I suspect that it may have to do with why the new readers of YA sf are turning to teen books. There are of course many different ways in which children’s and YA books appeal to adults. Some authors have lasting appeal and people go on reading them as adults, because the books have depth and complexity that endures: Rosemary Sutcliff and Diana Wynne Jones are examples of this. Some people reread favourite childhood authors to recapture whatever it was that that experience brought them as a child.

The journalism student with whom I was corresponding wondered if I thought the current trend, of adults who weren’t lifelong children’s book readers beginning to read recent YA books, was a form of escapism. I considered that, but initially it didn’t seem to me to be a form of escape except in the same way that reading any other kind of fiction is an escape; that is, escape is part of the appeal but doesn’t explain it, because reading an adult book in the same genre would also offer that escape. The recent YA books that are acquiring new adult readers are mostly fantasy, dystopian-future fiction (in which science fiction “what-ifs” play only a small role), or paranormal romance — especially paranormal romance. I suspect that part of the appeal is the length. People who are rushed don’t feel they have the time to invest in reading an adult 500 page fantasy novel, for example. A YA book is usually (not always, but usually) shorter — at least at the start of a series! The YA to adult crossover series by recent writers who are not also writers of adult sf are also often — not always or universally by any means! — not deeply complex in their fantasy or futuristic or supernatural elements; they don’t demand great imaginative commitment the way a much longer adult novel, with far more room for complex world-building will do. Therefore the reader doesn’t have to spend nearly so much time in learning the world in order to become immersed in the story, and again, if you’re pressed for time, that’s appealing.

I do wonder if, for a lot of people, there’s a desire to return to that young-and-full-of-potential point of their teen years, which would make a teen hero, rather than an adult beset by adult complexity, appealing. (Look at what those movies did with The Lord of the Rings, making Frodo into a helpless dewy-eyed, passive hardly-more-than-teen. He’s a very intelligent, thoughtful, competent gentleman in his maturity, for goodness’ sake. Anyway …)

The student also wondered if I thought this trend would continue. I said that those adults who have always read children’s and teen books are going to go on doing so, but that I thought that probably the tendency to regard certain types of YA as another genre choice would fade as something else took its place in fashion. It was Harry Potter, once the hype really got going, and Twilight that touched off this current trend, making reading juvenile or teen books something adults didn’t feel they had to apologize for or justify. I suspect that a significant number of the people who read what everyone is talking about will, unfortunately, in time drift away to the latest genre attracting media attention, whatever it may turn out to be. Literary taste goes through fads and cycles just as tastes in music, movies, and television do.

She also asked what I though the main difference between children’s and adult books was. There’s a simple answer there: complexity. I don’t mean that a children’s book should be shallow or simple or easy. It’s partially a matter of length. In 180,000 words you have room to build so much more than in 50,000. Plots can be far more complicated, characters more numerous, worlds vaster and with greater history and geography, because there’s room for it to happen. (I’m talking about my own genre of fantasy, or speculative fiction as a whole, here. You don’t need to do that world-building in a book set here-and-now, so that doesn’t really apply — although a novel set here-and-now isn’t usually so long as your average fantasy or science fiction work these days.) Vocabulary naturally changes somewhat; in a good book it does so without any deliberate dumbing down. The intensity and degree of violence and sexual explicitness does and should change depending on the audience too, of course. However, one of the major differences I see is in the psychological complexity, what’s going on inside the characters. Children aren’t psychologically simple but they don’t have the experience or the self-analytical abilities to understand or analyse a lot of what goes on in an adult emotional world, and that’s really where an adult book will lose child readers — when what’s going on in the characters’ motivations and so on is baffling. That’s what will put children off reading an adult book that they may have the vocabulary for, regardless of whether the sex and violence is more than what they’re prepared for or should be exposed to. It can simply bore them out of the book. That now brings me back to escapism, and the thought that maybe there is an element of escapism in the current trend for adults to regard YA books as a genre of adult fiction; maybe, when people are stressed and harried and feeling beset by the world and things they can’t control, they want that return to the point of burgeoning self-discovery, that borderline between childhood and adulthood when we are only beginning to become aware of own mental and emotional processes in a complex and analytical way, and when optimism that horrors can be overcome and the world saved or changed is easier to come by. Teen books, whether dealing with friends and family and romance, or a future of ruin and tyranny that must be survived and reformed, can give the reader that.

