How fortunate am I to work in a children’s library?! Thank you, Rona, for reminding me what a treasure I have in my latest, and most likely, last, occupational endeavor (of my otherwise previously lackluster jobs).
Almost each shift, I discover yet another gem from my childhood.
Isn’t it wonderful how a simple sentence can be a prelude to one of our best adventures in life?!
Hi Rona, I’m a new reader here and adored this post! Practically lapped up your words. 🐶✨ I remember Virginia Lee Burton’s “The Little House” grabbing my attention when I was little. Most children’s books I read as a kid were in Japanese, though! (And I’m not anywhere as fluent now to write in Japanese.)
“...you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden...” from my absolute favorite book, I love how this sentence starts with such a happy sing-song-y flow then stops abruptly with a sharp “don’t” followed by a sharp warning. my girls are 16 and 13 now but we will always be in love with Peter Rabbit! thank you for slipping this memory into my Sunday morning!
Rona, I swear to you, we are soulmates. (That's a good thing for me; I don't know about you.) This was absolutely delicious!
I too am drawn to those sentences with rhythm and cadence, and I think it comes from my childhood reading. You're so right about those two first sentences. They're perfect! They're the way any child would want them to be. Children want to feel those words, not just hear them
Congratulations on your book, as well. No small thing to have Hilma Wolitzer endorse it!
I wrote a children's story years ago, one that I've loved but could never sell, mainly because it's told from an adult's point of view. But it has that kind of rhythm at times and it's deliberate. I wanted it to read like poetry. I'm going to drag it out one of these days and give it another look...
Rona, I love your post and the comments on it too. I’m not familiar with The Sailor Dog but found your parsing of the opening very interesting.
I can’t at the moment recall a book as early as your example that I could say captured me specifically with its language. I can, however, remember being dazzled by the writing, imagination, and also humour in the novel The Last Unicorn (1968) by Peter S. Beagle. (The later animated adaptation had none of the same magic.) It was the first book I remember reading that made me think, desperately, “I want to write something beautiful like this!”
Here are the opening lines:
“The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone. She was very old, though she did not know it, and she was no longer the careless color of sea foam, but rather the color of snow falling on a moonlit night. But her eyes were still clear and unwearied, and she still moved like a shadow on the sea.”
Loved this! I agree there are enough writing prompts in the world but not enough of this kind of close critical reading of what makes a story work. I look forward to reading more of your musings on the craft of writing!
I loved reading this. Just last evening I was reading a book of poetry to my 9 year old granddaughter. I had purchased it years ago before she was even born because I loved the whimsical illustrations. (At the time I thought I would enjoy writing and illustrating children's books. After taking courses, lots of work, submissions and rejections, I put those away a long time ago.). I always read to her before bed when she is visiting but usually a book, not poems. Her comments were so very spot on when she identified certain poems she loved and why. The title of the book I am referencing, "Talking Like the Rain", says it all I think.
And what a first post on writing! I loved this piece.
I had never heard of this story before. Amazing after three kids and five grandkids.
That first sentence is astounding.
My dad was the bedtime storyteller. My younger, ((by 16 months), brother and I would squeeze in on either side of dad on my single bed and be lulled to calm every night. He read poems, Grimms, and stuff that would keep him from falling asleep but it was always enough to excite us and settle us down at the same time.
I love the reference to gorgeous adult words. The more of those, the better when I progressed to reading myself to sleep.
Last night I downloaded Starter Dog and “met” Scuppers.
I stayed up way too late reading!
Perfect timing with this essay!
I always enjoy what you write here. I learn as much from your content as I do from the way you present it. I envy your vocabulary, too!
My writing has always been on the humorous side, with the short, punchy sentences embraced by many newspaper columnists.
In college I often wrote silly poems. I went to a Catholic girls’ college in NH.
Those were the days of curfews, demerits and dress codes.
After one particularly stressful incident involving a friend’s taking a loaf of bread from the dining hall (Les Miserables?) -- and her subsequent conviction and punishment -- I penned an ode to the cafeteria manager.
Sister Valentine.
I called it The Queen of Hearts.
One line remains in my memory, 50-plus years later.
While students are eating the strange concoctions they served (icebox surprise or maybe hot dog soup), the Queen dines royally.
