The Inquisitive Inkpot
Exploring Tales and the Art of Telling
Illustrations that Breathe a Children’s Book to Life
I will never forget the first pictures I saw of my children’s book—pictures I didn’t draw.
Oh, I’d storyboarded and thrown together some third-grade quality sketches, but I had yet to meet my own character face-to-face on a page.
Or should I say, face-to-foot?
You see, my main character was a sock. A missing sock, to be specific. And as much as I felt I knew this little sock named Melvin from writing about his exploits, I had never seen his true likeness on any of my pages.
For any author writing a children’s book, the first time you meet your character on the page through illustrations is a terrifying moment.
At its best, it’s like seeing the perfect audition and immediately knowing whom you will cast for the lead part. At its worst, it’s like meeting your spouse for the first time on your wedding day and wondering how you are supposed to find them attractive. This worst-case scenario only happens when an author is paired with an illustrator chosen by someone else in the publishing process. But for self-published writers and *some* working with publishers, you will have a say in the illustrations, and this is a vital step in bringing the story to life.
When it came to choosing an illustrator for The Misadventures of Melvin the Missing Sock, I was uncommonly fortunate. After receiving a number of non-committal answers from some artists I knew, I was beginning to wonder if I should take my search to an online platform—when suddenly an old mentor contacted me saying she knew just the person for the job. A young woman by the name of Lauren Fisher. So, I packaged up my manuscript and storyboard, along with the general style description, and sent it off to Lauren. And then I waited.
Some two weeks later, I received an email while binge-watching a BBC program. The email was titled “A new misadventure,” and it was from Lauren the artist. The message immediately arrested my attention (a difficult thing to do whilst I’m engrossed in my BBC programs, I might add) and I opened it to find two of the most thrilling images I had ever seen: concept sketches for Melvin.
Do you ever meet someone who’s bursting with personality, and you simply can’t wait to introduce them to your friends and family? That’s how I felt about those illustrations.
In fact, I didn’t just want my friends and family to meet Melvin, I wanted the whole world to. I especially wanted young readers to. Everything about the images: the sock faces, the coloring, the texture—it was all so beyond everything I’d hoped for, and I immediately knew I had found my illustrator.
So how do you know when an illustrator is right for your children’s book?
While I have only experienced the illustrations process once so far, I found two key components in order for the author and illustrator chemistry to work:
1) The illustrator’s art must be inventive.
What struck me from the beginning was not only how immaculate Lauren’s drawings were, but how much personality she added to each scene using details I had never thought of. For instance, in one picture, the storyboard had an image of Melvin frowning and looking “malcontent.” What I received from Lauren was an illustration of Melvin slumped over inside the dresser drawer, with a dramatic sheen of light shining down on him through the crack of the drawer, while the other socks snored in the background. The best illustrators do not simply transcribe your story from words into pictures—they transport the reader into a whole other world and bring that world to life.
2) The illustrator’s art must be responsive.
Although the average exchange I had with Lauren involved me extolling her inventions, the rare occasions in which I suggested changes always resulted in fully adapted images. What do I mean by fully adapted? I mean that every time one detail is changed in a picture, the rest of the picture needs to balance out. And as someone who’s not gifted with the visual arts, I couldn’t have told you how to re-balance each illustration and fit the parts together. That was Lauren’s gift. As an illustrator, she knew how to seamlessly weave parts in and rearrange images to portray the story in the most efficient and lively manner—and did she ever! The artist whose pictures flex and grow with the process is the one you need on your team.
As a writer, it is tempting to believe you know your characters completely. But in a children’s book with pictures, that knowledge is shared with the artist who ultimately constructs the illustrations your readers will remember. Because of the magnitude of that role, it is vital that you choose someone who connects with your vision for the story and characters, whose creative skills not only communicate your story, but elaborate on it. Whose skills, in the truest sense, illustrate your story.
Have you ever had someone else’s contribution bring your work to life? Or have you ever had the chance to provide vital creativity to someone else’s work?
For a peek at some of Lauren Fisher’s other work, be sure to check her out on Instagram: @lauren_fisher_artwork.
Got kids? Grandkids? Nieces and nephews?
Or are you just plain curious to find out where all the missing socks go? Find out one ambitious sock’s journey by ordering your copy of The Misadventures of Melvin the Missing Sock!
Order now and have it within 2 weeks, with FREE SHIPPING!
Storyboarding a Children’s Book
When was the last time you picked up a children’s book to study the pictures?