I’ve suddenly realized it’s Valentine’s Day, or will be tomorrow. I know that if I go out Mr Wicked will present me with a slipper (my own) when I get home, or possibly a sock or best yet, the Extremely Deflated Soccer Ball, his most prized possession. What other token of love does one need, really? However, to get more into the spirit of things, I’ve decided to have a spur-of-the-moment book giveaway.

Long, long ago, in a — no wait, just long, long ago, in the previous century, I wrote a collection of short stories based on ballads from medieval Denmark. These literary fairy tales are out of print now, though vague plans are in the works for a reissue sometime in the next several years or so. I do have some copies of the original edition, including, of course, the famous typo in the table of contents. (People keep pointing that out, so I’ll get it out of the way now. Yes, I know “plumage” does not have two m’s. These things often appear spontaneously after the proofs are corrected. Thank you.) In one of my favourite books, Farjeon’s Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard, the wandering minstrel hero sets out to cure a farmer’s daughter of lovesickness by telling “ten new love stories”. The Serpent Bride is, in best wandering minstrel tradition, the retelling of “ten old love stories”. (Half of which involve shapeshifters. Don’t blame me; they were there in the sources, honest.)

So, if you enjoy literary fairy tales (very different in tone from Blackdog, and yet … Scandinavian shapeshifters!) and would like a chance to win a signed copy of The Serpent Bride, a collection of literary fairy tales from way back in 1998, and if you live in Canada or the US, here is what you should do:

Go to The Serpent Bride page of my Pippin website, here.

Listen to the MP3 excerpt there or watch the video.

Go to the contact form on one of my websites, the Pippin site or the Blackdog one …

… and send me your name and the name of the male hero from either one of the stories in the samples (or, given the fuzzy recording, your best guess at it). Make sure your email address in the form is correct!

The names of all who send a correct answer by midnight, Atlantic Standard Time, on Valentine’s Day 2012 will be written on small pieces of paper and offered to Mr Wicked. The winner will be whichever he first attempts to eat. I’ll then get in touch to find the winner’s mailing address.

In my elementary school, which had fewer than 200 students, we had a library; we had a librarian, and she was a full-time librarian. She had more office and work-space in the back corner of the library than many public libraries I’ve seen. It had bright red carpets (even one wall was covered with bright red carpet), and a nail-yarn sculpture of owls. It was quiet. It was soothing. (Okay, I find bright red soothing. Maybe it’s due to that library.) Although I loved the public library in Collin’s Bay to which my family went every three weeks or so and at which I discovered many of my enduringly favourite authors, that little school library was where I first found Enid Blyton and Marguerite Henry and Walter Farley, fondly remembered but now outgrown, as well as authors whom I still reread, Arthur Ransome, Anthony Buckeridge, Lloyd Alexander, and John Buchan. It’s where one sister devoured Beverly Cleary and another Judy Blume. It was where we all trundled down from our classrooms, year after year, to find little books in which to research our projects on Laura Secord and Frederic Banting and Billy Bishop and E. Cora Hind, on pileated woodpeckers and acid rain and the solar system.

We were always taken to the public library as well, and had a house full of books, but lots of children aren’t, and lots of children don’t. If they have a school library, though, a good school library with lots of well-chosen books, not just recent oddments selected from the book-order catalogue by someone, however well meaning, who isn’t a wide and thoughtful reader themselves, and if they have regular times to go and explore that library, they’re going to read more. They’ll have a much greater likelihood of discovering something that they want to read and will like to read; wanting to read and reading regularly is half the battle, in the early years. As a society, we’re drifting more and more to a state of aliteracy; where people, educated people, are functionally literate. And that’s all. They lack any complexity in vocabulary — just listen to the misuse of language on the CBC, of all things — and have no ear for syntax — ditto. Grammar eludes even many with a bachelor’s degree, at least, going by various communications I’ve had to read and again, what one hears on-air. If we can’t speak and write clearly, we can’t communicate. We’re also cut off from the knowledge of the past. History, culture, science — all knowledge is communicated through words, and primarily through the written word. As language becomes more a hit and miss affair with comprehension a matter of skimming and stabbing in the dark, we’re losing our ability to understand what we read, to think complexly and to comprehend complexity in ideas.

That’s a lot of weight to put on the foundation of the humble school library, but without that simple foundation — words, words, words — there’s nothing to build on.

