millie just needs to check on her. As Millie revels in her new responsibility, she feels “something shift, like that exact moment [is] the end of her being a kid and the beginning of her being real, full-grown Millie.” The night goes swimmingly and the Acostas return home to find that all is well. But the next morning, the world turns upside down, because overnight, Lolo dies of SIDS.
Garton Scanlon clearly establishes that no one is to blame for this tragedy while also conveying Millie’s ongoing feelings of shock and anguish. As Millie grieves, she is also haunted—and comforted—by a light that seems to emanate from Lolo’s bedroom window whenever Millie walks past the Acostas’ house, which Millie believes is Lolo’s presence.
Millie receives support from numerous caring adults, including her parents, her teacher, her school librarian and a therapist, as well as the Acostas. Garton Scanlon makes superb use of Millie’s seventh grade science project, hatching chicken eggs, as a focal point for Millie’s sorrow, depression and growing anxiety. As Millie’s teacher tells her, “You are trying to make sense of something very big and ancient and scary. You’re trying to process how unbelievably fragile life can be.”
Despite its heavy topic, Lolo’s Light is ultimately a hopeful book about healing that captures how much hard work, along with time, the process can require. Garton Scanlon infuses the story with perfect moments of humor, too, such as the many puns that arise during the science project scenes. (Millie’s science project group’s name, “the Egg-ceptionals,” is only the beginning.)
In writing Lolo’s Light, Garton Scanlon undertook a monumental challenge. The result is a compelling novel that glows with understanding and empathy.
Author Liz Garton Scanlon undertakes a monumental challenge in Lolo's Light. The result is a compelling novel that glows with empathy and understanding.
In books, we can find kinship, solidarity and the expression of emotions we may hesitate to share with other people. Author Sara Greenwood draws on personal experience in My Brother Is Away, a compassionate depiction of a girl working through the complex emotions she feels about her brother, who is in prison.
In straightforward and descriptive first-person narration, the girl remembers the fun times she shared with her brother, which now “feel like a faraway dream,” and deals with questions and jibes from her peers. Greenwood perfectly captures the girl’s open, expressive thoughts, but many concrete details are left vague, especially those involving the brother’s conviction. Instead, the author delves deeper into the girl’s conflicting feelings: “Why did my brother do that awful thing?” the girl wonders. “I want to shout at him, “This is all your fault!”” Greenwood nimbly avoids crafting a syrupy panacea while validating the girl’s recollections of happy, loving memories of her brother.
Artist Luisa Uribe’s illustrations reflect the girl’s fluid emotions with exceptional skill, understanding and sensitivity. Scenes set in the present use subdued, natural hues—especially grays, blues and browns—to depict falling leaves and an autumnal chill that convey how deeply the girl misses her brother as she navigates daily life without him. In contrast, flashbacks are bright and cheery, with an occasionally fantastical feel.
In one scene, the girl storms through her house in fury and Uribe tilts the room around her. The floor slopes subtly upward across the spread, while doors and art on the wall slant to the right, off-kilter. Toward the end of the book, when the girl nervously waits to see her brother in prison, Uribe places her in the center of an otherwise white, empty page; on the opposite page is the closed door her brother will walk through. Throughout, Uribe incorporates small, everyday details—a laundry hamper with a lid slightly ajar in the brother’s empty bedroom, the girl’s red eyeglasses and matching red sneakers—which give a sense of softness and safety.
In an author’s note, Greenwood professes her hope that “this book feels like a friend” to children with incarcerated loved ones. “I want you to know you aren’t alone,” she writes. My Brother Is Away is not a practical guidebook for families with an incarcerated family member, nor does it explain the details of unlawful acts, the justice system or imprisonment and release. It simply reminds readers that, for every person who is incarcerated, there is also a family and a community whose lives have also been changed—and it reaches out with comfort and acceptance to the littlest ones who are witnessing and living those stories.
My Brother Is Away reminds readers that, for every person who is incarcerated, there is also a family whose lives have also been changed.
When a house appears at the end of Juniper Drive, Jacqueline “Jac” Price-Dupree’s reaction isn’t what you’d expect from most 12-year-olds, but Jac isn’t like most 12-year-olds. Ever since she was diagnosed with cancer five years ago, Jac has been haunted by the fear that it might return, so when Jac sees the house, she wonders if it’s a hallucination. If it’s a symptom. The house fills Jac with terror even before she and her friends wind up trapped inside it—and before Jac discovers that the house knows her name.
Ally Malinenko’s This Appearing House is a surreal and horror-filled story about a girl who must confront her deepest fears and chart a path toward a new future.
Tell us about Jac and where she’s at when we meet her. Jac is a pretty anxious kid. She’s been through a lot, and she is nearing her five-year anniversary from her cancer diagnosis. She’s still NED—no evidence of disease. Fun fact: We don’t use cured when talking about cancer, because there is no cure. There is only no evidence of disease.
She’s also pretty angry. She’s tired of her mother worrying and hovering. She’s tired of the elephant of a recurrence in the corner of the room all the time. She’s pretty lonely, and at the start of the book, she’s asking the universe a pretty big question. She wants to know if she’ll get what everyone else gets—a full, long life—or if she’ll die young. It’s a lot for a 12-year-old.
Jac’s story is a pretty clear response to some of the cultural narratives that exist around illnesses such as cancer. For readers who might not be familiar, could you briefly describe those narratives? Why was it important to give Jac a different story? I was diagnosed with cancer when I was 37, and within the first couple of days I realized that warrior language (“you can fight this/you can beat this”) made me very tired very quickly. Because the truth was I wasn’t a warrior. I wasn’t brave. I was just doing what the doctors told me to do and I was hoping for the best.
Having a major disease like cancer changes you. It fundamentally splits your life into “the before” and “the after,” and while that gets smoother over time, the split is always there, like a scar. I wanted Jac to struggle with learning how to let go, because it was something that I struggled with. Letting go and moving on are not always the same thing. I also wanted to show that Jac was angry, and that anger in the face of an unjust world was a perfectly OK response to have.