I’ll admit, I hadn’t even touched a children’s book for a long time when I decided to write one of my own. This meant I had a lot to catch up on before starting.
As mentioned before, words are one thing. In fact, they’re the most central thing to the story. But pictures… pictures can either make or break the words you spent months writing and perfecting.
So where do these pictures come from?
Well, not from the tooth fairy.
A little-known fact about writing a children’s book is the amount of planning that goes into each picture on each page.
You see, everyone knows that you need illustrations in order to have a children’s book, but what comes first is a long process of experimentation—known as storyboarding.
When I first began writing The Misadventures of Melvin the Missing Sock, I had little concept of how many illustrations there would be, let alone what they would look like. Forget the author-illustrator idea—aside from the fact that I had no formal art training, I knew I was going to need help.
It began by storyboarding.
Thanks to a great group of individuals who were willing to provide feedback early in the process, I was able to construct a storyboard capturing the essential scenes that needed images. This in itself felt like a step back into childhood as I found myself squatting on the floor with a friend, sketching out third-grade quality pictures with colorful markers on giant sticky notes. Because that’s how the professionals do it, of course.
In fact, the childishness of this storyboarding process actually helped to clear out the cobwebs of my “kid brain” and infuse the pictures with the type of youthful energy the final illustrations would need. It helped that my friend and I shared a goofy sense of humor, which enabled us to embellish and complement one another’s ideas with playful additions (not the least of which being a bearded sock).
So just as films require a list of shots, children’s books require a list of scenes.
For anyone considering storyboarding, let me encourage you in this: go all-out.
Just as the writing process for a children’s book demands your full investment of creativity and quirkiness, the storyboard demands your enthusiastic imagery, no matter your art skills. The key is to have fun, not to make the storyboard pictures look perfect. And I can guarantee that if you were creative enough to write the book, you’re creative enough to come up with at least some ideas for imagery. Even if you’re not particularly visually gifted, find someone to help you! It can be a great process of bonding, laughing, and ultimately discovering new ideas.
To be transparent, I had two things working against me in this department:
1) I am not good at creating visuals
2) I am a perfectionist
When people ask me to take pictures or film things, they sometimes say, “Get creative! You’re a writer!”
At which point I want to shout, “It’s a different kind of creative!!”
Which it is. Writing and imaging are two very different animals. Some people are good at both, others are good at one. Ask me to write a compelling visual description? No problem. Ask me to sketch out a scene or plan a sequence of camera shots? Well…
This is where, if you are like me, bringing other people into the process can save your creative bacon—and even teach you a few things into the process.
Secondly, while perfectionism is a friend of thoroughness, it is the enemy of creativity.
As a writer, I often fear soiling a notebook with imperfect words, which leads to a sort of pre-writing paralysis. But when it’s storyboarding time, there is no place for clean notebook paper (or clean giant sticky notes, if you prefer). That paper needs to get messy! Forget your art skills or lack thereof. Unless you plan to illustrate the whole thing, that will be someone else’s job. Your job is to figure out which moments of the story make for the best scenes, and to communicate the type of energy you want in the pictures.
Lastly, always recognize that what you create in a storyboard will change. Once you bring an illustrator into the process, the raw ideas will begin to adapt and take definite shape. That is one of the most exciting parts of the entire process—which is why next week’s article will delve into the author-illustrator dynamic. Stay tuned! To get an inside look at the storyboarding process for my second children’s book, stop by my YouTube channel!
Have you ever struggled to express yourself visually or are you good with transforming words into pictures?
Have you ever let the fear of imperfection hold you back from doing something, even if no one was looking? How have you conquered that fear?
Got kids? Grandkids? Nieces and nephews?
Or are you just plain curious to find out where all the missing socks go? Find out one ambitious sock’s journey by ordering your copy of The Misadventures of Melvin the Missing Sock!
Order now and have it within 2 weeks, with FREE SHIPPING!
The First Audience for a Children’s Book
When it comes to writing a children’s book, feedback is priceless.
Most projects turn out better when they’ve been critiqued, but this is especially true of stories. Even more so of stories that are meant to be read aloud—which is precisely the purpose of most children’s books.
Like most writers new to the scene of children’s books, I didn’t know what I was doing.
But after the first few paragraphs of The Misadventures of Melvin the Missing Sock, I began to figure things out as the key to the story’s “fun” became clear: alliteration. The words began to flow, the plot began to roll, and I was able to crank out a complete first draft over the span of about three weeks. With the first draft finished, I considered the hardest work already done.