The line:
“She just returned from evening Mass to dine on Pheasant Under Glass.”
I was a fairy tale girl. 'Once upon a time' still gives me goosebumps and puts my butt down into the nearest chair to hear what happens next. But I vividly remember the lines of my brother's favorite Little Golden Book - he couldn't even read, but he'd memorized it and 'read' it all the way from Georgia to Chicago and back. A LONG car trip. The Monster At The End of This Book, a Sesame Street book with Grover as the main character. I can still hear my brother's piping little voice as Grover "YOU TURNED THE PAGE!!" https://www.amazon.com/Monster-End-This-Book/dp/0307010856?asin=0307010856&revisionId=&format=4&depth=1
Loved this article, Rona. Reminds me of so much of Tom Moran's wisdom in "First, You Write a Sentence". And, was it Yeats (?), "the roll, the rise, the carol, the creation".
"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit."
This from a revered professor of Anglo Saxon literature at Oxford. I could never read a book of any kind whose opening sentence was simply words on the page. I had to hear it. A master of the iambic was Shakespeare, which is why great actors make his characters speak in a language we still understand. And why some find themselves speaking in blank verse when they go home and talk to their partners. "We must have the plumber this weekend to see to the drains."
Beautiful. And how wonderful that you can remember the sentence, the rhythm, the feeling, the moment. Your essay also sent me down a rabbit hole re Ursula Nordstrom (I think the NYer ran a piece about her in recent years but I haven't found it yet) and Garth Williams (castle in Mexico?!?).
I’m whistling sea shanties and sipping coffee now. What a wonderful post to read on this chilly morning, thank you!
It makes me think about what makes certain sentences special. And it reminds me that the word prose exists, somehow, even though it sounds like it shouldn’t. Prose doesn’t come up much in normal life.
“Ah, Betty, Yeaterday was hard. My five year old threw a tantrum, the cat hawked a giant hairball on the rug, and Richard’s prose was substandard.”
Hi good morning. Beautiful as always, Rona, thank you. More than your thoughts of the beauty of language in this essay, what struck me most was the similarity of childhood experiences with both our English teacher mothers, which, in our family, extended to my children and their grandmother. I wonder if you ever read a little attachment I sent you in a FB message about the essay my daughter, now 33, wrote at 17 as her college essay about her own memories as a toddler with her nana, whose mind had begun to go. Her memories were on the bed, but with oh so much of the same emotion as your story on the reading couch. I hope it is okay to share the last bit of it here:
" . . . You used to read to me. We’d be on your bed, books at every part of us (a spine on your hip, a corner in my calf). Your softly veined hand would rise and drift across lifetimes of words and stories, then settle on one with a grainy cover. The book would rest atop the hilly mound of your chest, and its first sentence read aloud would make it ours forever. Head on your shoulder, thumb wetly lodged in my mouth, I’d gaze across the page and listen. Within minutes, I would slip under the waves of your voice and the words, under the comfort and warmth of your presence.
I remember poetry leaving your lips and hanging lazily in the air between us. Little bits of Dylan Thomas—under the apple boughs—or Yeats—peace comes dropping slow—would cling to my consciousness. Word by word, your favorites would become mine. For some, you’d hardly glance at the yellowing pages: these poems were friends you’d known all your life, and each word was at home on your tongue. Frequently you would tell me: No matter where you are, or how old, a poem you’ve memorized will always be with you. Later, older, when I took Dickinson, then Thomas and Shakespeare, then Yeats for my own, I remembered your words.
Some afternoons, when childhood restlessness would keep me from your poetry or novels, you would unearth the crumbling grammar books you used as an English teacher. Still on your bed, we would pluck errors from the flaky pages of grammar exercises. Each broken sentence I mended, each between-you-and-I or was-laying I discarded, expanded my appreciation for the beauty of grammar. You nourished my cravings, odd though they were, with cool spoonfuls of Strunk and White, and gave me answers I knew were true.
This is how I remember you, Nana. [. . . ] I won’t forget, because every book and poem you read to me, and every word I write, reminds me that my love for language and literature comes from you. So for both of us, Nana, I’ll remember."
How fortunate am I to work in a children’s library?! Thank you, Rona, for reminding me what a treasure I have in my latest, and most likely, last, occupational endeavor (of my otherwise previously lackluster jobs).