Everyone looks to people who have been through trauma as some sort of inspiration. But we’re not. We’re just people that something happened to. We’re people who got unlucky and then very lucky.
“We teach kids how to fight monsters so that when a monster eventually turns up in their life, they’ll know what to do.”
This book isn’t your first foray into writing horror. What keeps you coming back to this genre? I loved reading horror when I was younger. I started with Stephen King at much too young of an age, when I would sneak a page or two off my oldest sister’s bookshelf, so I’m definitely a horror fan.
I think I keep writing horror because I respect it. Horror trusts that kids can handle it. We adults do so much gatekeeping and shielding with kids and I always wonder why. Kids know the world is scary. Look at the last few years alone! We don’t do them any justice if we pretend otherwise.
Middle grade horror makes one promise: It will take you into the dark but it will always always always bring you back to the light. We teach kids how to fight monsters so that when a monster eventually turns up in their life, they’ll know what to do. Honestly, it’s an honor.
Where did this haunted house originate? Haunted houses are typically metaphors for diseased minds, but I wanted this to be a metaphor for a diseased body. And I knew early on that the house was going to be there specifically for Jac, in this exact moment of her life.
What are some of your favorite haunted house narratives? Did they influence the house in this book? Growing up, I was obsessed with The Amityville Horror, but rereading it as an adult just makes me sad to see how awful and abusive the father is. That’s an interesting example, because I feel like it’s the most well known of the economic horror subgenre—the “we bought this house and it’s haunted but we don’t have any money to leave” plot.
I am also a huge Shirley Jackson fan (who isn’t?), so I have always been a fan of The Haunting of Hill House. In fact, the opening paragraph of This Appearing House is an homage to the opening paragraph of The Haunting of Hill House.
Jac experiences a lot of truly terrifying—and incredibly imaginative—horrors when she’s trapped in the House. Which one are you most proud of? Which one was the scariest for you to write? I’m probably most proud of the teeth scene. I had to fight to keep it in the book because my publisher thought it was too scary. In the original version, Hazel was really choking, so this version is a little softened, but yes, plates full of teeth, mouthfuls of teeth. I loved it.
The scariest one? At one point Jac is home and Hazel comes over to visit and Jac’s mother is acting very, very strange. It’s a scene that starts with a plate of eggs and ends with the kids running for their lives. That one was probably the most unnerving to write because you don’t want to have your mother, of all people, turn monstrous.
“Everyone looks to people who have been through trauma as some sort of inspiration. But we’re not. We’re just people that something happened to. We’re people who got unlucky and then very lucky.”
Tell us about the research that went into this book. Were you able to interview kids whose experiences are similar to Jac’s or talk to medical professionals who work with those kids? Even though I am NED (no evidence of disease), I still go for monthly treatment. I spoke with some nurses about their experiences with kids. A lot of what they had to say I gave to Jac, like this idea that kids want to talk about it because they’re scared, but their parents, who are also deeply afraid, tend to brush away those conversations. But they need to happen.
Jac’s mom doesn’t get a ton of “screen time,” so to speak, but her interactions with Jac are so impactful. What do you hope kids and grown-ups will take away from her character and her relationship with Jac? I think that Jac’s mom has a lot of unprocessed trauma, just like her daughter, and her way of dealing with it is to pretend it didn’t happen while simultaneously, consistently, fearing that it’s happening again. She goes through a checklist of symptoms when she sees Jac stumble, and that’s exhausting for her daughter.
I hope that it comes across that Jac’s mom does this out of love and fear, even though it’s probably not the best course of action. I want people to sympathize with her. Like her daughter, Jac’s mom also stood on the edge of that abyss.
I know what it’s like to love someone who is going through a life-threatening illness. Both of my parents had cancer, and I remember my father telling me, when my mother was diagnosed, that it was easier to be the patient than the caretaker. After watching what my husband went through when I was diagnosed, I think my dad was right. I hope that people are kind to Jac’s mom and see that, by the end of the book, she’s really trying.
This was an intense and emotional book to read, so I can only imagine what it must have been like to write. How did you take care of yourself as you worked on this book? Does crying on the floor count as taking care of yourself? I kid. I think the one saving grace I had was that I had some distance between my diagnosis and writing this. I couldn’t have done it right after I was diagnosed. My whole world felt upside down. But with some distance, I realized that I had some things I wanted to share. A story I wanted to tell. Because, truthfully, even though it’s on the book jacket, the word cancer is only used once in the book. Because I never thought it was a “cancer book.” To me, it’s about trauma. About the elasticity of trauma and the work that goes into healing that trauma. That was the story I wanted to tell.
What do you hope kids who feel trapped in their own Houses take away from Jac’s story? I hope they feel seen. I hope that they know that everything you experience, even the scary things—and maybe especially the scary things—makes you who you are. I hope they know that they might be different now, but that’s OK. All of it matters. And I hope that they remember that even if all the movies and books always depict the sick kid dying, that sometimes, the characters live. Just like they lived.
Did you trick or treat as a kid? If so, what was your favorite candy to receive? If we were to trick-or-treat at your house this year, what would we find in our buckets? Halloween has always been my favorite holiday and I definitely went trick-or-treating, probably longer than most kids! Milky Ways are definitely my favorite chocolate, but I do love Starburst. Especially the orange ones. If you went trick-or-treating at my house, it’s M&M’S for everyone!
If you found yourself in the opposite of a haunted House—a house filled with joy and delight and serenity—what would await you inside? Oh, I love this question. It would be filled with books and comfy nooks for naps and endless cups of tea and bottles of wine and all the best comfort food. It would always be dusk so the light would soften everything and the temperature would be just chilly enough so that you would want to snuggle in a blanket. And the house would know exactly what kind of music I’d want to hear without my even asking.
Author photo of Ally Malinenko courtesy of Bill Wadman.
Ally Malinenko’s This Appearing House is a surreal and horror-filled story about a girl who must confront her deepest fears and chart a path toward a new future.
A fresh and cleverly conceived take on the beloved 1985 film The Breakfast Club, Invisible is a colorful and engaging tale written by first-time graphic novel author Christina Diaz Gonzalez and illustrated by Gabriela Epstein (Claudia and the New Girl).