(Side note: I don’t know why, but even after years of writing, I always go into each project expecting that things will run smoothly after the first draft. I always forget Hemingway’s maxim, which can’t be quoted verbatim in a post about a children’s book: “The first draft of anything is ****.” He’s right, you know. And still, after years of essays, songs, stories, and speeches, I naively begin each first draft hoping to “nail it” the first time. Spoiler alert: it never happens.)
I suppose what made me so pleased about the first draft was that I knew it had several things going for it. It was cute. It was quirky. It was clever.
But I wanted the story to be more than those things—and I didn’t realize what it was missing until someone pointed it out.
The first draft depicted Melvin floundering through each of his misadventures with roughly the same attitude as he had at the beginning, until the story ends and he finds deliverance from his mishaps. But by the end, we don’t see much of a change in Melvin’s “sole” (sorry, I had to).
“It’s a fun adventure story,” my first audience told me, “but there’s no character arc.”
Well, who expects a sock to have a character arc? I thought defensively.
But after a short period, I realized they were right.
Just because a children’s book uses an inanimate object as the protagonist does not void the need for a character arc.
It doesn’t matter if your protagonist is a toenail clipper (or “Stew the Missing Screwdriver,” as one of my humorous readers commented)—if it thinks and it talks, it needs to change throughout the story.
Anytime you open up your writing to criticism, you are bound to hear things you don’t expect.
Some of the feedback might sting, but if you pick the right people to share it with early on, you can count on the quality of their input.
That being said, sharing your work with an audience for the first time can be absolutely terrifying. So here is a reminder that should empower you to open your work up to feedback:
Simply by writing a story, you have shown leadership.
Let’s face it: every time we write something (other than private journal entries), we subconsciously hope someone will read it. Maybe not today—maybe not even for years—but by putting it down on paper, we have demonstrated that we think our idea is worth documenting. I remember the first song I wrote took years to share with another person—and then I performed it in front of 80. Next it was several hundred. The first time I performed it though, I was utterly petrified—petrified of what other people would think, petrified that my skills weren’t up to standard, petrified of being vulnerable in front of a crowd. But you know what? People loved it. In fact, a number of them even came up to me to say that they also had written songs and felt better about sharing their own work now that they’d seen someone else do it.
This doesn’t mean the work you share will be perfect, but it does mean that more people will respect you for it than you realize. Yes, there will be some who discourage you, which is why I recommend you start with a group of people who have your back. Even if their input feels harsh, you will know that they still respect you and want you to succeed. You may even inspire them to try something new.
And that, my friends, is one of the most rewarding feelings of all.
ALSO. The results from last week’s poll are in! In answer to the question of “What you do when you encounter a new word in a book?”… Everyone said they web search it.
Anybody crack open the ol’ dictionary anymore??
Got kids? Grandkids? Nieces and nephews?
Or are you just plain curious to find out where all the missing socks go? Find out one ambitious sock’s journey by ordering your copy of The Misadventures of Melvin the Missing Sock!
Order now and have it within 2 weeks, with FREE SHIPPING!
Choosing the Words for a Children’s Book
Every writer knows that word choice is essential—but this holds especially true when writing a children’s book.
Before The Misadventures of Melvin the Missing Sock, I had never written a children’s book. In fact, I don’t even have that many kids in my life to remind me how children think. In a way, this put me at a disadvantage when I accepted that challenge from my friend to write a children’s book. I didn’t have an abundance of child-speak running through my brain from which to draw inspiration, nor did I have kids around to bounce ideas off of at the beginning.
Thankfully, though, I have a vivid memory.
Along with many early childhood memories, I remember the first time I heard and learned several words. And I remembered that many of them came from books.
In fact, I can still see the pages and pictures on which I encountered new words, whereafter I looked them up in a dictionary. (Remember when we used to do that?? Personally, I’m more likely to remember a word when I physically find it in a dictionary as opposed to Googling it.)
Why is this important?
It was an important reminder that children’s books are opportunities to teach kids—not simply entertain them.
One of the reasons I had shied away from trying children’s stories in the first place was because I had assumed that they dumbed everything down. How wrong I was! That’s what comes from temporarily losing touch with your childhood during your immersion in academia. Not to say that people in academics inherently lose their appreciation for the lighter things of life, but I found that my dense diet of the classics and rhetorical theory for four years formed a rather austere literary palate. For those four years, I never trifled myself with re-reading stories I grew up on—in part, because the nostalgia was too emotional in wake of my father’s death, but also because I didn’t consider the simple worth my time. What a literary snob I became! Perhaps you can relate?
