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Thanks to Google Alerts, I found this terrific & timely article by Paula Willey in The Baltimore Sun. Willey does a great job here, writing calming and directly about the value of “scary books” for (some) young readers.
My lovely daughter, Maggie, some years back. To our surprise, Maggie loves horror. Loves it!
Personally, I got into scary books late in life, after many school visits where I met young readers who loved that shivery, edge-of-the-seat feeling. This is not just a Halloween thing, btw. An affection for horror goes year round. After raising two boys who never cared for horror — and openly said so, I should add — my sweet Maggie came along and she loves those creepy, crawly feelings. Go figure.
Another reason why I wrote “Scary Tales” in the way that it’s written — short, fast-paced, easy-to-read, series format — was because of all the reluctant readers I’ve met over the years. I’ve had them in my own kitchen, munching Doritos, blithely telling me how they don’t like books. So I challenged myself to write stories that attempted to be so entertaining & enjoyable that even these boys would read to the last page (they are, alas, almost invariably boys). I wanted them to experience that proud, “I just finished a whole book” feeling. And to then realize, “Hey, I kind of liked it. I’ll try another.”
In the old days of publishing, we’d call books in this category “Hi-Lo.” High-interest, low-reading level. My estimation is that “Scary Tales” is written somewhere on the 3rd-grade level, but with stories that appeal all the way up to 6th grade. The look is cool and edgy, so there’s no stigma to reading “baby” books.
Here’s a snip from the article. Thank you for the kind mention, Paula Willey!
Art by Iacopo Bruno from SCARY TALES: ONE-EYED DOLL.
Picture, if you will, a smiling, well-adjusted child. She’s tucked into a corner of the couch, reading happily, quiet but for the occasional giggle. Is that an “American Girl” book she’s reading? A silly fractured fairy tale? On the cover, you spy a slime-drenched, bloody snake; the title is spelled out in dripping, neon-bright letters: “The Zombie Chasers: World Zombination!”
Horrors! This child is reading horror!
Many grownups are a little uncomfortable when a kid exhibits a taste for stories of terror and mayhem. They worry that their children will become desensitized to violence or will have nightmares. Some just want their kids reading “better” books. There’s a perception that scary books like the “Goosebumps” series by R. L. Stine are of low literary quality and have no value.
It’s true that “Goosebumps” books, along with series like James Preller’s “Scary Tales,” “Spooksville” by Christopher Pike and P. J. Night’s “Creepover,” are short, formulaic, and written at a fairly low reading level. However, librarians know that these books sometimes play a crucial role in inviting children into reading, or helping a reader bridge the gap between books he is beginning to find “babyish” and longer books with more complexity.
Art by Iacopo Bruno from SCARY TALES: NIGHTMARELAND.
Many people who grew up to be very accomplished readers — and writers — claim to have read nothing but “Goosebumps” for years when they were kids.
In addition, children are very aware of their ability to handle scary stuff. When I help a child pick out a book, I’ll often ask, “How do you do with scary books?” Of all the questions that I ask during the book selection process, this is the one they answer most forthrightly: “No scary books!” or “I can handle medium-scary.” And then there’s the little angel who proclaims, “The scarier the better!”
For the full article, click here.
Paula Willey is a librarian at the Parkville branch of the Baltimore County Public Library. She writes about children’s and teen literature for various national publications and online at unadulterated.us.
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| Tong Church |
Alice in Thin Time is being chased by the gargoyles from the church roof.
Seeing a small shopping arcade, I dived into it, but it soon came to a dead end. Noticing a greengrocer’s doorway, furthest from the street, I threw myself down on the icy step. Pressing my back against the door, I heard a tremendous crash above my head, a startled squawk, something heavy sliding down the roof tiles, and then a horrible silence.
Was it the gargoyle? Had the creature fallen off the roof? Where was it? I started to imagine it shuffling towards me with its ugly wings scraping the floor. I looked along the arcade, but it was too dark to see. The shops had closed for the night and there was only one light left on in the post office window.
I had to keep calm − think what to do. It might be ages before my stepmother wondered where I was. She’d look for Thomas, but he would be safe home by now having his tea, the gargoyle wasn’t chasing him. I wondered if Thomas would tell his mum what had happened to me. Even if he did she wouldn’t believe him, she’d think he was making up another of his pretend stories.
I listened but couldn’t hear a thing. It had been quiet for a long time. I was beginning to hope the frightening creature had given up searching for me and had gone back to the church. I had to find out. I couldn’t stay there much longer for I was freezing to the step. If I crept quietly along the arcade, I might be able to take a quick look into the street without the gargoyle seeing me. But what if the thing was still out there, waiting to grab me?
Struggling to stand, my body so cold it was painful to move, I heard running footsteps coming towards me, something cannoned into me, and I fell backwards, banging my head on the floor. A cord wrapped tight round my neck, and as I fought to free myself I heard a small, fierce voice say, ‘Let go, Alice, it’s my shoe bag.’
I cursed under my breath and pulled the string of Thomas’s bag from my throat. Then hissing at him to keep quiet, I clamped my hand over his mouth and he bit me. Dragging my hand away, I heard high-pitched, excited squeakings.
‘Now look what you’ve done, you’ve brought more of them, there’s more than one gargoyle on the roof now!’ I said angrily.
‘Let’s shout for them to go away,’ Thomas said.
‘Be quiet, I’m trying to think what to do and my head hurts.’
The squeaking noises had stopped as suddenly as they had begun, and there was another of those horrible silences. What were those hideous gargoyles up to?
‘You made the frog thing angry, Alice.’
‘How was I to know the disgusting thing would attack? It wasn’t my fault.’
