Fiction writers are often exasperated by questions from readers who want to know whether their books’ characters and events are based on real life. Not so with Kirkpatrick Hill.

Instead, she told BookPage in an interview from her Fairbanks, Alaska, home, “Everything in the book is pretty much true. Think of me as a Grandma Moses type: I’m just recapturing things.”

In her eighth novel for young readers, Bo at Ballard Creek, Hill sends us back to the 1920s, to a post-gold rush town called Ballard Creek that sits on the Koyukuk River. She herself lived at a mining camp as a child in the 1940s—she comes from a family of mining engineers—and says she was “just like Bo.”

Readers who grew up in suburbs or cities—really, anywhere that doesn’t have Alaska’s snow and ice and bouts of 24-hour daylight—may find it hard to picture living in a 1920s mining town intertwined with an Eskimo village, a place where everyone has a broom on the front stoop (it’s rude not to sweep snow off your boots before you go inside); kids are told not to run in the woods because a bear might chase them; and only one resident has ever laid eyes on an airplane.

But thanks to Hill’s vivid writing (and her palpable fondness for her home state), plus LeUyen Pham’s artful, adorable illustrations, the places and people of Bo’s world soon feel familiar. Especially because, despite being set in a seemingly exotic place, Hill’s story encompasses universal themes—like the fact that families don’t require members to be blood relations.

Bo’s own family is described in the first chapter: “Bo had two fathers and no mothers, and after she got the fathers, she got a brother, too. But not in the usual way.”

It’s a promising, tantalizing start, and Hill has crafted an entertaining and interesting backstory: Bo’s fathers both came to Alaska in the gold rush of 1897, in search of work and a way to get some distance from sadness. Arvid, a Swede, had recently lost his mother, and Jack, an African American, was grieving the death of his fiancée. The two big, strong men became friends and workmates, and when Bo’s mother (a “good-time girl” known as Mean Millie) thrust her baby at them and demanded they take her to a local orphanage, Arvid and Jack couldn’t bear to leave her there. So they took her home and, with help from their miner and Eskimo neighbors, they became Bo’s family.

Hill says the blend of races and cultures in Bo at Ballard Creek jives with her own experiences, as does Bo’s unofficial adoption. She says, “It happened a lot. It was a ubiquitous thing, not just men of course. . . . And also, within the Indian culture, it was very common for people to give up their kids. Kids would live right in the same village with their natural parents and have two sets of relatives. And you see, Jack and Arvid had no legal claim to Bo at all, because they never would’ve had to.”

It’s fascinating stuff, not least because it’s true. That’s very important to Hill, who says her urge to commit Alaska—and its singular history, dramatic terrain and diverse people—to the printed page was prompted by years of frustration with the way the state was depicted in books and other media. As a mother of six, and during her 30-plus years as an elementary school teacher, Hill encountered many ill-informed books about her state. “I would read Alaska books to my children, and they were all totally bogus because the authors weren’t from Alaska. And Jack London . . . it was as bogus as you could get!” So, she decided she’d write about Alaska herself.

Her first book, Toughboy and Sister, was published in 1990, when Hill was in her early 50s (if you’re wondering, Grandma Moses began painting in her 70s). She explains, “I’d gotten seriously broke and needed a new life plan, so I thought, ‘Well, I’ll just send this off and get some money.’ I had no clue how anything worked at all!” Then, she says, “By the sheerest good luck, it fell into the right hands. A dear, lovely person got it out of the slush pile and wrote me a letter. . . . It never should’ve happened. You just don’t do things like that!”

But Hill did, and it worked—and she’s been writing ever since. While her protagonists are a range of ages, and her time periods are both historic and contemporary, all of her books are set in her beloved home state and make real the traditions and trials, foods and fun experienced by the people who have lived there, from sliding down a riverbank, to making ice cream out of decidedly non-dairy ingredients, to hearing the click-clacks of a telegraph machine.

Like all of Hill’s novels, Bo at Ballard Creek is a fine mix of happiness and hard truths, reverence for history and excitement about innovation. It’s enough to make readers want to visit Alaska to see it for themselves. Though perhaps, for those who are winter-precipitation-averse, you might want to check the forecast first: When she spoke with BookPage in May, Hill realized that day was her “last ticket for the ice pool. . . . I guessed on days the ice would go out. But the weather’s gone mad, and we’re still experiencing winter when normally there would be leaves on the trees. I’m looking out my window at snow, deep snow.”

Some people have lucky numbers; others have lucky stars. Holly Goldberg Sloan credits her career change, and her subsequent success as an author of children’s books, to something a little different: a lucky shrimp.

Alas, said shellfish wasn’t so felicitous for Sloan’s husband. But for her, it touched off a life-changing transition from screenwriter (numerous feature films, including Angels in the Outfield) to author (2011’s I’ll Be There, and now Counting by 7s).

In a phone call from her Santa Monica, California, home, Sloan told BookPage the story of how her first book came to be: “My friend asked us to go on a trip, and didn’t give a lot of specifics. It turned out we went to a vegetarian yoga resort, which was totally cool with me, but my husband isn’t a vegetarian and doesn’t do yoga. The first night, I asked if they had meat or protein of any kind. They were able to get a limited amount of shrimp, so he ordered that.”

Then, gastrointestinal disaster struck—and between her husband being out of commission for a week and the resort’s no-Internet-or-TV policy, Sloan found she had some time to kill. “It was really serendipitous,” she says. “If I hadn’t gone on a crazy vacation in Mexico, where I was on my own and my husband was in a stone hut, sick . . . I wouldn’t have had so much time on my hands, and started writing a book.”

Fortunately, Sloan’s husband was not harmed during the writing of her brilliant second book, Counting by 7s, which draws readers into the singular world of eccentric 12-year-old Willow Chance.

Sloan has created a story where the line between youth and adulthood moves back and forth.

Willow applies her prodigious intelligence to her hobbies: a thriving and varied backyard garden, and the diagnosis of medical conditions. “I am particularly drawn to skin disorders,” Willow explains with a seriousness that is at once amusing and endearing, “which I photograph only if the subject (and one of my parents) isn’t looking.” She also counts by sevens to establish a soothing sense of order. “It’s an escape technique,” Willow says.

But when her parents, with whom she has a loving relationship, are killed in a car accident, Willow’s pain cannot be organized or soothed away. Even worse, the policemen who gave her the terrible news are asking about next of kin—and she has none, save a grandmother with dementia.

Then a lie spoken out of compassion—a new friend, Mai, tells the police her family has known Willow’s for a long time, and can thus take her in—offers a temporary reprieve. It also segues into a memorable story of kindness among friends and strangers, the dangers and rewards of taking risks, and ultimately an exploration of the meaning of family.

Sloan’s gift for storytelling is evident: Her characters are sometimes kooky, but not too; trust is earned and happiness tentatively blooms, but not so quickly as to seem unlikely; and Willow’s sorrow isn’t smoothed over, but rather recognized as an addition to her new, unpredictable existence.

If anything might seem improbable to readers, Sloan says, it’s probably Willow’s preternatural poise and smarts. “I know that some people will read the book and think it’s not possible, that Willow seems to have superhuman powers,” she says. “But they just haven’t been around a kid like that. If you’ve been around highly gifted kids, some of them do seem to have superpowers, and corresponding confidence. Those kids spend more time with adults . . . but because they’re more comfortable with adults, they become outcasts in their own peer group.”

Sloan says she’s “always been interested in those kinds of kids,” not least because she was sometimes one of them, which she drew on when creating this story. For example, during one year in elementary school, she left her classroom twice weekly to visit a nearby college campus, where “the psychology department was conducting an experiment rewarding gifted children.” Sloan says, “It was so strange, and it made me feel like an outsider.” In Counting by 7s, Willow leaves class for regular visits with her school’s counselor, Dell Duke—something that further sets her apart from her peers, too.