Snobs and snubs aside, the realization that books had taught me a fair amount of my vocabulary motivated me to pass that advantage on to the eventual readers of The Misadventures of Melvin the Missing Sock.
And yet, because it was a children’s book, it had to be fun. So the real challenge had taken shape: how to make Melvin a learning experience for kids while making it fun.
As I said before, that meant it had to be fun for both me and the readers. If you’re not having fun writing your book, no one will have fun reading it—especially a little kid!
Thankfully, the book’s primary tool of both education and entertainment was already folded into the title: alliteration. Although you’d be surprised to hear that I didn’t actually think of using alliteration until I wrote the first sentence of the story:
Meet Melvin.
Two “m’s.” Huh. Look at that. Well, what should the reader know about Melvin up front? He’s nothing special—at least, he doesn’t think so. So he’s got to be just about as bland a sock as you can get. (Here, I pictured a large white “Hanes” brand sock, which was what my dad always wore around the house.) And obviously, Melvin is one of two socks in a pair, which means his match needs a name.
Melvin was a plain white sock who lived in the master’s dresser. Melvin and his twin Marvin shared the drawer with many other kinds of socks.
This was about when I realized that alliteration with the letter “m” had to be a recurring theme—not because of a formula, but because I was only three sentences in and already I was having fun!
From there, I let the plot develop and take direction at its own pace, all the while welcoming the alliterative “m” words that came to mind. Big words, small words, medium words, smooth words, bumpy words… you get the picture. 🙂 In fact, anytime there was a summary statement at the end of a page or paragraph, I looked for the most fitting “m” word that could express the idea—and often those were more sophisticated than your mundane, mediocre “m” words. So already, just by setting a pattern of alliteration, I was able to weave new words into the fabric of the story in a way that would make kids want to know what the words meant. Also—of no small significance—the alliteration made Melvin fun to read aloud.
The sound of a children’s book is extremely important.
Just like a speech, the words in a children’s story are written to be spoken, not just read. And depending on the style and feeling of your story, the sounding of the words you choose will change.
As for me, I discovered the style of Melvin as I wrote. This happens quite often and is not a bad thing, but it means that during revision you need to smooth out any discrepancies in style and sound. It’s surprising how much the tone and cadence of a narrative can change in only a few hundred words! And the shorter the story, the more crucial it is to be consistent.
The other thing about reading the story aloud? Oh yeah, it means you need an audience… which means you need to identify people with whom you are both comfortable and confident that they will have insight to contribute. Still, though, sharing your work can be scary—which is why I’ll cover it next week in an article of its own.
In the meantime, what are some of the most memorable books you read growing up? Which children’s stories, if any, do you think impacted you the most?
What do you do when you encounter a new word? Do you web search it or turn to the dusty dictionary on the shelf? I’m extremely curious about this one, which is why I’ve included the little poll below. Please fill it out before you leave, and I’ll share the results next week!
Got kids? Grandkids? Nieces and nephews?
Or are you just plain curious to find out where all the missing socks go? Find out one ambitious sock’s journey by ordering your copy of The Misadventures of Melvin the Missing Sock!
Order now and have it within 2 weeks, with FREE SHIPPING!
TAKE THE POLL!
Writing a Children’s Book: What no one told me
When I sat down to write my first-ever children’s book, I was actually a bit scared.
Anyone who’s ever tried something completely new knows this anxiety. And anyone who’s ever written something for publication knows the self-conscious dread…
What if it doesn’t turn out well?
This fear applies to everyone, not just writers. Failing to make the free-throw when everyone one is watching. Blanking on your next line during the performance. Forgetting a slide in your presentation. Telling a joke that no one laughs at. Publishing a book that no one likes. Or perhaps worse yet… no one reads.
The stakes in all these situations are basically the same: public humiliation and disgrace on your family.
Well, maybe not that severe. But definitely humiliation. Most of us care about doing well at what we like, but all of us care about doing well in front of people. I had classmates in my rhetoric major that didn’t give a rip about public speaking, but they sure as heck memorized their speeches for fear of embarrassment.
You’d think that having written and published a full-length novel would have dispelled this fear of failing at a children’s book, right?
Nope. But that didn’t stop me, and it shouldn’t stop you.
