Kate Messner’s latest middle grade novel, Chirp, is an engrossing summer adventure novel that takes place in Vermont. It’s the story of Mia Barnes, who is convinced someone is trying to sabotage her grandmother’s cricket farm. It’s also a book informed by the #metoo movement: Mia’s former gymnastics coach touched her inappropriately, leaving Mia feeling confused and robbed of her confidence. We asked Messner about the wild world of cricket farming, as well as the work that went into researching and writing a novel that addresses difficult emotional truths.

How did you settle on crickets as a central subject of Chirp? What intrigued you most during your research into this industry?
My interest in entomophagy (eating insects as food) began in 2013, when I read this United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization report on edible insects. A few years later, my husband, who’s part of a group that offers help to start-up businesses in Vermont, came home with a folder of information about a new business he thought I’d want to read about: a cricket farm. When I visited the new farm (and heard the chirping of half a million crickets in a warehouse!) I was absolutely fascinated and decided it would be an amazing setting for a kids’ book—a mystery that also explored ideas about entrepreneurship and sustainability.

Do you have any favorite cricket tasting experiences or recipes to recommend?
When I was doing research for Chirp, I sampled crickets in every iteration imaginable. I tried cookies, bread and fruit leather made with cricket flour, snacked on flavored, roasted crickets, ate Thai cricket pizza and topped it off with chocolate-covered cricket ice cream. My favorite cricket foods are the Texas barbecue crickets from Aketta, a cricket farm in Austin, and chocolate “chirp” cookies (chocolate chip . . . but with cricket flour added!). The recipe for those is in the book club and discussion guide for the book!

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our starred review of Chirp.

How does your background in TV news reporting help you as a novelist? Did the #MeToo movement prompt you to write Chirp, or was this a subject you had been considering writing about for longer?
This was definitely one of the things that fueled my writing. I was especially haunted by the courageous testimony of the gymnasts who were assaulted by their doctor, Larry Nassar. I read through pages and pages of their victim impact statements from the sentencing. It was horrific and gave me nightmares. But it also made me even more determined to craft a story that portrays a realistic look at how some adults gain the trust of kids in order to harm them. In Chirp, it’s an assistant coach at Mia’s gym whose too-long hugs, texted photos and unwelcome backrubs made her uncomfortable. He also gives her gifts and says things that are typical of grooming behavior. I want kids to recognize this and be able to talk about it with a trusted adult if it ever happens to them.

You’ve written that your characters’ experiences with sexual harassment and molestation “were inspired by stories in the news and my own experiences growing up, as well as those of many women I’m lucky enough to call friends.” How did personal experience inform your writing of this novel? Was it ever difficult to write?
This isn’t a subject I ever thought I’d write about. But like many women, the combination of the 2016 election and all of the #metoo related news stories stirred up tough memories as well as productive anger. For me, that took the form of a resolve to speak up about these issues so our daughters don’t have to struggle with the same toxic culture. I spent a lot of time talking with friends about their experiences as well as taking time to write about my own childhood memories in detail—from inappropriate touching from a family friend to a stranger who exposed himself to me on a beach while I was looking for shells on a family vacation. And of course that was difficult, but it was also important—to spend time processing those memories through the lens of an adult and a writer. If I hadn’t returned to revisit those tough places, I don’t think Chirp would have the same emotional truth.

What an exceptional passage this is: “Mia still felt icky when she got home. She wasn't even sure she could say exactly what happened, but something had, and it felt gross and wrong and probably she should have said something to her mom, but how could you say something when you couldn't even explain what happened yourself?” It’s so impossibly hard for kids to talk about incidents like these. Do you anticipate getting letters from readers about their own situations? Do you have thoughts about what you'll say to them?
That passage is very much rooted in my own experiences as a child. If no one’s talked explicitly with you about issues of sexual assault and consent, you don’t really understand or recognize what’s happening when it happens. And months before Chirp’s release, I started hearing from early readers who also saw themselves in Mia’s experiences. They wished they’d had a story like this when they were younger.

I’m sure there will be pushback to this book. There are always adults who think it’s their job to protect kids from uncomfortable ideas. But keeping stories like this from children is the opposite of protecting them. Information is what helps kids identify when someone isn’t acting in their best interest and empowers them to speak up. I do anticipate that I’ll hear from more readers when the book is released, and I have a file of resources ready to share, but the very first thing will be encouraging them to talk with a trusted adult, and reassuring them that what happened was wrong, and wasn’t their fault.

“[M]onths before Chirp’s release, I started hearing from early readers who also saw themselves in Mia’s experiences. They wished they’d had a story like this when they were younger.”

You’re quite the researcher, having visited the Vermont Ninja Warrior Training Center, the inspiration for the Warrior Camp that Mia attends. What led you there? Did you try some of the challenges?
I always try to make sure my characters’ hobbies are portrayed in a way that’s vivid and realistic, so that the book will feel real to kids who love that hobby, too. When I was working on Chirp, that meant talking with gymnasts, reading about how kids’ entrepreneur camps work and how they’re encouraged to draft business plans like Mia’s, and also figuring out what happens at a “Warrior Camp.”

I’d read about the Vermont Ninja Warrior Training Center, and with a quick phone call, arranged a visit during one of their camps for kids. I try not to become part of the story when I’m doing research—that’s left over from my years as a journalist—so I didn’t try any of the challenges that day. Instead, I sat off to the side while the kids had their normal camp day, stretching with their coaches and then breaking into groups to work on the different challenges. I observed and listened in, collecting details in my notebook—a bit of dialogue from a coach trying to teach the rings, kids shouting encouragement to one another on the quad steps, the squeak of sneakers on the spider wall. And then I talked with both campers and coaches about their experiences. I also spent a lot of time hanging from our pull-up bar at home—something Mia does as she’s trying to regain arm strength after her gymnastics accident—so that I could describe that burning feeling authentically!

Syd, “a fat sausage of an English bulldog puppy,” plays an important role in Chirp. You've also written a chapter book series about Ranger, a time-traveling golden retriever. Tell us about the dogs in your own life.
Ah, the truth is, everyone in my family is allergic to dogs, so we can’t have one in real life. I love other people’s dogs, though, and I think that’s why I keep putting them in my books. Ranger and Syd are sort of my imaginary dogs. Gram’s dog Syd in Chirp was inspired by the bulldog that used to hang out at the rink where my daughter figure skated before she graduated. The real Syd was also super-drooly and equally as affectionate.

You’re a mountain climber trying to summit all 46 Adirondack High Peaks between book deadlines. What number are you on? Any exciting experiences to share?
I’m not an Adirondack 46er quite yet (that’s the name given to people who have summited all of the 46 Adirondack High Peaks over 4,000 feet). At the moment, I’m only a “32er,” but I hope to finish in the next few years. I love hiking, even though many of the trails are muddy, root-tangled messes littered with giant boulders. It’s meditative for me, and I get some great thinking done while I’m out there.

Also? Hiking in the Adirondacks is a lot like writing a novel. It always feels impossible at first, and no matter how long you work, you start to doubt that you’ll make it. But ultimately, you have to take it one small stretch at a time. Just one more mile. One more chapter. And there are so many wonderful discoveries to make along the way.

Two-time Newbery Medalist Lois Lowry is one of the most distinguished writers of all time. In On the Horizon, she reflects on her extraordinary childhood and the historical moment in which it occurred. As a young child, Lowry and her family lived in Hawaii, scant years before the attack on Pearl Harbor; after the war, they moved to Tokyo.

In the poems that compose On the Horizon, Lowry intertwines personal memories with the experiences of historical figures and ordinary people at Pearl Harbor and Japan who lived through same history as Lowry herself. BookPage spoke to Lowry about writing in verse, choosing which stories to tell and revisiting the past.

Tell us about the decision to tell this story of connections in verse. What did you find challenging about it? Rewarding?
Nine years ago, two other authors—Richard Peck and Cynthia Voigt—and I, all at the same time, without talking to one another about it, wrote novels in which all of the characters were mice. How on earth did that happen? Was there something in the atmosphere? It’s a mystery.

And now, this year, the book I was working on seemed to want to be written in verse. There is no other way for me to describe that. And so I wrote it that way—and later discovered that a lot of authors were writing novels in verse. Another odd coincidence.

I like the demands of poetry. It distills things, pares them back to their essence. Maybe that is what I needed to do with this narrative. It was a subject that had been haunting me for a long time. Was it a story? A memoir? I wasn’t certain. But it floated there in my consciousness for some years, images drifting and surfacing now and then. And that’s what poetry does, I think. When the images began to appear on the page in that form, it seemed right.

The servicemen portrayed in the Pearl Harbor poems are based on real people. How did you choose to tell these particular stories?
The selection of particular individual stories was the same for both the Pearl Harbor and the Hiroshima sections. Research provided me with many true stories, each gripping in its own way.

In the reading and rereading, though, I found that now and then one small, sometimes not terribly important detail would capture my attention. The 17-year-old Marine, Leo Amundson, on the USS Arizona, for example. He was no one special, really, until I discovered that he was from the same small town in Wisconsin where my grandmother lived and where my father had grown up. Had they known each other? Possibly. No way to know. But it made Leo special to me.

Or the sailor named James Myers. Nothing really unique about him, until I followed paths through the archives and found that his family had already lost their two other sons in tragedies unrelated to the USS Arizona. An old newspaper quoted his mother, an Iowa farmer’s wife, as saying, “I had bad luck with all my boys.” I couldn’t get the terse enormity of that woman’s statement out of my mind. Sometimes it was a visual image. Shinichi Tetsutani, about to have his fourth birthday, riding on his red tricycle the morning that he died in Hiroshima. And his parents, burying the tricycle beside him. I couldn’t erase that image from my consciousness.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our starred review of On the Horizon.

You moved to Japan not long after the end of World War II. At the time, how much did you understand about what had happened there?
I was 8 years old when the war ended, so my childhood had been permeated with war-related details: the thin blue stationery on which infrequent letters from my father in the Pacific arrived; the ration stamps that my mother used at the grocery store; the news coming from my grandfather’s radio every evening.

All of us as children knew about the war. We even played games in which the bad guys were the Japanese or the Germans—but we had no understanding of the uncertainty, the fear, the huge tragedy that was taking place. I think it was not until 1991, when my own son was a fighter pilot during the first Gulf War, that I understood what my mother must have gone through while my father was overseas.

In the poem “Now,” you mention the Hiroshima memorial. When did you visit it? How were your experiences of visiting Japan at that time different compared to your memories of your life there after the war?
I left Japan in 1950 when the Korean War began and my father, fearing for our safety, sent us back to the United States. (He was on the staff of the Tokyo Hospital and had to stay because of the casualties arriving from Korea.) As a child, I had spent summer vacations on an island in the Inland Sea, near Hiroshima. But I never visited that city then, nor did I during subsequent trips to Japan as an adult. Then in 2014, I had an opportunity to take a trip around Japan by boat, and during that trip we entered the Inland Sea, stopped at Hiroshima and visited the Peace Museum there. 

Japan, and especially Tokyo, is so different now. My house near Meiji Shrine is gone. Skyscrapers and high fashion have taken the place of the rubble and poverty that I remember. But some things, like the quiet courtesy, seem unchanged. I was walking in a park in Kyoto when it began to rain, and without a word a woman approached, smiled and held her umbrella higher so that I could join her under it. When we parted a little later, without thinking, I bowed slightly to her as a thank you. It came quite naturally and felt familiar to do so. Japan still feels, in a way, like home to me.

“It is always small stories . . . that remind us how connected we are to one another.”

Your author’s note contains a fascinating anecdote about a childhood encounter with a boy who grew up to become the illustrator Allen Say—who, as an adult, also remembered the encounter. Why do you think that moment was memorable to both of you? Has he read On the Horizon?
Allen, with whom I have remained close friends, read the book in manuscript form. I talked with him on the phone recently to confirm the accuracy of my pronunciations of Japanese words before I recorded the book as an audiobook. I had to ask him, too, for his original Japanese name (he is portrayed in the book with his childhood name, Koichi Seii) because I have only known him as Allen Say.