Diaz writes in both English and Spanish, the languages spoken by her archetypal characters. There’s George Rivera, the brain; Sara Domínguez, the loner; Miguel Soto, the athlete; Dayara Gómez, the tough one; and Nico Piñeda, the rich kid. Their heritage is linked to different places, including Puerto Rico, Cuba, Mexico, the Dominican Republic and Venezuela, but since they all speak Spanish, the kids keep getting lumped together at Conrad Middle School by fellow students and school administrators alike.
As Invisible opens, it’s happened again: Principal Powell won’t earn a community service initiative trophy unless 100% of students participate, so he informs George that he’ll be spending mornings with “students like you” helping grouchy Mrs. Grouser in the school cafeteria. The five kids greet each other with wariness that soon becomes bickering as they resist the idea they could actually have anything in common. Sure, they’re all varying degrees of bilingual, and yes, they’ve all been stereotyped because of it. But otherwise? Pfft! But when an opportunity to really help someone arises—one that will require creative thinking plus significant subterfuge—the kids have to make a decision. Can they work together to achieve a meaningful goal?
Diaz Gonzalez’s previous novel, Concealed, won the 2022 Edgar Award for best juvenile title, and she builds wonderful suspense here as the students strive to find common ground. Meanwhile, Epstein’s art conveys the group’s swirling emotions, from Dayara’s frustration (ugh, homework!) to George’s embarrassment (oh, crushes!) to everyone’s wide-eyed worry that they’ll be caught breaking Mrs. Grouser’s rules.
In an author’s note, Diaz Gonzalez explains that she knows what it’s like to be a student learning English as a second language “who may feel a little lost . . . when surrounded by words that they don’t yet understand.” Her own experiences fueled her desire to create “a single book that could be read and enjoyed no matter which language you [speak].”
With Invisible, she and Epstein have done just that. The book’s visual context clues and helpful dialogue bubbles (with solid outlines to indicate speech and dashed outlines for translations) bolster an already meaningful coming-of-age tale. Invisible celebrates individuality and community while transcending language barriers.
★ Twin Cities
Must a border also be a barrier? In their first graphic novel for middle grade readers, Jose Pimienta compassionately explores this question through the eyes of 12-year-old twins Teresa and Fernando.
The twins live with their parents in Mexicali, Mexico, just over the border that runs between the U.S. and Mexico. For years, they’ve happily been classmates at school and BFFs at home. They spend the summer after sixth grade in a bonanza of togetherness, filling their days with basketball and movies and tree-climbing, all portrayed by Pimienta in a kinetic, wordless double-page spread that hums with the joy of a strong sibling bond.
But the twins’ paths diverge when seventh grade begins. Teresa goes to school in Calexico, California, while Fernando stays in Mexicali. Fernando has noticed that Teresa has begun to rebuff their joint nickname, but it’s not until the first day of class that he realizes she is also eager to put space between them, to try new things alone.
Pimienta uses evocative, parallel-panel sequences to illustrate the twins’ vastly different experiences, in different countries, just several miles apart. Fernando’s friends, Tony and Victor, join his sister at school in Calexico, leaving Fernando lonely and adrift—and excited to see Teresa when she gets home each day. Teresa, however, feels stifled by her brother’s attention. She has so much homework, and she wants to do well so that she can go to college and perhaps even work in America someday. Tension builds between the twins as they contend with new friends and chores-obsessed parents.
Middle school is never easy, but it’s even harder when you think you might lose your best friend for reasons you don’t quite understand. In Twin Cities, Pimienta addresses this possibility from a place of sensitivity, sympathy and personal curiosity: In an author’s note, they reveal that they also grew up in Mexicali and were offered—but declined—the option to study in the U.S. “I still wonder what would have happened had I made a different choice,” they write.
That’s just one revelation among many to be found in Twin Cities’ notably substantive back matter, which also includes Pimienta’s musings on siblinghood and identity, character sketches, a map of both border towns and more. From start to finish, Twin Cities is a superbly crafted work of art and emotion that marks Pimienta as a creator to watch.
Will grumpy teachers, evolving friendships and mountains of homework spell disaster and doom for these heroes, or will lunchroom hijinks, video game extravaganzas and amazing discoveries prevail?
Breathtaking picture books, heartwarming chapter books and enthralling middle grade books await young readers—or anyone who enjoys a good story—in our list of most anticipated children’s books this fall.
Sam’s Super Seats by Keah Brown, illustrated by Sharee Miller Kokila | August 23
Author Keah Brown created the viral hashtag #DisabledAndCute to challenge widespread misperceptions and representations of disabled people, themes she also explored in The Pretty One, her essay collection for adult readers. In Sam’s Super Seats, her first picture book, Brown introduces Sam, a girl who has cerebral palsy, which means that sometimes she needs to sit down and rest. Engaging illustrations by Sharee Miller capture a fun shopping trip to the mall that Sam shares with her friends before the first day of school. Cheerful and conversational, Sam’s Super Seats is an intersectional addition to the back-to-school picture book canon.
Patchwork by Matt de la Peña, illustrated by Corinna Luyken Putnam | August 30
In recent decades, the Newbery Medal has typically honored longer works of children’s literature, so author Matt de la Peña defied both convention and expectation by winning the 2016 Newbery for Last Stop on Market Street, a picture book that also earned illustrator Christian Robinson a Caldecott Honor. De la Peña has been on a hot streak ever since, publishing two more books with Robinson (Carmela Full of Wishes and Milo Imagines the World) as well as Love, which features art by Loren Long.
In the meantime, illustrator Corinna Luyken has established a name for herself via thoughtful picture books, including the bestsellers My Heart and The Book of Mistakes, her 2017 debut,as well as through her work with writers such as Kate Hoefler (Nothing in Common) and Marcy Campbell (Something Good). Luyken and de la Peña’s first picture book together, Patchwork is a poetic ode to possibility that’s perfect for readers who love de la Peña’s lyricism and Luyken’s effortlessly impressionistic art.
