by Roger Sutton
Chapter books are a place where kids get to be on their own, both as readers and as characters. And when they do need help, they rely as much on other kids as on parents and teachers. Books are currency among readers, creating community. You can swap them and talk about them with your friends. Chapter books create sociability as much as they evoke it; witness the success of Patricia Reilly Giff’s Kids of Polk Street School series, two dozen chapter books (beginning with The Beast in Ms. Rooney’s Room) about life in one particular classroom, which have been ubiquitous among second-graders for almost twenty years. Fantasy, animal stories, and the like are rare in chapter-book fiction: new readers seem to want most to read about kids like themselves in familiar situations.
And, you may correctly infer, they want to read about the same kids over and over again. Children’s taste for series books gets a bad rap among adults, whose alleged taste for variety is belied by a glimpse at any best-seller list: everybody likes series. But for decades, some series — most notoriously Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys — were fastidiously kept from the shelves of public libraries even while adult patrons were busy reserving a copy of the latest Hercule Poirot or Perry Mason mystery.
The taste for series books is engendered the first time you heed a toddler’s call to “read it again!” It means, “I liked that. More of the same, please.” But eventually everybody wants a little variation. We provide that variation to a limited extent in picture books (perhaps so relatively limited because that audience can be bought off with repeated readings of the same book), foster it in easy readers, and make it the mainstay of chapter-book publishing.
It’s like having an alternative but constant universe to visit. As an adult reader, I like having Donna Leon’s Venice to visit, in the company of her detective Guido Brunetti, for example. I like keeping up with Guido and his wife, Paola, and their kids, finding out about different places in the city, and seeing how he handles the latest mystery thrown his way. The plot is secondary — I’m happy to watch Guido drink espresso — and it serves mostly to tug me from chapter to chapter.
But there are series, and there are series. Some are completely formulaic: the characters never change, the plots are stereotyped, the language is bland. Still, this keeps them accessible to a wide range of readers, thus reinforcing the idea that books are something you can share with your friends or use to placate your enemies: The 300-million-copies-selling Goosebumps, for example, gave good readers and struggling readers something in common, because a taste for gore and mayhem is fairly widespread among the young, and as well found an audience among both girls and boys. This series of short paperbacks with simmered-down versions of old horror-movie plots not coincidentally found itself in trouble with would-be censors who were putatively concerned with the series’ violence and supernatural themes but, really, did not like the grip the series held on the collective second- and third-grade imagination. These were books kids were buying with their own money. These were books in which the heroes were on their own. Who needs parents?
As both cash cow and focus of censorial wrath, the latest successor to Goosebumps is Dav Pilkey’s Captain Underpants series, the first significant inroad from comic-book style to children’s fiction. The Captain Underpants books, starting with The Adventures of Captain Underpants, are filled with mild potty humor and plenty of pokes at authority, especially in the person of Mr. Krupp, school principal to George and Harold, who discover they can use their Hypno-Ring to turn him into the Don Quixote–like superhero Captain Underpants, named for his outfit. Third-grade slackers George and Harold themselves are direct descendants of James Marshall’s Cut-Ups and first cousins to Jon Scieszka’s Time Warp Trio. All these characters are variations on a type: goof-off boys who hate to read. And . . . but try this is their implicit message.
Interestingly, neither Goosebumps nor Captain Underpants (nor Matthew and Jennifer Holm’s Babymouse series, a witty, Jane Austen–like alternative to Captain Underpants’s universe) is as dumb as it looks. All three routinely break the “fourth wall” between book and reader, and Captain Underpants and Babymouse require flexibility from their readers as the story bounces loopily between words, pictures, and what both leave unsaid as well as between the stories within stories that each of these series (Goosebumps, too) delights in.
As I write, graphic novels are supplanting doorstop-size fantasies as the Next Big Thing in children’s literature, but Babymouse and Captain Underpants got there first, and we didn’t think of them as graphic novels so much as we did more sophisticated (and hardbound) versions of that hound that has dogged children’s literature for a century: that pesky, pervasive, routinely deplored (and at-best tolerated), won’t-go-away comic book. Chapter books without the respectability.
Comic books were the great equalizer of my generation. We all read them, book lovers and book-averse alike. For the truly awkwardly bookish like me, comics were a place I could find common ground with other boys. As the great gourmet M. F. K. Fisher wrote about educating her young daughter’s palate, “I give her a Coke, for social reasons.” Like Coke, comic books and series books have the virtue of being everywhere, providing common sustenance, if not nourishment. They’re popular because they’re popular, serving the social function of being something to like that other people like too.
We begin reading as listeners and move on with assistance — sitting in a lap and following the pictures of a story, helping to turn the pages. Older humans, first in the family and then in school, help us learn to decode the printed word. Easy readers put us on our own, the support still present in the form of an encouraging page design and simple vocabulary. Series books and comic books throw us into the pool with the other kids, and the multitude of series and characters create a body of shared experience. With the persistence of the same characters and plot types across series entries, kids find communities that parallel their own, which itself, through the sharing of books, reinforces and expands the literary possibilities.