Almost each shift, I discover yet another gem from my childhood.
Isn’t it wonderful how a simple sentence can be a prelude to one of our best adventures in life?!
Hi Rona, I’m a new reader here and adored this post! Practically lapped up your words. 🐶✨ I remember Virginia Lee Burton’s “The Little House” grabbing my attention when I was little. Most children’s books I read as a kid were in Japanese, though! (And I’m not anywhere as fluent now to write in Japanese.)
“...you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden...” from my absolute favorite book, I love how this sentence starts with such a happy sing-song-y flow then stops abruptly with a sharp “don’t” followed by a sharp warning. my girls are 16 and 13 now but we will always be in love with Peter Rabbit! thank you for slipping this memory into my Sunday morning!
Rona, I swear to you, we are soulmates. (That's a good thing for me; I don't know about you.) This was absolutely delicious!
I too am drawn to those sentences with rhythm and cadence, and I think it comes from my childhood reading. You're so right about those two first sentences. They're perfect! They're the way any child would want them to be. Children want to feel those words, not just hear them
Congratulations on your book, as well. No small thing to have Hilma Wolitzer endorse it!
I wrote a children's story years ago, one that I've loved but could never sell, mainly because it's told from an adult's point of view. But it has that kind of rhythm at times and it's deliberate. I wanted it to read like poetry. I'm going to drag it out one of these days and give it another look...
Rona, I love your post and the comments on it too. I’m not familiar with The Sailor Dog but found your parsing of the opening very interesting.
I can’t at the moment recall a book as early as your example that I could say captured me specifically with its language. I can, however, remember being dazzled by the writing, imagination, and also humour in the novel The Last Unicorn (1968) by Peter S. Beagle. (The later animated adaptation had none of the same magic.) It was the first book I remember reading that made me think, desperately, “I want to write something beautiful like this!”
Here are the opening lines:
“The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone. She was very old, though she did not know it, and she was no longer the careless color of sea foam, but rather the color of snow falling on a moonlit night. But her eyes were still clear and unwearied, and she still moved like a shadow on the sea.”
Loved this! I agree there are enough writing prompts in the world but not enough of this kind of close critical reading of what makes a story work. I look forward to reading more of your musings on the craft of writing!
I loved reading this. Just last evening I was reading a book of poetry to my 9 year old granddaughter. I had purchased it years ago before she was even born because I loved the whimsical illustrations. (At the time I thought I would enjoy writing and illustrating children's books. After taking courses, lots of work, submissions and rejections, I put those away a long time ago.). I always read to her before bed when she is visiting but usually a book, not poems. Her comments were so very spot on when she identified certain poems she loved and why. The title of the book I am referencing, "Talking Like the Rain", says it all I think.
And what a first post on writing! I loved this piece.
I had never heard of this story before. Amazing after three kids and five grandkids.
That first sentence is astounding.
My dad was the bedtime storyteller. My younger, ((by 16 months), brother and I would squeeze in on either side of dad on my single bed and be lulled to calm every night. He read poems, Grimms, and stuff that would keep him from falling asleep but it was always enough to excite us and settle us down at the same time.
I love the reference to gorgeous adult words. The more of those, the better when I progressed to reading myself to sleep.
Thanks for this, Rona.
Last night I downloaded Starter Dog and “met” Scuppers.
I stayed up way too late reading!
Perfect timing with this essay!
I always enjoy what you write here. I learn as much from your content as I do from the way you present it. I envy your vocabulary, too!
My writing has always been on the humorous side, with the short, punchy sentences embraced by many newspaper columnists.
In college I often wrote silly poems. I went to a Catholic girls’ college in NH.
Those were the days of curfews, demerits and dress codes.
After one particularly stressful incident involving a friend’s taking a loaf of bread from the dining hall (Les Miserables?) -- and her subsequent conviction and punishment -- I penned an ode to the cafeteria manager.
Sister Valentine.
I called it The Queen of Hearts.
One line remains in my memory, 50-plus years later.
While students are eating the strange concoctions they served (icebox surprise or maybe hot dog soup), the Queen dines royally.
The line:
“She just returned from evening Mass to dine on Pheasant Under Glass.”