The moment described in the book, when we were both 11 years old and looking with both curiosity and suspicion at each other, would never have been a memorable one had we not met each other by chance almost 50 years later.

Many young readers are fascinated by World War II; your book, Number the Stars, has gained a wide readership over the years since its publication. I imagine you’ve received many letters from young readers about that book as well. Do any common themes emerge from those letters about their experience of the novel?
Although Number the Stars is set during WWII in Europe and deals with the Holocaust, its focus is really on the courage and humanity shown by Denmark during that time. I still—32 years after its publication—receive letters and emails from young readers all over the world. The thing that interests them, and that they write passionately about, is just that: the generosity and compassion shown to the Jewish people of Denmark in 1943. So often they write and ask me to tell them what happened to the young girls in the book, and I have to explain that the girls are fictional, but that the real people they represent did in fact survive and grow up and, like all of us, hope for a world free of prejudice.

“Reading, thinking and writing about events during World War II has reminded me again and again that our humanity unites us.”

Three decades and many books separate the publication of Number the Stars and On the Horizon. One is fiction, one is not; one is prose, one is in verse. Both address the same moment in world history. How has your own perspective on or understanding of that historical moment changed (or has it)?
This is a hard question to answer because right now we are feeling so many chilling undercurrents of discontent and divisiveness. Reading, thinking and writing about events during World War II has reminded me again and again that our humanity unites us. 

My son, when he was stationed with the Air Force in Germany, met and married a German woman. Her mother described to me being 9 years old, hiding in a basement, terrified, when the Americans—the enemy—entered her village. She said the soldier who entered the basement where she huddled, crying, was the first black man she had ever seen. He reached into his pocket and gave her a piece of candy.

It is always small stories like hers that remind us how connected we are to one another. These days we need reminding. I guess that’s why I keep telling them in whatever ways I can.

What other books about the war have been meaningful for you—either for young readers or for adults? 
Without question: Hiroshima by John Hersey, Anne Frank’s The Diary of a Young Girl and All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr.

What is something you love about being a writer of books for young people?
The response, always. The heartfelt misspelled emails. I feel so connected to those readers.

Author photo by Matt McKee

Bestselling author Gordon Korman’s latest middle grade novel, War Stories, tackles a serious subject, juxtaposing a boy’s admiration and belief in his great-grandfather’s heroism and valor with the gritty and morally complex reality of war. BookPage spoke to Korman about his turn to historical fiction, the ambitious structure of War Stories and how he keeps young readers turning the pages in book after book.

You’ve written so many books on so many different subjects over the course of your career. What drew you to writing about a story about World War II?
Even though I’m probably best known for writing humor, I might be even more proud of my work in the adventure genre, stretching back through my books in The 39 Clues series all the way to my Island trilogy from the early 2000s. Later on, the Titanic trilogy showed me how much fun it could be to merge adventure and historical fiction. That’s when I knew that one day I would write a World War II novel.



I’d love for you to talk about the way you’ve structured War Stories, the way it unfolds from multiple perspectives, in multiple moments in history. Did it have this structure from the very beginning of your writing process? Why did you decide to tell the story this way?
It actually took a long time to get this exactly right. My original vision was straight historical fiction—perhaps kids during the London blitz or fighting with the Resistance. It was my editor, the amazing David Levithan, who first suggested a multigenerational story. I realized I could craft parallel arcs for a contemporary seventh grader and his 93-year-old great-grandfather.



Jacob, Trevor’s great-grandfather, is a fascinating character. His willingness to share exciting and heroic stories of the war with Trevor sets him apart from many veterans, but he’s also unwilling to revisit and confront memories that are more troubling. How did you go about crafting and balancing this tension in him as you told his story?
It’s true that many veterans of World War II don’t like to talk about their experiences, which is too bad, because we are losing the generation who represent our last direct connection to that time. Jacob was at least partly inspired by my own grandfather, who was a great storyteller. He was older during World War II, so he served in North America, freeing up men closer to Jacob’s age to do the actual fighting. Perhaps that’s why he was so willing to share—he never saw the awful cost of war firsthand. In that way, it makes sense that Jacob, who loves to talk, clams up when forced to confront certain memories. 


The young reader I imagine is always just a little bit bored and on the verge of losing interest. So I write to keep that kid hooked, and the choice of genre—every choice, really—is based on making the best call to create an engaging story.

What kind of work and research did you do to be able to represent Jacob’s experiences on the page? Did you learn anything that surprised you?

It sounds cliched to say my research taught me how awful war is—that’s something we all know. But until I rolled up my sleeves and did the digging, I don’t think I fully understood the extent of it. Did you know that the Allies accidentally killed more French citizens in the process of liberating them than the Nazis killed British citizens in the entire war? You become desensitized to statistics about entire towns reduced to rubble. Most of France was rural, so the smell of hundreds of thousands of farm animals slaughtered by shelling was a constant. I relied largely on reporting from journalists embedded with Allied units, such as Ernie Pyle and A.J. Liebling.



Trevor glorifies what he believes to be true about World War II because of the stories he’s heard from Jacob and because of the video games he plays. How can we tell more honest stories of heroism and war, particularly for young readers? Why is telling these stories important?
One of the reasons I called the book War Stories is that stories can reveal deeper and more complicated truths because they’re populated by real human beings. Video games do a great job of creating exciting and challenging gameplay scenarios based on the appearance of reality, but they aren’t very good at exploring truth. No game, no matter how realistic, will ever be able to portray the tragedy of a single loss of life.

I don’t mean that video games are terrible. My own kids are gamers. Trevor will always enjoy video games. But in France he learns that games are exactly that—games, not truth. And it’s important for us to keep telling these truths so that future generations of leaders can make the momentous decisions of war and peace with their eyes open.



One of the first books I can remember reading and connecting with as a young person was your 1988 book, The Zucchini Warriors. I’d love if you would talk a little bit about writing in so many different genres—humor, sports, action, suspense, historical, mystery—over the course of your career. Is there a genre you haven’t tried that you’d still like to tackle? Do you read as widely across genres as you write?
Thank you for that! I’m a great admirer of Avi; his ability to skip effortlessly among genres astounds me. But the truth is, I don’t think about genre all that much when I’m in the middle of a book. The young reader I imagine is always just a little bit bored and on the verge of losing interest. So I write to keep that kid hooked, and the choice of genre—every choice, really—is based on making the best call to create an engaging story. Reading widely is vital. You can’t internalize how to make a genre yours until you’ve seen how the greats have made it theirs.

PS: I’m less known for my novels in the paranormal genre, but my series, The Hypnotists, is still one of my all-time favorite writing experiences.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read why BookPage reviewer Kevin Delecki says War Stories “strikes a perfect balance between compassion and honesty.”



You’ve written series as well as stand-alone stories, like War Stories. How is the process of writing a stand-alone novel and a book in a series similar? What do you think young readers enjoy about each type of storytelling?
It wasn’t too long ago that I was immersed in a total series world. I was in the middle of Masterminds and The Hypnotists; Jingle (the last installment in the Swindle series) had just come out; and I was touring for Flashpoint, my final contribution to The 39 Clues. Now I’m several books into a run of all stand-alones (with a couple of sequels in the mix).

I love the challenge of creating a whole new world for every novel, but I’d be lying if I said there isn’t a kind of security-blanket comfort to being in that series zone, where you finish a book and instantly know what comes next.



You’re well-known as an author who enjoys visiting schools and meeting readers (in fact, your website says you’ve visited 49 states, 9 Canadian provinces and 11 countries in Europe and Asia—what’s the missing 50th state?). How does spending so much time with your readers influence you as a writer?
I did my first school visit when I was 14 years old, and meeting my readers has always been a big part of my writing career. To me, it’s pure win-win. It’s excellent promotion and at the same time, it’s the kind of research you can’t get any other way. You hear what gets the big laugh, the introspective chuckle, the “You think that’s funny? That makes one of us.”

That missing state? Hawaii.



Your first book, This Can’t Be Happening at MacDonald Hall, was published when you were in the ninth grade. What writing advice would you give ninth-grade Gordon if you had access to a time machine and could find a way to give it to him without interfering with the space-time continuum? What advice do you think ninth-grade Gordon would give you in return?
Obviously, I was thrilled about the publication of my first novel, but when I think back to that time, I mostly remember being incredibly impatient. The book was written for a seventh-grade assignment, yet by the time it hit the shelves, more than a year and a half had gone by. That’s not terrible by publishing industry standards, but to a middle-schooler’s sense of time, it’s forever. So my main advice to my much younger self would be to chill out.

In return, ninth-grade Gordon might remind me not to lose my joy in a really cool twist, a great scene or a hilarious one-liner. I can’t ever forget that the writer I was then is much closer to the age of my readers than the writer I am now.    

Author photo by Owen Kassimir.

The publication of a book as extraordinary as Daniel Nayeri's Everything Sad Is Untrue would be a momentous occasion all on its own. Based on Nayeri's childhood experience of fleeing religious persecution in Iran to eventually settle in Oklahoma, BookPage reviewer Luis G. Rendon says Nayeri's "patchwork story forms a stunning quilt, each piece lovingly stitched together to create a saga that deserves to be savored."

Everything Sad Is Untrue is also the first book to be published by a brand-new independent children's publisher, Levine Querido. Founded by Arthur A. Levine, who helmed an eponymous imprint at Scholastic and also held the role of editor in chief at Knopf Books for Young Readers, Levine Querido launches its inaugural list in the fall of 2020.

Nayeri and Levine give BookPage readers a behind-the-scenes glimpse at what it takes to write and edit a middle grade novel, bring us up to speed on the story of Levine Querido thus far and share their hopes for their work.

An editor’s work is often invisible to a reader, but most writers are quick to acknowledge what a good editor can bring to a book. (To borrow a turn of phrase from Khosrou, the narrator of Daniel's book, perhaps a good editor is like a god who speaks and a god who listens.) Because you’ve both worked as editors within the children’s book industry and both have written children’s books yourselves, I’d love to hear about the work you did together to shape Everything Sad Is Untrue. What questions did you ask each other and yourselves as you worked on the book?

Levine: I would strongly resist the characterization of the editor as a kind of G-d! At least in the traditional sense of an all-knowing, all-seeing, omnipotent being who shapes, controls and forms the book, with the author as clay. If you could meet Daniel, you'd laugh hard at the notion of me (or anyone) assuming that role with him!

And that's not how I think of the job anyway; I think of myself as the smart best friend who loves you and reads your manuscript because he already thinks you're amazing and just wants to give you a few helpful reactions and impressions. If anything, for me G-d is that ineffable burst of wonder that happens when creative people come together with pure trust. I don't know—Daniel, was G-d part of it for you at any part of the process of this book?

Nayeri: I like this. We’re going straight into religious conversation on question one. Leave it to you, Arthur, to get to the heart of the matter immediately. I have often heard from my fellow editors that the last taboo of children’s literature is religion. But this is a book about religion entirely. It is the reason the younger narrator is a refugee. Religion is the dividing line between his mother and father. And underneath his obsession with counting the memories of his grandfather is the anxiety that when they both die, they will go to different places. For me, G-d was in every word, or at least I hope so.  

But to return to your description of the author/editor relationship, I agree. I think the best version of that relationship is one where each person thinks the other is a master at their work. When I read an editorial note, I am naturally resistant. It hurts in the way that physical therapy hurts. An immediate reaction would be to argue, dismiss or distract from the points being made. But somewhere deep down, I know my editor is brilliant. He isn’t saying this to be obtuse. And my child mind has to relent to guidance. But then, maybe I was a recalcitrant child. Were there any instances you felt I never quite managed to hear you out? 

Levine: Ha! We're both author-editors so I know exactly what you mean. I could sometimes feel you struggling to consider my reactions; we had some excellent back and forth about the bull-killing scene, remember? But it's a good example of the process working on both sides. I shared my visceral reaction to some details and placement decisions, but I also felt total confidence that your vision for the book in its entirety REQUIRED many of those details as part of an accumulation of imagery and metaphor—meaning, ultimately, I might tell you that I recoiled at something, but if you said, "Good! I wanted the reader to recoil!" then I was happy. 

