 20 years of Master Class to Masterpiece |
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III. ON A PERSONAL NOTE Undoubtedly, you love many young readers’ novels, both classics and contemporary. Please cite three favorites. What makes each unforgettable? From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Konigsburg: This was one of my childhood favorites, in spite of the fact that it had a Newbery sticker on it, which usually made books smell of vitamins and homework to me. I related absolutely to Claudia, who feels unappreciated at home and so decides to run away, but only to someplace that will be comfortable, beautiful, and elegant. Of course! I also love eccentric old ladies, and it has one. Gingerbread by Rachel Cohn: I love Gingerbread for being a book about a sixteen-year-old girl who has sex and shoplifts and gets kicked out of school that is not a tragedy. It’s funny and wonderful and alive. Stop-Time by Frank Conroy: This book is not middle grade or YA—it’s not even a novel. It’s a memoir written and published for adults (in 1967). But it’s a coming-of-age story, and one of the most beautiful, authentic depictions of childhood and adolescence that I have ever read. I don’t re-read books often, but I could read this one a million times. How does meeting writers at workshops (or elsewhere in person) affect you, your perspective, your work? What do you enjoy about participating in writers’ events? Working with writers is what I love best about my job, and meeting them in person makes an important difference to those relationships. But I very rarely participate in writers’ events; I’m generally reluctant to relinquish my behind-the-scenes identity. Coming to a workshop as an editor feels like it puts me on stage, rather than the authors, and that’s kind of uncomfortable for me. The appeal of the Pacific Coast Children’s Writers Workshop was strong enough for me to overcome it, though! I see that this seminar attracts really good writers who are serious about their novels, and that the event provides an opportunity to work with people in a really substantive way. I’m excited about that. What would you like writers to know about you, the individual who scrutinizes (and may reject) their literary labor of love? Oh it’s terrible, how much rejecting we have to do. I’d like writers to know that I have rejected manuscripts that went on to be award-winners. But even if I could have known about the awards, I don’t think it would have changed my decisions, because those books weren’t right for me. If I’d been the editor, maybe they wouldn’t have won those awards. I might not have loved them enough to make sure they were the best books they could be, or to shout about them from the rooftops. Falling in love with a book is so subjective and idiosyncratic and personal, and every book deserves an editor who loves it. You can be rejected by loads of editors and all it means is that you haven’t found the right match yet. Think of all the books in the bookstore. You don’t love them all. But someone does! Thank you, Kate, for your time and thoughtful responses— |
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