A Taste of Magic by J. Elle Bloomsbury | August 30
We don’t like to pat ourselves on the back too much, but we did highlight author J. Elle’s debut novel, a YA fantasy called Wings of Ebony, as one of our most anticipated books of 2021, and the book went on to become an instant bestseller and establish Elle as one of the most exciting new voices in YA. So we were thrilled when Elle’s first book for younger readers, A Taste of Magic, was announced. The story of a young witch named Kyana who enters a baking contest in the hopes of using the prize money to save her magical school, A Taste of Magic looks enchantingly scrumptious.
Magnolia Flower by Zora Neale Hurston, adapted by Ibram X. Kendi, illustrated by Loveis Wise HarperCollins | September 6
Earlier this year, HarperCollins announced an ambitious new project: National Book Award-winning author and scholar Ibram X. Kendi would adapt six works by Zora Neale Hurston for young readers. Hurston is best known today as a novelist, but she also wrote short stories and collected folk tales as an anthropologist throughout the South. In this first volume, Kendi’s adaptation of one such short story is paired with vibrant illustrations by Loveis Wise, a rising star who has recently illustrated picture books by Ibi Zoboi (The People Remember) and Jeanne Walker Harvey (Ablaze With Color). We can’t think of two people more perfectly suited to bring Hurston’s work to a new generation of readers.
Spy School: Project X by Stuart Gibbs Simon & Schuster | September 6
In the decade since middle grade author Stuart Gibbs published Spy School, a mystery novel about a boy named Ben who attends the CIA’s top secret Academy of Espionage, Gibbs has written nine more books in his Spy School series. What’s more, he’s also released books in four additional blockbuster series, publishing 14 titles across them. This year, Gibbs publishes his 10th Spy School novel, the opaquely titled Spy School: Project X, in which Ben will go head to head with his longtime nemesis. How is it possible, we ask, to create such consistently thrilling, entertaining reads at such a rapid pace while also getting the recommended eight hours of sleep every night? Our current working theory involves clones, but if Gibbs wants to enlighten us, he knows how to find us.
Farmhouse by Sophie Blackall Little, Brown | September 13
In the 84-year history of the Caldecott Medal, only a handful of illustrators, including Barbara Cooney, David Wiesner, Leo and Diane Dillon and Robert McCloskey, have won multiple medals. Author-illustrator Sophie Blackall joined their rarified ranks in 2019 when she won her second medal for Hello Lighthouse. (She won her first in 2016 for Finding Winnie.) To create Farmhouse, Blackall incorporates mixed media into her illustrations as she tells a remarkably personal story about a family and their home.
Odder by Katherine Applegate, illustrated by Charles Santoso Feiwel & Friends | September 20
Author Katherine Applegate has been turning kids into readers with fantastical stories filled with heart for more than two decades, and we’re fortunate that the 2013 Newbery Medalist shows no sign of slowing down. In order to know whether you’ll love this novel in verse about a young sea otter whose life is changed at the Monterey Bay Aquarium in California, you really only need to look at the cover. Seriously, we dare you to attempt to resist its charms.
The Door of No Return by Kwame Alexander Little, Brown | September 27
Poet Kwame Alexander took the world of children’s literature by storm when he won the 2015 Newbery Medal for The Crossover, a novel in verse. Not content to rest on his laurels, Alexander won a Newbery Honor in 2020 for The Undefeated, a picture book for which illustrator Kadir Nelson also won the Caldecott Medal. The Door of No Return sees Alexander take another exciting, ambitious step forward, this time into historical fiction. The novel opens in West Africa in 1860 and follows a boy named Kofi who is swept up into the unstoppable current of history.
Meanwhile Back on Earth . . . by Oliver Jeffers Philomel | October 4
Author-illustrator Oliver Jeffers is one of the most successful picture book creators working today. He’s sold more than 12 million copies of titles that include Stuck, The Heart and the Bottle and, of course, The Day the Crayons Quit, which features text by author Drew Daywalt paired with Jeffers’ unmistakable artwork. Meanwhile Back on Earth continues a theme Jeffers has been exploring since his 2017 book, Here We Are, portraying a parent introducing their children to some aspect of human existence. In this case, Jeffers addresses the long history of conflict among people.
A Rover’s Story by Jasmine Warga Balzer + Bray | October 4
If you loved Wall-E and Peter Brown’s The Wild Robot, or if looking at the recently released photographs from the James Webb Space Telescope filled you with awe and wonder, you won’t want to miss Jasmine Warga’s middle grade novel A Rover’s Story. Warga has a knack for plumbing the emotional depths of a story, so imbuing a Mars rover with humanity and heart seems like exactly the sort of new challenge we love to see authors take on.
The Real Dada Mother Goose by Jon Scieszka, illustrated by Julia Rothman Candlewick | October 11
Author Jon Scieszka began his kidlit career with three postmodern picture books: The True Story of the 3 Little Pigs!, illustrated by Lane Smith; The Frog Prince, Continued, illustrated by Steven Johnson; and The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales, another collaboration with Smith that earned a Caldecott Honor. In the three decades since, Scieszka has brought his signature humor to chapter books, middle grade novels and a memoir. He even served as the first National Ambassador for Young People’s Literature. He comes full circle with The Real Dada Mother Goose, partnering with illustrator Julia Rothman to offer a new take on another beloved work of children’s literature, Blanche Fisher Wright’s The Real Mother Goose. We can practically hear the storytime giggles now.
I Don’t Care by Julie Fogliano, illustrated by Molly Idle and Juana Martinez-Neal Neal Porter | October 11
Picture books illustrated by multiple illustrators aren’t unheard of, though in such cases, each illustrator typically works individually, creating separate images and giving each page a different look and feel. It’s much less common for illustrators to truly collaborate and create artwork together, as Caldecott Medalists Molly Idle and Juana Martinez-Neal did with I Don’t Care, a quirky ode to friendship with text by bestselling author Julie Fogliano. We hope their work inspires more collaborative picture books in the future.