As I mentioned, it was a friend who challenged me to write a children’s book in the first place. And so when I sat down to write it, with nothing but a title that had popped into my head from goodness-knows-where, I saw the project as a foggy forest I was about to explore with no compass or map. So I started doing some research, as any dutiful writer would. I looked up information on what kinds of children’s books were making it in the market, what other books mine might need to sound like, different illustration styles—all before writing a single word. In my mind, this was equipping me with the tools to find my way through the forest without getting lost, while I had yet to take a single step.
And as long as I thought about it that way, I wasn’t going anywhere.
Until I finally began putting words down, and the adventure began. The fact is, as soon as I started writing, I began to discover things.
The first thing I discovered?
The story needed alliteration.
I already knew the title would have it, but it had never occurred to me to lace the entire story with a bunch of “m” words that would make building vocabulary fun for kids.
The second thing I discovered?
It was a story with values.
I already had the basic idea of answering the question of where missing socks go, but I had never thought of the story in a way that humanized the socks—I had never thought of what a missing sock might learn from its exploits.
With each of these discoveries, it was like forgetting the map and turning over rocks and logs to look at what was under them. Writing a children’s book became less “project” and more play. And I think that’s the way it should be.
When it comes to children’s books, unleashing your creativity on the page should be less about sounding good and more about having fun.
If you remain self-conscious while writing it, you are limiting yourself. Let the inner goof out! Make those puns! Go crazy with the rhymes! Of course there will be a time for revision (insert link), but that time isn’t the first draft.
There will also be a time for input from other people– in fact, the sooner you pitch your idea to someone, the better. This doesn’t mean you need someone hovering over your shoulder as you fumble through the first draft, but it does mean that your idea needs some initial pizazz. If an adult isn’t interested to know more about your story, then a little kid certainly won’t be. So while cranking out the actual text for the first time might require some privacy, developing your big idea is often best done with some sort of audience. Because children’s books need to be fun, feedback is crucial– but never, ever, ever let that stop you from going wild on the first run.
If you shun the pun, you’ll have no fun. And neither will the kids (or their parents for that matter).
Have you ever tried writing a children’s book? Ever held back for fear of embarrassment? What are some skills or quirks you find yourself afraid to share that might actually spice things up?
Got kids? Grandkids? Nieces and nephews?
Or are you just plain curious to find out where all the missing socks go? Find out one ambitious sock’s journey by ordering your copy of The Misadventures of Melvin the Missing Sock!
Order now and have it within 2 weeks, with FREE SHIPPING!
Children’s Stories: the Unexpected (Mis)Adventure
There’s a reason they say to try new things—I never thought I would author a children’s book, yet here we are.
How did that happen?
Well, let me tell you…
Once upon a time, there was a young woman who wrote stories.
But not stories like the one you are reading now. She spent hours poring over historical fiction novels, period dramas, BBC miniseries, and biopics of historical figures—so it was no surprise that her first complete scripts, novel, and short stories should consist of such material.
Sure, she wrote some silly things every now and then, but that was only for fun. Her propensity for puns, satire, and alliteration, she kept out of her published works. But why?
Why did she consign the quirks to a corner?
This question surfaced at last when a friend posed to her an unprecedented challenge: to write a children’s story.
The answer to the question?
She couldn’t give one. And so she began to write a story, whose inception began with a title. A rogue title, mind you, for it came both unexpectedly and unaccompanied by any context:
The Misadventures of Melvin the Missing Sock.
Penning a children’s story was no small challenge.
Having no nieces, nephews, or children of her own, this young woman considered her skill set utterly insufficient. How could she pivot from tales of clan warriors to bedtime stories about socks?
Her deliverance came from that quirky little corner, in which all her literary oddities lingered. The puns, the satire, the alliteration, the personifications—they were free! No longer must they bow their heads and remain bashfully tucked away from the page. Suddenly they received freedom—sweet freedom!—to roam and rollick in the open, leaving footprints in the form of ink.
The work was hard and the nights were late and the revision, of course, was no picnic. It never is. But the young woman found help along the way.
Family and friends who critiqued.
A fellow writer undertaking a similar endeavor.
An illustrator whose art brought the story to life.
And a host of those who supported and inspired.
And now, thanks to all of them, Melvin himself will receive his debut in print at the end of this month.
THE END.
Actually, what this marks is not the end, but the beginning.
It is the beginning of a new genre in my literary career that I never saw coming, and I could not be more excited to share it with you.
