children's books

Let's Hear it For Imagination!

The secret ingredient in these desserts? Imagination.

The secret ingredient in these desserts? Imagination.

I have lot of friends in the publishing business. Lots. And I meet a lot of people in that world as well. Years ago, when my children’s book first came out, I was talking to a woman who said she worked for a publisher of textbooks. She told me that her company had a policy of not using the word “imagination” in their textbooks because they feared that books using that word will not be bought in some U.S. school districts.

She explained that the word was too closely associated in some people’s minds with the word magic, which, if you recall the debates about the Harry Potter books back when they were first published, is a literary hot potato for many people.

You could say that I’m fascinated by magic in all its forms—as make-believe performance, as real-life pagan ritual, as literary device. I was a huge magic geek as a kid. I still have the wand and tote bag of tricks that I trot out every time the unsuspecting child of a neighbor has a birthday party. Several of the blogs I follow these days are written by modern-day witches. And one of my long-time pet projects is a series of fantasy novels featuring rich magic systems.

That said, I actually get the objection-to-magic thing, I really do. I don’t like that people feel that way, but I can live with their objection if they can live with mine. But banning your child from ever reading, hearing, or seeing the word IMAGINATION—the Old French origin of the world means “to picture to oneself”—seems crazy to me. I’d argue you need more imagination to ban the word IMAGINATION for all the harm it will do your kid. The most successful adults I know did not grow up in an imagination-free zone.

I wonder if my acquaintance’s employer was the only company to enact such a policy. Since I first heard this anecdote back in 2011, I haven’t been able to confirm what I was told, nor have I ever been able to find a news article from a reputable source confirming this person’s assertion. It’s entirely possible my acquaintance was full of it, but then again, this is not the sort of policy a textbook publisher would voluntarily release to the news media.

Just in case the policy is true, here are couple of copies of the word. Please feel free to copy and paste into your favorite textbook of choice. Give a few to some wonderful kids, and to some boring adults who need it badly while you’re at it.

IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION. IMAGINATION.

There. Now don’t you feel better?


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The Magic of Children's Book Author Clifford B. Hicks (1920-2010)

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with the books of a children’s book author named Clifford B. Hicks. Among other books, he wrote a series of books about a kid named Alvin Fernald, who was sort of the MacGyver of the kid world. With a toothpick, a piece of string, and leftover jelly sandwich, Alvin could build a contraption to save the world. 

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Each book was constructed around a central mystery that took place in Alvin’s small, semi-suburban town in the American midwest. Alvin tackled issues that seem so grown-up in retrospect, but Hicks somehow managed to make them seem “safe” and accessible to kids: corruption in city hall, kidnapping and extortion, stolen industrial plans, and water pollution. Always, in the end, Alvin managed to save the day with the help of his pal Shoie, his kid sister Daphne (aka the Pest), and an arsenal of kooky inventions.

These books enchanted me. More than anything, they seemed to radiate a gentler, more affectionate tone than many of the other books I was reading at the time. The Alvin stories were longer and more sustained than the Encyclopedia Brown mysteries.

Alvin’s world of the ‘60s and ‘70s seemed more modern and realistic than the world of the Hardy Boys’. And unlike the Hardy and Nancy Drew books, the Alvin series was written by a single, real-life author, not a committee of ghostwriters. Hicks seemed to care deeply about the little town of Riverton, Indiana, he’d created, and even cared about the quite serious issues he was writing about. The Wonderful World of Disney, the old Sunday night TV series, once adapted one of the books and brought Alvin to a wider audience. 

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The books inspired me to try to build my own inventions. They were the first books I ever asked a local bookstore to special order for me. After finally locating the seminal book in the series, The Marvelous Inventions of Alvin Fernald (1960), I set about creating my own inventions, just like Alvin, using items from my carefully assembled “inventing box.” You’ll be relieved to know that nothing I ever created has ever made it to the U.S. Patent Office. There’s a reason I’m a writer and not an engineer.