Our Friend Hedgehog: A Place to Call Home by Lauren Castillo Knopf | October 18
Caldecott Honor recipient Lauren Castillo published Our Friend Hedgehog: The Story of Us in May 2020—little more than two years ago, and yet it feels like centuries have passed since then. Castillo completed our Meet the Author questionnaire in February of that year. “What message would you like to send to young readers?” we asked her. “Be brave,” she wrote, with no way of knowing how much bravery we were all about to need. In Our Friend Hedgehog: A Place to Call Home, Castillo returns at long last to the woodsy world of Hedgehog and her friends for more stories of adventure and friendship, and we can’t wait to join her there.
The Three Billy Goats Gruff by Mac Barnett, illustrated by Jon Klassen Orchard | October 18
Author Mac Barnett and illustrator Jon Klassen first collaborated in 2012. The result of that collaboration, Extra Yarn, won a Caldecott Honor. They’ve since created five more picture books together, including Sam and Dave Dig a Hole, which won another Caldecott Honor, and the Shapes trilogy (Triangle, Square and Circle), all featuring Barnett’s dry wit and Klassen’s deceptively simple art. The duo will enter ambitious new territory this fall as they launch a planned series of reenvisioned fairy tales, beginning with the Norwegian story of The Three Billy Goats Gruff.
The Tryout by Christina Soontornvat, illustrated by Joanna Cacao Graphix | November 1
In 2021, Christina Soontornvat joined an exclusive club, becoming one of only a few authors to receive Newbery recognition for two different books in the same year. What’s more, Soontornvat’s two Newbery Honors were for two very different books, a fantasy novel (A Wish in the Dark) and a work of narrative nonfiction (All Thirteen). But Soontornvat has always had range, publishing fiction and nonfiction picture books and a chapter book series in addition to her middle grade titles. With The Tryout, Soontornvat takes on two more new categories in one book: graphic novels and memoir. Accompanied by illustrations from webcomic artist Joanna Cacao, Soontornvat tells a story drawn from her own middle school experiences that fans of Jerry Craft’s New Kid and Shannon Hale’s Real Friends will enjoy.
Sophia’s next-door neighbor, Mrs. Goldman, knits hats for just about everybody she knows, and Sophia helps by making the pompoms that go on top. “Keeping keppies warm is our mitzvah,” Mrs. Goldman tells Sophia, explaining that “a mitzvah is a good deed.” When Mrs. Goldman gives her own hat away, Sophia wants to knit her something special, but knitting turns out to be harder than she realized. I love this sweet introduction to the Jewish concept of mitzvot. Author Michelle Edwards’ text has lots of delightful little details, like when Sophia notices that a hat she and Mrs. Goldman began knitting together many years ago still smells like chicken soup. But what gets me every time is Edwards’ description of Sophia’s emotions when she realizes the perfect solution to her knitting woes: “Sophia feels her heart grow bigger and lighter, like a balloon.” If ever a book were a mitzvah, it would be A Hat for Mrs. Goldman.
—Stephanie, Associate Editor
America
Jean Baudrillard was a French philosopher whose obsessive analysis of the effects of unchecked consumerism becomes more prescient with each passing day. In his 1988 essay collection, America, Baudrillard follows Route 66 across the United States toward Death Valley, California, as he seeks to answer a seemingly simple question: What makes an American? The thing that synthesizes American identity, he finds, is faith: from the evangelical fervor of Salt Lake City, to Las Vegas’ ascendant belief in the dollar, to the ever-elusive future of San Franciscan tech lords. Everywhere he looks, Baudrillard finds sprawling cities not built on trade or natural resources but suspended on dust clouds, spinning rivers of capital and an unshakable belief in American mastery over nature, by whatever means. Even if you disagree with Baudrillard’s funny, sometimes biting analysis of the United States, his surprisingly nuanced poetry, complex worldview and foreign perspective still make for a unique and engaging read during these dynamic times.
—Anthony, Editorial Intern
Open Book
Growing up in the 1990s and 2000s, I knew that Jessica Simpson had started out singing in church. What surprised me when I read her memoir, Open Book, however, was how much Simpson’s Christian faith still matters to her all these years later. The book opens with the day she decided to stop drinking, after years of using alcohol to quell her anxiety through tough relationships and even tougher career breaks. As she gets honest with friends about her dependency on alcohol, the group decides to pray together to validate Simpson’s decision. This moment of honesty and faith is a good entry point, since these values are Simpson’s guiding lights throughout her memoir. She’s honest with readers about childhood sexual abuse, the demands of record labels, her marriage to Nick Lachey, her relationships with family and the wild ups and downs that have shaped her life’s terrain. At every point, Simpson’s Baptist roots ground her and keep her from straying too far from her authentic self.
—Christy, Associate Editor
The Sparrow
First published in 1996, Mary Doria Russell’s science fiction classic The Sparrow examines organized religion and faith on a cosmic scale. Spanning the years 2014 to 2060, the novel follows an interstellar mission led by skilled linguist and Jesuit priest Emilio Sandoz to discover the source of hauntingly beautiful music that was detected on a planet four light-years away. Accompanied by a motley yet qualified group of friends, Emilio feels called by God to explore the planet and make contact with its alien inhabitants, the music makers. But as the trip unfolds, the group’s well-meaning intentions have catastrophic consequences that cause Emilio to have a crisis of faith. Raised Catholic, Russell left the church at an early age, identified as an atheist for several years and later converted to Judaism. This background, combined with her skills as a multilinguist and her career in paleoanthropology, provide a unique perspective from which to tell such a rich, multifaceted story.
Uzma Jalaluddin’s enemies-to-lovers romance Hana Khan Carries On is a joyful homage to the classic 1990s rom-com You’ve Got Mail, with an Indian Canadian family’s halal restaurant subbing in for the Shop Around the Corner. Hana is our leopard-print hijab-wearing heroine, and she dreams of someday telling true stories that honor her Muslim culture and community. The local radio station where Hana interns is hyperfocused on Muslim stereotypes, so she creates an anonymous podcast to express her true thoughts. Meanwhile, her family’s business has run up against a competing restaurant, with an attractive man named Aydin leading the charge. But as romance grows and the restaurants duke it out, the heart of the novel remains with Hana. Despite microaggressions at the radio station and outright racism on the streets of Toronto, she remains strong in her culture and religion, never abandoning these parts of herself. She finds happiness by being her whole wonderful self—a lover, a fighter, a devout Muslim woman, an open-hearted storyteller and a heroine to believe in.