I have a great deal of faith in the capacity of young people to experience a huge range of emotion and experience through literature; I think that from time immemorial that has been the magic power of storytelling.

I don't want "obedience" in an author. I want someone who is so thoughtful and aware of his own work that he can be the ultimate arbiter of decisions (meta and micro) about the writing. As long as he thinks my reactions are sympathetic and intelligent then I hope he can give them the room to be helpful. And I'm very confident that you did that, Daniel. Was there ever a time you thought I strayed from that and was a bossy boss?

Nayeri: That’s a great point. One aspect of your editorial approach was to inhabit the reader and offer the most transparent play-by-play reactions to the sentences. Of course, I would wince whenever you’d write that a description of digging out a septic tank almost made you vomit. But then, as you said, I would consider that a victory. That’s how digging out the septic tank should feel, after all.

I think the only time you insisted on something was around the opening line. The book began “My first memory is blood, slopping from the throat of a terrified bull, and my grandfather …” and you were adamant that many readers would recoil if I started there, before introducing the narrator himself. I whined. I squirmed. I fought. I pouted. But finally, you got me to “just try” a different opening. I did so begrudgingly, and now I admit, you were right. The new opening is far stronger. I love that Khosrou’s sense of humor is offered up first. And I snuck in his reaction to your note, which is an apology for the blood, and an insistence that it’s important. You were the reader he is addressing in that section, Arthur. And you were right. I’ll say it again. The first opening was for me. The second opening was for the reader.

So much of what makes a masterful editor is invisible to authors. Their job is to be wind on a river. They nudge the flow of events so gently, with such patience, that the river itself doesn’t realize it is being directed.

Another moment that Khosrou speaks to you, Arthur, is when he says, “You might be thinking, what kind of twelve-year-old talks like that?” Do you remember? That was your note. And Khosrou answered you back, “The kind of twelve-year-old that speaks three languages.” We talked a lot about sophistication of language versus sophistication of thought and how readers would take to both. Where do you land on that? When telling a story to a younger audience that includes painful experiences, how do you edit to give them insight without burden?

Levine: I guess the first part of that answer is that I have a great deal of faith in the capacity of young people to experience a huge range of emotion and experience through literature; I think that from time immemorial that has been the magic power of storytelling. And this turns out to be both an explicit and implicit theme of your book, Daniel. I’m more afraid of depriving young people of the means to see aspects of their own experience reflected, or the opportunity to develop empathy, than I am of burdening them.

In the context of the book itself, I felt that as long as you stayed rigorously true to Khosrou’s actual emotion-within-the-story (and you most certainly did!) that you would never go beyond the emotional capacity of the reader. I also think it’s (always) important to ask oneself who the “reader” is we’re talking about? (As in, “for what age reader is this book for?”) Which reader? Are we talking about 11-year-old Arthur, whose mother and aunt taught him to read before kindergarten, or a reader like my son who only became confident with reading now, in his mid-teens.

The concept of the generic reader is a dangerous one—it leads to unexamined racism, for instance, and unnecessary “dumbing down.” For those readers with confidence and the connection of close experience, the narrative is its own path. For those for whom the experience is further from theirs, I think they only need periodic bridges to help them stay on that path—and small moments such as those you cite above (Khosrou talking to the reader disguised as me) are examples of those bridges.

I also think that while you never shied away from the painful experiences, as you put it, you also were generous with a laugh, quick to offer the reader a mouth-watering cream puff (literally) and unembarrassed by love and joy.

Are you satisfied with the balance? Did you wind up leaving anything out because you felt it would be too “tough” for the reader? It’s hard to imagine. For all that I’ve said here, you know I’m not very “tough” myself, so I would have flagged any sensitive reaction I had, but I don’t think I would, in retrospect, have asked you to consider removing anything that remains.

Nayeri: I think we agree. To me, any work that doesn’t prioritize revealing the truth—even narrowly confined to a particular moment or theme—is a project I would avoid. But as you pointed out, the middle grade category has what I would consider to be the widest range in audience. In some countries, Everything Sad Is Untrue will be published for adults. In this one, it may be read by precocious 10-year-olds. I think this is because middle grade novels are often coming-of-age novels. They are the threshold into adulthood. And we all come to that threshold at different times. I suppose what I mean is simply that the novel must express the truth of that transition into the realm of the adult. And that transition is usually a bloody one.

I am an inveterate lover of overlong titles, so for a while I wanted If You Don’t Stop You’re Unstoppable. I liked the hopefulness of that last one, the idea that this isn’t just a tale of immigrant woe. But it also sounds like those ’90s-era sports equipment ads that ended, “No Fear!”

But is there material I would share with an adult that I would withhold from a 10-year-old? Of course. I’ve known sensitive 10-year-olds with their own traumas to endure, who needed a few more years of gentleness and psychological assurance. And I’ve known plenty of 12-year-olds who need to be smacked out of their constant self-regard. It takes a parent, librarian or teacher to make that distinction, to put the right book in their hands and to speak with them afterward about what just happened. That’s the highest purpose of a “gatekeeper,” in my opinion.

That was also one of the main uses of addressing the reader in the book. Khosrou is choosing to share his pain and suffering with young readers, but also talking them through it manageably. I think that’s what the title refers to as well.

Arthur, introduce us to Levine Querido. What will make Levine Querido’s books unique?

Levine: Our motto is “Beloved books, beautifully made,” so I hope readers will find that the contents of the books are as extraordinary and surprising as the way they look and feel. We hope to be passionate advocates for authors and illustrators who come from previously underrepresented groups, in English and in translation, and to shine a spotlight on their talents.

We are choosing books to publish because we truly think they are incredible, choosing artists because we think their art is gorgeous.

Daniel, as you mention in your book’s acknowledgements, Arthur is a mythical figure in children’s publishing. Can you talk a bit about the myth of the man? What did he and the team at Levine Querido bring to this book?

Nayeri: So much of what makes a masterful editor is invisible to authors. Their job is to be wind on a river. They nudge the flow of events so gently, with such patience, that the river itself doesn’t realize it is being directed. They find like-minded librarians and booksellers and throw themselves into the actual work of community-building. They literally spend all day in the grind house of managing outsized egos, constant misunderstandings or internecine corporate warfare, and they spend nights gently coaxing a manuscript into the world. And at end, they’re judged on their list.

All that, and I haven’t even addressed what LQ has managed to do as a new publishing company. To put the likes of Antonio Cerna and Caroline Sun in decision-making seats—these are two people I’ve admired for more than a decade. Nick Thomas is so clearly a virtuosic editor. There’s Alexandra Hernandez, the team at Chronicle . . . I could go on. I’m tempted to just start listing names, as if I’ve won something. The reality is that I feel I’ve finally won the attention and effort of these sorts of people. I couldn’t begin to explain what that means to someone like me.

Arthur, how did Everything Sad Is Untrue first come to you? What made it stand out to you? How far into reading did you get before you knew you wanted to publish it?

Levine: I had met the intimidatingly smart and charming Mr. Nayeri at an American Library Association conference one year and we struck up a friendship and mutual admiration society. Jo Volpe, his incredible agent, sent me the manuscript, which left me gobsmacked. The fluidity with which Daniel went from the funny earthy realities of middle school life to the exquisite poetry of stories with a thousand-year history . . . only a very, very gifted author can do that.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our starred review of Everything Sad Is Untrue.

Daniel, your acknowledgements and author’s note provide a glimpse into the genesis of this book. It took you 13 years to write, and you mention that it was your friend Stacey Barney, the executive editor at Putnam, who suggested you try writing it from the perspective of your younger self. What did adapting that new perspective change for you?

Nayeri: As an adult, I’ve had the opportunity to process a lot of the raw, chaotic elements of my childhood. And that was how a lot of the early drafts read. They were distant from the pain, almost anthropological. By going back and telling the story as I would have as a kid, the reader can see he’s still in the midst of it. He is practically shaking as he describes a moment when he has had his thumb pulled out of its socket by an older kid. He doesn’t want you to think he was afraid. He insists that he didn’t cry, though we know he did. The unreliable and yet emotionally transparent narrator was the best part of shifting the story to my younger self.

Tell us about your mom, to whom you’ve dedicated the book. Introduce her to readers who haven’t read your book yet and don’t know why I’m asking this question. Did writing the book change your relationship with her? Has she read the book?

Nayeri: My mother is the central figure of the story. In the book she is described as not much taller than a potted plant and yet the strongest person I’ve ever met. When I was young, she converted to Christianity, which is a capital crime in our home country of Iran, so we had to escape. My father chose to stay. My mother, sister and I became refugees and finally found asylum in Edmond, Oklahoma. Those are the basic facts. The reality is that we watched this incredibly complicated idea, that someone’s religious convictions would lead her from a fairly well-to-do family across the planet into a life of precarity. As kids, there was a constant attempt to understand the “why” of it all.

There are a lot of people who speak for refugees, but not a lot of people who listen to them. I would love nothing more than to have young readers hear that term and think of Khosrou, someone they met in the course of reading the book, someone they may have come to like.

I don’t think the book changed our relationship much. I suppose I gained even more respect for what she endured. She has always known I wanted to write the book—ever since I was 10 years old—so it was mostly a feeling of relief after it was done. When she read the book, she disagreed with my read on several characters. For instance, she has a much kinder view of her father than I do. Admittedly, she knew him far better than I did. We talked about it. I even mentioned it in the author’s note. But at end, the book was from my perspective as a preteen.

Did Everything Sad Is Untrue ever have other titles that you’d be willing to share? When and how did its current title emerge?

Nayeri: Well, I thought about calling it Refugee, but that was taken. The adult version was titled The Persian Flaw, but that makes it sound like some sort of polemic about modern politics. And I am an inveterate lover of overlong titles, so for a while I wanted If You Don’t Stop You’re Unstoppable. I liked the hopefulness of that last one, the idea that this isn’t just a tale of immigrant woe. But it also sounds like those ’90s-era sports equipment ads that ended, “No Fear!”

What I really wanted was a title that didn’t deny fear or pain, but rather looked past it. That was how I got to the passage in the Lord of the Rings when Samwise Gamgee sees Gandalf return from the dead, and asks, “Will everything sad become untrue?” I adore Sam’s childlike faith there. If Gandalf had said so, Sam would believe that everything was about to become as it ought to be. I loved that, so the title was Everything Sad Will Become Untrue for nearly the entire time I wrote the last draft.

As I wrote, I began to consider that future-tense verb, Will Become. I wanted to add a bit of our narrator, Khosrou, to the sentiment. He, too, is as desirous as Samwise for a world that ought to be, but he’s also a bit more confident—or at least he presents himself that way. He would be the kind of kid who asserts the future as the present. Everything sad IS untrue. He’s jumping the gun. He wants his current pain to be redeemed by a better future. It’s technically a lie. Everything sad is NOT untrue. Not yet. And so that became the final title.

Arthur, I’m not sure whether the letter you wrote to accompany advance review copies of the book will end up in the finished book that readers will buy and borrow from their libraries, so I want to give you the opportunity now to get up on a proverbial soapbox and tell anyone reading this: What do you love about Everything Sad Is Untrue?

Levine: I think I could answer that question from a different angle every hour of the day. It could be the mouthwatering descriptions of food. It could be the descriptions of place so vivid you can feel the wind of an Oklahoma hurricane or smell the jasmine in a garden in Isfahan. It could be the comfort of reading a story told by someone else who knows how hard it is to make a friend in a new place. It could be the shock of a sudden moment of violence in your own living room, or the even greater shock of who comes to your defense. It’s the sharp suspense of a flight for your life. It’s the wonder of a lyrical history that lives in one man’s memories. Ask me again in an hour!

