The other day, my son Isaac and I went into our local chain bookstore, which shall be unnamed, but starts with a B (I know; they both do). I like to go there because we can sit anonymously in large comfy chairs and read for hours. I buy my books, however, at independent bookstores (I buy coffee and hot chocolate at the chain, so they can’t complain). Bookstores, especially large ones, have an area where picture books “face out.” The decision to face out a picture book (have it shelved so that the full cover shows) is obviously vital to the marketing of that book. As we entered the children’s section of the B store, there it was, a whole wall of picture books, facing out, every single one of them Disney; the ones a team writes after the movies come out (as opposed to their publishing arm, Hyperion, which publishes many fine books). Needless to say, I didn’t even stay for our requisite hot drinks. Shaking my head and sputtering, we were out of there.
So, after leaving the B store, we went straight to our independent bookstore, Island Books, in Newport, Rhode Island. I wrote about it earlier when I mentioned Shakespeare and Company in Paris. I said I would go in and ask the owner Judy to put a mattress on the floor for me like they have in the Paris bookstore. I figured a piano was too much to ask. Well, when we got there, there was indeed a bed on the floor. It was for a beagle, but still, I was impressed that the bohemian lifestyle was alive and well in Rhode Island. We did sit and read, maybe not long enough to be entitled to move in, but long enough. We had to get drinks at the cafe across the way, but that was fine, because I always worry about spilling on the books.
All of us have heard or said that writing a picture book is the hardest thing to do. From my experience, that is the case. I have written several, but never had the chutzpah to try to sell the little banal atrocities to anyone. I still think that the best of them are works of art comparable to any other masterpiece.
Many said during the eighties and early nighties that the children’s market was stagnant. Guess what? They were wrong. When I tried to sell my first YA novel in the diary form I was told by agents that nobody reads diaries. The agents were wrong. Don’t let doomful naysayers (even The New York Times, which has a place of reverence, not to mention makes a big pile, in our house). You be the one, as J.K. Rowling did, to turn the proverbial tides.