—Cat, Deputy Editor
Whether your own approach to religion is devout, irreverent or somewhere in between, you’ll find characters to relate to within these narratives.
After Jillian’s mom gets married, Jillian finds herself with a Brand-New Bubbe in Sarah Aronson and Ariel Landy’s vivacious picture book.
Jillian’s new Bubbe has glorious curly red hair, a mean jump shot and an upbeat attitude. Yet despite Bubbe’s fabulousness, her new stepgrandchild refuses to be charmed. Jillian already has plenty of loving women in her life: her mom; her grandmothers, Gram and Noni; and her great-grandmother, Mama-Nana. So why, Jillian wonders, would she need one more?
Faced with her daughter’s standoffishness, Jillian’s mom reminds her that “family is more than blood.” Jillian reluctantly agrees to be open to Bubbe’s overtures. Matzo ball soup turns out to hold the key, as an afternoon of cooking with Bubbe melts Jillian’s defenses. After all, who can resist a soft, fluffy matzo ball bobbing in a bowl of steaming, delicious broth?
But as she spends time with Bubbe, Jillian questions whether embracing Bubbe will leave her other grandmothers feeling left out. Several sips of soup later, Jillian realizes the perfect way to bring her whole family together. Spoiler alert: It involves more soup.
Landy accompanies Aronson’s playful prose with a clever subplot-in-pictures: Jillian’s cat initially gives Bubbe’s dog serious side-eye, but as Jillian warms to Bubbe, their pets bond too. It all culminates in a gathering of family, food and love. Three detailed soup recipes and a collection of resources for interfaith families end Brand-New Bubbe with a chef’s kiss. Mazel tov and bon appetit!
Dadaji’s Paintbrush
Rashmi Sirdeshpande and Ruchi Mhasane offer a quietly moving tale of love, loss and community in Dadaji’s Paintbrush.
In a small village in India, a little boy and his grandfather live in a house surrounded by lush trees and colorful flowers. The inside of their home is a wonderland of color, too, thanks to their artistic endeavors. Dadaji has spent countless hours teaching his grandson to paint. Some days, the pair paint together, just the two of them, while other days, they’re joined by children from the village. Grandfather and grandson are constant companions in a sweet, serene life filled with everyday marvels and expressions of love.
And then one day, the boy is left all alone. Gifted, empathetic illustrator Mhasane drains the color from the boy’s life, surrounding him instead with a palette of grays. Just one small spot of red remains: a little box that contains Dadaji’s favorite paintbrush. But the boy cannot bear to look at it, so he puts it up on a high shelf and turns away from art in an attempt to spare his aching heart.
Color makes a tentative reentry when a little girl comes knocking on the door and asks the boy to teach her to paint. Will the boy let the girl into his home and his life—and open himself up to carrying on Dadaji’s legacy?
In an author’s note, Sirdeshpande explains that Dadaji’s Paintbrush was inspired by her relationship with her late grandfather. “That feeling that the people you love will always, always be with you? That’s just how I feel,” she writes.
Together, Sirdeshpande and Mhasane have created a touching exploration of how love can deepen and grow, becoming generous enough to include others and strong enough to allow our memories to comfort and sustain us.
A Grand Day
A kaleidoscope of family fun swirls through A Grand Day, a lively grandparentstravaganza of cuddles, laughter and imagination.
In rhyming text, Jean Reidy salutes the magic of days spent with grandparents. She begins with cheery let’s-go-have-fun hugs, then progresses through a range of shared activities. The possibilities are creative (chalk painting, gardening, baking), athletic (yoga, cartwheels, dancing) and even a little mystical (magic tricks, attic expeditions, a starlit campfire). Reidy spotlights lower-energy pursuits for more laidback types, too, such as relaxing by a pond, reading and napping—crucial recharging for marshmallow-toasting time!
Illustrator Samantha Cotteril’s fascinatingly detailed and immersive 3-D artwork offers a dazzling array of elements that will reward repeat reads. Every page has a dioramic vibe, with impressively engineered cut-paper sculptures that range from massive trees to minuscule sticks of sidewalk chalk. There are patterns and textures galore, and loads of depth and color. You’ll marvel at intricate wallpaper, wooden benches, hungry cardinals descending on a bird feeder and more.
Throughout the book, characters revel in sharing their favorite endeavors, highlighting the importance of learning from one another: “Try a two-step, maybe ten. / All that’s old . . . is new again.” Vibrant elements of nature appear on every page, with sheltering trees, a backyard garden or a pond dotted with lily pads paying homage to the wider cycle of life. Reidy’s text encourage appreciation and contemplation of the world around us: “Salute the sun. / Soak in the breeze.”
A Grand Day is a visual feast of a book that will inspire readers to cherish hugs, kisses and time spent with people they love.
I’ll Go and Come Back
In Rajani LaRocca and Sara Palacios’ warmly engaging I’ll Go and Come Back, a young girl named Jyoti forges an endearing, affectionate relationship with her grandmother, Sita Pati. She learns that, when there is love, the miles cannot truly separate us.
Jyoti is excited to travel with her parents from the U.S to India, but when they arrive, she is disoriented by how different everything is, from the humid air and noisy streets to the relatives and friends that fill the family home. She’s especially lonely when her cousins leave for school each day.
But Sita Pati is at home during the day, too, and despite their language barrier (Jyoti knows only a few Tamil words, and Sita Pati doesn’t know much English), she coaxes Jyoti into having fun. They play games, create intricate rangoli designs with colored sand, dress up and cook together. Every night before bed, they sip warm milk with saffron. Gradually, their shared pursuits become their common language.
When Jyoti’s visit ends, Sita Pati helps her to see their parting not as something permanent, but rather as part of a larger continuation. “I remembered that no one in India just said ‘goodbye,'” Jyoti reflects. Instead, they say poitu varen, which means “I’ll go and come back.”