As you’re answering these questions, the launch of your first season of books is right around the corner. How are you feeling? What’s been different for you about the process of working on these books? What have you discovered about running an independent publishing company versus working as an editor or running an imprint inside of a larger publishing corporation?

Levine: Well, in many ways the launch has been building for a year. I hired my incredible editors Nick Thomas and Megan Maria McCullough; we integrated with Chronicle, the best distributor anyone could ask for; and we’ve been working with Antonio Cerna and Alexandra Hernandez to create wonderful marketing and publicity plans, then scrapping them and doing them over again in the digital world. Now it’s like we’re putting on our party hats and waiting to throw the doors open!

Everything about it has felt like a much more pure process, driven not only by mission but by genuine artistic response. We are choosing books to publish because we truly think they are incredible, choosing artists because we think their art is gorgeous. No one in this business can know what’s going to strike a chord; no one can prove which detail in the production values of a book is what’s going to make a difference to a book lover. It’s gut instinct and belief. And now, perhaps for the first time in my career, I can declare that that’s enough.

Daniel, a year from now, what kinds of thoughts and conversations among readers do you hope Everything Sad Is Untrue generates? What do you hope to hear from readers about the book?

Nayeri: There are a lot of people who speak for refugees, but not a lot of people who listen to them. I would love nothing more than to have young readers hear that term and think of Khosrou, someone they met in the course of reading the book, someone they may have come to like. To have a name that goes along with the word “refugee.” That would be powerful to me.

Throughout the story, Khosrou makes this appeal to the reader. He says, we are here, in the parlor of your mind, and I am your guest. He is begging for the reader to see him as a guest and not an intruder. He wants the reader to hear him, and he struggles with the desire to listen to the readers, to hear their response.

If young readers could take in that idea, I think they might consider themselves as having a refugee friend. They might think better of them the next time someone uses the term in some fear-mongering political context, or even in a dismissive one. They will have sat with a refugee for hours, and they will have seen him bleed, and they might even want to welcome more of them into their lives.

Photo of Daniel Nayeri by Daniel Nayeri. Photo of Arthur A. Levine by Tess Thomas.

Acclaimed author Helen Frost is well known for her historical novels in verse, including Salt and Crossing Stones. She returns to verse in All He Knew, which explores the little-known experiences of children in state-run psychiatric institutions in mid-20th-century America through the story of a fictional boy named Henry. We spoke to Frost about her personal connection to the story, researching history and the power of poetry.

In the author’s note at the end of All He Knew, you share that the book’s story was inspired by your husband’s uncle, whose experiences have much in common with Henry’s. When did you begin to think about writing a book inspired by these experiences?
Beginning in the mid-1980s, I listened to Maxine Thompson, my mother-in-law, as she talked about her brother Shirley; she said she had always wanted to write about him “to give him the life he never had.” Over the course of several years, she composed seven poems that told his story, and we worked together to put them into a small chapbook called The Unteachable One.

After that, when I was teaching writing to children in institutions of various kinds (though much different from Riverview), I often put out books of poetry and asked the children to find a poem that meant something to them and share it with the group. Someone always selected The Unteachable One. I don’t know whether it was the title or the small size of the book that attracted children, but I was always touched to hear those poems read in the voices of young readers, and they often inspired children to write brave and honest poems of their own. Perhaps it was during those years that I began to think about how I might explore this story more fully.

Riverview, the institution where Henry is sent, is fictional but based on real places. What kinds of research did you do to represent Riverview in your book? Where does research fit in to your creative process?
That part of my research was very difficult—not hard to find books, photographs, film, documentaries, letters, etc., or to find people who wanted to share their own stories, but so hard to really take in what had happened in those institutions, not only in the ’30s and ’40s, but well into the ’50s, ’60s and even the ’70s. I remember a friend whose mother had a baby in 1968 telling me, “We had to put it in an institution.” That word—“it”—still haunts me, as well as another word she used to describe the baby, which we thankfully no longer use.

We have so many stories about wars, and much respect is given to those who agree to fight in them. I hope readers will pause to consider that making a conscious choice about whether or not to participate in any war is difficult and highly personal, and that different choices can be equally worthy of respect.

I wanted to walk around the grounds of the institution where Maxine’s brother lived, but it has since been turned into a prison (which says something in itself), and I was only able to view it from a distance. I did go with a friend, Leslie Bracebridge, to walk around the grounds of an abandoned institution near where I lived as a teenager, and we talked together about what life had once been like there. As such institutions closed, Leslie has helped to create small group homes for adult women who are released, and she shared with me many stories based on what the women have told her.

I do a lot of research before I begin writing, but as I write, more questions come up and further research is required. I renew my library books multiple times and have a lot of internet bookmarks in a computer file for each book I write. And as people learn what I am working on, I hear many firsthand accounts from friends and family about different aspects of the book.

The character of Victor, a conscientious objector who brings much-needed compassion to Henry’s life at Riverview, was inspired by memoirs written by those who served in institutions like Riverview during World War II. How early on in the process of creating All He Knew did Victor emerge as a character? What do you hope readers take away from his role in the story?
I’ve long considered writing a children’s biography of William Stafford, a poet and World War II conscientious objector who I admire deeply and met on numerous occasions. I’d spoken to his son, the writer Kim Stafford, who encouraged me to do this, but I hadn’t been able to find a way to approach such a biography. At some point, it occurred to me that the two stories—one based on Maxine and her brother, the other springing from William Stafford’s memoir, Down in My Heart—could come together as one book.

I hope the reader experiences the delight in language that I enjoy as I write. I hope my love of poetry is contagious.

I had written many poems about Victor as I was beginning Henry’s story, but I’d set them aside, as I tried to focus more sharply on Henry and to some extent on Molly, Henry’s sister. After reading an early version, my editor Janine O’Malley said that she’d like to know more about Victor. I sent her the crown of sonnets and she loved it; from then on, Victor became a more central character.

Later in the process, my understanding of Victor’s character deepened when I learned that Al Rath, a relative I knew as a child, had worked in a psychiatric institution as a WWII conscientious objector and was influential in the profound changes that occurred during and after the war.

We have so many stories about wars, and much respect is given to those who agree to fight in them. I hope readers will pause to consider that making a conscious choice about whether or not to participate in any war is difficult and highly personal, and that different choices can be equally worthy of respect.

The relationship between Henry and his sister, Molly, and Molly’s letters to Victor are particularly touching. Can you talk about how Molly’s character emerged? What choices did you make in creating her character?
Molly’s character is strongly connected to Maxine, who wrote the poems in The Unteachable One, so that voice was with me from the start. Soon, though, Molly became very much her own character. It was important to have an outside observer with a close connection to Riverview who could express outrage about the institution—not only for her beloved brother Henry, but for all the children who lived and died there.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our starred review of All He Knew.

You’ve chosen to write Henry’s poems in free verse, while Victor’s poems take the form of sonnets. How did you arrive at this structure? What are some of your favorite sonnets, for readers who’d like to read more of them?
I love the sonnet form, and particularly the challenge of composing a crown of sonnets. I have included such a crown in books for children (Room 214) and young adults (Keesha’s House) as well as for adult readers. It’s a great form for exploring something complex or difficult. Two of my favorite sonnets are John Donne’s “La Corona” and Marilyn Nelson’s A Wreath for Emmett Till.

Did you know from the beginning that you would write All He Knew entirely in verse? How was your creative process different as you created this verse novel versus novels you’ve written partially in prose—and how was it the same? What do you hope the verse forms add to the reader’s experience of the book?
At the beginning, no, I didn’t know very much about the eventual structure I would find for the book.

I sometimes begin a first draft in prose or free verse, knowing that it is likely to find a different form later on. Once I have a sense of the characters’ voices and the direction of the story (typically after writing about 60 pages), I often start over and write in a way that is closer to the final form.

Writing in poetry, like reading good poetry, makes me pay close attention to the sound and nuance of each word and to how the lines and stanzas appear on the page. I also love the way writing in poetry creates surprises—not just helping me say what I already know or intend to say, but leading to discoveries that may deepen or change the direction of the story in an organic and interesting way.

Whether the final version is in prose, free verse or formally structured poetry, I hope the reader experiences the delight in language that I enjoy as I write. I hope my love of poetry is contagious and that the work I put into the writing is unobtrusive, at least upon a first reading. I know that some young readers don’t care about this, and that’s fine; they’ll still hear and feel the poetry, but a few do pay close attention. I think about a sixth grader stumbling over her words as she tried to tell me what she loved about The Braid, finally settling on, “It’s just . . . you know . . . how it’s . . . MADE!”

Can you say a little about the connection between Victor’s parents and the characters in your book, Crossing Stones?
Yes, although saying “a little” may be challenging, as this is bigger than these two books. I recently found an early draft of The Braid which I had titled Diamond Willow, which would later become the title of a different book. I’d been intending to create a multigenerational story in one book, each representing the point of a diamond. That intention has been obscured by now, but it is still possible to follow a thread of genealogy from the sisters Sarah and Jeannie in The Braid as they are separated in Scotland in 1852, all the way through to Willow in Diamond Willow in the early years of this century. Ollie and Muriel in Crossing Stones speak of “Grandma Jean’s best dinner rolls” and “Great Aunt Sarah,” referencing Jeannie and Sarah. By the time Jean shows up as a spruce hen in Diamond Willow, she represents Willow’s great-great-great grandmother. In All He Knew, Victor is Emma and Ollie’s son, and (you’re hearing it here first!) he may also be related to Willow. Thank you for asking!

Heartdrum, a new imprint from HarperCollins Children's Books, is the first imprint at a major American publishing company dedicated to the work of Native American creators. Children’s author Cynthia Leitich Smith and veteran editor Rosemary Brosnan, Heartdrum's co-founders, share its origin story and explain why its existence is breaking important new ground.

Let’s start with the basics. What will readers be able to expect from a book with the Heartdrum logo on the spine?

Cynthia Leitich Smith: Amazing books! Gorgeous books, heartfelt books, funny books, books with page-turning adventures and books with illustrations so gorgeous, you’ll want to linger over them. All lovingly created by Native authors and illustrators.

What else? We’ll publish mostly contemporary fiction—realistic and fantastical—that centers young Native heroes. Why? Because we are still here, and that’s where the biggest need is in the body of literature. To a lesser extent, we’ll also offer 20th-century historical fiction and narrative nonfiction.

More specifically, that will translate to both concept and narrative books. We’re going to publish poetry and short stories, prose and graphic format books, picture books, chapter books, middle grade and young adult titles, and series and standalone titles. The characters and content will be Native, but that’s just the beginning. Those books will also be Indigenous in sensibility and literary styles, so that they offer young readers a more holistically authentic experience.

Where did the idea for Heartdrum come from?


Leitich Smith: Over a bountiful, laughter-filled breakfast at a Houston conference hotel, Ellen Oh—who is a powerhouse, a radiant literary voice in her own right and a game-changing leader in the movement for more inclusive and equitable books—cheerfully suggested that I might consider founding an imprint featuring books by Native creatives. I smiled, flattered, and slowly shook my head wistfully. I replied that I wasn’t famous or fancy enough to pull off something like that.

It sounded like a sky-high dream, and it was. I mulled over the idea for some months until I found myself teaching Native writers at the LoonSong Turtle Island workshop. The energy was incredible. My fellow Indigenous writers inspired me. I decided to try.

We’re publishing books that will help to correct centuries of misrepresentation, books I longed to read as a child, books worthy of this generation and those to come.

I approached Rosemary Brosnan at HarperCollins. Rosemary is my original children’s book editor and one of the legendary editors in the field. She has also been a devoted and accomplished diversity advocate since I first entered the field. Her response was oh-so enthusiastic—the dream came true, and we got to work!

Rosemary Brosnan: Cynthia wrote me an email in the fall of 2018, asking if I would be interested in working with her on a Native-focused imprint at HarperCollins. I jumped at the chance—and I’m happy to say that our President and Publisher, Suzanne Murphy, was on board immediately. I’m delighted that Cynthia thought of me for this wonderful venture.

You two have worked together for a long time. How did you first connect with each other?