P.s. And no, looking things up online is not “why we don’t need school libraries”. I’ve seen a project on myself — a teacher proudly showed it to me. It was the bio off my website, printed out and glued to a piece of cardboard. The student got an “A”.

I do, however, hit a point where an outline comes into the story. This is usually halfway or two-thirds through or thereabouts. Until that point, it’s a lot of exploring of mysterious paths. I liken it to a forest, with a distant mountain visible. (Visible how? Is it necessary to climb a very tall tree, like Bilbo in Mirkwood? That didn’t work for him; not knowing he was in a low spot, he saw nothing but trees stretching on forever, which, come to think of it, is a very good metaphor for many stages of the writing process anyway.) Grant me that the mountain is visible, or at least, known to be there. That’s the end of the story. To get there, though, is a matter of finding one’s way through forest and bog; it entails a lot of wandering and a lot of dead ends, or going miles along a winding path and realizing that it’s the wrong one and it’s necessary to retrace one’s steps and take that other fork, the road not taken that was actually the one that should have been followed from the start. Until the next fork. Or the unfordable river. Or the deep and miring slough. And then one backtracks again. The current project has been particularly bad for that. I shudder to think how many really long fat fantasy novels-worth of writing I have done, getting it and myself onto the right trail. But here we are. I just need to go back and unpick a character who started off as the hero, turned out not to be, was downgraded to secondary character, taken out, put back in, and whom I have finally admitted to myself to have no place in the story whatsoever. I’ll miss her. I liked her a lot. I think she can get herself into the final volume of the story, though, so she’s not lost forever. But … but … but …

… suddenly the ground underfoot is rising. The Kindly Hermit has given me a map; that is, the outline has happened. Having written it all down frantically last night, and slept on it, I still feel quite happy and settled with it. Yep, that’s how it all happened. Just need to get the words down. There are quite a lot of details still to unfold as I get to them, of course, but the bones are there, the interconnections, the logic, the shape of things.

Onwards!

I see there are links to a few of the bookstores carrying the new ebook down at the bottom of the Storyteller page on my website but I think the webmaster is still updating that. It’s also available through Kobo and in the US, Powell’s, Diesel E-books, Books on Board, Pages E-books, and in Australia, Angus Robertson and Borders. Those in the know, i.e. the publisher’s people in charge of such things, tell me it will also be available in the UK through the Book Depository and W.H. Smith, though it isn’t yet.

P.s. The collection, which has had some reviews I’m very proud of, is still available as a physical book, too.

At this point, it occurs me that said queen had better acquire a name, as she’s looking to become slightly more important to the plot … Better yet, Z. should simply make sure said nameless minor queen is suborned to her side before she sets out, which would explain D’s brother’s hitherto unexplained delay at the fords as he waits for a vassal (to use a somewhat anachronistic term) who isn’t going to show up … There, see? I knew what I was doing all along.

Meanwhile, I need to reread all the chapters in which D. is the central character, to get myself back into that part of the world, so that she can take the stage again, with her mysterious and slightly ominous new champion at her side. Rather awkward, in the Blackdog world, finding yourself proclaimed queen of a folk whose goddess is not yours and who really, really does not want you there.

School pep rallies, freshman initiation mobs and the like, have always been quite horrifying to me, but then, I don’t like crowds much. Everyone goes along with it, but I just don’t get why. Saying, “Synchronized shouting, just like Nuremberg,” didn’t make me popular during Freshman orientation. (Nor did cursing and threatening violence when a bunch of thugs used a passkey to get into my residence room to haul me out for initiation at three in the morning during frosh week. Y’know, that’s when you call the police — strangers breaking into your house and pulling you from the bed in the night. Unless it is the police. In which case it’s time for the revolution. Though mind you, the threat of mayhem did make them go away. They even shut the door behind them. However, if the danger incurred by resisting had been prison, or guns, or other unpleasantness more unpleasant than a bunch of puerile second-years being mad at me for a few weeks, would I have had the courage of my convictions? That’s a very sobering question.) Anyway, I thought that in this bit of the book I was going to have to have someone haranguing the multitude, and so have been trying to understand the multitude’s reaction. As it is, I managed to narrow it down a mere passing procession, due in part to the slight nervousness that this might turn out to be merely a third through after all, and the fewer mass rallies that get into it, the better. Besides, I think there’s a better place for it later on. I’m reading The Anatomy of Fascism, while thinking about these things.