In addition, Sloan’s father’s job as a consultant to the Peace Corps meant her family had a new address every few years, so she was the new kid in class many times. “I had a peripatetic childhood that in many ways informs who I am today, and influences my writing because I very much identify with outsiders,” she says.

And, she adds, “You can approach that in two ways: Be Willow-esque and retreat to live in your own head, which is a great place to live on some levels, or throw yourself into the situation. Mai . . . throws herself into the world and makes as many connections as she can, while Willow does the opposite until she’s forced to do something else.”

But it’s not just Willow who must learn to behave differently; the adults in Counting by 7s have some growing and changing to do, too. For example, Dell Duke has long categorized the kids he counsels (as misfits, oddballs, geniuses, etc.), but Willow and her friends defy his descriptions. And Mai’s mother’s routines are upended, which makes her cranky—but also leaves her more open to the unexpected.

Sloan says that aspect of the book struck a chord with one of its first readers: “I gave it to a precocious 11-year-old, and she said her favorite character was [taxi driver] Juan, by far. She said she liked him because Willow made him change without even trying. And I know what she’s saying—she’s very attracted to the idea that she could be doing this in the adult world, too.”

It’s easy to imagine that readers—whether kids, adults, young-at-heart adults or precocious kids—will find themselves taken with, even inspired by, Counting by 7s. Sloan has created a story where the line between youth and adulthood moves back and forth, often more than once in a single day—and where kids and adults “have relationships that are real and go both directions,” she says. The book is a moving, often funny reminder that such relationships are worth cultivating, and that being open to new people and experiences—however strange or difficult they may seem—can lead to wonderful things.

After all, look what happened when Sloan and her husband went on that vaguely described vacation, and her husband ate that fateful, tainted crustacean! “I’m hoping that today my husband also thinks it was a lucky shrimp,” Sloan says. “But I don’t ask.”

Gennifer Choldenko admits that as a student, she didn’t particularly enjoy history. That’s a bit surprising to hear from an author who received a Newbery Honor for her first historical novel, Al Capone Does My Shirts (2004).

Writing historical fiction is certainly the California author’s forte, as evidenced in the final entry in her acclaimed Alcatraz trilogy, Al Capone Does My Homework.

This convincing middle grade novel follows the stories of Moose Flanagan and his friends, the children of prison employees on Alcatraz in the 1930s. Living on the island has its challenges, but Moose and the gang always get involved in adventures or mysteries of some kind. In this new installment, Moose’s father has been named associate warden, a position that could expose him to danger. When a fire breaks out at the family’s apartment, many residents suspect that Moose’s autistic sister, Natalie, caused the blaze. But Moose is determined to find out the truth.

MAKING IT REAL

Creating believable characters like Moose and Natalie, as well as a historically correct setting, are incredibly important to Choldenko, who not only consulted primary sources but also volunteered on Alcatraz to advance her research.

“I am recreating an actual time that existed,” she says. “I need to stick to the facts that are appropriate for that time.” Her research into Alcatraz and the era inspires much of her story. “I find the research process really generates so many ideas. I get so excited . . . finding out these little tidbits. It really makes the book feel more real.”

Getting into the minds of her tween characters is not always easy, but, Choldenko says, “I really like being a 12-year-old boy.”

Approaching the characterization of the notorious gangster Al Capone was another challenge. “Al was hard because he actually existed; I had to read a lot and find out where he was coming from,” she says. “It took a while to get his voice believable to me. You keep working on it until it starts to come together.”

At one point in Al Capone Does My Homework, Moose gets a cryptic clue from Capone, but doesn’t know what to make of it. The note on Moose’s homework later figures prominently into the plot. But would the hardened criminal really have offered help to a kid like Moose?

“He did have a small nice side,” Choldenko says. “He had a terrible temper, but if he liked you, he would have done anything for you. . . . [Of course] he would expect something in return.”

In conducting her research on Capone, Choldenko learned that he opened the first soup kitchen in Chicago, one indication of his softer side. “The reality is so much more interesting than anything you can make up. I never tire of doing the research,” she says.

While not everything goes smoothly for Moose and his family, Choldenko’s book is a successful combination of thorough research (including a counterfeiting scheme that one character inadvertently gets involved in), convincing characters (especially the well-drawn Natalie and Moose) and kid-enticing elements (including pixies, baseball and eavesdropping on criminals).

CONNECTING WITH READERS

Choldenko loves hearing from her readers, and she often does. In fact, the title of the new book was inspired by a student suggestion from New Jersey (the original title of the book was Al Capone Is My Librarian, but homework ended up fitting the plot well). Perhaps she appreciates such suggestions more than the letter she got from one fan who said, “I was going to write to Roald Dahl, but he was dead, so I wrote to you instead.”

“I love connecting to kids,” she says. “Unlike adults, they will tell you exactly what they think.”

Choldenko is completing research on her next historical novel—with a bit of science thrown in—due out in 2015 from Random House/Penguin. “It is really challenging me,” she says. All the legwork and the writing, though, have proven rewarding. “I just feel blessed. I really love working on these books.”

Al Capone Does My Homework is a fine conclusion to this popular series, which already has more than one million copies in print. Could a movie be next? Choldenko says the first book has been made into a play, and the books have been optioned for films, but nothing is in the works yet, despite requests for a movie from many young readers.

Children—especially boys—remain eager to read more about mobsters, murderers and Alcatraz, and teachers use her books as clever ways to interest kids in history. And while Choldenko realizes the historical aspect is important, she says, “My goal is always to entertain kids first.”

For unstoppable publishing powerhouse James Patterson, there seems to be no limit on the number of books he can produce or the subjects, age groups and genres he can convincingly tackle.

After reaching the pinnacle of success as an adult suspense writer (with more number-one bestsellers than any other author), he began writing for teens, launching the Maximum Ride series in 2005. Next up was the middle-grade category and two successful series for the 8- to 12-year-old set.

Patterson adds to his bulging oeuvre this fall with Treasure Hunters, a rollicking, funny middle grade adventure, co-written with Chris Grabenstein, in which four homeschooled siblings keep the family treasure-hunting business afloat after their father is swept overboard and disappears.

We caught up with Patterson to learn more about Treasure Hunters, his efforts to connect kids and books and his scholarships for aspiring teachers.

Another middle grade series? Really?? With two successful middle grade series already in progress (Middle School and I Funny) why did you decide to launch another one now?
I say it often, but it’s so true: the books that I am the most passionate about writing are these books that get kids reading. I’m especially proud of the work that Middle School and I Funny have done to fulfill this mission. This one is different, and I’m very proud of it. Treasure Hunters is really my first action/adventure books for middle school-aged kids, and it’s funny. Something that I hope’ll catch the eye of a kid who’s never picked up one of my books before.
 
Treasure maps, sailing ships, orphans, sibling rivalry, adventure—Treasure Hunters has so many things that kids love to read about. What was the inspiration for this story?
I grew up reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island.  As a child, I was always on the hunt for buried treasure.  I never quite got over that urge to find it, which is what fueled my initial idea for Treasure Hunters. I also love Indiana Jones, which I think comes through as well…
 
Are you a sailor yourself? Ever been caught in a storm?
I live in Florida. We locals have crazy storm stories. Sure, I’ve been scared, stuck in a storm, I’ve been hit in the back by a sailboat boom. But I’ve certainly have never encountered one as wild as the one that the Kidd family experiences.
 

"For every book I write, I have to surprise myself at the end of each chapter. If it’s no good, I toss the chapter and start over."