In fact, there is a lot I intend to share with you, including the process of storyboarding, re-writing, and preparing for publication. And, of course, a sneak peek at what’s inside. 😉
Click below to pre-order your copy of Melvin, and it will get in the mail as soon as it rolls off the press on July 22nd!
SHIPPING IS FREE.
What have you learned from stretching yourself?
Have you ever tried something new and been surprised by how “snug” of a fit it was?
The Subtle Power of Dog stories
Every time I read a book or watch a movie that’s a “dog story,” I am 90% more likely to cry.
Can you relate?
Maybe it’s that the dog almost invariably dies. Or maybe it’s that the dog reminds me of my dog. Or maybe it’s a combination of these, along with a little anthropology thrown in.
Let’s take a look at some classic dog stories:
Now, what do these all have in common? Obviously a dog, yes. And interestingly, each of the humans in these stories is a boy. But what every single one of these books and movies boils down to is a coming-of-age tale.
Throughout each of these stories, the boy or must grow, learn, and mature—ultimately discovering and actualizing his potential and responsibility.
In Lassie Come Home, Joe must accept the changes his family faces, and learn to sacrifice his own comfort for their benefit.
In Old Yeller, Travis must take responsibility for protecting his family in his father’s absence, setting aside his annoyance with his younger brother.
In Where the Red Fern Grows, Billy finds the courage to face daunting challenges and dangers alongside his two faithful hounds—and eventually, to let go.
In Shiloh, Marty overcomes prejudice towards his unstable neighbor, and learns to respect him in spite of their vast differences.
In My Dog Skip, Will must learn to discern between good influences and harmful ones, and to find confidence in his own identity.
There is much more to say about each of these stories, but what I want to call attention to is this:
The animals don’t change.
“Of course they don’t,” you say. “What’s so remarkable about that?”
What’s remarkable is that each of these titles points explicitly to the animal in the story. An animal whose character does not change—whose character is constant. And yet the core of each story is about the changes the boy must undergo in order to become a man. What’s up with that?
This is because the animal is an agent of change—but in an inverse way.
Through constancy and loyalty, the dog helps the human find himself.
Think about the animals you had growing up. Now think about the people in your life who have always been there for you, no matter what. What do these two have in common?
Through their unchanging roles in your life, you have learned things about yourself that you otherwise wouldn’t. Their steadiness has provided a backdrop against which you have interpreted the whirlwinds both within you and without.
My beagle just turned twelve in April. I grew up with her, and she has been a fixture in my life through childhood, the tumultuous adolescent years, the death of my father, and my adjustment to adult life. Throughout everything, she has always howled at bunnies, cried for joy when I came home, mumbled her complaints and musings from her “growlery” corner, and thumped her hind foot when I scratched her back. She also always let me cry into her fur and floppy ears on the worst days. She is snoring peacefully as I write this.
Many of you can say the same of your pets. Now while my little beagle has never saved my life like they do in the movies and books (if your pet has saved anyone’s life, please do tell!), she has expanded my understanding of love, loyalty, forgiveness, and patience. I hope she has many more years. But they always die in the stories, and I know they do in real life. All the same, this little hound has been a powerful instrument of growth—and laughter—and it’s stories like these that help capture that power.
It’s stories like these that remind us to pat, to play, to scratch, and to walk these friends of ours while we still can. Considering what they give us, it’s the least we can do.
What are your takeaways from dog stories? Do they make you cry?
If you grew up with pets, what are some ways in which you feel they helped forge your identity?
What are some of your best pet memories?
Transported: When Historical Fiction comes off the Page
Bringing a character to life is a challenge of its own, but bringing an entire era to life—that takes another kind of artistry.
My most recent experience of historical fiction reminded me once again of why I love the genre: when done right, it simultaneously immerses you in and humanizes the past. This is what Ailish Sinclair achieved in her beautifully penned novel, The Mermaid and the Bear, set in the late 1500s in Scotland.
When I first began blogging a year ago, Ailish’s was one of the first blogs I followed because of her unique synthesis of photography and storytelling. Her pictures of the Scottish countryside, coupled with explanatory snippets and musings, drew me in from the get-go—and not simply because I love Scottish history and culture. It was the milieu that she created through these posts leading up to her book, that convinced me I absolutely had to read it in order to fully experience the story each post alluded to.
The book was no disappointment.