Happily, the two reunite when Sita Pati visits America the following summer. This time, it’s Sita Pati who feels out of place and Jyoti who shares her favorite activities: sidewalk chalk instead of rangoli, quesadillas instead of chapatis, and drifting off to sweet dreams after mugs of hot cocoa.
Palacios’ illustrations showcase the beautiful textures, patterns and colors of their homes, making for a captivating visual experience. She expertly conveys an astonishing range of emotions through faces comprised of simple lines and shapes. The hopscotch court that Jyoti and Sita Pati draw on the sidewalk outside Jyoti’s house incorporates floral elements similar to those in the rangoli design they made together in India, a lovely parallelism.
I’ll Go and Come Back provides an affirming perspective on our relationships with loved ones. Instead of focusing on our feelings of sadness when they depart, why not embrace the anticipation of their eventual return?
Just in time for Grandparents’ Day—a holiday officially observed on September 11 but actually celebrated whenever we’re treated to time with our wonderful family members—comes a quartet of joyful books perfect for sharing with the young and the young at heart alike.
Pura Belpré Honor author Celia C. Peréz’s Tumble is the story of Addie Ramirez, who discovers that the biological father she’s never met is part of a family of legendary professional wrestlers. It’s a complex, emotional novel about loss, self-discovery and belonging—and a warmhearted ode to the art of professional wrestling.
Here, Pérez offers a peek into her childhood diaries, where she chronicled her love of wrestling and began a writing practice that hinted at the storyteller she would one day become.
When I was in middle school, I owned one of those faux-leather-bound diaries, the kind of item that comes to mind when you think of a 1980s childhood. It had a blue cover with One Year Diary in gold script and a little clasp that locked with a tiny key. The lock and key, a thin piece of metal, gave the illusion that the book could not easily be pried open, that you could really keep snooping siblings from reading your most personal thoughts.
According to 1986 me, reading was one of my two favorite things. I was into mysteries, teen romance series like Sweet Valley High and the novels of S.E. Hinton. (Yes, one could love the Wakefield twins and Ponyboy Curtis.) Still, it came as a surprise to adult me to discover that there was a time in my life when there was something I loved even more than reading. But there, in the entry for the second day in January, I declared my true love: watching professional wrestling.
My 1986 diary is a time machine of cultural references. There are mentions of the Chicago Bears’ Super Bowl win, the Challenger explosion, the opening of Al Capone’s vault, the royal wedding of Andrew and Fergie. Prince, Madonna, Bruce Springsteen, Wham and Duran Duran, as well as Simon Le Bon’s post-Duran Duran band, Arcadia, all make appearances. And there’s wrestling. A lot of wrestling.
Occasionally, I wrote about typical adolescent things like unrequited crushes and too much homework, but I didn’t devote much space on the already limited pages to nonwrestling matters. The only mention of my birthday was squeezed in as a postscript—literally, “P.S. Today is my birthday”—at the bottom of the corresponding page, an afterthought to the more important event that was happening on May 28: wrestling at the Coconut Grove Exhibition Center!
“Perhaps I recognized that at the core of all the brawling was the thing I loved most: story.”
I wrote about WrestleMania II and The Wrestling Album, the record of songs performed by WWF stars that was released at the end of 1985 and included such classics as Junkyard Dog’s “Grab Them Cakes.” I detailed my viewing schedule: every Saturday from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m., and then at 7, 10 and 11 in the evening and on Sunday nights at 8. Apparently, out of desperation, I even watched “Hulk Hogan’s Rock ‘n’ Wrestling.”
By the end of the year, I was watching more than eight hours of wrestling every weekend. I watched anything that aired on our cableless TV, from Vince McMahon’s WWF (now the WWE) to the smaller productions coming out of different areas, or territories, of the country. On weekends in Miami, you could still watch Championship Wrestling from Florida, World Class Championship Wrestling from Texas, NWA Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling from North Carolina, and AWA wrestling from Minnesota. In one entry, I even mention a new wrestling show called G.L.O.W.
At the time, the WWF was eating through territories like Pac-Man inhaling dots. Despite its popularity and ubiquitous presence, the WWF was my least favorite of the hourlong shows I watched every weekend. It was the junky cereal in my wrestling diet.
While the smaller territories didn’t have the same flashiness or production quality as the WWF, there was something about them that appealed to me. They felt real in a way the WWF did not. Their rings felt less a stage for actors than a space for real people to settle scores. Wrestlers seemed more like everyday people. Among these were the Von Erichs, who were my favorites. (Yes, I was a member of the Von Erich Fan Club.) The villainous heels, wrestlers like Kevin Sullivan and Abdullah the Butcher, were less clownish and truly terrifying. There also seemed to be a lot more blood in the territory matches.
My childhood diary also reminded me that I kept several “wrestling notebooks,” though these have sadly been lost to time. I didn’t just fill these notebooks with profiles of wrestlers and recaps of matches; I also wrote stories in them. It wasn’t until I was an adult, long after I’d stopped watching wrestling, that I learned that the world of wrestling had its own storytellers, the “bookers” who created storylines. In hindsight, perhaps I recognized that at the core of all the brawling was the thing I loved most: story.
“We go along for the ride with the hope of a satisfying ending for the hero and for all of us.”
Wrestling is reminiscent of other forms of storytelling I’d grown up enjoying—namely, mythology and telenovelas. All three have a larger-than-life quality. There are secrets, betrayals, vengeance, tragedies and triumphs. The line between good and bad is at once clearly drawn and also sometimes nebulous. At times we find ourselves sympathizing with the heels, especially when we get a glimpse of their humanity. There are families—and where there are families, there is drama. There is always a hero who takes us on their journey in search of something that is missing: home, a championship belt, an origin story. There is always a villain who poses obstacles. We go along for the ride with the hope of a satisfying ending for the hero and for all of us.
Tumble, my third novel for young readers, was inspired by these storytelling forms that were such significant parts of my childhood. It’s a story about wrestling and about family. It’s a story about grappling with the scary feelings that come with growing up. It’s about hidden identities, origin stories and traveling between worlds. It’s a story about a hero, a girl named Adela Ramirez, who is tasked with finding the courage and wisdom to make her own choices and who invites readers to join her on the journey.