 
Why are illustrations an important part of your middle grade books?
I think that the combination of a lot of writing and heavy illustration in kids’ books can be great for engaging young readers.  Kids are drawn to these books because there’s a lot to read AND there’s also a lot to see.  It becomes a combination of a book and a movie, which can engage even the most reluctant reader. Then, you have kids saying, “I love this story. I want to keep reading and find out what happens next.”
 
What do you think kids will like best about Juliana Newfeld's drawings for Treasure Hunters?
Juliana’s images are fantastic. They’re going to really draw kids in and make them feel that they are accompanying the Kidd family on this adventure. Kids will love that. And, they’ll love that Juliana’s artwork is "created" by 12-year-old Rebecca "Beck" Kidd within the story. Call me crazy, but I think kids seeing a brother and sister working together will actually go over well.
 
Tell us three things kids should know about Bick Kidd, the narrator of Treasure Hunters.
Bick Kidd is one of my favorite narrators ever. At 12 years old, he’s already a great storyteller and writer.  He always has his notebook on him and he’s always writing everything down.  He’s one-half of the Kidd twins (his twin sister, Beck, is the illustrator of their story). He thinks of himself as the leader and the navigator, but his siblings would likely disagree with that one.  He loves martial arts. I could keep go on and on about Bick but I feel bad not saying anything about Beck and Storm and Tommy! They’re all unique, great kids and every kid is going to see themselves in one of them.
 
You're the best-selling author in both the YA and middle grade categories. How do you manage to aim squarely at your target audience? Is it challenging to write books for both age groups at the same time?
Having a son who’s now in high school, I know what’s worked for him at both age levels. With my site ReadKiddoRead.com, I’ve had a ton of feedback from parents, teachers and kids about what middle school and high school reads work for them—not just my own books, but books across the board. I know what clicks for a ten year old boy and for an eighteen year old girl. Guess what? They both like jokes. The goal for me is to tell a great story that I believe all kids will enjoy.
 
What would you say are the common elements between your adult thrillers and your books for kids?
This is a must: For every book I write, I have to surprise myself at the end of each chapter. If it’s no good, I toss the chapter and start over. If I’m not turning the pages, then my audience definitely isn’t either. I like to have a hero, too. I’m a fan of those larger-than-life heroes.
 
You've said previously that you didn't do much pleasure reading when you were a kid. If you could talk to your 10-year-old self today, what would you tell him about reading and what he is missing out on?
Two words: Peter Pan. That book was awesome! I would have loved it! Sigh.
 
What is the number-one thing parents should keep in mind when they're trying to select a book for a child?
It’s all about lining up the kid’s interests. If your kid plays soccer and loves it, how about a book on Pelé? If your kid loves going to the zoo, how about animal fact books, or a great fiction fantasy about a bunch of talking cats, like Warriors, or rabbits, like Watership Down? And remember, never knock out books your kids want to read. Comics work. Freedom of choice is key. Give my site ReadKiddoRead.com a look. It’s helped a lot of people so far, and there are great books, tips, and tricks on there.
 
You've publicly supported many causes—from promoting childhood reading to saving bookstores and libraries. But many readers may not be familiar with the Teacher Education Scholarships funded by the Patterson Family Foundation. Why did you think it was important to support teacher education?
Speaking of larger-than-life heroes… I think that heroes are among us, and they are manning our children’s classrooms! For me, getting kids more excited about reading is my absolute number one goal in all this. And I really believe at this stage of my career that I can make a lasting difference, so I’m going all in. Equipping teachers to make that happen is essential. With the sometimes insurmountable expense of going to college, I knew that the schools and grad schools were where I could do some good. My wife and I started with our alma maters, Vanderbilt, Manhattan College and University of Wisconsin. Then we kept going; I’m funding teacher scholarships at twenty different universities.
 
How do you choose the universities that receive the scholarships?
I look for the most innovative teaching programs, and go from there. We craft the scholarships around what makes sense for each college. Applicants must write an essay on their commitment to children’s education, why they want to dedicate their lives to it. Then we check in with them each year, ask them to continue the dialogue. I’m hoping it guides them seamlessly into the classroom, and allows them to envision their roles as educators in the grand scheme.
 
What do you think is the biggest challenge facing teachers today?
I think the lack of a culture of reading in this country is making teachers’ jobs considerably harder. Teachers can’t pick up all the slack if parents aren’t already taking a lead in their kids’ reading habits at home. So many schools have lost their libraries and librarians—the presence of books is getting scarcer. And there are untold negative effects of a kid growing up as a nonreader. They lack the basic skills and confidence to face all subjects.
 
I’d imagine, though, that when a teacher knows they’ve turned a kid into a reader, and sees a face light up thanks to excitement about a book or a character, it dissolves all the hurdles and the impossibles. Ask one.
 
Interestingly, the Beck kids in Treasure Hunters were homeschooled by their parents. What's your opinion on homeschooling?
In their case, it made total sense—when you’ve got to lead a family in epic treasure hunt adventures around the globe, you’re going to have to read books and teach algebra on deck. Maximum Ride had to homeschool her flock, too. It certainly gives an interesting perspective on childhood, I think.
 
If I were to start my son Jack in school again, and try the homeschool route, I think I would last a day trying to teach the guy. I’d spend the time furiously looking up the answers to all his questions. But hey, if you’re brave enough…
 
If you could give one piece of advice to a teacher who is just starting out, what would it be?
Take a moment to seriously answer one question. Is teaching what you absolutely love more than anything else? If the answer’s yes, jump in with your whole heart. If it’s no, you might want to reconsider such a valiant role. Because it’s going to become your whole life.
 

At the risk of jinxing it, Kate DiCamillo is on a lucky streak. After being named as the National Ambassador for Young People's Literature (2014-2015), Camillo snagged her second Newbery Medal, for her hilarious and heartwarming middle grade novel, Flora & Ulysses. It's the story of a cynical 10-year-old girl who learns a thing or two when she befriends a super-strong, poetry-writing squirrel—who flies. Our reviewer loved it: "Like all of DiCamillo’s books, Flora & Ulysses is filled with adventure, but also plenty of humor and soul." We asked DiCamillo a few questions after she heard the news.

What was the first thing that went through your head when you found out you had won the Newbery?

I couldn’t form a coherent thought, truly. All I could do was cry.

Who was the one person you couldn’t wait to tell about the award?

I am lucky in that I have so many people that I couldn’t wait to tell. I’ve got a close group of friends who are like my family. I couldn’t wait to tell them. I couldn’t wait to talk to my agent, my editor, my publisher and all the people I work with at Candlewick. I couldn’t wait to tell my brother, and my writing teacher, Jane Resh Thomas.

Do you have a favorite past Newbery winner?

Oh, I love so many of them for so many different reasons. But off the top of my 8-year-old head? Island of the Blue Dolphins, by Scott O’Dell.

What’s the best part of writing books for a younger audience?

That I get to write possibilities, instead of impossibilities. 

What kind of reaction have you gotten from your readers about this book?

I’ve just started to get letters from kids about the book. Each letter thrills me. One 10-year-old girl says that she and her father always say goodbye to each other with, “I promise to always turn back toward you.”

Have you read or listened to past Newbery acceptance speeches? Are you excited (or worried!) about your own speech?

I am, of course, worried. But excited, too, because it will give me a chance to try and express my deep gratitude, my joy.

What’s next for you?

Um, let’s see. I’m working on a novel. And I’m launching a series of books about some of the secondary characters from the Mercy Watson stories. The first one of those comes out this fall. It is called Leroy Ninker Saddles Up.

Before she became a Newbery Honor-winning author, Margi Preus spent 25 years as the artistic director of Duluth’s Colder by the Lake Comedy Theatre, where she wrote, produced and directed sketches, operas, plays and adaptations. So why the switch to children’s books? “I had kids!” she says with a laugh.

