Despite the dangers Harry faces, the first book is A-Okay for 10-11 year olds. |
The last book is not only dark in tone, but very complicated plot-wise. Probably not okay for 10-11 year olds. |
Despite the dangers Harry faces, the first book is A-Okay for 10-11 year olds. |
The last book is not only dark in tone, but very complicated plot-wise. Probably not okay for 10-11 year olds. |
Poe is not actually new to the Route19Writers, qua critique group. But Poe is new to the blog. Indeed, Poe is new to blogging. When it comes to the Internet Tubes, Poe is Miniver Cheevy. Regrettably, Poe has always rather scoffed at blogs. . . .
But Poe has achieved a finished first draft (or, as Poe prefers to spell it, draught) of a middle grade novel. Now, Poe is revising. The time for queries draws near. And nowadays (how Poe hates that word!) with queries comes the requirement that the author establish a platform on the Internet.
So into the (back)light of computer-screen day (at bitter last) comes S. C. Poe.
Setting the Internet aside, we find that Poe has much in common with other Route19Writers. Poe shares a passion for fairy tales and folk lore with Kitty, for history with Susan, for suspense and military stories with Carol H, for the bildungsroman with Marcy and Fran, Jenny and Dave. Poe stands in awe of Andrea's versification, of Judy's craft with comedy, Cynthia's scientific prowess, and of Carol B's versatility.
Poe is a devotee of history, mythology, and the classics of all traditions. In reading and writing, Poe eschews contemporary settings. Indeed, Poe considers Mike Mulligan's steam shovel painfully modern. Poe consents to blog, but Poe will not twitter. And Poe does not cook. If you're waiting for ice cream recipes from Poe, you will wait a long time.
Say something to the nice readers, Poe.
[Poe gulps and mutters something that sounds like "h'llo."]
*Trepidation, relief, indifference, and that special glee that is only stirred up when one is able to say "I told you you'd come to this in the end."
by Cynthia Light Brown
It’s hot. And even here in normally comfortable Pittsburgh, it’s so humid that my brain can’t think in all this liquid. The gray matter is drowning. I can’t even imagine what it’s like in the middle of the continent. So I’m just putting up an activity from my Kitchen Chemistry book. Mmmm. Ice cream…
Supplies
By Susan Chapek
This Independence Day holiday wasn't going to be about books or writing—or so I thought. It would be about Uncle George's funeral.
Uncle George first saw combat on the beach at Normandy. He was wounded that day, and four more times during his year in Europe. He came home with three Bronze Stars, four Purple Hearts, and a metal plate in his skull.
At the funeral Mass, the priest summed up that part of my uncle's life with picture-book simplicity and clarity: George Doyle made the world what it is today.
Yet I was almost twenty before I even learned exactly where and when Uncle George served. (He didn't avoid the subject—or the memories. He and Aunt Kay visited Normandy a number of times after he retired. And he was active in several Veterans' groups. But he didn't jaw about it, either.)
No, the Uncle George I knew as a kid was a union printer at the World Publishing Company's Cleveland shop. World published many beautiful children's books; occasionally, Uncle George was able to snag a carton of "imperfects," and some of them came to me!
My favorites were part of the Rainbow Classics series—Twain, Alcott, Swift, Hans Christian Andersen, Johanna Spyri. Each was generously illustrated with drawings and colored plates by artists like Louis Slobodkin, Nettie Weber, and Cleveland muralist James Daugherty. I devoured them. Since I owned few books, I returned to the Rainbows over and over again—and they stood up to repeated reading. They taught me the joy, not only of reading, and of reading the stuff that has endured through centuries, but of re-reading.
These were books I would never have possessed, but for him. Maybe I would never have discovered them. They were beautiful, unabridged editions. Some of them were a lot to chew. The illustrations matched each writer's voice and were the opposite of kidlike—Howard Simon's scrawls for The Prince and the Pauper looked rough and raw as Twain's England; Jean O'Neill's fairies were dark and light, sly and innocent all at once—like Andersen's tales. And R. M. Powers' Gulliver scenes repelled and puzzled me as much as Swift's cynicism. But if World Publishing thought a book should interest me, then by golly I would figure out why, if it took me my whole life.
(Was it my dogged determination to find something to love about Jonathan Swift that made me relish Uncle George's own sharp, sarcasm-based sense of humor—something that my sibs often found intimidating? Maybe. Certainly Swift helped kindle my lifelong delight in reading and writing satires.)
So as the Mass went on I found myself thinking about books after all, about Uncle George and books. And by the time the bagpipes played him out of church, I had realized for the first time that by connecting me with the classics, Uncle George made me what I am today.
Ave atque vale, Uncle George!