Truth is Stranger than Fiction

The quote,"Truth is stranger than fiction," is often attributed to Mark Twain, but he borrowed it from Byron. Regardless, these days I couldn't agree more. If anyone had ever told me I’d be writing nonfiction children's books in my retirement, I would’ve called them crazy. I have always preferred a good story to a factual account. As a primary teacher, my classroom library was (sadly, as I see now) eighty percent fiction and twenty percent nonfiction. When I read aloud to my kids, it was always a story—Pippi Longstocking, Charlotte’s Web, My Father’s Dragon. (I know, I’m dating myself, but they’re still good books.)

The nonfiction books I had in my room were mostly about space, animals, sports, and biographies of famous men. (Very few women made the list in those days.) However, I can’t recall ever reading any of those books aloud to my students. Nor to my daughter, once she came along.

And yet, here I am, writing nonfiction for kids--eight books so far. And on my personal list of recently read adult books are Radium Girls, Devil in the White City, The Soul of an Octopus, and Killers of the Flower Moon—all fascinating nonfiction. Heck, I may even tackle Astrophysics for People in a Hurry! What has changed? The world? School standards? My tastes? Whatever it is, there's no denying the growing popularity and diversity of creative nonfiction--for both children and adults.

True stories that read like fiction can be eye-opening. In recent months, I've learned about an arctic explorer whose toes broke off from frostbite and about the  deplorable working conditions of children in our mines and mills at the turn of the last century. Then there was the serial killer who used the 1893 Chicago World's Fair as his hunting ground, and the factory girls who naively painted their lips and eyebrows with radium paint so they could glow when they went out for the night. These "stories" are every bit as amazing or horrifying as any imaginary tale.

I once was asked to write a book for second graders about some of the peculiar things animals do. The editors said, "Like about mating behavior, BUT without mentioning mating!" Well, I discovered a few things while doing my research. First, sex is the motivation for probably 99% of the strange things animals do. Secondly, many of those behaviors are X-rated, like porcupines urinating on the female they choose as their mate and how garter snakes have orgies. But I also learned some fascinating facts that were more PG. The male bower bird, for example, builds a "seduction parlor" (I call it a nest in the book) on the ground and then decorates the area in front of it. Usually, these decorations are all the same color--flowers, pebbles, bottle caps, even plastic drinking straws. Female bower birds choose as their mates the male they think has the most attractive front yard! (This book became Animal Show-offs.)

The secret seems to be in finding a remarkable true story to tell and capitalizing on drama of that reality.

Have you read any riveting nonfiction lately?

Resurrection on the Playground

Many years ago, my first teaching job was in a small Catholic school. It only had an asphalt play area, so the children in the primary grades had permission to spend their recesses in the shady, green back garden of the convent next door. The garden had been the location of a somber funeral service the first graders had performed in early December for their classroom turtle. It seemed that he had died, so under the supervision of the rather naïve young nun who taught them, they dug a hole in the convent flowerbed and buried him. Then they all held hands and prayed and sang together for the soul of their beloved pet. 

One warm spring day, several months later, a group of little ones came tearing around the corner of the school building during recess, screaming and shouting. “He’s come back to life, just like Jesus,” they cried. As they gathered around me, lo and behold, one was holding the classroom turtle in his hand, and the creature truly was alive. “He’s been resurrected!” they all rejoiced. It was time for a science lesson on hibernation.

Long story short, that’s what my blog has been doing—hibernating. But unlike the little turtle, it’s been in that mode for much longer than a few months. Rather than suggesting that, like Jesus, it’s been resurrected, I prefer to picture myself doing some mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on it. Maybe along with a few chest compressions. The blog is now gasping, choking a bit, and sucking in big lungfuls of fresh, 2018 air.

I once heard an agent at a writer’s conference say that a blog that wasn’t current was “just plain creepy, like a ghost town.” Well, people have moved back in, and the place is under renovation. I invite you to stick around or come back often to see what’s going on. Lots of things have happened while my creepy ghost town was hibernating.

Looking for the 300 Best YA Books is a BIG Job!

I have spent several days putting together a book list for middle and high school teachers in Orange County, CA. They will be participating in a grant and will have the enviable task of choosing between $300-500 worth of books for their classrooms. They are looking to discover if and how having a good selection of appealing and readable books close at hand will impact their students’ reading comprehension.

It’s a big job for someone not very knowledgeable about YA lit. Granted, I’ve recently read Scorpio Races, Breaking Stalin’s Nose, Age of Miracles, Moon Over Manifest, A Long Walk to Water, and Between Shades of Gray, but I can’t compare with a lot of folks out there. And I take this task seriously, so I’ve been sifting through reviews; looking at lists of award winners; trying to strike a balance between “boy books” and “girl books”; seeing how far I can help the teachers stretch their dollars (limiting wonderful HC books hurts); and considering readability (that hurts, too, but the reality is that many of these inner city kids are reading below grade level).