Leitich Smith: I was taking that first piece of advice we often give to beginners, which is to write what you know. I was writing contemporary Native stories, and nobody seemed to know what to do with them. By simply reflecting the truth, I found myself largely blocked by the myth of erasure and by stuck-in-time stereotypes.

One day on a Listserv, I came across a mention of an editor seeking modern Native stories. It was Rosemary, of course! 


Brosnan: I believe that Cynthia submitted her first manuscript to me, for the picture book Jingle Dancer, around 1996. It was just what I was looking for: a beautifully written story about a contemporary Native girl. At the time, the few books about Native kids were often historical and/or not written by Native authors or illustrated by Native illustrators. The book came out under the HarperCollins imprint in 2000.

What does it mean to have an imprint like Heartdrum within a major publishing company like HarperCollins?


Leititch Smith: It’s been quite a journey. My early Native books were published between 2000 and 2002. Then the so-called “multicultural boom” went bust.

I have a clear memory from around 2005 of being told by a respected publishing professional that if Kevin Costner decided to make a sequel to Dances With Wolves, then maybe someone at a big publisher would be interested in acquiring another of my titles. I also recall being told, over and over, that kidlit already had Joseph Bruchac (and then Sherman Alexie), so there was no need for another Native author. One voice, always male, tended to be the default.

Joe himself published hard against that. He supported other Native authors. He even founded a small publishing house to publish Indigenous books.

Part of me wishes that I could travel back in time to that young writer I used to be, the one who at times struggled with discouragement and kept pivoting in search of a way forward in a rocky landscape.

I am a writer, so I kept writing. My Native-focused fiction was largely relegated to the occasional short story in an anthology, and along the way, I published two popular YA speculative fiction series, which was spooky fun. They also provided an opportunity for me to write diverse casts, including Native secondary characters, and to address social justice themes through metaphor.

Finally, a miracle! The steadfast efforts of long-term diversity advocates got a welcome turbocharge from a new generation who insisted on positive, proactive change immediately.

Part of me wishes that I could travel back in time to that young writer I used to be, the one who at times struggled with discouragement and kept pivoting in search of a way forward in a rocky landscape. I wish I could assure her that someday she would spin with joy thinking about the growth and strength of the Native kidlit community and find herself in a key position to help connect young readers with Indigenous narratives.

Brosnan: It’s a huge step. As an editor, I struggled for years to acquire books by diverse authors and to publish the books well. I heard numerous times from teachers and librarians at conferences, “I don’t have those kids in my class/school/community,” meaning, “I don’t need these books.”

We needed to see dramatic changes not only in the industry but also in society to be where we are now. I credit We Need Diverse Books and the Cooperative Children’s Book Center in Madison, Wisconsin, for helping me as an editor and for giving me talking points about demographics and about lack of representation, points that I could take into acquisitions meetings.

It feels like a dream come true to have Heartdrum, to work with Cynthia and to nurture new talent. I always think of the kids we are serving with the books, and that makes me so happy.

How would you each describe what you do at Heartdrum to someone who doesn’t know much about publishing?


Leititch Smith: Author-curator is a new role in book publishing. I’d say I’m the devoted auntie of the Heartdrum titles. I provide all kinds of support to their creators, help feather their nests, offer various gifts and celebrate both day-to-day life and the big milestones. That said, Rosemary is the in-house editor for the imprint, and she’s the one doing the heavy lifting.

Brosnan: As author-curator, Cynthia works with Native authors who are interested in writing books for children and teens and mentors these authors. Cynthia does a lot of work with the author before I even see a manuscript.

When a manuscript is ready for submission, it comes to me via Cynthia or the author’s agent, if the author has an agent. After that, it goes through the usual process. I edit each manuscript on the Heartdrum list—no other Harper editors are involved.

There are so many rewards with this work—the wonderful authors I get to work with, the debut authors we are launching, the kids who will see themselves portrayed in Heartdrum books, getting to work with Cynthia . . . the fun of it all!

But at Heartdrum, I have the I have the benefit of a partner who sends me valuable comments. Cynthia has years of experience teaching writing in the master’s program at the Vermont College of Fine Arts in addition to her own experience as an author. It’s extremely nice to have someone to work with like this, and Cynthia always has very helpful feedback. She will also give me specific Native feedback about things I may not be knowledgeable about. We are working very seamlessly together, and I love having her as my partner!

Leititch Smith: I tend to think of Heartdrum as the 2.0 version of our relationship. For me, it’s been a tremendous education and learning what really happens behind the scenes.

Rosemary, you’ve worked as an editor at HarperCollins for 20 years. What’s new and different about your work with Heartdrum, compared to your past work?

Brosnan: I follow the same processes with Heartdrum titles as with my other books, with the very important addition of Cynthia’s contributions that I mentioned above. What’s challenging to me is my ignorance of Native issues, which I have been trying to remedy. There are so many rewards with this work—the wonderful authors I get to work with, the debut authors we are launching, the kids who will see themselves portrayed in Heartdrum books, getting to work with Cynthia . . . the fun of it all! We hosted a Native Writers’ Intensive Workshop over four days in August, led by Cynthia, and that was one of the highlights of my year. There is so much talent out there, and the community has been so incredibly welcoming to me.

Cynthia, in addition to your work as an author, you run an influential children’s literature blog and you’re on the faculty of an MFA program. What has it been like for you to step into this new role at Heartdrum?

Leititch Smith: It's like everything I’ve done before has prepared me for what I’m doing now. When I first decided to leave law and journalism in favor of writing books for kids, my vision was always about more than my own writing—although being a writer is the most “me” thing I do.

My goal was to somehow belong in this magical world of those whose work lights the way through the most challenging thing any of us attempt: growing up.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Discover Cynthia Leitich Smith's books for children and young adults.

The main challenge is not being able to say “yes” to every project submitted, but we had envisioned publishing four to six books a year, and in our first year, we’ve got 23 books under contract. We’re still looking hard for projects, but we’re also happily bursting at the seams.

The rewards of this work are limitless. We’re bringing forth new voices, propelling rising stars and embracing well-established names, too. We’re showcasing books that will really speak to Native and non-Native kids, books that are intrinsically marvelous reads. We’re publishing books that will help to correct centuries of misrepresentation, books I longed to read as a child, books worthy of this generation and those to come.

What’s on your Heartdrum “bucket list”—elements or characteristics of books you’d love to publish but haven’t yet?

Leititch Smith: We want the Native creators to focus on writing and illustrating the books of their hearts, however they’re best rendered. So they’re in the driver’s seat. That said, I’d love for us to sign up a graphic novel, a novel in verse and a collaborative novel by Native creators writing very different, alternating points of view. The possibilities are endless, but those are a few that spring to mind.

Brosnan: We are looking for fresh voices and for writers who are committed to children’s and YA literature. I like to see what Cynthia brings in. She has impeccable taste!

How will you find fresh voices to work with and publish?

Leititch Smith: It’s a combination of putting out the word and being actively involved in the intertribal book community. Many Native creatives have reached out to me after learning about Heartdrum from, say, social media, Native radio programs or newspapers.

However, the majority are existing contacts or come through word-of-mouth referral. I’ve been a mentor and teacher in Native kidlit for a long time, so it’s not like I’m starting from scratch.

Beyond that, Heartdrum donates annually to the We Need Diverse Books Native Children’s and YA Writing Intensive, which I coordinate and teach along with fellow Native creative and industry faculty. This event is a wonderful skill and community builder.

When you’re reading a manuscript or looking at an illustrator’s portfolio, how do you know when you’ve found something you want to publish?

Brosnan: I’m looking for the same qualities I look for in any manuscript: a distinctive voice; appealing characters; a story that moves along; an author who is committed to their craft; a book that is different from what is already out there. With illustrators, we are more than willing to work with Native illustrators who are new to working on children’s books and to walk them through the process.

Leititch Smith: For manuscripts, I’m seeking high quality literary and visual art that centers young Native heroes and advances the conversation of Native literature. In nonfiction manuscripts, the second part of that equation is especially important.

To zero in on the visual aspect, the right match is so dependent on the project. It’s kind of like falling in love—transformative and elusive and yet somehow it happens every day.

As for the Native creators themselves, I’m most interested in community-oriented folks who are committed to serving the young audience and to building a body of work in children’s and YA books.

What are some Heartdrum titles you’re especially excited to share with readers in 2021?

Leititch Smith: Coming up this winter, we’ve got Christine Day’s tender sophomore novel, The Sea in Winter. It’s a touching, beautifully rendered exploration of a young girl’s journey to reclaim joy. Christine is already a significant voice in the field. Her debut novel, I Can Make This Promise, earned an American Indian Library Association Honor Award.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our starred review of Heartdrum's first book of 2021, Christine Day's The Sea in Winter.

We’re also publishing an innovative middle grade anthology, Ancestor Approved: Intertribal Stories for Kids, which I edited. It features well-established authors like David A. Robertson and Joseph Bruchac, up-and-comers like Traci Sorell and Eric Gansworth, and new voices like Andrea L. Rogers and Brian Young. While primarily comprised of short stories, lovely poems by new voice Kim Rogers and acclaimed author Carole Lindstorm bookend and help to contextualize the project.

The contributors, including the cover illustrator Nicole Niedhardt, collaborated on world building to offer a collection of narratives intersecting at a two-day intertribal powwow. It was a fascinating process involving an online message board, emails, texts, phone calls and in-person meetings. The result is a fully immersive vicarious experience wherein each entry can stand alone but reading them together adds layers of resonance.

We’re also looking forward to summer releases—debut author Brian Young’s timely and timeless middle grade novel Healer of the Water Monster, Dawn Quigley’s hilarious Jo Jo Makoons: The Used to Be Best Friend (the first in a chapter book series!), and my own Sisters of the Neversea, a modern Indigenous update to J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan.

Beyond that, we’ve lined up a bounty of picture books, including nonfiction and more novels, too! Publishing geeks should brace for several deal announcements to come.

Through her acclaimed books, Laura Amy Schlitz has transported young readers to a medieval English village, Victorian London, a big American city at the turn of the 20th century and more. In Amber & Clay, she sets her sights on ancient Greece to tell the story of an enslaved boy named Rhaskos, who longs to become an artist, and a privileged girl named Melisto, who chafes against familial and social expectations. Told in a mix of prose, verse and artifacts illustrated by Julia Iredale, Amber & Clay is historical fiction at its most inventive. 

How familiar were you with ancient Athens before you embarked on this project? What did you learn about it that surprised you? 
I didn’t know much when I started work on this book. I had to dig in. After a year or two, I had to buy a new bookcase to accommodate all the Greek books I bought. I drew maps, made lists, filled notebooks and tried to make clay pots. I went to museums and stared at things for long periods of time. I went to Greece. I tried to learn the language.

When I began my research, I was often angry. I was angry with the Greeks for being a slave society. I was angry with them for being misogynist. I was taken aback by how hard their lives were, how omnipresent the threats of war and enslavement were. Those fifth-century Greeks experienced little in the way of creature comforts, nothing of abundance or security. At the same time, I was astonished by their creativity, their appetite for beauty, their staggering ingenuity, their leaps of intellect and imagination. They adored excellence and aspired to justice.

And yet.

And yet.  

I told a wise friend how confounded I was by these contradictory Greeks, and she said, “When you are simultaneously repelled and attracted by something, sometimes it’s because you’re standing on holy ground.”   

I didn’t understand that, but I believed her. I kept researching. After a while, the Greeks began to come into focus for me. I started to see how their struggles and hardships and aspirations  came together to form a culture. I was able to see them in a way that felt clearheaded and not sanctimonious. 

As I was writing the story, I wanted to be able to drag children to a museum and say, “See?  That’s what I’m talking about!”

What was it like to travel to modern-day Athens as part of your research?
It was one of two major turning points for me. I took an archaeological tour of Athens, and two fantastic guides tirelessly answered my questions.

Greece is astonishingly, hauntingly beautiful. I was moved to tears. When you see those dense forests and the mountains against the sky, when you see the water and the rocks and that fierce light, you understand how the ancients peopled their world with nymphs and gods and monsters.  