Life would be easier if it were more like professional wrestling. It would be simple to tell the good guys from the bad guys, the “faces” from the “heels.” Everyone would know who will win, and it would be simple to decide who to cheer for.
In Pura Belpré Honor author Celia C. Pérez’s Tumble, 12-year-old Adela “Addie” Ramirez is struggling with the fact that life isn’t quite as clear-cut as the wrestling matches she watches with her beloved stepfather, Alex, who has helped raise Addie since she was young. Addie will soon have a new sibling, so Alex has asked if she would consider allowing him to legally adopt her. But Addie can’t stop thinking about the one part of her life that Alex and her mom won’t talk about: the biological father she’s never met.
Professional wrestling is a big deal in Addie’s small town of Thorne, New Mexico, because the Cactus Wrestling League holds its matches in Esperanza, the town next door. With some help from her best friend, Cy, and the local historical society, Addie discovers that her biological father is Manny “The Mountain” Bravo, of the famous Bravo family of wrestlers. Eager to learn more about him, she insists that they be allowed to meet before she will discuss adoption further. As Addie gets to know the Bravos, she begins to learn that life is never as simple or as easy as right or wrong, good or bad, family or not family.
Tumble is a complex, emotional story about loss, self-discovery and belonging, about forgetting who you were and remembering who you are. Pérez’s depiction of Addie’s journey to connect with Manny and her extended family of grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins—all of whom she feels were unfairly kept from her by her mother—shines with honesty and touching authenticity. Addie experiences fear, awkwardness and a growing sense of connection and acceptance as she comes to understand that sometimes, people cannot change who they are, even if it hurts the ones they love.
Addie confronts a series of difficult choices, and although she wishes she could be like a luchadore and hide behind a mask, she must fight for what she wants and who she wants to be. Tumble reminds readers that sometimes heroes (and villains) are not who they seem—both in life and in a wrestling ring.
Celia C. Pérez’s tale of a girl who learns that the father she’s never met is part of a family of professional wrestlers shines with emotion and complexity.
A mouse opens his home to one creature after another in this story of kindness and abundant hospitality.
After many travels, Vincent, “a small mouse with boots on his feet, a hat on his head, and a house on his back,” decides to settle down. Not long after he places his house at the crest of a hill with a spectacular view, a tired bullfrog hops up. When Vincent invites the frog inside to rest, the amphibian is initially skeptical, because Vincent’s house looks much too small to comfortably accommodate them both. However, the bullfrog soon discovers that the house is “much bigger than it appeared.”
One by one, other weary forest dwellers arrive at Vincent’s door. He warmly welcomes them all as his house expands to suit their needs, and inside is as cozy as you’d imagine a mouse’s home might be. A roaring fire, colorful rugs, mismatched wooden chairs and decorative string lights create an ambience of comfort and whimsy. It all stands in sharp contrast to the rainy night when, amid dark grays and blacks, a lost, hungry bear approaches, filling all the houseguests with fear. Will Vincent’s unwavering spirit of generosity extend to this final lonesome traveler?
The rural setting and cast of anthropomorphized animals, along with author Jonathan Stutzman’s formal tone, give The Mouse Who Carried a House on His Back the feel of a traditional fable. Like fables, the book also imparts clear moral messages as it guides readers to understand the importance of compassionate, unconditional inclusion.
Illustrator Isabelle Arsenault’s gouache, ink and cut-paper artwork playfully brings these messages to life. In the book’s opening spread, she depicts Vincent’s house as a simple pentagonal outline in a vibrant shade of pink. Each time a new visitor appears at Vincent’s doorstep, a new house in a new architectural style appears on the hillside adjacent to the pentagon, creating a cheery conglomeration of homes. A powerful gatefold spread captures the end result. Young readers will delight in noticing the visual similarities between the new dwellings and Vincent’s latest houseguests.
Readers will empathize with the bear and be inspired by the mouse as Stutzman and Arsenault gently reveal the value of an open door—and an open heart.
This picture book has the feel of a traditional fable as it guides readers to understand the importance of compassionate, unconditional inclusion.
When darkness falls, nocturnal animals and insects get busy hunting, foraging, building nests, carrying on conversations and . . . visiting their local library. In The Twilight Library, author Carmen Oliver and illustrator Miren Asiain Lora dream the dark away with these critters amid the cozy collection of a truly unique library.
Oliver’s text is a storyteller’s delight. She opens the book with sparse phrases, but as the story unfolds, her narration blossoms into lush descriptions and meticulously polished turns of alliteration, repetition and rhythm. Like the finest silken spiderwebs, Oliver’s prose is delicately woven, each word chosen with care, and her tightknit sentences create a feeling of safety and comfort.
Meanwhile, Asiain Lora tucks readers into a soft berth on the forest floor and provides a bug’s-eye perspective on the vast gloaming sky above. Perhaps the most striking aspect of Asiain Lora’s art is her use of color. Muted background tones give the spreads a dusky feel, ideal for snuggling up close. Bursts of light and vibrant hues pop and glow wondrously against this backdrop.
Insect-averse readers will find themselves charmed by Asiain Lora’s gentle-faced creatures—especially the bespectacled arachnid Night Librarian—while dedicated bookworms will be envious of the library’s spiderweb bookshelves. As the Night Librarian reads aloud, the library becomes an enchanting realm where everything is warm and welcoming and happy.
The Twilight Library is a perfect bedtime read. It contains no grand declarations, no sweeping adventures and no high-minded morals. It has only one simple thing to say: Cuddle up, relax, let go, and for a moment, just imagine.
This exquisite picture book, perfect for bedtime, envisions a night spent among nocturnal creatures in a truly unique library.
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Maria Ressa’s book is a political history of the Philippines and an intimate memoir, but it’s also a warning to democracies everywhere: Authoritarianism is a threat to us all.
Sean Adams has dialed down the dystopian quotient from his first satirical novel, The Heap, but that element is still very much present in The Thing in the Snow.
