A Text that Sings

The last time I wrote in this space, I talked about poetic images in picture-book texts.

I’m a great admirer of poetry (and poets), but I am not a poet.  I can occasionally stumble upon a truly fresh image when I’m writing, but mostly I have to turn to other devises to give my picture-book texts resonance.

Whatever genre I’m writing in, the sound of my text is secondary only to meaning.  That is especially true in picture books.  In my mind, for a picture-book text to work, it must sing.

Picture books are different from nearly every other genre because they are seldom put aside after one reading.  If a picture book truly has the effect we hope, young listeners return to it again and again and again.

Many different aspects of text and pictures do that drawing back, but the musicality of the text is one of the most powerful ones.  To achieve that musicality, I write as much with my ears as with my eyes.

I listen as I write, reading aloud to myself—at least inside my head—so that I am aware at every step of the sounds I’m creating through repetition and contrast; aware of rhythm and flow; aware of the way line breaks add significance, and more.

This is the way my picture book, Winter Dance, opens:

A single snowflake

                floats through the air,

spins,

                leaps,

settles

                on the ear

of a fine red fox.

“Winter is coming,”

says the fox.

“What should I do?”

Notice the repeated S and the repeated F in those first lines, how they resonate in the ear. 

And notice the breaks from those sounds, too, so in the list of actions for the snowflake—floats, spins, leaps, settles—the S is repeated sometimes at the end of the word, sometimes at the beginning to keep the sounding of the S subtle.  And that all-important F that is going to be repeated with “a fine red fox” is established, too.

Then notice something else.  Those S’s and F’s go away almost completely with “Winter is coming.” 

Fox’s words are made more emphatic by the break in rhythm, by the sudden change of sound.

I’m not suggesting that I’m counting F’s and S’s as I create or that I’m saying to myself, “I need a change of rhythm here” when I get to the fox’s announcement.  That would be too mechanical an approach.

Instead I am listening, listening, listening as the words emerge.  I’m letting my ear lead me, and when my ear doesn’t find the right sound the first time through, I keep returning to the line, the phrase with my ear tuned until the right sound falls into place. 

Maybe on the third draft.  Maybe on the thirteenth.

But I never quit listening until a manuscript is out of my hands. 

And the last couple of picture book texts I’ve sold, I found myself creeping back into them after the editor had made her commitment and smoothing, refining their song further.

And then having to apologize as I presented my changes before our work had even begun.

Though I am no longer teaching in any formal way, I still work with individual writers occasionally, mostly on picture-book texts.  I see a lot of fresh ideas and strong work.  But even with those fresh ideas and strong work, I too often see flat texts.

Texts that fail to sing.

I know how to create song with my own words, but I am less sure how to teach someone else the skill.

Mostly it seems to me to be a matter of learning to listen.  And surely anyone can learn to do that.

Start with finding picture books that you love.  Read them aloud.  Read them aloud again.  Ask yourself why you love this particular book?

Ask yourself how much of that love comes from the sound of the language, its rhythms, its resonance in your ear.

Then turn back to your own writing.  Read it aloud as you write.  Sound every word as it hits the page.

When you have something down, read it aloud again.  And listen as you read.

Even better, ask someone else to read it to you.

Feel the rhythm, the flow, the texture.  Notice any place your reader stumbles.  Ask what line, what words are being forced.  Ask what lines feel clumsy or heavy.  Ask how the sound of your text makes you feel.

If your text isn’t singing, go back and try again.  Unless you’re magical, you won’t get that effect the first time around.

Take words out.  Especially take words out.  Anything that’s not absolutely necessary.  Remove most articles.  Many descriptors.  Any word that is not essential.

Examine the look of the lines on the page.  Notice the white space they create.  Notice the way the white space affects flow and even meaning.

But mostly listen, listen, listen.

Your words can sing.

And they must.  Because song touches more than our minds.  It resonates in our bones which speak directly to our hearts.

Which is exactly what you want your picture book to do.

Or any text you create.