“Something really happened to me when my older son [now 26] discovered the magic of books at age 2 or 3. He wanted me to read him book after book, and he’d watch my lips and . . . eyes, look at the page, then back up at my face and mouth. I could see he was putting it all together, that those little squiggles on that page are making her say words that have meaning to me. This magical thing is happening to me, and a story is happening somehow. That was a big part of my inspiration, of wanting to try [writing books].”

And so she did, first with three picture books, and then historical fiction for middle grade readers: the 2011 Newbery Honor book Heart of a Samurai and 2012’s Shadow on the Mountain.

Her new book, West of the Moon, was another new writerly adventure for Preus: It’s inspired by the writings and art of her real great-great-grandmother, Linka, who came with her husband to America from Norway in 1851, but the story and its characters are not as tied to history as in her previous works. Preus spun a mere few lines of text from Linka’s diary into a magical mix of folklore, myth and adventure set in the sometimes beautiful, sometimes forbidding mid-19th-century Norwegian mountainside.

The heroine in West of the Moon is not unusual for Scandinavian folktales. "Girls can be very strong; even if a boy comes to rescue them, they tell them what to do.”

It’s the story of 13-year-old Astri, who (in today’s parlance) kicks some serious butt. She’s smart and savvy, and ably navigates strange, stressful situations even if she’s sad or scared—which is fairly often, considering her mother’s dead, her father is somewhere in America, and her aunt has just sold her to a filthy, mean goat-herder, thus separating her from her younger sister Greta.

Astri strives to maintain her safety and dignity, recalling favorite folktales and memories when she needs a mental lift, and using all her guts and wits on a daring escape-and-rescue mission that’s often as funny as it is suspenseful. And the mission continues on—ill-intentioned pursuers and bridge-trolls be damned—because Astri decides it’s time to go to America.

While many details of her ancestors’ own immigration experience informed West of the Moon, Preus says her great-great-grandmother’s brief mention of a girl she met on the ship to America revved up her imagination.

“As I read over [those lines in the diary],” she says, “I wondered . . . what kind of girl would get on a boat alone and go to America, not knowing anyone? I thought I’d see if I could figure out a story for her.”

But, she adds, this “was a bit scary for me. . . . I had so many ideas, and it was hard to settle on what should happen next. [When] writing the two earlier books based on real people . . . I couldn’t go off in a direction too far afield from what actually happened. With Astri, I just had to decide or feel how I wanted it to be.”

One important decision: Preus infused Astri with the strength and smarts typically found in Scandinavian folklore, as well as in the pages of her great-great-grandmother’s diary.

In Astri’s favorite folktale, “the girl goes three days past the end of the world to rescue a guy,” Preus explains. “That’s not an unusual heroine in Scandinavian folktales and fairy tales. Girls can be very strong; even if a boy comes to rescue them, they tell them what to do.”

She adds, “I was thinking about that, looking through the diary again. The night before [Linka] got married, she wrote . . . ‘A human being is a free and independent creature and I would recommend every woman consider it, and I insist that every maiden owes it to herself to do so.’ That is a fairy-tale heroine. . . . She kind of got in trouble as a pastor’s wife, because they were supposed to be submissive.” (At the book’s end, readers may peruse Linka’s actual drawings and a handwritten excerpt from her diary.)

Lucky for readers, Preus’ great-great-grandmother didn’t stop writing and drawing in her diary because others disapproved, and Astri wasn’t meek because dastardly people wanted her to be. That drive for independence, the belief that something better lies ahead, is an inspiration for readers of any age—and, perhaps, an impetus to read Scandinavian folktales.

For now, though, Preus has put folktales aside to work on her next book, a companion to Heart of a Samurai. “It picks up where that book left off, historically.” She’s working on it in her backyard writing house, built for her in 2009 by her younger son (artist and furniture designer Misha Kahn) and her husband, a designer and contractor.

Preus' backyard writing house, where she crafts her stories and wears fingerless gloves as needed.

“It’s a wonderful place. I love it!” she says. “It’s got a real wood stove, great big picture windows looking out over a frozen creek, all birch inside. . . . I’m sure if I looked hard I could see a deer in the woods behind it.” The little wooden house has become vital to Preus’ writing process, now that she’s left the comedy theater (and teaching, which she also did in previous decades) and has been transitioning to writing full-time.

But her years spent focusing on laughter have served her well, as evidenced by the bouts of humor that buoy West of the Moon and in the way she approaches her stories.

“[At the comedy theater], I didn’t write the funny stuff. I just took all these ideas everybody had, all these little scripts and pieces and improv bits, and made them into a show. I feel like writing a novel is a lot like that, with all the different themes that have to come together to make a whole story.”

While she does miss collaborating on comedy productions, “I don’t miss the ego things, which are rampant when doing theater. . . . I have very little patience for that now.” It works out nicely, then, that the woodpeckers and chickadees—and the occasional black bear—in her yard aren’t likely to bicker over personal issues. They’ll do their outdoor things; Preus will write indoors; and Astri will journey on.

Writing house photo courtesy of Preus.

Inspired by the author’s own childhood in Mississippi in the ’60s, Revolution is an unforgettable story of big changes—for a nation and for the two young characters at the heart of this book.

Why did you choose to tell the story of the Freedom Summer through the eyes of a white character, especially one who isn’t initially a firm believer in civil rights?
I chose to tell the story as I witnessed it in 1964. I was a white kid in Mississippi in 1964, and I didn’t understand what was happening. I couldn’t be called a “believer” in civil rights per se, as I didn’t know what that meant. Children have a finely honed sense of justice and fairness, however, and I knew something was wrong and unfair, although I couldn’t articulate it. At first, when “everything closed”—the pool, the rollerskating rink, the ice cream place, the library, the movie theater—all I could think was, now I won’t be able to do these things—how unfair! I hadn’t realized that there were kids my age who had never been able to do these things, because of the color of their skin. I always say this was the summer I began to pay attention.

When I wrote Revolution, I wanted Sunny to have such an awakening. I wanted her to begin to pay attention. I wanted her to expand her thinking, and thereby her world. Everything she hears, sees and experiences serves that awakening.

You don’t shy away from depicting the violence directed at blacks and the whites who are trying to help them. Why do you think it’s important for Sunny to observe this violence firsthand?
I need the reader to observe it! Sunny and Raymond are the eyes and ears of the reader, and through them the reader experiences Freedom Summer, as well as what it’s like to grow up with hopes and dreams within a loving family; what it’s like to weather storms together, to be scared together, to face hatred and change together; what honor and dignity look like; what it’s like to not understand what’s happening in your world, to seek out answers.

You spent much of your childhood in Mississippi. Were you able to draw on any personal experiences when writing Revolution?
I was born in Mobile, Alabama, and spent my growing up summers in Mississippi, at my grandmother’s home. I went to college in Mississippi in 1971, where there were still “colored” and “white” drinking fountains on campus. I grew up as an Air Force kid—which I write about in Countdown—so going home to Mississippi (where my parents were born and bred) was like entering another world, but one as familiar to me as breathing. I loved it fiercely—still do. I was largely sheltered from any civil rights unrest. Our little town was very rural, and there was no Freedom House in Jasper County, but I have vivid memories of “everything closing,” and of the small moments I observed as I began to pay attention. I saw, for instance, how Annie Mae, who worked for my grandmother, was treated in town. I wrote about this in my first book, Freedom Summer. I was confused and longed to talk about these things and understand what was happening. In creating Sunny, I gave myself a way to be part of the Movement.