There was still no sound from the roof, and after waiting for what seemed a very long time, I said, ‘Stay there, keep quiet, and I’ll see if it’s safe. I’ll count to three and we’ll make a run for it. You’ll have to hold my hand and run fast.’
‘Why three? I can count up to ten,’ he said.
I just handed in the revised manuscript for my SCARY TALES series, which is chugging along. I have to say, I love writing these books, it’s like a faucet has been turned on all the way. I’m just gushing words, plot twists, stories.
This next one, the fifth in the series, will be titled either “The One-Eyed Witch” or “The One-Eyed Doll.” Honestly, doll is more accurate, but witch might be more appealing, especially to boy readers looking for any excuse NOT to pick up a book.
When I wrote the story, I paused early in the action to cast around the internet for images that would help me, and perhaps help the artist, Iacopo Bruno. It’s a new part of the process for me, which I started on the previous as-yet unpublished manuscript (that was set on a distant planet).
I have to admit, I feel a touch pretentious whenever I talk about “my process.” But at the same time, I find it interesting and know that others do, too. If there’s a take-away, maybe it’s that I published my first book in 1986 and that my methods of working are in constant evolution. It’s not like I’ve figured anything out yet. I’m still groping in the dark, searching.
Here’s the one image that really stuck in my head for the fifth book. Check it, people:
Don’t you love her? Don’t you want to hold her tight?
Or does she spell trouble?
Now maybe I shouldn’t do this, exposing my warts, but here’s a sample from the UNEDITED, UNCORRECTED manuscript I just handed in. The raw material. I think the scene explains itself, three kids, Malik and his little sister, Tiana, and a boy nicknamed “Soda Pop.”
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“Whatchu guys up to?” Soda Pop asked.
“Treasure huntin’,” Malik drawled. “You can come if you want.”
Soda Pop scratched his round belly, thinking it over. He said, “Got nothing else to do.” And he followed along.
Tiana skipped to the lead. The boys talked about baseball teams and how the all-star game didn’t mean nothing any more. “My dad says it ain’t what it used to be,” Arthur said.
Malik mused, “I can’t think of anything that is.”
“Take a look what I got,” Arthur said. He pulled out a thick stack of baseball cards from his back pocket. The two boys paused there on the ragged sidewalk, dandelions popping up from the cracks, flipping through the cards and commenting on each one.
After a while, Malik lifted his head. He looked up the street. He looked down the street. “Where’d she go to now?” he wondered aloud.
Soda Pop shrugged, unworried. “Off somewhere’s, I suppose.”
Malik peered down the road and there it stood in the distance, like a beaten fighter after fifteen rounds in the ring. The old place. A shivery feeling squeezed Malik’s heart like a sponge. “Come on,” he said, hurrying in the direction of the old place.
“Hold up,” Soda Pop said. He had dropped his cards to the curb.
“Not waiting,” Malik said. “Catch up if you want.” Off he went, walking fast, half running, in the direction of the old place. He called as he went, “Tiana? Hey, Tee? You holler if you hear me! Tiana, I’m not fooling around.”
There was no sign of his sister.
Malik walked the length of the block and now stood staring at the old place.
The dusty yard was overgrown with tall grass and untrimmed bushes. The front was closed up –- no easy way inside – and Malik figured it was unlikely that Tiana was in there. But his heart still had that squeezed-out feeling.
“Tiana!” he hollered. “You best not be inside that house.”
Malik’s nerves jumped like live wires on the street. An inner voice told him, This is no place for a little girl. Find your sister right now.
Pasty-faced Soda Pop pulled up, bent over and wheezing, short of breath. “Anybody –“ pause, gasp – “ever told you –“ pause, pant – “you walk too fast?”
“Let’s check around back,” Malik replied, all business.
“I ain’t going back there,” Soda Pop said. “Not for a bag of gummy worms, I wouldn’t. You know what folks say. A widow lady went crazy in there, before we was born. They took her away, loony as a jay bird. Place is haunted. Nope, I’m not going back there.”
“Suit yourself,” Malik shrugged.
And he went off, careful not to pass too near the old place, still looking for his lost sister.
——
He found Tiana squatting in the dirt about fifty feet behind the house. The edges of her dress were dirty and soiled.
“Tee,” he called out. “You shouldn’t be back here.”
“I found something.”
“Nevermind that, let’s go,” Malik said.
“For real,” Tiana said. “Come see for yourself.”
The girl held a short, thick stick. When Malik stepped up, he could see that she had scraped a gash about four inches deep into the earth. And sure enough, something was buried down there.
Malik got on his knees for closer study. “It looks like a piece of wood or –“
“It’s a box,” Tiana said.
Malik turned to look at her. “How would you know?”
Tiana shrugged and blew a wild strand of black hair from her eyes. “I just do.”
“Soda Pop!” Malik shouted. “Best come back here right now.” He waited, listening. He called again, “Tiana maybe found treasure.”
That got him moving.
It took some digging, but the work went faster after Malik fetched a small hand shovel from home. Twenty minutes later, they unearthed an old wooden box about the size of a loaf of bread. There was a padlock on it.
The three children sat wilting under the sun, staring at the box.
“Why would anybody bury a box?” Malik asked.
“Locked shut, too,” Soda Pop said. “Must be something valuable inside.”
“It’s been nailed closed, too,” Malik said. “See here?” He pointed to the nail heads, two on each corner of the box.
Tiana grew quiet, eyes shut. When she opened them, the little girl said, “She wants us to open it.”
Soda Pop snorted. “What are you talking about, Tiana?”
Tiana blinked, mouth shut. There was a far-away look in her eyes. “Nothing,” she answered. “I didn’t mean nothing by it.”