I’ve discovered some interesting things along the way. First, I wish I could quit working and just read. And write, of course! In looking over the Alan award winners, I’ve found dozens of books that sound wonderful and that I will try to find time to read. I’ve also seen a trend in titles of new books, where the actual title is followed by a colon and the words “:a Novel.” Examples include The Language of Flowers: A Novel, Once Upon a River: A Novel, and Alice Bliss: A Novel. Is that really necessary? Unless the book could be mistaken for nonfiction, what’s the point? Furthermore, I’ve come to a conclusion (perhaps erroneously) that all these books called “Novels” are more expensive. Why?

And finally, I’ve discovered a fabulous app for my iPad called “Teen Book Finder.” What a terrific resource! If I’m not the only person in the world who didn’t know about it, I encourage all you YA book lovers out there to download it. And it’s FREE!

Any thoughts on a YA book that MUST be on my list? It’s over 300 right now, but I’m open to suggestions.

Are You Talking About Me?

Last week a writer friend, Maria Toth, posted an author interview on her blog. It was about me! I was honored when she asked me a couple weeks ago if I would consider being the subject of her first such interview on her new blog. I am as yet still unpublished, so I was surprised and a little embarrassed, but I said yes. When I read Maria's piece on Wub2Write, I was impressed by her obvious interviewing expertise. You can tell she spent some time as a journalist. I just found it hard to believe that she was writing about me!

I also realized once again how lucky I am to have found such a great circle of fellow writers. I'm a member of three wonderful critique groups--Invincible Ink, Books Born Here, and "the Monday Group." The advice and encouragement the members offer is invaluable, and I grow every time I am with them. Together we celebrate our successes and mourn our rejections. When one person attends a conference, everyone benefits; notes are shared, updates on agents and editors are passed along, and we regularly loan new kids' books, craft books, and books on tape. Even when I have nothing of my own to read, I try not to miss a meeting, for there is much to be learned from listening to the other writers who do. Critiquing, like the act of writing itself, is a skill that takes time and effort to develop. I firmly believe that good writing doesn't happen in a vacuum. If you don't have a writers' group, join one or start one of your own. It's a critical part of the process.

Oatmeal or Cheerios?

One hot Tuesday night last July (as I sat with my critique group shivering in the sub-arctic chill of Panera Café) someone mentioned that the Cheerios picture book contest deadline was looming. General Mills sponsors a family literacy program called “Spoonfuls of Stories,” and each spring they put a miniature paperback picture book (written in both English and Spanish) inside 3 million specially-marked boxes of Cheerios. I thought, “What the heck?”

Submissions are open only to unpublished authors (I’m highly qualified in that arena!), must be 500 words or less, and have strong read-aloud appeal for young children. My favorite story I’ve written to date, Bear Cub’s Pizza, seemed to fit the criteria—short at 250 words and written in verse. So I kissed it good-bye and put it in the mail. Then the waiting began. But eventually life took over, and I forgot all about it.

My phone rang one morning in mid-October as I was eating breakfast (oatmeal, by the way, not Cheerios, but don’t tell anyone). The caller ID said General Mills, and my first thought was, “Now these *!#*&! solicitors are even calling at breakfast.” But I answered—reluctantly and with obvious annoyance in my voice. It was a perky young woman.

“Is this Nancy O’Connor?”

I said, “Y-e-s-s-s,” very suspiciously. How did General Mills know my name? My phone number is unlisted.

“Did you submit a story to the Cheerios contest?”

Well, you’ve never seen anyone do a faster about-face than I did at that moment. She went on to say that it was her pleasure to inform me that I was one of two runners-up (out of 8,000 entries) in the contest. Pending my completion of some legal paperwork, I would be receiving a check for $1,000, and Bear Cub’s Pizza would be posted on the Cheerios website in the spring. The grand prize winner (alas, not I) would be receiving $5,000 and a publishing contract from Simon and Schuster. Still, I was thrilled.

Then the young woman swore me to secrecy until General Mills made the public announcement in March, 2011. That’s a long time to keep such good news secret, but I promised. I only told my critique group colleagues, a few friends, and my immediate family. The check arrived just before Christmas and added to the joy of the season. In February I provided a photo for the website and was told that the press release would go out on the wire services March 22nd. Check out the contest website at http://pages.simonandschuster.com/spoonfulsofstories/author-contest. The following day, March 23rd, I posted my news on Facebook—along with the photo of the box of Cheerios (no more oatmeal for me!) containing the winning picture book from last year, How Do You Hug a Porcupine?, by Laurie Isop.