I’ve only ever been to one real mass rally, and that was when Jesse Jackson spoke in West Berlin, at a rally “against racism and fascism” on a VE Day in the eighties. It was a very strange experience. The space all around the Gedächtniskirche was packed, seething with bodies, and this tiny, distant little figure spoke, amplified, of course. When Caesar and the like were haranguing their legions, as assorted Roman histories would assert they did so frequently, how did they hear? Was it a case of rumour sweeping back from the front; did officers get an abstract to read out before or afterwards? Anyway, it was masses of people, listening and breaking into periodic cheers, which drowned out whatever came after the phrase that touched off the cheering. Jackson had a very dramatic oratorical style. He also had a translator. The way it was supposed to work was, he declaimed a bit, paused, and she translated, either from what he had said, or from a printed text — I was too far back to see and wasn’t athletic enough to join those climbing the lamp-posts. Carried away by his own oratory, though, he eventually surged on, talking over her, sweeping by, unpausing. Eventually she got fed up and went and sat down. And the thing that interested me at the time was that nobody seemed to notice or care. I had trouble following him, due to the distance (despite the sound system) and the echoes, and his regional American accent. How many of the Germans not in the front rows, however good their English, actually picked out more than a word here and there? But they cheered and they cheered, and they stood enthralled for a very long time. I was there with a Californian and a Swede, and neither of them could make out all of what was being said, either. So what were people listening to? Their own enthusiasm for what they thought he might be saying? The mere thrill of seeing a famous man, a celebrity of politics? Or was it the emotional kick of being part of a group, the power of “we are one”? I’m still musing over that, because whatever it was, it was a bit frightening; I couldn’t help thinking that quite a few people there might have been there anyway, cheering just as loudly, if Jackson had been preaching on a different text entirely. Humans are easily persuaded by emotion; reason is hard. In a good cause or a bad, a charismatic speaker who makes his appeals to the emotions seems able to pull people his way, starting with the ones who share his beliefs or fears, but drawing in the previously indifferent or unpersuaded. Once a certain mass of followers for a person or an idea is reached, it becomes easier to go along than not, to belong for the sake of belonging, or for the sake of not standing outside, alone and vulnerable.

Anyway, I think I’ve just hit the halfway mark in the current project. Either that, or it’s a third of the way through, in which case it’s going to be looong. I think it’s half. After all, I just need a small war and a revolution; sure, lots of room to cram those in. Really.

My grandfather emigrated from Denmark in the thirties. He married in Canada and was of the generation which didn’t pass on its culture or speak its native language to its children, but he did carry on one tradition, that of putting up cardboard Julenisse to decorate for Christmas. My father inherited the family Julenisse collection. There are actually two sets. One is quite old; whether they were something my great-grandparents sent to their never-seen grandchildren I don’t know, but that’s my guess, and in that case, they’d date from either just before or after the war. The second set are more modern, perhaps from the seventies, by the style. Over the years they’ve faded, lost limbs and feet, been bent, torn, and taped back together. I made colour photocopies about fifteen years ago and carefully pasted my duplicates onto cardboard backing to clone them and import them to my own house; the copying actually re-saturated the colours, returning them to a brightness I’d never seen in my lifetime.

They’ve all developed personality over the years. They’re a bit mysterious, too. Why do Julenisse have tiny cats? Are there tiny folkloric mice for the cats to eat, or does the whole clan, nisse and cats together, live on rice porridge and beer? (And what happened to the one who was tucking into a bowl of rice porridge? I know there used to be one, of the more modern set, and he had grey cats, too.)

Most of all, there’s one question that has perplexed me all my life. Why is one of them a pig?

Most of the central characters are still skulking in hiding in the city. I don’t like cities much. Perhaps that’s why it’s going slower. I want to get back to the hills and the open sky. G., however, has abandoned the group, and is setting off in pursuit of his friend A., who is currently in a very bad state indeed and is being swept off with Z. to take over a small war in the west, which Z. feels is not being well conducted in her absence. G. is afoot and — why oh why have I inflicted a sprained ankle on him? He gave his horses, well, technically they were A.’s horses, away to D. He’s going to have to steal one. That’s the only solution. Well, he could buy one, he has money, but there’s a bit of racial profiling going on as officialdom looks for a spy, and he unfortunately fits the profile exactly, being the spy they’re looking for, except that he isn’t — a spy, that is. He was merely an innocent tagger-along. That’s his story, anyway, and he’s sticking to it.

Onwards! Except that today is “Make the Christmas Stollen” day.