The second turning point for me was trying to learn the language. I didn’t succeed; I had no teacher, and the language is hard. But trying to fit those jawbreaker words in my mouth—struggling to muscle out those consonants—I fell in love. Trying to learn Greek brought the story closer to me.

As you wrote, how did you decide which characters would speak in verse and which in prose?
For the first hundred pages of the first draft, everything was written in prose. But one day I was tempted to write a passage from Hermes’ point of view, and he spoke in verse. That encouraged me to see if the Rhaskos chapters would work better in verse. To my surprise and relief, they did.  

I became very interested in different forms of Greek verse. Perhaps I was guided by Hermes, god of thieves: What else could I steal? I liked the strophe-antistrophe structural technique, which was commonly used by the chorus in a Greek drama, so I tried to copy that. When I encountered hendecasyllables (11-syllable lines), I thought they would be suitable for a ghost. Ghosts and prime numbers seem to fit together.  

As I went on writing, it seemed to me that the gods and the sphinx should speak in verse that was tailored to the character. Hephaistos, god of the forge, for example, is a bass; his lines are slower and heavier than the fluent pattern of Hermes.  

Honestly, I was just messing around. Some of my efforts entertained me, so I kept messing. Sometimes when I was stuck, I’d throw back my head and yell in Greek, “Sing to me, Muse!” It seemed to help. My terrible Greek probably snagged the attention of the muse.  

Was it fun to incorporate the philosopher Socrates (whom you call Sokrates in the book) and Socratic dialogue into the story? 
Choosing which ideas would make sense to children and working them in was fun. But Rhaskos generally ran the train off the tracks, because he wasn’t answering Sokrates’ questions the way I thought he would. 

In the Platonic dialogues, Sokrates asks questions and he’s answered by a well-educated adult, but Rhaskos is a child, so he sees the world differently. He’s intelligent, but he’s had no education. Because of his life experiences, he’s developed a nose for hypocrisy, injustice and malice. He can also be very literal, because children are.  

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our starred review of Amber & Clay.

I sometimes posed Sokrates’ questions to my students. I asked fifth graders whether there was anything in the world that didn’t change or couldn’t change. One of them answered that the only thing that didn’t and couldn’t change was the past. I put his words in Rhaskos’ mouth.  

Amber & Clay includes moments in which supernatural events (gods, ghosts, magic) exist alongside the human events of the story. Was that always the case? 
The earliest drafts didn’t have the gods, though I was planning on a ghost. The first god to poke his nose in was Hermes. Later I came to understand that leaving the gods out would be negligent. It would have been un-Greek. Nowadays, we draw a line between what is natural and what is supernatural, but the ancient Greeks didn’t. They divined the gods in the land, in their dreams and in their passions. If I’d omitted the gods, I’d have ignored a huge chunk of their experience.   

How did you get the idea to include the novel’s visual elements, illustrated images of historical artifacts and museum placards, as part of the narrative?
As I was writing the story, I wanted to be able to drag children to a museum and say, “See?  That’s what I’m talking about!” I wanted the reader to feel a little bit like an archaeologist, to have to search for the story behind each artifact. 

There are many emotional moments in Amber & Clay and some desperately sad ones—but there’s humor, too. Was it challenging to include funny moments when you were exploring some pretty dark themes? 
No. What I’ve discovered is that if you try to write something funny, that’s challenging. But if you try to write truthfully, even about sad things—maybe even especially about sad things—humor trickles in uninvited, like rain through a leaky roof. Over the years, I’ve come to trust that.

Author photo of Laura Amy Schlitz courtesy of Joe Rubino.

Carlie Sorosiak wrote her first middle grade novel, I, Cosmo, from the perspective of a family’s golden retriever. Leonard, the titular narrator of her second novel, is a cat—but he’s not just any cat. He’s actually an alien who crash-landed on Earth, intending to take human form but accidentally ending up as a cat. Now a girl named Olive might be his only hope of returning home to the stars. 

How did the inspiration for this book come to you?
A cat came first. I’d just finished writing a book about a dog, so I thought that a cat book would make for a natural follow-up! At the same time, I really wanted to write about a friendly alien. It occurred to me that I could blend the two characters together. (Aren’t cats sort of alienlike anyway?) The idea made me giggle. When I start to giggle about a story, I know I’m headed in the right direction.

How did you approach inhabiting both Leonard’s alien mind and his feline form?
It was certainly a challenge! I write chronologically, so I began with Leonard’s moment of arrival, when he finds himself transformed into a cat on Earth. I wondered what would shock him about his body. His tail? His claws? What would delight him? Leonard’s perspective bloomed from there. He has these catlike instincts (to destroy the curtains, for example), but for the first half of the novel, he actively fights against them.

My own family has two polydactyl cats, Bella and Duncan. Duncan has big Leonard energy, and I drew a great deal of inspiration from the way he moves and the way he approaches the world so curiously. The cat on the cover of Leonard even looks quite a lot like him!

What was fun about writing from Leonard’s perspective? What was challenging?
Writing this book was a perpetual balancing act. The narration is mostly alien, but every once in a while, the cat slips in (as cats tend to do). During the initial drafts, I found it difficult to maintain a balance between them. 

"At the beginning of the book, when Olive rescues Leonard in a storm, she’s feeling exactly the same way I did at 11: incredibly odd. An outsider on Earth."

However, that never took away a single ounce of fun! It was joyous to write from Leonard’s perspective—partially because it was so intellectually challenging and partially because I loved thinking about human customs that might baffle or delight an alien. For example, poetry! While I was writing, I was also preparing to teach an undergraduate poetry class, so Leonard’s variation on William Carlos Williams’ “This Is Just to Say” found its way into the novel. I can’t tell you how much I cracked up just thinking about an alien cat writing poetry.

Leonard is fascinated by seemingly mundane objects such as cheese sandwiches, raincoats and Swiss Army knives. How did you decide which objects would catch his attention?
Honestly, I just really love cheese sandwiches! As for the rest of the objects, many of them represent simple pleasures and general humanness. At one point, I think I also Googled “funny human objects.” During drafting, Google is my best friend.

Tell us a little bit about Olive. How did her relationship with Leonard develop as you wrote?
At the beginning of the book, when Olive rescues Leonard in a storm, she’s feeling exactly the same way I did at 11: incredibly odd. An outsider on Earth. And she’s absolutely obsessed with all kinds of animals, including cats. Throughout the novel, Leonard and Olive start to bond in deeper and deeper ways. They’re both outsiders—in Leonard’s case, quite literally! They’re both curious and compassionate and a little bit scared of what life might bring. But now they have each other.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our starred review of Leonard (My Life as a Cat).

What do the concepts of home and family mean for Leonard and Olive? Did your own understanding of home and family evolve as you worked on the book?
One of my favorite lines in the book is, “You don’t have to be born into a family to call it your own.” I believe that wholeheartedly, and over the course of the novel, Olive and Leonard come to believe that, too. They develop this found family, together on Earth. 

I’ve always been interested in what constitutes a home, as I’ve moved a lot over the years and I often have trouble feeling grounded. But compassionate people ground me. Animals ground me. Friends can be your home.

I wouldn’t necessarily say that my understanding of home and family changed as I worked on Leonard, but the book did cement many of the things I feel. Hold your loved ones close. You can be weird around them, and they’ll still adore you. In fact, they’ll adore you because of your you-ness.

What do you think—and what do you hope—could be out there among the stars?
As a storyteller, I’m particularly fascinated by the Voyager golden record and the sounds of Earth that NASA chose to capture and send into space to represent humanity. Aliens are definitely out there. It’s a statistical probability. Whether they’re fluffy, catlike and dream about cheese sandwiches . . . well, that’s perhaps another story!

Author photo courtesy of Carlie Sorosiak.

Lesa Cline-Ransome is an acclaimed children’s author whose first middle grade novel, Finding Langston, received a Coretta Scott King Award Honor. Being Clem completes a loose trilogy that began with Finding Langston and continued in Leaving Lymon. It’s a poignant story of a young boy in 1940s Chicago who must deal with the tragic loss of his father while navigating challenges at school, complicated friendships and swimming lessons.

How would you describe Being Clem to someone who hasn’t read the previous two books in the trilogy? What was different for you about creating this story compared to the earlier two?
Clem is smart, outgoing and funny. He is the cherished youngest child and only boy, with two bossy older sisters and an overprotective mother who are all striving to protect him, but it’s not protecting Clem wants. He wants to be independent, brave and strong, like his father. His struggle to discover who he is as a young man finds him caught between a bully and a friend and never quite feeling that he can be honest about his fears without the risk of disappointing those around him.

Unlike the first two books, this story uses humor as a way of tackling many of the difficult issues Clem is facing. Being Clem also finalizes some of the loose ends of the friendship of Clem, Langston, Errol and Lymon, and readers will see how their stories ultimately play out.

Were these books always going to be a trilogy? What was it like to revisit familiar characters in Being Clem?
Interestingly, Finding Langston began as a too-long picture book that my editor suggested I attempt to expand into a middle grade novel. I never intended the book to evolve into a trilogy, but my editor and I found that readers wanted to know more about the cast of characters introduced in Finding Langston.

The problem for me was that I had only a limited scope for the secondary characters I created, so for Lymon’s and Clem’s stories, I began by looking at the culminating events in their lives that I alluded to in the first book—Lymon’s struggle with reading and the loss of Clem’s father in the Port Chicago Disaster—and worked my way into their backstories until I fully understood their uniquely individual stories.

Clem has internalized gender stereotypes, including ideas that boys can't be librarians or talk to other boys about their inner thoughts. What drew you to exploring these stereotypes? How did you balance representing them while also challenging them?
I am a mother of three daughters and one son, and I have always encouraged my son to be open with his feelings and emotions. His sisters were so verbal and emotive, and I’ve always encouraged my son to be the same, but outside of our home, the messages he received were very different. I often worried about my son and wondered if there was a space for boys who are sensitive or cry easily. It made me wonder about how often boys are asked to hide their emotions—how emotions are often feminized. To this day, I feel so proud of my son who, I feel, is so emotionally evolved in his ability to be honest about his feelings, to gauge and adapt to others’ emotions. I do believe that is because he had the space to freely express emotion as a child without being ridiculed. So it is my son I thought of when writing the characters of Langston, Lymon and Clem, who are all in their own ways sweet, sensitive, intuitive souls.

There were so many pieces of history that were presented inaccurately or incompletely when I was a student in school, so writing for me is often a way of relearning the truth of history, in particular the ways in which practices and systems directly impacted people of color.

In the book, Clem is given so many rigid messages about gender roles and what it means to be a man, but none of those definitions seem to apply to him. He begins to wonder, Can I ever be a man if I am afraid or not a fighter or smart or athletic? No one has told him that there are other ways to be a man. I think these are issues that so many young men are grappling with today.

Fear is another emotion that comes up repeatedly in the book. Expressing fear, Clem eventually discovers, is part of the journey toward conquering it. What do you hope young readers realize about fear through Clem’s story?
In a world where Black boys are often painted as hardened, violent and to be feared, I know the opposite to be true. In fact, because of that perception, Black boys are often the target of daily slights and injustice and violence. I wanted readers to see that fear and courage are not mutually exclusive. You can experience and embrace fear while forging ahead. It doesn’t have to immobilize you.

Many children’s books that involve bullying focus on either the person being bullied or the bully themselves. Clem, however, finds himself caught between the two. How did you decide this would be his role?
There is always the temptation to paint the antagonist as all bad and the protagonist as all good, but the truth of it is, people are never all one. There’s a little bit of both in all of us, so it is important to show readers that even good people can make bad choices on occasion and hurt others, which is what Clem does when he goes along with the bullying. Ultimately, when he is able to reflect on his own moral compass and inner strength, Clem is able to make better choices, but sometimes people can take longer to get to that place of awareness. I think these types of difficult choices that are nuanced and complex are the choices that kids are making every day, none of them simple. 