While I have little patience for excessive description (as in, pages upon pages of sheer details that have little bearing on the characters or events), that is not at all what I found between the covers of this book.
This is because Sinclair’s extensive research does not call attention to itself. Instead, she illuminates every scene with just enough details to place the reader in the mind and shoes of the protagonist, Isobell (which is especially crucial, given the first-person narration).
It is also important because of the sensory nature of the story.
Sinclair spends the first 2/3 of the book developing a magical aura to fit the mysterious setting in which Isobell finds herself, essentially charming the reader with thoughts of faeries, mist, butterflies and so on. And then the magic stops. That is, the good magic. The detail suddenly becomes a conduit of horror as Isobell’s world shifts from that of marital bliss in a castle to that of a nightmare in which pure evil is championed as the hand of God. Enter: the Aberdeen witch trials. Seemingly overnight, we are plunged with Isobell into the cold waters of cruelty, and the only sights, sounds, smells, and feelings we read of make her recent life seem worlds away.
Although Sinclair makes Isobell’s character accessible to the reader early on, I connected most strongly with her near the end.
One of the most unexpectedly compelling details I found was the description of the castle after the main ordeal has transpired. To avoid spoiling too much, I will just say that the former magic of familiar places is replaced by a haunting remembrance of the evil that occurred there, whose lingering dread is depicted just as potently as the vivacity and charm that once filled the walls.
I found this compelling because it is something that all of us can appreciate in some way. Most of us haven’t been to Scottish castles, and hopefully none of us have been tried for witchcraft. But all of us have memories tied to certain places. We remember the smells, the sound of our feet when passing through, the sounds we might hear, the faces we might see. And when something drastic happens there—whether good or bad—it becomes almost impossible to separate those sensory details from the joy, pain, fear, or whatever feeling that event aroused. Places we once considered bastions of security and comfort can become graveyards of unwelcome memories. This is where I connected with Isobell: I connected with her when the fragility of her world suddenly mirrored the fragility of mine. So to speak, I met her in the details.
If you haven’t checked out Ailish Sinclair’s book or blog, I strongly encourage you to do so. For those of who already like historical fiction, it’s a delicious literary morsel. 🙂 And for those who don’t normally gravitate to the genre, you’re bound to appreciate the human quality Sinclair brings to an otherwise distant time and place.
What are some books where you found the vivid description crucial to forming a connection with the characters?
What does it usually take to connect you with a character?
The Female Warrior Returns… well, sort of
The Inquisitive Inkpot is turning 50 weeks old today!
On this blogging milestone, I thought it would be fitting to publish a follow-up to my most popular post, The Female Warrior: A Figment of the Modern Imagination?
Yes, the title of that post is a question.
You see, when I wrote that article, I erred on the side of skepticism. Having encountered multiple conflicting sources on this topic, I was hesitant to conclude one way or the other regarding the likelihood of women actually fighting alongside men in historical societies. Of course, there were some far-fetched sounding “scientific findings” that claimed to prove the existence of female Viking warriors and such, but it all seemed a bit too nebulous to accept with certainty. Until one of my former professors from Hillsdale College showed me what I was missing.
Although the media sure isn’t good at correcting itself, I endeavor to do a better job at that.
When we publish something, only to learn later that new information has been added or that our initial findings were inaccurate, we would do well to acknowledge it and share what we’ve learned since.
In short, female warriors appear to be a historical reality—not just a legend.
In December of 2019 (just months after publishing that post), the Smithsonian came forward with the discovery of a tomb that housed the remains of four Scythian women alongside battle gear used by warriors. In case you aren’t up on your Scythian history (I certainly wasn’t), this group was a nomadic people that inhabited what we now know as Siberia in ancient times. So basically, think Amazons. The takeaway? These women (or some form of them) actually existed in the ancient world.
But burial with weapons doesn’t necessarily mean that the women themselves were warriors… does it?
According to DNA tests, it does.
The Scythians weren’t the only ones with fighting women—the Vikings had them, too.
In Sweden, the remains of a Viking warrior discovered in the 1880s, revealed female genetics in a DNA test. This type of revelation has subsequently been replicated with numerous similar graves. In fact, modern facial recognition technology has even paved the way for scientists to reconstruct the faces of some of these women.
As with any groundbreaking archaeological discovery, I think there is room for some level of skepticism. I mean, how many “missing links” turned out to be hoaxes? More than most scientists care to admit! But when you consider the longevity and potency of the female warrior concept in human history, it becomes pretty unlikely that all of these archaeological findings have been misinterpreted.