The articles and photographs never overwhelm the story, but rather provide glimpses of the historical backdrop. How should young people approach these documentary materials?
They serve as a way to look at the larger world while the more intimate story plays out in the book. As writers and readers, we often look at a story—especially historical fiction—as happening in one small pocket of the historical world, when in reality so much is happening that’s important to a story, that defines it. The Beatles coming to America in 1964 is a defining feature of Sunny’s life and friendships, and I want you to see it. I want to see it, as I am such a visual learner and reader. I teach writing in schools, where I tell students and teachers about the awakening moments for me as a writer, when I learned that I could access the whole world in telling my story—an outer story and an inner story, if you will.

What was your favorite thing you learned during the research process for Revolution?
It astounded me, first of all, how little I really understood about Freedom Summer, especially as I had written a picture book called Freedom Summer in 2001, which had required me to do some research into the Civil Rights Act. As I dug deeper for Revolution, to write a documentary novel, I was most surprised to find what a local movement Freedom Summer had been. Yes, SNCC organized Freedom Summer, working with other civil rights organizations. Yes, they came into Mississippi—1,000 strong in 1964, mostly white, mostly college students—to register black voters, and yet the philosophy of SNCC was to help the local people who were already ready for change—already working for it—stand up and be supported and learn the tactics they could use after SNCC left to continue to work for change.

What would you say to young readers who want to make a positive change in the world?
Ask questions. Pay attention. Educate yourself. Find your people and stand for what you believe in. In Revolution, Sunny is almost 13 years old, and she makes a difference. Raymond, who is 14, certainly makes a difference as he learns to work in his community, learns to channel his frustration and anger, and learns that his dignity has no price. He teaches Sunny this, too, without saying a word to her. This is how we make a difference, one choice at a time, over and over again.

What can readers expect from the final installment in the Sixties Trilogy?
Book three takes place in 1968, in the San Francisco Bay area, and takes us into the turmoil of that year with the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Bobby Kennedy, the Democratic National Convention, the Vietnam War, the counterculture, rock and roll (baby!) and the antiwar movement. I can’t wait to be steeped in this world and to find my story. I’m convinced that stories help us to understand ourselves and change the world.

A portion of this interview was originally published in the June 2014 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Lisa Graff has written several books for middle grade readers, including the National Book Award nominee A Tangle of Knots. Graff has an uncanny ability to give a simple story an intensity that makes you want to keep turning the pages. In her latest offering, Absolutely Almost, 11-year-old Albie is struggling with the idea that he should be “better” than he is: better at math, better at spelling, better at being cool. We asked Graff a few questions about Albie, writing and fitting in.

The narrator in Absolutely Almost sounds exactly like a fifth-grade boy. How did you find that authentic voice?
I never write a single word of a new book until I can completely hear the voice of the main character and have worked out the entire first chapter in my head. I’d been mulling over Albie’s character for some time, when it suddenly solidified while I was on vacation at the Jersey Shore. The next morning, I got up at the break of dawn, grabbed my beach chair and wrote the first two chapters longhand in a journal with the waves lapping at my feet. Those two chapters remained in tact nearly word for word through every revision.

I’m never quite sure where a character’s voice comes from. I spend a lot of time visiting schools all over the country to talk about writing, and I love meeting students and hearing from them about whatever they want to talk about. So that sort of thing keeps your toes in the water, so to speak. But sometimes the voices really seem to leap out at you from nowhere. That was the case with Albie.

When you were a kid, did you ever struggle in school like Albie? Or did you ever feel like you didn’t measure up to expectations of you?
I was one of those kids who’s built to excel at school. I looked forward the first day of school more than summer vacation, I had panic attacks if for some reason I was unable to complete a homework assignment—I was that “a pleasure to have in class” kid. But I feel like all of this was due less to innate intelligence and more to sheer willpower. My older brother, Ryan, is a literal genius (I, for the record, am not). And while no one else ever seemed to expect me to live up to his level of smarts, I put a lot of pressure on myself and was always struggling to prove myself academically. I probably had some sort of complex about it, to be honest, and it took me a long time to stop trying so darn hard all the time. On a positive note, I am still really good at making deadlines!

Albie’s parents seem to be both loving and distant, understanding but clueless, supportive and demanding. Is Albie giving them more credit than they are due?
At first Albie simply assumes that whatever his parents do is the best, most “parenty” thing—because they’re his parents, so why wouldn’t they love him and support him? And I think Albie’s parents do truly care about his well-being, but unfortunately, they don’t always seem to understand what makes him tick, so their hopes and dreams for Albie often come into direct conflict with what might be the best thing for him. By the end of the novel I think they come around a bit, although they clearly have a long way to go.

"Albie is slower than most kids in a lot of ways, and I wanted to explore what that would be like for him in a world that constantly expects him to be smarter, faster, better than he is."

Albie’s nanny, Calista, is an important part of his life and a driving character in the story. It felt so unfair that his mother dismissed her! What made you decide to put that in the story? Why is it that Albie could not defend her?
I knew eventually Calista would have to leave Albie’s life, because he needed to be able to prove to himself and the reader that he could stand on his own two feet without her. I liked the idea that she’d be dismissed in a way that didn’t feel entirely black-and-white—Albie’s mother truly feels that she’s doing the right thing by her child in letting Calista go, and it’s hard to blame her for that. I wanted Albie to have to grapple with something that was both painful and slightly outside his realm of comprehension, so he could come to learn that even though things don’t always turn out the way we’d like—or even in ways we fully understand—we can still come out the other side as stronger people.

The name origins of both Albie and Calista contain metaphors that can be related to the characters—was that on purpose? How do you pick your character’s names?
Some names pop into my head with the character, and others take a bit of auditioning. Albie was one of the ones that came right away. His full name is Albin, but at one point a friend of his mother’s insists that he must be named after Albert Einstein, and for a kid who’s constantly worried about his own intelligence, that seemed like such a huge hurdle to put in front of him, which I liked.

I wasn’t sure what to name Albie’s nanny at first, so I tried on a couple names for size. Calista was the one that finally stuck, because to me the name felt artsy and unique but also like someone who was very strong and knew what she wanted out of life.

Albie and his friends excel at all kinds of things not related to school. Do you think we place too much emphasis on academic success in our society?
I’d go even further and say that we put an extreme emphasis not just on academic performance but on intelligence itself. That’s not to say that intelligence isn’t an important trait—because I very much think that it is—but it’s not the only thing that makes a person matter, and I think we often forget that.

When I first began working on the book, one of the things that really struck me was when I would describe the premise to friends as being about a boy who was not very smart, and so many of them would respond with shock. “You mean, he’s not traditionally smart?” they’d ask me. Or, “You mean, he doesn’t do well in school?” Well, yes, that’s what I meant, but also more. Albie is slower than most kids in a lot of ways, and I wanted to explore what that would be like for him in a world that constantly expects him to be smarter, faster, better than he is. In a world like that, where does a kid like Albie fit? How does he find his own worth? People honestly seemed flummoxed that I was suggesting there were kids in the world who weren’t as smart as other ones. But there are those kids; they very much exist; and just by virtue of not being quite as intelligent in most ways as their peers, they are not without value. And they are just as deserving, in my opinion, of their own stories.

You teach a course in Children’s Literature at McDaniel College. What are some of your favorite writers that you share with your students?
It’s such a challenge every year to find eight books with which I can cover everything from picture books to YA, graphic novels to nonfiction, funny to heartwrenching storytelling. I’m constantly changing the list to try and find perfect the mix. Two of the novels that have garnered amazing discussion from year to year are Patricia McCormick’s Sold and Kevin Henkes’ Kitten’s First Full Moon. I’m always astonished at what fabulous lessons students pull from such short, beautiful books. Last year I added Adam Gidwidtz’s A Tale Dark and Grimm, and that was such a good one for exploring tone and word choice and humor. This year I’m adding Coe Booth’s Tyrell to the list, and I’m very excited to discuss it in part because Coe is an old friend of mine from our New School days. I got to watch that novel grow from its infancy, so it’s going to be a real treat to get to teach it. It’s also a downright stupendous book!