I want to ask specifically about Clem’s mother, who struggles between her desires to both empower her children to succeed and protect them from adult responsibilities. I think she will be understood very differently by young readers versus adult readers. Can you talk a bit about creating her character and what you wanted to explore or represent through her?
As a writer, there was a part of me that wanted the opportunity to create a different mother than was presented in the previous two books in the trilogy. In the first novel, there was Langston’s loving but deceased mother. In the second, Lymon was estranged from his difficult mother, and when they reunited, he discovered that she was far from maternal.

Clem’s mother is loving and maternal, but she is also grieving and depressed, and her mental state shapes the ways Clem and his sisters interact with her. Even while she feels she is being protective of them as a mother, her fragility means that her children are forced to mother and protect her.

I don’t think we talk enough about the challenges of motherhood and parenting through pain, depression, grief and loss, the lack of support available to mothers and what the reality looks like of having to provide ongoing daily care for children through it all. 


Your writing oeuvre includes middle grade historical fiction, picture book biographies and even a quilt-based abecedary, all united by your goal to “explore periods from America's past that were never discussed in the classrooms of [your] youth.” Being Clem in particular focuses on the Port Chicago Disaster and is set against the background of the Great Migration. Do you usually begin writing with a story or a character and then choose a historical setting, or vice versa—or are the two inextricably linked?
Generally speaking, I discover a period or an event from history I am looking to explore and then I envision it through the lens of a child. There were so many pieces of history that were presented inaccurately or incompletely when I was a student in school, so writing for me is often a way of relearning the truth of history, in particular the ways in which practices and systems directly impacted people of color.

When I first began the Finding Langston trilogy, it was because I had just read Isabel Wilkerson’s The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America’s Great Migration, which explores the stories of the 6 million Black people who left the South and travelled north in the 1900s. Reading that book led me to examine so many other historic events and touchstones that appear in the trilogy, including the Parchman Farm penitentiary, sundown towns, segregation and the Chicago Defender.

My own parents were part of the Great Migration and my father left Shelby, North Carolina, when he was 12 years old and moved to Providence, Rhode Island. I began wondering how, as a child, it would have felt as a child to leave behind everything and everyone you know and travel to a region so different in every way from your own. And by asking that question, I developed a character named Langston who finds he doesn’t quite fit into the city of Chicago, is teased and called “country boy,” but who eventually finds solace in the poetry of Langston Hughes and the Chicago Public Library. In that book, Clem from Being Clem becomes Langston's first friend in Chicago, in part because, like Langston, he has also lost a parent, a father in the Port Chicago Disaster.

Clem interacts with real events, objects and places, including the Bud Billiken parade, the Chicago Defender newspaper and his local high school's champion swim team. Can you tell us more about the process of researching these real-world elements?
Honestly, many of the real-world elements that I’ve included happened coincidentally and often took on a life of their own. For example, as I began researching segregated swimming pools in Chicago in the 1940s while trying to uncover where Clem might have been able to take lessons, I stumbled across one article about the undefeated DuSable High School swim team, whose members were all Black students, so I did some more digging until I had enough information to include it in the book and make it a central part of Clem’s story. What began as a small portion of Clem’s story revolving around his struggle to learn to swim ultimately evolved into a much larger social statement involving historic references to segregation, mentorship, newspaper delivery boys and the Chicago Defender.

Clem's friend Langston loves the poetry of Langston Hughes, and Clem is intrigued by him as well. How did you decide to highlight Hughes’ work in the novel?
Hughes’ work wasn’t even included in the initial drafts until I discovered a lecture series featuring Black writers who would share their work at the George Cleveland Hall branch of the Chicago Public Library, which was the library Langston visited. As I looked up the writers, I began reading the works of Gwendolyn Brooks, Arna Bontemps, Countee Cullen and Margaret Walker, but when I read the work of Langston Hughes, I discovered many of his pieces had references to the South, specifically to red clay roads and coming north and missing his mother. That’s when a light went on for me, and I decided to connect his work to my character Langston and his leaving Alabama.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of Being Clem.

What do you enjoy about writing longer narrative forms like middle grade novels versus shorter forms like picture books?
I do enjoy both, but the beauty of writing in a longer form is that I have the opportunity to get to know my characters so deeply that they begin to feel like family. I am with them as they travel to school, spend time with their families or are in bed at night, so the way in which I inhabit their consciousness is very different from the way in which I write about a picture book subject.

Some writers love researching, some the initial draft and some revising. Do you enjoy one of these processes more than others? What do you enjoy about it?
I can tell you which one I enjoy the least: revision! Each provides its own rewards, but I have to say, there is no other feeling like when I begin getting that first draft down and the story begins to reveal itself to me. I know that I am going to have to change much of it, remove portions, rework entire sections, but it is so wonderful to meet the characters and find the settings and see where they will take me. 


We understand you’ve recently gotten a dog. Will you tell us about him?
Ah, Miles. Miles began as a foster dog from our local shelter. My plan was to keep him for just a few months until he was adopted. My family thought this was a terrible idea because they said I would become too attached and want to adopt Miles for myself.

Miles is an 8-year-old pitbull who has spent much of his life in shelters. There is nothing he loves more than a good couch and company, so he immediately set up camp in my office and happily stretched out, softly snoring behind me all day long as I worked or did my virtual school visits. We’d go for long walks, and at night he loved to watch movies as he stretched out on the couch next to me.

Miles is not easy. He cries too much, has arthritis and separation anxiety, is so terrified of rain that I have to coax him outside and cover him with an umbrella in order to get him to leave the house on rainy days, and you can never leave food on his level or he’ll steal it. But just as my family predicted, we fell in love and now he’s mine. I signed adoption papers two weeks ago.

Author photo of Lesa Cline-Ransome courtesy of John Halpern. Photo of Miles Cline-Ransome courtesy of the author.

Kate DiCamillo and Sophie Blackall are two of the most decorated children’s book creators working today, so their first collaboration qualifies as a major event. The Beatryce Prophecy is an illustrated fantasy tale about a girl, a goat and the power of the written word, and DiCamillo’s and Blackall’s many fans are going to adore it. BookPage spoke with the author and the illustrator about the surprises and joys of working together for the first time.

Kate, you’ve said that you wrote this story by “following the goat and the girl.” Can you introduce us to Beatryce and Answelica? Did this story begin with them?

Kate DiCamillo: Beatryce is a girl who can read and write in a time and place when it is against the law for a girl to do either. And Answelica is the hardheaded, large-souled goat who becomes Beatryce’s friend and protector.

OK, that’s the introductions—now, on to the thornier question of where the story began. I’ve gone back through my notebooks, and all I can find is a few words right before I started to write: monk, moon, goat.

Two of those words became central to the book. Which is to say, I started with the goat, and she led me to the rest of the story—a story that was a complete surprise and wonder to me.

You began writing it in 2009, then you put it away for almost a decade, only to rediscover it while cleaning out a closet. Do you remember why you initially put it away? How do you think the years between impacted the book?

DiCamillo: I don’t know why I put it away. I can’t find any notes about that. My guess is that I wanted a story that was lighter, funnier (my mother had passed away at the beginning of the year), and I had this story about a squirrel and a vacuum cleaner and poetry that seemed funny to me.

When I did unearth the early draft of Beatryce, it had been so long that I was able to read it as something that I didn’t write—and that helped me see that there was something there, a story that needed to be told. Does that make sense?

As to how the years in between impacted it—I guess just that. There was this sense of urgency. As if the story had been waiting, as if Answelica and Beatryce had been waiting. They needed me to tell their story.

And all the closets (and drawers and file cabinets) have been cleaned now!

You’ve dedicated The Beatryce Prophecy to your mother. Beatryce’s mother, Aslyn, plays a critical role in the novel, instilling strength, courage and a love of books and stories in her daughter. Are there connections between your mother and Beatryce’s mother?

DiCamillo: It wasn’t until the book was done that I started to think about my mother’s impact on me as a writer, but most importantly as a reader. I struggled to learn to read. Phonics didn’t make sense to me. And I was so desperate to read. I remember crying to my mother in first grade about how I didn’t understand phonics. And she said something like, “Oh, for the love of Pete, don’t get so upset. You’re smart. We’ll just work around it.” And then she made me flash cards. A word on each flash card. And she had me memorize the words. And that worked for me.

Word by word, my mother gave me the world. She taught me to become myself.

This isn’t the first of your novels to function as an ode to reading, writing and storytelling. Why do you return to these themes?

DiCamillo: I feel like I became my true self when I learned how to read. I felt, then, as if anything was possible. I still feel that way about books and stories. They let us be ourselves, discover who we are and who we can become. I guess I keep returning to this thematically because I can’t get over the wonder and gift of books, stories, the written word.

I think readers love your willingness to ask big questions and to explore big ideas and emotions. “Who could understand the world?” and “How much could a heart hold?” are two of the questions posed by The Beatryce Prophecy. What does it feel like when you’re writing and a question like that comes out?

DiCamillo: What does it feel like? It feels like a cry from my 8-year-old heart. I remember doing an event in Boston and a boy raised his hand and said something like, “Why do you pose all these philosophical questions in books for kids?” And I said, “Because kids are the ones who are brave enough to ask those questions. When you’re an adult, you stop asking, you stop wondering.”

Did you always envision The Beatryce Prophecy as an illustrated novel? How did Sophie come to be involved with the book?

DiCamillo: I knew as I was working on it that it had to have (at least) illuminated letters. And when I was done writing, I asked my agent and Candlewick, my publisher, “Is there any way that Sophie Blackall could illustrate this?” And miracle of miracles, it happened. Sophie said yes.

Sophie Blackall: In Iate 2019, I received an email from Chris Paul, the creative director at Candlewick Press, with Kate’s manuscript for The Beatryce Prophecy attached, along with an outline of the publishing plan for the book. It mentioned a special slipcase edition. The words slipcase edition are hypnotic to an illustrator. But even without the slipcase, I would have said yes on the spot.

Sophie, you were probably one of the first people to read The Beatryce Prophecy ever, in the whole world. What did you think the first time you read it?

Blackall: When the email with the manuscript arrived, I was about to step out the door, on my way to somewhere or other. I read the first page. I put down my bag, took off my coat, canceled the something or other and, with goosebumps on my arms, read The Beatryce Prophecy from beginning to end. I felt a rush of gratitude for these characters. I felt I already knew them like dear friends. The honor of being one of the earliest readers is not lost on me, but I have also been impatient to share this book with the world. Keeping it a secret was almost too much to bear.

Authors usually don’t communicate directly with illustrators. Sometimes they don’t even meet each other! But you emailed back and forth as Sophie worked on the illustrations during the pandemic. What was this correspondence like?

Blackall: I can’t remember who emailed first. I know I was bursting to talk to Kate. I tried to be restrained, but my messages tumbled out, all essentially thanking her for this gift. The gift of a story that brought me solace and comfort and joy during an otherwise uncertain and worrying time. The gift of Beatryce and Answelica, Brother Edik and Jack Dory and Cannoc. The gift of beautiful things to draw: a mermaid and a wolf, seahorses and bees, meadows and moons.

DiCamillo: I had already written the text and Sophie was working on the illustrations during the pandemic, and technically (as you say) we shouldn’t have communicated directly, but we already knew each other. Every once in a while, when my editor sent a new piece of Sophie’s art, I couldn’t resist emailing her directly and saying, “This art, this art. What a gift in such a dark time. You are drawing my heart.”

And things like that.

You both realized, independently of each other, that you were thinking about Joan of Arc as you developed Beatryce’s character and appearance. What impact did this historical figure have on Beatryce?

DiCamillo: I was working on Beatryce’s story when I took a trip to Washington, D.C. I was in the Smithsonian American Art Museum, and I walked into a room with this huge Joan of Arc triptych (“The Adoration of Joan of Arc” by J. William Fosdick), and it just kind of . . . undid me. I took a picture of it and kept the art nearby. It just felt like the story to me, like Beatryce.