The implications for my novel The Exile are also quite significant. If these women were in fact warriors, it means that someone like Delta (the narrator) may have lived and died, only to have the reality of her life dismissed by subsequent generations as a myth. Or to her have her life grossly exaggerated and glamorized, as most “warrior princess” books are wont to do. In this sense, I am grateful now that I did not attempt to glamorize or gloss over the harsh realities that a woman like Delta likely would have faced– because to do that would have added to the stereotypical, modernized image of female warriors, which can’t help but inspire skepticism.
But this new knowledge also makes me realize that no amount of research, re-creation, or imagination can ever fully capture the realities lived by people of the past.
What’s your perspective on the phenomenon of woman warriors? Do you think it’s modern society’s attempt to rewrite the past?
Also, do you think this wave in discoveries has to do with feminism’s traction in modern society?
Do you think a more chauvinist society would seek to conceal archaeological evidence of female prominence in history? Please do share your thoughts on this one, especially if you’re acquainted with non-American cultures. I’d love to hear your insights!
Order The Exile now!
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The Exile$9.99
The Healing Power of Stories
“Stories are wild creatures. When you let them loose, who knows what havoc they may wreak?”
Patrick Ness, A Monster Calls
If you are at all familiar with Ness’s beautiful tale, however, you will know that the primary aspect of stories it explores is their power to heal, not to wreak havoc.
Something many people need right now, in fact.
As a freelance writer for the national radio program Our American Stories, I recently encountered this power in a new way.
Any time you record something for national radio, you know it will be heard by plenty of people you don’t know.
In this case, hundreds of thousands of people. I didn’t consider that when I asked my boss if he would agree to an interview about his late best friend, Forrest Johnson—a WWII veteran whom my boss, Jason, had met after completing his own service in the Marine Corps. All I knew was this man’s story had to be shared.
Most of my conversations with my boss revolve around the company, but a large percentage of those that don’t are essentially “story time.” And when he gets going about his time in the marines, it almost always comes back to the man he met after eight years of active duty: Forrie. I love story time. It gives me a window into a life so different from my own, while reminding me that even a Special Ops service member had lessons to learn. And so many of them he learned from Forrie—a man over fifty years his senior.
I won’t recap the whole story in this post, which is why I’ve included the link where you can listen to the full recording.
What I do want to share right here is what I learned about the power of stories passed from one person to another.
Do you ever feel like you know someone because of everything you’ve heard about them? That’s how I felt about Forrie. After conducting this interview and listening to hours of “story time” that somehow came back to this man, I felt like I had personally known him. Heard his laugh. Seen his smile. Heard his stories from his own lips. And above all, I wanted to do something to honor him, however small that might be.
So I went to visit his grave on Memorial Day.
I went looking for Forrie’s grave in the cemetery where Jason said he was buried. Little did I know when I arrived at the cemetery that there were hundreds upon hundreds of headstones, all without any particular alphabetical or chronological order. I decided I would drive to the furthest corner, park, and start my search there, expecting it would take several hours to find Forrie. I did just that: I parked, got out of the car, and began walking toward the first row of graves in the furthest corner. I was mostly watching where I stepped because the ground was somewhat uneven and I had worn completely unsuitable footwear for a cross-country graveyard expedition. But as soon as I turned my head, there it was: FORREST L. JOHNSON. Located directly in front of my car. Next to his headstone was that of his four-year-old son, who passed shortly after he returned from the war.
It could have taken hours to find that one out of perhaps a thousand or so gravestones. My first words were, “Thank you, God.” After standing by the grave for a while, twisting together a clumsy dandelion bouquet, and recalling the hours of stories I’d heard about him, my last words were, “Thank you, Forrie.”
To feel a personal sense of loss over someone I never knew seemed rather odd.
But standing there, looking at his headstone, I felt grief, blended with gratitude– like two wines that only enrich each other.
Somehow his children heard the radio piece. And thanks to Facebook and social media, I was able to reach out and tell them what an honor it was learning about their father and how I wished I’d known him. The story has basically gone viral within their family and friend circle. To think of all those people gathering around the story of their father—the man who served his country and nearly lost his life, the man who poured his heart and soul into those around him—to think of these people coming together in shared grief, memory, and gratitude is the greatest reward I could have hoped for.
And that, I realize, is the power of stories.
How have you seen stories bring people together?
In what ways have you accidentally encountered the power of stories in your own life?