If you could define for kids what “cool” should be, what would you tell them?
I wonder if anyone ever actually thinks of him- or herself as cool. I’m constantly surprised to discover that people I thought of as being the epitome of cool in high school felt just as gangly and unwieldy as I did. Perhaps that’s why it seems like “cool” isn’t really a label you can give yourself.

I guess if I got the opportunity to be the Webster’s Dictionary of redefining “cool” for small, impressionable children, I would want to tell them that the coolest thing you can be is happy. When you’re happy with yourself, and comfortable with who you are, that’s when other people begin to like you the most, and even look up to you. Nothing else is half so important as being happy to be you. It’s not exactly a new thought, but it’s a lesson that takes a long time to sink in.

Jennifer Bruer Kitchel is the librarian for a Pre-K through eighth level Catholic school.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of this book.

Author-illustrator Cece Bell has been making picture books for more than 10 years. This year she’s trying something new, as she recounts her childhood experiences with hearing loss in the touching graphic memoir El Deafo.

In the 1970s, the Phonic Ear, a bulky hearing aid that strapped to the wearer’s chest, was in vogue. For the hearing aid to work properly, the teacher had to wear a microphone, which amplified classroom discussions. The young Bell struggled with standing out and fitting in, as many children do. But when her classmates discovered that she could hear her teacher as she roamed the building, Bell’s powers as El Deafo (as she dubbed herself) were revealed.

We snagged a bit of Bell’s time to ask her about her funny and moving memoir.

After childhood meningitis left Cece Bell deaf at age 4, she had to wear the Phonic Ear, as seen in her second-grade school photo.

When did you know El Deafo needed to be a graphic memoir and not a picture book or illustrated novel?
When I got started in children’s books, I wasn’t really ready to tell this particular, personal story right away. I wanted to “make it” in the biz without being pigeonholed as “that deaf author-illustrator.” I wanted to be known only as “that awesome author-illustrator.” I’d even take “that decent author-illustrator.” Eventually, however, I was ready to tell my story. When Raina Telgemeier’s Smile came out, I was inspired by it. Maybe a graphic novel would be a good way to tell my story, I thought. But what really sealed the deal for me was the fact that graphic novels tell so much of the story using speech balloons. What better way to show what I am hearing—or even better, what I am not hearing—than speech balloons? A speech balloon filled with words fading out means my hearing is fading; a speech balloon with nonsense in it means I’m hearing gibberish instead of words; a speech balloon with nothing in it means I am hearing nothing.

I love the moment when a girl asks you if you’re “death.” Do you still find today that you have to educate people about what it’s like to have a hearing impairment?
When I meet new people, they don’t often realize I’m deaf. But in some cases, when these new people do figure it out, their countenance changes and their speech changes (over-enunciating, speaking more loudly and slowly). This is very frustrating, because these well-meaning folks were actually easier to lip-read during the first part of the conversation, before they started changing the way they were talking. People don’t talk all LOUD and sloooow in real life. . . . I think this particular issue is partly why I wrote the book. I wanted to show people that you should speak to a deaf person as you would speak to anyone else, and then make adjustments if they are needed. If adjustments are not needed, don’t change a thing!

The scene when your friend Bonnie, who is so proud to show off her sign language to you (even though you chose not to use it), rings so true. As an adult, you’ve developed an appreciation for sign language. How long did it take you to get to that point?
I think I’ve always had an appreciation for it when it’s used between deaf people and between deaf people and their hearing family members and friends. I also have an appreciation of French when it’s used between French people. Do you see what I mean? Sign language is a language—and a very important and vital one, at that. It’s just one that I don’t really know, but people assume I know it. If your name is Pierre, do you also speak French? Hee hee. . . . But to answer your question, I think the act of writing the book meant that I was finally OK with everything to do with my deafness, the good and the bad. And I didn’t start writing the book until 2010 or so, when I was 40 years old! So yeah, it took a long time. Too long, perhaps.

How challenging was it to write about something so personal?
Parts of it were very challenging. The hardest chapter by far to write was the one about sign language. I wanted to make sure that I portrayed my attitude about sign language back then as bratty, because the last thing I want is for deaf kids and adults to read this chapter and think that I think sign language is awful or something. I wanted to be clear why I didn’t want to use it, and I also wanted to be clear that I was aware that I was probably missing out on something that could be really useful to me.

The other challenging part was writing about my friends, especially the ones who I had some trouble with. . . . I’ve been so long past any feelings of shame (even though I remember those feelings clearly); it was cathartic writing about them and removing them once and for all. But I do worry about what certain friends will think if they read about those old feelings of mine that concern them.

Why make yourself and all the other characters rabbits?
Rabbits have big ears and great hearing. Showing a rabbit whose ears do not work, in a crowd of rabbits whose ears do work, seemed like a great metaphor for someone who has lost her hearing. Also, as a kid I was so ashamed of the cords that went from my hearing aid up to my ears. When I look back at pictures of me wearing this hearing aid, however, it’s really not that dramatic looking at all. By drawing myself as a rabbit, however, I can have the cords go all the way up past my rabbit head into my rabbit ears. This dramatic representation of me and my hearing aid is more closely in tune with how it actually felt to wear a hearing aid when no one else in my class was wearing one. Plus, rabbits are bunnies, right? And bunnies are cute and fun to draw.

Julie Danielson features authors and illustrators at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, a children’s literature blog.

This article was originally published in the September 2014 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of El Deafo.

Why did you write a memoir? Why now?
I finally have something to say. [Laughs.] No, I think what I was saying in the session was, when my mom died suddenly, I realized there was so much I didn’t know, that I wanted to find out, so many questions I couldn’t ask. I felt like I wanted to get the stories down from people before they passed on because so many of my relatives are older. I wanted to get a sense of who my mom was before she was my mom. I felt like it was time. I had written almost 30 books—I’ve lost count—and this was the story that was coming to me, that I wanted to tell now.

Why did you think verse works so well for this book?
It’s how memory comes. Memories come in these small moments, with all of this white space around them, but the moments are very distinct. I feel like I have all this information, [but I’m] not sure what it’s connected to. And then the exploration of years and months and days brings the connection together. But it wouldn’t have been a straight narrative. A straight narrative would’ve been a lie. It’s not how you remember things—you remember them in small moments.

Some people say it’s poetry. I think the language is very poetic, but I think the verse is less intentional than poetry, so that where I have the line breaks are moments when I want you, the reader, and myself to pause and see this moment. Verse does allow for things to be more visual because of the minimalism.

What sort of challenges do you think verse poses?
I think one of the biggest challenges was consistency. There were points where I just wanted to tell the whole story and put it on the page because I had so much memory about it. I had to make the choice to say, “This is not the place for that story.” John Gardner talks about the “dream” of fiction. In On Becoming a Novelist, he says, when you’re reading and you’re in the fictive dream, if something happens that dream can be broken. I didn’t want to—it’s not a fictive dream, it’s a memoir dream—but I didn’t want it to be broken by suddenly the reader seeing a chapter pop up and thinking, This doesn’t belong here. It didn’t feel like anything [other than] the verse belonged there.

“At this moment, this is what I know. Here’s something else I know. Here, read these memories. This is what I know.”