Blackall: I think the image of Joan of Arc popped into my head at the moment when Brother Edik cuts Beatryce’s hair. Beatryce, like Joan of Arc, is a girl who defies expectations. Like Joan, she is determined, brave and resourceful. Like Joan, she carries hope in her heart and faith that “we shall all, in the end, be led to where we belong. We shall all, in the end, find our way home.”

Sophie, what other things did you research as you worked on these illustrations? How did that research find its way into your work?

Blackall: I worked closely with the creative director, Chris Paul, who had a detailed vision for the way the book would look, inspired by wallpaper, textile and type patterns of the designer William Morris, who in turn was inspired by medieval paintings and illuminated manuscripts. This was another gift, because after reading the manuscript I found myself strolling through museums and poring over books on Morris and medieval manuscripts, making involuntary sounds of delight, and so we were very much on the same page.

Can you tell us about the nuts and bolts of illustrating the book?

Blackall: Considering we were hundreds of miles apart and in the midst of a pandemic, Chris and I worked very closely on the art direction for this book. It is a beautiful object and we considered every fraction of every inch of every page. There are stories within stories, which gave us many creative opportunities. Ordinarily I work with Chinese ink and pencil and watercolor, but because we were all sheltering in place and I wasn’t sure about sending physical art, I decided to work digitally. The beauty of this was that once I had found what the characters looked like, I could direct them in a scene as though they were actors in a film. I would find myself talking to Jack Dory, for instance, asking him to lift his chin a little. Raise his arm. Look a little more pleased with himself. And I could move the images around and experiment with scale and perspective far more efficiently than if I was using pencil on paper.

I have to ask about goats. Kate, there are a number of prominent animal characters across your body of work, from Ulysses the squirrel to Despereaux the mouse and Winn-Dixie the dog. Was Answelica always a goat? Did you know much about goats before beginning to work on the book? Did you spend time with goats as you worked on it?

DiCamillo: Ha! I wish that I could spend some time with goats. I didn’t. I haven’t. But this character of Answelica arrived so clearly, so emphatically, that it really was just a matter of following along behind her. I did spend quite a bit of time gazing at goat eyes in various books. They’re spectacular, those eyes, and I’ve always been fascinated by them.

Blackall: I hold a special affection for Answelica. When I was 10, I had a goat. Her name was Josephine and her ears were like velvet. I had to give her away when we moved (we moved a lot), but the Josephine year was a good one. All children should have a goat year.

Kate, what do you love most about Sophie’s illustrations in the book? Do you have a favorite illustration in the book?

DiCamillo: There’s a two-page spread of Beatryce being spirited away and a story in the sky above her (like a constellation) that literally makes my heart skip a beat.

Every piece of art that Sophie did is so heartfelt, luminous. It’s a gift to me and to the reader.

Sophie, what do you love most about Kate’s storytelling in the book? Do you have a favorite passage you could share with us?

Blackall: E.B. White once said, “Anyone who writes down to children is simply wasting [their] time. You have to write up, not down. Children are demanding. They are the most attentive, curious, eager, observant, sensitive, quick, and generally congenial readers on earth. They accept, almost without question, anything you present them with, as long as it is presented honestly, fearlessly, and clearly.”

Kate DiCamillo writes up. Her sentences, which are full of beautifully arranged, interesting and even challenging words, are honest, fearless and clear.

As for a favorite passage, I might choose a different one tomorrow, but right now I am going to give you one that arrives quite early on. Brother Edik has discovered Beatryce, sick and lost, guarded by a fearsome goat. He tells the goat, Answelica, his plan to care for the child, which gives us a sense of the transformative relationship between the three. The way he feels at the end of the passage is how I felt while reading this book.

Brother Edik bent and gathered her in his arms. Her skin was hot to the touch. She was burning with fever.

“She is very sick,” Brother Edik said to the goat who was staring up at him. “The first thing we must attempt to do is to bring the fever down. And we must wash her. We must remove the dirt and blood. She has come from some war, I suppose. Do you not think it so?”

Answelica nodded.

“Lord help me,” thought Brother Edik, “I am conferring with a goat.”

He walked out of the barn and into the light of day carrying the child. The frost had melted. The world no longer shone, but it was very bright.

Answelica was at his heels.

He turned and looked back at her. He saw that the goat’s eyes were gentle, full of concern.

Strange world! Impossible world!

Brother Edik felt his heart, light within him, almost as if it were filled with air.

At one point, Beatryce tells Brother Edik, “Stories have joy and surprises in them.” What surprises did you encounter as you worked on this book? What joys?

Blackall: While making the drawings for the book, I was so immersed in illuminating the world of Beatryce’s story that there were times I would look up and not remember making the lines on the page. It was as if the images appeared fully formed. When I wrote to Kate about this phenomenon, she reported something similar as she was writing The Beatryce Prophecy. As though this story and its characters already existed. That’s magic right there.

DiCamillo: The surprise for me was discovering (when I was done) how much my mother’s spirit is in these pages.

The joy? The joy was in getting to do it—getting to tell the story—and then to watch Sophie tell the story again in art. Talk about joy.

Author photo of Kate DiCamillo courtesy of Catherine Smith Photography.

It’s difficult to think of a bigger children’s literature success story from the past decade than R.J. Palacio’s Wonder. The emotional tale about the importance of kindness has sold more than 12 million copies since it was published in 2012 and still regularly earns a spot on bestseller lists. In Pony, Palacio creates a very different tale: a slim, taut odyssey set in the American Midwest in 1860, anchored by a young boy named Silas, whom readers will find as irresistible as Auggie. BookPage chatted with Palacio about why she had to throw her new novel away (literally) in order to unlock the key to writing it.

Could you start by introducing us to Silas and Pa?
Silas is a 12-year-old boy growing up in an isolated house on the American frontier. He’s being lovingly raised by his widowed father, Martin, who’s an inventor and something of a genius, with only 16-year-old Mittenwool, whom no one else can see or hear, for a companion. Silas, it turns out, can see ghosts.

The story opens when three horsemen storm their little house in the middle of the night and take Pa away. Silas is left alone and quite shaken, so when the white-faced pony that one of the men had been leading shows up on his doorstep the next day, Silas takes it as a sign from the universe that he has to ride the pony in search of his father. Mittenwool, who is very protective of Silas, tries to talk him out of it, but Silas is determined to go.

The book is called Pony, so I have to ask: Do you ride? Do you like horses?
I love horses! When Iw as little, I used to draw them all the time. I would doodle them in my notebooks. I was obsessed—so much so that my parents got me horseback riding lessons when I was about 8 years old. Imagine two Colombian immigrants shelling out money they didn’t have so they could give their daughter weekly riding lessons in Flushing, New York. It was kind of crazy, but they did it. I only took lessons for a few years, and no, I don’t have a horse now or ride. I can still draw horses, though!

Family history, revealed in pieces over time, is such an important motif in Pony. Did any of your family’s stories inspire parts of Silas’ story?
The whole story of Pony was sparked by a scary dream my older son had when he was young. The events of the dream are different, but the imagery was taken right out of his head.

I had my father in my mind when describing Martin. My dad was easily the most brilliant person I’ve ever known, an encyclopedia of knowledge. He could build anything, make anything, remember everything. He was the kind of father who would wake me up in the middle of the night so we could go up to the roof of our building to watch a meteor shower.

And of course, my mother is someone I speak with every day, even though she’s been gone for almost 20 years. We hold the people we love close to us, no matter where they are. I think of this book as a love letter to my mom and dad.

How did you develop the rules for the novel’s ghosts?
Silas sees and experiences the ghosts in Pony as they see and experience themselves. If they wear the wounds of their deaths, that’s how he sees them. If they don’t know they’re dead, Silas also doesn’t know they’re dead.

As to why some people stay behind and some don’t, Silas doesn’t know, and neither do they. He guesses that some people are more ready to go than others. Some people may have things they still want to see through. But in time, when they’re ready, they pass on. Everyone does eventually. Which is what I wanted to say: People leave us, but not forever.

Do you believe in ghosts? Have you ever had an encounter with something you couldn’t explain?
I’ve never seen a ghost, but I’ve experienced a sense of connection with loved ones who are no longer here. Whether that’s internal or external, whether there’s a science to it or it’s just wishful thinking, I can’t tell you. I don’t know. That’s part of the mystery of life, which is what this book is about. Silas learns to embrace the mysteries.

Pony features incredible old photographs throughout the book. You discuss these in your author’s note, but can you tell us a little bit about them here?
This book takes place during the dawn of early photography. New processes were being invented all over the world. People were experimenting with the incredible notion of being able to use sunlight and a mix of chemicals to freeze an image onto glass or paper. It’s pretty extraordinary! Silas’ father is one of those early tinkerers and invents a new form of photography.

I’ve had a daguerreotype collection for years, long before I wrote this book. I’ve always been drawn to old cameras and photographs in flea markets and antiques shops. As I was writing, faces from my collection would come to me. They helped form the characters in my mind. Ultimately, as I designed the book, I decided to use the images that literally inspired the characters as chapter openers.

In addition to your passion for old photographs, do you enjoy photography yourself?
I was a photographer for my school yearbook in middle school, which is when I got my first Pentax K1000 camera, and I’ve been hooked ever since. I love taking photographs on film, but I shoot digitally now, though I do miss the feeling of processing a latent image in a darkroom.

Your author’s note begins, “I spent many years researching this book, and I hope none of it shows.” Authors are often asked to discuss their research process, but instead, I want to ask you: Can you tell us about the work you did to hide all that research?
I was 400 pages into the first draft of Pony, which represented about two years of work, when I realized it wasn’t the book I wanted to write. I had so many notes, so much information. I knew how many miles and hours an Arabian horse could ride in a day. I knew their provenance, the name of the Bedouin tribe that Pony had come from. I knew the different photographic processes, what kind of lanterns were used, the names of real counterfeiters, the types of horse carts that were driven. I had topographic maps of the woods and the ravines and, well, so much!

I had a vision in my mind about the kind of novel I wanted Pony to be: a “quick epic.” That first draft, had I continued it, would have turned into a James Michener novel! So I literally threw it away. And I do mean that literally. But the story stayed with me, even as I worked on other projects. I knew I’d figure out a way to write it with the minimalism I had in my head for it.

After years had passed, I suddenly had a vision for how to approach it. I realized that I’d remembered all the essential parts of the research I’d done and forgotten what wasn’t important. The research had settled into the recesses of my mind, and that’s what made its way into the book. The woods became the Woods. The ravine was the Ravine. The only map of the world I needed was the one in Silas’ mind. That’s not to say the world wasn’t built, because it was—utterly and completely—but it didn’t need to be fully described.

The world is full of mysterious pockets and unexplainable and unfathomable crevices. That’s the kind of world I wanted to build. If you answer every question, you ruin the mystery for the reader. We can’t see everything in the dark. We see only what we shine a light on. That’s what I was trying to do here.

I kept saying I wanted to write Pony almost like it was a radio play, just voices in the dark, and then during lockdown, it started flowing out of me one day. It was a remarkable writing experience.

Your note also says, “Historical novels can be seen as road maps through history, but this book is more like a river running through it.” I love this metaphor. What were the challenges of telling a story with such a tight focus? What was rewarding about it?
It was really challenging to tell a story with as few words as you can. I kept trying to strip every sentence of words. Paragraphs. Pages. I wanted to get everything down to the bare minimum: enough to deliver an idea of the world, describe a linear sequence of events, and let the story almost tell itself. In that way, the narrative felt more like a river. It’s just barreling through. Going in one direction. And that’s all the reader gets.

Now, as the river passes through, we get the idea that it’s passing through other stories. We know there’s a lot going on with the other characters. The picaresque adventures of Chalfont and Beautyman, two characters Silas meets along his journey, could fill their own novel! But, see, that would have been part of that original epic that I had started to write. It’s not the epic I wanted to write, though.

The final version of Pony really is the closest I could get to the image in my head of what I wanted to do. Good or bad, right or wrong: It’s faithful to the image.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Click here to read our starred review of Pony.