The printed word, historically, is unique among the arts because it is designed to be experienced alone — millions may read The Da Vinci Code, but by and large they do it one at a time. While books provide many opportunities for shared experience — reading aloud, discussion of books read in common, dramatization — books are best suited for one pair of hands at a time. That’s how the story gets into the person, who can choose (or not) a multitude of ways to spread the word.
Our children grew up with reading, as there were two writers in the house. Home was an exuberant place. Jaime at age three: “Mom, didya know — Iyum da only puhson in nis house who cannot weed?” (He had a New York accent and a slight problem with his r’s.) His non-“weeding” didn’t last long. Books were everywhere in our house. Every day, Arnold and I shared stuff out loud from newspapers, magazines, books; to each other and to Leigh and Jaime. We devised a strategy: having a set of junior encyclopedias and some favorite picture books and chapter books at couch level in the family room. When the kids got bored watching TV, they would automatically reach for something to read. Something was always there — and it worked!
MORE GREAT CHAPTER BOOKS
Annie Barrows, illustrations by Sophie Blackall, Ivy and Bean: Bound to Be Bad
121 pp. Grades 2–4. In this fifth Ivy and Bean book, the two best friends decide to be really, really good — with opposite results. Fast-moving short chapters overflow with a sense of how kids actually talk and play. Text and illustrations are as fine a match as Ivy and Bean themselves.
Stephanie Greene, Happy Birthday, Sophie Hartley
128 pp. Grades 2–4. For her special “double-digit” birthday, impulsive, dramatic, middle-child Sophie wants a special present: a baby gorilla. Things get out of hand when her whole third-grade class thinks her parents have consented to the idea. Greene once again showcases her talent for portraying believable characters and family dynamics with humor and insight.
Nikki Grimes, illustrations by R. Gregory Christie, Almost Zero: A Dyamonde Dan
iel Book
115 pp. Grades 1–3. African-American Dyamonde demands that her mother buy her the high-top sneakers she “needs.” The next day her clothes disappear, with Mom explaining that she only really needs one set of clothes. When a classmate’s home is destroyed by fire, Dyamonde realizes the distinction between wanting and needing.
Betty Hicks, illustrations by Adam McCauley, Basketball Bats (Gym Shorts)
55 pp. Grades 1–5. It’s all about sports in this welcome series featuring fourth-grader Henry and his friends — both boys and girls. Plentiful pencil sketches provide humor and ample visual cues for early chapter-book readers. Companion books include Goof-Off Goalie and Swimming with Sharks.
Kimberly Willis Holt, illustrations by Christine Davenier, Piper Reed, Navy Brat
146 pp. Grades 2–5. Being a Navy brat is full of activity and challenges — just the way irrepressible nine-year-old Piper Reed likes it. Holt writes with a light touch as she captures the details of military life through Piper’s personable voice. The pen-and-wash sketches are aptly exuberant. Sequels include Piper Reed, the Great Gypsy and Piper Reed Gets a Job.
Lenore Look, illustrations by LeUyen Pham, Alvin Ho: Allergic to Girls, School, and Other Scary Things
172 pp. Grades 1–3. Fearful second-grader Alvin Ho doesn’t speak in school, though his voice works everywhere else. Generously illustrated short chapters include laugh-out-loud descriptions of Alvin’s attempt to grow taller and his brief membership in a not-so-tough neighborhood gang.
Claudia Mills, illustrations by Heather Maione, How Oliver Olson Changed the World
104 pp. Grades 1–4. Oliver’s overprotective parents insist on doing everything for him, including homework, and won’t hear of letting him attend the third-grade space sleepover. Drawn into opinionated classmate Crystal’s orbit while working together on a solar-system diorama, Oliver begins to assert himself. Full-page pencil illustrations add warmth and humor.
Sara Pennypacker, illustrations by Marla Frazee, Clementine
136 pp. Grades 2–4. Third-grader Clementine feels lucky that spectacular ideas (like cutting her friend’s hair) are continually “sproinging up” in her brain, but adults don’t feel the same way. The first-person narration is fresh and winsome but not too cutesy. The pen-and-ink illustrations bounce along the pages with the same energy as the story. Sequels include The Talented Clementine and Clementine’s Letter.
Lisa Yee, illustrations by Dan Santat, Bobby vs. Girls (Accidentally)
168 pp. Grades 1–4. Those looking for fiction with nonwhite characters in which race is not the focus will welcome nine-year-old Bobby Ellis-Chan. Bobby and Holly had been best friends since babyhood, until fourth grade. The story of how they lose and rediscover their friendship is told with humor, frequent full-page illustrations, and an invitingly spacious layout.
By the time a kid is ready to read on his own, he’s ready to . . . read on his own. Your job is, essentially, to let him. So why should you read this section? First, because discussed herein are books no reader should miss. Harriet the Spy, Holes, Tom’s Midnight Garden, Hatchet: these books are central to the tradition of Children’s Literature, which is itself part of the canon of Books, Generally. Some children’s books even become landmarks of the latter as well; think of The Wind in the Willows, The Secret Garden, or Anne of Green Gables, books for children that still influence adult books published decades later. (This of course also goes the other way; witness the effect of To Kill a Mockingbird upon subsequent coming-of-age literature for teenagers.) Fantasy fans will already know that Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy began as a children’s book (The Hobbit) and that most of the touchstones of the genre are found in children’s literature.