How did you decide on the poetic forms for the different subjects?
All the “How to Listen” pieces are in haiku—except there’s a typo in there, I’m so cranky! Those were just kind of writing guides that I was learning as I went along and that, once they were in the book, they were writing guides for people coming to write. So much of what I learned about writing I learned from reading. With Brown Girl Dreaming, it is a memoir, but it is also, this is how you write. You listen. You let yourself be still. You let the stories you’re being told become memory. All of these moments—those small moments of haiku are moments of instruction. That’s how I decided on that. I wanted it to be part of the story, the narrative, as it was being formed. At this moment, this is what I know. Here’s something else I know. Here, read these memories. This is what I know. That was very deliberate.

Speaking of learning to write—as there is a lot in Brown Girl Dreaming about loving words at a young age—what is your strongest influence in fostering your love of words?
Reading picture books. With a picture book, you can look at the pictures and know the story without having to read the words. Back when I was a pre-reader, I’m sure the pictures were telling me stories or I’d make up the stories, and then once I was able to attach the words to the pictures and the story, it gave me a whole new level.

Picture books are accessible, I think for anyone. College kids, high school kids. It’s one of the most approachable ways to learn about writing. . . . It really does crack the code for you, in a way. I feel like for me as a really young kid, that code began to get cracked with the reading of picture books.

And then the poems of Langston Hughes, you know, the people who were writing poems that I could understand, that were not coded. I think of, “Well son, I’ll tell you: / Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.” It was the language. Langston Hughes was writing in a language I understood. It was the language that people I knew spoke. “Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair” was OK, I understand what he’s saying. Life has been jacked up along the way, but I keep climbing. I’m going to push through this.

You depict an incredibly complex relationship with the South.
[Laughs.] I do! Well, with the South and the North. The relationship with the North is complex in a more nuanced way because that’s what I had by the time I got there. Remember, when I was in the South, I was very young. The South, you know, this is Jim Crow, the laws were very blatant and very much understood out loud. Whereas in the North, the laws were not understood out loud and not written down, but they still existed in some way.

It is complicated for so many African Americans. The lush South, the beauty of it, the food, the people, the magic of it is so complicated and shrouded in the history of that oppression and the resistance. All of that is very complicated. But without complexity, you don’t have richness, right? The simpler something is, the less memorable and less of an impact it has.

You mentioned during your session that when you started writing this memoir, you went back to South Carolina and started interviewing family and writing down your family history, and in that process you learned something about yourself. What’s something you learned about yourself?
I feel like I learned what I already knew—that I was loved, how much I was loved and that at every corner there was someone moving me toward being a writer, even without knowing it. That came through the love. I always knew that I didn’t just wake up and say, “I’m going to be a writer.” It had to come from somewhere. And when I started to investigate and put the memories down on paper, I really got a sense of, OK, I am here because of them. I am here because of the South and because of the North and because of Ohio and because of my great-great-grandfather and the Civil War. The depth to which my history informed myself today was really both humbling and, of course, empowering.

You mentioned your favorite piece in your session, “Music,” which is about the music of your childhood and how your mother wouldn’t let you listen to any song that had the word “funk” in it. Why is it your favorite?
I love music so much because it speaks to the other complexity of my childhood. Here I was in this environment, and Jehovah’s Witnesses say that you’re in the world but you’re not of the world, and every step of the way that was true for me! [Laughs.] Including, here I am in this predominately black and Latino neighborhood in the ’70s, where the word “funk” is everywhere, and my family’s saying, “Step out of that, you’re not a part of that.” And here I am trying to define my myself and saying, “But this is what I know! This is what’s having an impact on my life!” And it’s just funny to look back on it and say, “Wow! Of course I’m writing, of course.”

I don’t know if it’s disparity, but there’s a difference between here and there, and that’s so much of what the book is talking about. Will I always have to choose between home and home? The funk was home for me, and then the white music became home for me, because that was informing so much of who I was. . . . When I get to the end of the book, I talk about, when there are many worlds, you can decide [which] you’re going to walk in. I think about the Robert Frost poem, “Two roads diverged . . .” It’s kind of all of these roads. You can take that one and you can take that one and you can take that one, and they all lead you to this one place, and you’ve always been walking all of them. The one place is the self and the complexity of the self. When you’re a writer, you have to have your eyes wide open and be aware of all of that. You can’t have tunnel vision and shut down what you don’t want to experience because that closes off the roads.

Any new projects in the works?
No, not really. [Laughs.] This book tour. Jonathan Demme’s making a movie of Beneath a Meth Moon, so when I get back I’m going to hopefully have a script to read and advise on. And then I’m going to take a little bit of a break. I’m just going to be Mom for a couple of months.

Martine Leavitt has a super-cool dad—a smart, rugged man named James Webster who, throughout his life, has gone on countless hikes into mountain ranges and national parks in his native Canada, where he immersed himself in and learned about nature. He also took pages and pages of notes, and countless photographs of the flora and fauna he encountered.

Leavitt—who, it must be said, is pretty cool herself—has done her own pages and pages of writing via eight novels for young readers, including the 2006 National Book Award finalist Keturah and Lord Death. So, naturally, when she became enchanted by her father’s account of a herd of bighorn sheep he followed for four seasons, she encouraged him to publish it.

He demurred, and several years passed. But then her father gave her a special gift: his sheep-centric notes and photos, for her to use as fodder for a book.

The end result, Blue Mountain, is a wonderful, often wondrous, story about a herd of bighorn sheep who live high in mountains very much like the ones Leavitt’s father explored. One major difference: The sheep (and other animals they encounter) talk, laugh, squabble and negotiate just like human beings.

“I told my father I was going to have to fictionalize and anthropomorphize the sheep,” Leavitt tells BookPage from her home in Alberta, Canada. “I got his permission to do that.” That, plus the felicitous timing of the gift, got Blue Mountain off to a strong start.

“I’d just finished writing My Book of Life by Angel, a novel-in-verse about a teen prostitute in Vancouver,” the author explains. “It was a very dark kind of story, not a happy place for me to live while writing. . . .  I needed to do something that made me happy, that was a little bit of an escape. And I have 15 grandchildren, but I’ve yet to write a book any of them could read. That’s kind of what got me started, and it was just pure fun from beginning to end.”

Though she has created an affecting tale that illustrates the seriousness of humans’ ever-increasing encroachment on nature, Leavitt has also infused her story with fantasy and given her animal characters personalities that jive with their real-life counterparts’ behaviors and tendencies.

There’s Tuk, a young male bighorn who finds himself in charge of his own small herd, a subset of the larger, older group over which savvy matriarch Kenir presides. Fellow youngsters, including ditzy Mouf and loyal Rim, join him on an exploratory journey to Blue Mountain, which Tuk believes can be the herd’s safe new home—unless, of course, the mist-shrouded behemoth is merely the stuff of myth.

Tuk’s little band of yearlings encounter a variety of obstacles and animals along the way, from a hungrily conniving, yet easily outsmarted, bear to an otter with self-esteem issues (who may or may not help them traverse a bog). Oh, and an elk who really, really wants everyone to know that she’s beautiful.

Leavitt says she “writes the stories I feel really compelled to write,” not least because a character will insist on making itself heard. “My books often start that way—I hear a character talking to me. Before, they’ve always been teenagers.”

And so, the question: Was it difficult to think like a bighorn sheep this time around?

Leavitt says with a laugh, “I do feel you cannot construct a believable voice in a story unless you’ve lived inside the body of your characters. It was a little bit of an extra challenge for me to crawl inside the body of an animal, but it ended up being quite glorious and meaningful.”

Not least, she adds, “because I ended up thinking, is there so much of a difference, so much of a divide, that I can’t understand some things about their exigencies? If you check out a YouTube video of bighorn lambs playing, they run around like little children do. . . . These animals have their territory, their need to exist and survive. Can we really distance ourselves from that basic kind of existence?”