But the excitement hasn’t stopped there. The other day I received an email from a stranger who asked, “Are you the Nancy O’Connor who wrote Bear Cub’s Pizza?” I almost said, “And who wants to know?” (I’ve got to stop being so suspicious.) It was a NYC literary agent! When we talked last week, she said she loved the story, and she asked me to send her everything else I had. I did, of course, and now the waiting begins again. Will she like my stuff? Will she offer me representation? Will I one day join the ranks of published authors? I’ll keep you posted.


In the meantime, here's the little guy I hope to make famous someday, joyriding after lunch in his red Buick Skylark convertible.

Writing Historical Fiction

I’ve been hard at work for the last year and a half on an upper MG novel set in medieval Europe. The subject is the Children’s Crusade, which is thought to have occurred during the summer of 1212 A.D. I came across a reference to it while researching the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Historians have speculated that instead of a plague epidemic or a pipe-playing rat catcher—Der Rattenfänge—leading the town’s children into a mountain cave, perhaps they all marched off to the Holy Land. I became fascinated by the idea. What an adventure that would have been for a bunch of kids! Summer of the Sword and Cross was born of that research discovery.

Little did I know at that moment that I was committing myself to hours . . . and hours . . . and hours of research—reading reference books, documents, on-line websites and so much more. For months my desk has been piled with random bits of information like “12th Century Underwear” and “Some Romani proverbs and sayings.” My file cabinet is over-flowing.

I’ve read Avi, Cushman, Fleishman, Sutcliff, Gray, Grant and others, and I’ve even watched Orlando Bloom in The Kingdom of Heaven (just last night, as a matter of fact) as he attempted to defend the city of Jerusalem from Saladin. Ask me about the Sack of Constantinople or deerhounds, the Monastery at Mount Cenis or Dreikönigsschrein. I know.

I’ve pored over maps, paintings, diagrams of castles, and costume illustrations. I’ve learned about medicinal plants, the diets of medieval peasants, Catholic saints’ days, how to construct a snare, and the sound made by an angry wild boar. (Did you know you can actually listen to such things on line?)

The daunting fact, however, is that I have barely scratched the surface. In the process of all this, I’ve learned that a writer needs to be wary about becoming so caught up in the research that nothing gets written. It’s just that I know there’s a middle school librarian out there somewhere who’s also an expert on the Middle Ages and who’s waiting to pounce on me for some historical inaccuracy!

So these days, as I fret about the care and feeding of my blog, I also worry about the care and feeding of my young characters on their journey to the Holy Land. Perhaps I’m at the point where I just need to tell my story, get them to their final destination, and then go back at a later time to power-up the authenticity factor. Any advice, fellow writers?

Day 2 of My Redemption

The other big writing event of the fall was the picture book contest I entered. It was sponsored by the Tallahassee Writers’ Association. They produce a literary magazine called the Seven Hills Review, which merged last year with Penumbra. The two magazines have been in existence fifteen and twenty-two years respectively. I wasn’t sure I was even eligible, not being from Florida, but I checked out the list of past winners and was reassured to see that residency was not a requirement.

Although they accept multiple adult genres each year—flash fiction, poetry, short stories and creative nonfiction—they also invite writers of a particular children’s genre to submit their work. This year they were looking for picture books, so I submitted three of mine—just text, no illustrations.

The first was Cub’s Lunch, a book written in terse verse and based on a news article about marauding bear cub in Lake Tahoe. It seems the cub climbed into a camper’s classic convertible and ate his smoked chicken and jalapeno pizza. No, he didn’t carjack the vehicle, but he did considerable damage to the camper’s pride and joy before wandering back into the woods.

The second entry was The Small Smudger. In this contemporary coming-of-age story, a small boy wants to help his father in the citrus groves during a winter cold snap. Tomás stows away in the back of his father’s pickup in the middle of the night, only to discover that filling and refilling the smoking smudge pots with crude oil in the freezing dark is not the adventure he’d expected. But he earns his father’s respect (and his gloves) through his diligence. Tomás also shares a special moment with his father when the man points out una uña de gato, a cat’s claw moon.



My final entry was Tap Tap Mishap, an animal tale set in Haiti. Tap taps are a Haitian art form—outrageously-painted converted buses, vans and pickups used as communal taxis. They are often dangerously overcrowded, as the one in this story is. The driver, a goat named Mr. Kabrit, is overly proud of his beautiful tap tap and succumbs to the flattery of his friends in need of rides to le marché. Crammed to the rooftop, the brakes fail, the tap tap careens out of control, and it flies off the road. But even a crash on the beach doesn’t spoil the day. Mr Kabrit’s friends come through for him, as friends do.

I am delighted to say that just before Christmas I received an email from Donna Meredith, the chairperson of the Seven Hills Review. She announced that I had been awarded first prize for Tap Tap Mishap and second prize for The Small Smudger. It has been a thrill to see my stories in print. The prize money was icing on the cake. Now if I could just find a publisher who was interested in Tap Tap, I would contribute some of the proceeds of the book to rebuilding schools in Haiti. Does anyone have a suggestion?