Second, you should read this section because as a parent it would be good for you to know just how much variety and imaginative reach is out there. Popular series such as (back in the day) Sweet Valley High or today’s The Clique can seem ubiquitous, but junior-high chick lit is as various as its adult counterpart, and much of it is actually literate. You might remember the Childhood of Famous Americans series (maybe even passed down by your own parents) but would be stunned to see what historian-biographers such as Russell Freedman, Candace Fleming, Elizabeth Partridge, and Jim Murphy are doing today.
Because independent, private reading varies so much in terms of each reader’s personality and affinities, for this section we invited a community of experts — all current or past Horn Book reviewers or contributors — to speak to their own particular passions and expertise, acting as native guides, if you will, to the genres they each know best. Just as you may gravitate toward “the mystery lady” at your local library or bookstore for her encyclopedic knowledge of the genre, you can trust these critics to be on home ground in their areas of expertise.
As a reader, you know you don’t want to be crowded. We don’t suggest monitoring what your nine- to twelve-year-old child is reading beyond a general benevolent interest. By all means, share books: read them aloud or listen together. Talk with your kids about their reading, but do it not as parent to child but as reader to reader. (That means you talk about your reading, too.) Go to the library together: allowing your children to see you lost in pursuit of your own reading pleasure is one of the best ways to send them in pursuit of their own. And the library has wealth far beyond what either you or this book can offer. Know that it’s there. Know the abundance of books written, published, and kept in print by generations of adults with a staggering respect for young people. Children’s literature is another branch of the same tree that so sturdily shelters you: books.
Maybe this has changed since Harry Potter arrived, but for decades reading surveys among children consistently revealed that their favorite genre was mystery. The odd thing, though, is that, beyond formula series, there are relatively few mysteries (as adults understand the term) published for young people, and what those surveys actually showed was that kids enjoy stories with strong plots and elements of surprise or suspense that keep a reader going. As children’s librarian Tim Wadham wrote in a Horn Book article called “Plot Matters,” “Children need to know that something is happening, and what happens next.”
Children’s literature provides an array of subgenres to serve this essential requirement of interesting things happening to a sympathetic protagonist, and we’ve chosen four to explore here in greater depth: fantasy, historical fiction, adventure stories, and comedies. Each of these has contributed signal works to the canon — Alan Garner’s The Owl Service, Elizabeth Speare’s The Witch of Blackbird Pond, Gary Paulsen’s Hatchet, Richard Peck’s A Year Down Yonder, respectively — even while cross-fertilizing like crazy: T. H. White’s The Sword in the Stone just about manages to be all four.
While fantasy came around in a big way after Harry Potter, we’ve seen it cycle by before: witness the crazes in adult publishing that surrounded (the pre-movie) Lord of the Rings, Watership Down, and H. P. Lovecraft. And it’s always been a mainstay of children’s fiction as well: C. S. Lewis’s Narnia books, The Wind in the Willows, The Wizard of Oz. The Horn Book gave a consistent boost to the great English fantasy revival of the 1960s and 1970s, when writers such as William Mayne, Alan Garner, Susan Cooper, and Diana Wynne Jones emerged (and also to its American counterpart, with Natalie Babbitt’s Tuck Everlasting and Lloyd Alexander’s Chronicles of Prydain, to mention just two). Here Deirdre Baker, who teaches children’s literature at the University of Toronto and is a frequent reviewer for The Horn Book, gives a sense of the breadth and depth of the genre and illustrates just why a child might be drawn to a book that “celebrates boldly the creative power of the artist to imagine things other than they are.”
Historical fiction lives in the confluence contained in its name, a place where getting it right and making it real aren’t quite the same thing but need to work together. From the textured and well-researched novels by the likes of Rosemary Sutcliff (pre-modern Britain), Scott O’Dell (historical California), and Mildred Taylor (t
he Jim Crow South) to the series pleasures of the American Girls books, historical fiction has fans and — more problematically — victims, when it becomes repurposed to the needs of scholastic testing. Betty Carter is a retired professor of library science and junior-high teacher, and a longtime contributor to The Horn Book.
As Vicky Smith — librarian, children’s book editor for Kirkus Reviews, and former Horn Book reviewer — writes, the “brush with peril” appeal of the adventure story is obvious even though its reputation is sometimes suspect: while everybody loves “a good story,” fewer are proud to admit it (adults, anyway . . . ).
When, as a child, Beverly Cleary was taxed by a particularly dreary essay assignment, her mother advised, “Write something funny. People always enjoy reading something that makes them laugh.” But it wasn’t until Cleary wrote Dear Mr. Henshaw, a novel about a lonely boy that was more “serious” than her Klickitat Street books (starring Henry and Beezus and Ramona), that she won the Newbery Medal. Humor has a hard time being taken seriously. As novelist, librarian, and Horn Book reviewer Sarah Ellis notes, comedy is social and a great equalizer among children, bringing together boys and girls, eager readers and reluctant ones, to enjoy the joke.