Tag Archives: Avi

Old Books

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Captain GreyI recently received a bunch of letters from a group of fifth graders whose teacher read them Captain Grey. This book, my first historical novel, was published in 1977. That’s to say it was written some thirty-seven years ago. I have strong memories of how and where I wrote Captain Grey, but in truth, I have few recollections of the book’s details, other than the general plot. The kids’ letters name characters, and recall incidents, which I’ve long forgotten. What a pleasure to know they enjoyed the book so much. In that sense, I think the book belongs far more to them, now, than to me. Still, it’s lovely to be reminded that old books are always new books to new readers. In this sense the books I once wrote have a kind of eternal youth, which, I can assure you I have not. Can you hear my sigh? I am envious of my old books!

Please Turn Off Your Book

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I had just been to a conference in Calgary, Canada, a conference set up by and for librarians. I met authors and illustrators I’d not known before. Great talk (in English and French) about books, writing, and most of all reading. I had a terrific time. But as I was flying home, and just about to land, I heard a flight attendant say to the person seated behind me, “Please turn off your book.” 

I was startled, though I had no reason to be. If there is any justification for having an e-book reader, it’s on airplanes with their ghastly cramped seats. Hauling around a Harry Potter volume, or War and Peace justifies a light, slim e-reader. Indeed, I had one with me and was using it for just that reason. 

But after being at a conference and seeing the beautiful picture books by Marie-Louise Gay, and enjoying the work of Richard Scrimger, I felt bad for young people who might only have e-books. It’s useful to recall that after Gutenberg brought the printing press to Europe, printed books were called “imitation books,” because they were not hand-crafted. So it goes: Stone, clay, papyrus, wax tablets, scrolls, codex, and the printed book. Over time texts have changed their form.

Still, the e-book is (for me) only about the ease of reading in odd places. The e (electricity) lies not the delivery system, but in the writing. 

Fictional logic

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Readers don’t often think about logic when reading fiction, but they know it when it’s not there: “That makes no sense!” Or, “I don’t believe it.” Or, even “But on page thirty, you wrote . . . .“

Fictional logic, by which I mean cause, motivation, and result, needs to be seamless, perhaps invisible, yet that logic is the inner core of the story. It makes a story go from page one to “the end.” Yet, it if it is too obvious, the tale seems predictable, perhaps dull. Too obscure and the reader can’t follow the trail. To make it more complex, I love the notion I have quoted many times, Robert Frost’s dictum, “No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.”

What’s a writer to do? He/she must imagine—and set down—the whole complexity of the characters’ world, but in the subtlest way possible.

As in life, all people are complex. Imbedded in that complexity are multiple choices. The complex character thus can logically do any number of things, and the reader will believe.  Is that hard to achieve? Oh my, yes!

Making Connections

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connectionOne of the key factors in writing a novel is memory, which is to say, the ability to remember what you wrote, while remembering where you are going. One of the strengths of the novel is the making of connections, connecting what has happened to what will happen, remembering character traits, or other details that bind the book together, that can give it depth. Consider, for example, the Harry Potter books, which, taken as a whole, and in this context, are a huge achievement. Make no mistake, readers can and will take the author to task if you make a mistake, if the shoe, so to speak, which was put on the right foot, appears on the left. Readers, I believe, love those connections, particularly when you catch them by surprise, yet they grasp what you have done. The seed dropped, so to speak, on page two, which flowers on page two ninety two, smells sweet. Not only do readers love it, writers love it, too.

At the National Book Festival

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National Book FestivalAs someone who was privileged to be part of this year’s National Book Festival, (Washington DC) it was wonderful to see huge numbers of people turn out to hear about and share their love of books. Writers talked to large crowds about poetry and picture books, history and horticulture, fiction and fishing. There were people of all ages, scampering kids galore, and older folks, some in wheel chairs, plus multitudes of young couples clutching hands and books—in double-handed affection. Glorious weather. For bookends, the dome of the Capital at one end of the Mall, the Washington Monument at the other. When I spoke, and the time for questions came, there were more kids lined up than adults. “How does it feel to be a writer?” asked one young reader. Right then and there, the answer was “Good!” (and very honored to be there).

When I get the first copy of a new book …

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Sophia's WarFrom the time I first contemplated the story that would become Sophia’s War, and the moment when the published volume came into my hands, it has been more than three years. By contract, I get some copies of the book, which usually arrive about one month prior to the official publication date. 

What do I do when I get the first copy in my hands? I look at it. This is to say I get a sense of the physical book, the binding, the paper, the cover, the printing. (There is good printing and bad printing.) Does the book open flat enough? Is the gutter wide enough? How is the font? What does the book look like under the dust jacket? In this case I looked at the maps, because I had not seen them in place before.

(Once I discovered a huge printing mistake in my first copies of The Man Who was Poe, so bad the whole print run had to be called back, and redone!)

Then, what I always do is take that first copy of the book, sign the title page, add the date I received it. It then it goes on shelves of similarly signed books—and it just sits there.

Charlotte Doyle signed 90In all probability—unless there is a particular reason to do so—I won’t read the whole book again. I have, after all, read it a few thousands of times. Yes, I may be called upon to read excerpts at various occasions—as I just did in NYC—and I enjoy that. But now, the book belongs to readers.

Besides, I’m working on something new.

Waiting for the reviews

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Sophia's WarThis has become an important part of the business in recent years as starred reviews drive book-buying decisions. Sophia’s War has received two starred reviews:

“Few historical novels are as closely shaped by actual events as this one during the last 100 pages. Working within the bounds of credibility, Avi manages to keep the fictional narrator on the scene for a good deal of the action and uses real moments to bring the imagined story to its dramatic heights.” —Booklist, starred review. Read more of this review …

“Newbery Medalist Avi (Crispin: The Cross of Lead) channels the mood, language, and danger of the Revolutionary War in this seamless blend of history and fiction, set in British-occupied New York City.” — Publishers Weekly, starred review  Read more of this review …

Finishing a book

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lawnmowerHow does it feel to finish a book after working on it for months, if not years, every day, and for most working hours? As the writer Harry Eyres has suggested, it is a “triumphant moment of loss.” Famously, Virginia Woolf suffered acute depressions when she finished her novels. Not so uncommon among writers. It’s not that bad for me, I’m glad to say. But—as a writer—your life has been structured on your daily involvement with plot, characters, etc., etc.,—and then it all goes. Those people, and their dilemmas, that you have invented were  your daily companions. You’ worried and fretted about them.  Wondered what they were doing. Saying. Then—they go away. They become your readers’ friend. (In fact your readers tell you things about your characters that you never knew!) Melancholy moment, indeed. Nothing else to do but—start something new. Or mow the lawn.