The author’s passion for her subject is infectious and inspiring, for sure, and Blue Mountain is a compelling echo of—and expansion on—her father’s work. Readers who already love animals and worry about the future of our beleaguered Earth will feel both indignant and hopeful on behalf of the animal characters, and perhaps those who are less aware will find their curiosity piqued, or even experience the sparking of an activist flame.

Of course, Leavitt is already there, her respect and concern for nature amplified by her Blue Mountain experience.

“I loved being a bighorn sheep,” she declares. “I felt like that’s what we need to do a little bit more of. Maybe if we stop separating ourselves so much from animals, and see ourselves as a different kind of animal, maybe if big cities could . . . feel the connection of being alive and having the same basic needs, maybe some of the efforts we have to protect wildlife would come naturally, and be even easier to promote.” Here’s hoping.

This article was originally published in the November 2014 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Thanks to a smart-alecky student who sat in the back row of her classroom, Sharon M. Draper went from teacher to award-winning writer. Of course, there were other factors: a lifelong love of reading, plus years of hard work and outstanding scholarship, for starters.

But as Draper tells BookPage from her Cincinnati home, that student’s challenge—“Why don’t you write something?”—led her to an entirely new career.

Further inspired after winning an Ebony magazine short-story contest and receiving a lovely letter from author Alex Haley, Draper began writing longhand while she served as a study-hall monitor. “I got 24 rejection letters in a row,” she recalls. “And the very last letter was a ‘yes’ from Simon & Schuster.”

It’s been 20 years and 25 books since that yes for 1994’s Tears of a Tiger, which won Draper her first Coretta Scott King Award. Since then, her accolades have been many: National Teacher of the Year, five-time Coretta Scott King Award winner and New York Times best-selling author. She’s been honored at the White House no fewer than six times.

Draper, who retired from teaching in 2000 to write full time and to speak at schools, book festivals and other events, takes readers to 1932 North Carolina in her new novel, Stella by Starlight.

Ten-year-old Stella, her parents and her brother Jojo live in Bumblebee, a tiny town united by hardscrabble life in the Jim Crow South. There’s love and laughter, but, Stella observes, “Every Negro family in Bumblebee knew the unwritten rules—they had to take care of their own problems and take care of one another. Help from the white community was neither expected nor considered. It was as it always had been.”

One night, Stella and Jojo realize it’s not just the bright stars that are casting a glow outside; the Ku Klux Klan is burning a wooden cross, sending an eerie red light flickering through the trees. Draper skillfully builds suspense around this frightening event and subsequent unrest which, while handled peacefully by the black community, is still dangerous to them and the few white townspeople who aren’t racist. Even a visit to the candy store is layered with risk and tension. Draper offers comic relief through schoolhouse scenes and an accidentally hilarious school play.

Although Stella by Starlight is fiction, Draper drew inspiration from her own family’s story. “The timing falls within my father’s childhood, but I wanted the main character to be based roughly on my grandmother . . . [who] used to go outside at night and write in her journal. All of them were lost except one; she gave it to my father just before she passed away. He gave it to me and said, ‘I want you to write my mother’s story.’ ”

And so, like Draper’s grandmother, Stella is bright and hungry to learn. She asks lots of questions, papers her walls with newspaper articles and eagerly listens while the grown-ups talk—which Draper loved to do during her own childhood visits to North Carolina.

“Sitting on the front porch at my grandmother’s, I wasn’t taking notes to write a book as a 10-year-old, but I was absorbing things about these people,” Draper says. “Everybody was different at night. They worked all day in the fields, no cushy office jobs. At night, they were telling stories, relaxed, and could be themselves. . . . When it came time to write the book, the rhythms of their voices were what started it and triggered my memories.”

Draper is curious to see how Stella by Starlight resonates with young readers. “I have grandchildren this age, and they really don’t think much beyond yesterday,” she says. “To go way back and ask them to care about a child who lived in 1932 is asking them to take a journey.”

If anyone can get kids to take that journey, Draper can. Through Stella’s eyes, readers learn about societal and political issues from 1932 that, alas, are still relevant today.

Universal themes, important lessons, plus some fun—it’s very teacherly, isn’t it? That’s inevitable, as being a teacher is part of Draper’s identity: “Wherever I go, I teach . . . not from a script, not by rote. I speak from the heart.”

This article was originally published in the January 2015 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Susan Vaught is the author of several books for teens, including Trigger and Freaks Like Us, and is a neuropsychologist at a state psychiatric facility. Her novels often include fascinating ties to mental illness, but her first middle grade book, Footer Davis Probably Is Crazy, reveals a hilarious new side to the author.

Fifth grader Footer Davis (her real name is Fontana, but don’t call her that) and her best friend, Peavine, are investigating a fire at her neighbor’s farm that left a man dead and two kids missing. She’s a shrewd journalist, and Peavine is a clever detective—but the more they dig, the more Footer thinks the fire could be connected to her mother, who suffers from Bipolar Disorder and has been sent away to a mental hospital.

Full of sparkling humor and Footer’s wry, snappy voice, Footer Davis Probably Is Crazy is equal parts hopeful and heartbreaking.

What inspired this story?
The deep, dark truth is, trying to draw a doodlebug using computer-drawing software instead of paper-and-pencil sketches set me on the path to Footer’s story—that and writing down her name as a possible character name, and a first line to the story. My stories often begin with a name, title or first line. I haven’t ever had a tale start with a bug, though—wriggling or sketched. So, Footer is unique! She knows this. Just ask her.

You’ve written several novels on mental illness and food disorders and have an extensive background in neuropsychology. What do you wish more people knew about Bipolar Disorder (as with Footer’s mom) and repressed memories (as with Footer)?
That recovery and a full, exciting life is possible even with a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder. As for repressed memories, I think the brain is pretty amazing, not giving us information we can’t process until we’re ready for it. The return of memories temporarily held back is the beginning of a healing process.

What do you think is the hardest thing kids with parents who suffer from a mental illness must face?
The hardest thing? Worry. Kids are big-hearted and loving, and when someone they care about so much is sick, whether it be from a cold or a chronic illness, they worry. They worry about that parent, about their family, about the future. That’s a heavy load.

What were you scared of when you were Footer’s age? What are you scared of now?
SPIDERS. And spiders. Did I mention sssspppiiiiiiiiidddddeeerrrrsss??? <shiver> Anything that creeps up walls and drops in front of me wiggling eight little leggies, no thank you.

When Footer feels like she needs to prove that she’s strong, she makes jokes. What do you do when you need to be strong?
Ummm, the same thing? That might be a tad autobiographical. . . . Humor is my first and best coping mechanism. I just have to watch the class-clown tendencies in serious situations.

Footer really, really hates walruses. What’s so bad about walruses?
Some of them eat baby seals! They weigh around 1.5 tons, they have 400-700 whiskers, and those tusks can be over 3 feet long. Just think of them as serial seal-murderers that weigh as much as a Toyota—with giant white fangs sharp enough to stick into ice and help haul their gigantic bodies out of the Arctic Ocean.

What’s the main difference between writing for teens and writing for middle grade readers?
So far, in my learning, I’d say the amount of time/words spent on describing anything graphic (violence, romance). In YA literature, there really aren’t limits, and I didn’t have to spend time weighing how upsetting a topic or scene might be to a younger person. Also, less snark, in my opinion. I never did well writing characters with sharp, snarky dialogue because I wasn’t that way in youth, and I don’t have that in my real-life repertoire now. It’s nice to move away from needing more of an edge to my characters, and to be able to more deeply explore their innocence.

What’s next for you?
I’m working on a piece currently called Ghostology, but I rarely get to keep my titles. It involves ghost stories in the deep south (around the Ole Miss campus), the Meredith Riot, mysterious clues about what destroyed a friendship and Alzheimer’s Disease.