Some sentences just stick with us.
I was a fairy tale girl. 'Once upon a time' still gives me goosebumps and puts my butt down into the nearest chair to hear what happens next. But I vividly remember the lines of my brother's favorite Little Golden Book - he couldn't even read, but he'd memorized it and 'read' it all the way from Georgia to Chicago and back. A LONG car trip. The Monster At The End of This Book, a Sesame Street book with Grover as the main character. I can still hear my brother's piping little voice as Grover "YOU TURNED THE PAGE!!" https://www.amazon.com/Monster-End-This-Book/dp/0307010856?asin=0307010856&revisionId=&format=4&depth=1
Loved this article, Rona. Reminds me of so much of Tom Moran's wisdom in "First, You Write a Sentence". And, was it Yeats (?), "the roll, the rise, the carol, the creation".
"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit."
This from a revered professor of Anglo Saxon literature at Oxford. I could never read a book of any kind whose opening sentence was simply words on the page. I had to hear it. A master of the iambic was Shakespeare, which is why great actors make his characters speak in a language we still understand. And why some find themselves speaking in blank verse when they go home and talk to their partners. "We must have the plumber this weekend to see to the drains."
There is much poetry in your prose, by the way.
Beautiful. And how wonderful that you can remember the sentence, the rhythm, the feeling, the moment. Your essay also sent me down a rabbit hole re Ursula Nordstrom (I think the NYer ran a piece about her in recent years but I haven't found it yet) and Garth Williams (castle in Mexico?!?).
Lovely!
I’m whistling sea shanties and sipping coffee now. What a wonderful post to read on this chilly morning, thank you!
It makes me think about what makes certain sentences special. And it reminds me that the word prose exists, somehow, even though it sounds like it shouldn’t. Prose doesn’t come up much in normal life.
“Ah, Betty, Yeaterday was hard. My five year old threw a tantrum, the cat hawked a giant hairball on the rug, and Richard’s prose was substandard.”
Hi good morning. Beautiful as always, Rona, thank you. More than your thoughts of the beauty of language in this essay, what struck me most was the similarity of childhood experiences with both our English teacher mothers, which, in our family, extended to my children and their grandmother. I wonder if you ever read a little attachment I sent you in a FB message about the essay my daughter, now 33, wrote at 17 as her college essay about her own memories as a toddler with her nana, whose mind had begun to go. Her memories were on the bed, but with oh so much of the same emotion as your story on the reading couch. I hope it is okay to share the last bit of it here:
" . . . You used to read to me. We’d be on your bed, books at every part of us (a spine on your hip, a corner in my calf). Your softly veined hand would rise and drift across lifetimes of words and stories, then settle on one with a grainy cover. The book would rest atop the hilly mound of your chest, and its first sentence read aloud would make it ours forever. Head on your shoulder, thumb wetly lodged in my mouth, I’d gaze across the page and listen. Within minutes, I would slip under the waves of your voice and the words, under the comfort and warmth of your presence.
I remember poetry leaving your lips and hanging lazily in the air between us. Little bits of Dylan Thomas—under the apple boughs—or Yeats—peace comes dropping slow—would cling to my consciousness. Word by word, your favorites would become mine. For some, you’d hardly glance at the yellowing pages: these poems were friends you’d known all your life, and each word was at home on your tongue. Frequently you would tell me: No matter where you are, or how old, a poem you’ve memorized will always be with you. Later, older, when I took Dickinson, then Thomas and Shakespeare, then Yeats for my own, I remembered your words.
Some afternoons, when childhood restlessness would keep me from your poetry or novels, you would unearth the crumbling grammar books you used as an English teacher. Still on your bed, we would pluck errors from the flaky pages of grammar exercises. Each broken sentence I mended, each between-you-and-I or was-laying I discarded, expanded my appreciation for the beauty of grammar. You nourished my cravings, odd though they were, with cool spoonfuls of Strunk and White, and gave me answers I knew were true.
This is how I remember you, Nana. [. . . ] I won’t forget, because every book and poem you read to me, and every word I write, reminds me that my love for language and literature comes from you. So for both of us, Nana, I’ll remember."
I loved this post, Rona, please do more! It made me think about my own writing and how I can improve it. Thank you!