Once, in the mid-1970s, I wrote to the author in care of his publisher (Scholastic pubbed the paperbacks). “Can you send me the plans to a Sure-Shot Paper Slinger?” I inquired. I told him that my brothers and I had a newspaper route, just like Alvin, and that we would love to be able to shoot rolled-up newspapers from the rear of our bicycles onto a customer’s lawn.

To my delight, Hicks wrote back from his home outside Chicago:

“Gosh, Joe, I’m sorry I can’t tell you how to build [one]…When I was a kid, my friends and I made up almost all the other inventions, but I just dreamed up the Paper Slinger without ever building one. If Alvin is clever enough to build it, I’ll bet you are too, Joe! Let me know when you make it work. CBH”

I was over-the-moon-amazed to receive a response from Hicks. It was the first time I’d ever gotten a letter from an author. I have carefully preserved it all these years.

Years later, when I myself was working as an editor at Scholastic, I tried to locate fresh copies of the books and was surprised to find that they were out of print. That bowled me over. If kids were flipping over Harry Potter, why wouldn’t a publisher like my own employer reissue books that followed in a similar vein, about plucky kids with unusual talents who saved the day?

A little digging revealed that the Alvin series ended abruptly in the mid-eighties with the publication of Alvin Fernald, Master of a Thousand Disguises. Used books proliferated on the Internet, with diehard fans rhapsodizing about how much they enjoyed them. Clearly, I was not alone in my affection. Here are some of the tributes, er, reviews I located on Amazon:

“I am 45 years old...my 44-year old-brother came over and talked about how this book changed his life. He read it as a kid and became an inventor of sorts himself...a perpetual tinkerer.”

“The Alvin books were my favorites as a kid. I checked them out from the library repeatedly and devoured them. As a 10 year old, I wanted to hang out with Alvin and Shoie. The books are full of laughs, adventure, and great storytelling. They take us back to small town America, before kids had to deal with grownup problems. If you have a kid, buy this book for him. Buy it used, buy it on eBay, buy it at a used bookstore!”

“When I was about 11 years old, I read many of Alvin’s adventure stories. This book in particular inspired my imagination. I have vivid memories of trying to copy Alvin's inventions! One summer while staying at my grandparents’ camp, I rigged a security device similar to the one in the book so that no one could enter my bedroom. I have been looking for this book for a very long time, as I seem to have lost my copy. It thrills me that these books are listed by Amazon. This book is without a doubt my favourite and I would love to share it with my daughter.”

Some years later, I read that two small publishers were beginning to bring out the old books. I found a website put up by the author’s son and discovered that Clifford Hicks was not only alive and well—now in his late eighties—but living not far from where I’d once lived in the mountains of North Carolina! 

I wrote a second fan letter—thirty years after the first one. I told Hicks that I’d lived for a short time in his neck of the woods, but had moved away, and was now thinking of moving back. A few weeks later I received an email in my inbox. The voice was the same as I remembered from childhood: warm, avuncular, friendly.

“Hi, Joe!

What a lift your letter gave me! I’m delighted, and proud, that you liked my Alvin books so much that you were inspired to become Alvin Fernald.

When I was about 12 years old I became enamored of the Tarzan books, and quite definitely made up my mind to run away from home, go to Africa, and learn to swing from the trees. My three sons have known of this dream for years, and a few days ago one of them gave me a copy of Tarzan of the Apes that he located on the Internet. With some regret I turned the last page of that book this afternoon, just before writing this note to you. The book was just as exciting as it was the first time I read it. A magnificent story—but badly written!

...

In any case it’s incredible that you kept my letter all these years, dragged it to college with you, and still have it.

In a way, I’m flattered that you went into journalism, Joe. You can’t keep me hanging like this. Send me a list of your children’s books, including the one the illustrator is currently working on. Here we are, our paths crossing at least twice in our lives, yet separated by only 20 miles.

Come back to Hendersonville, Joe, so we can actually meet…I’ll never answer another reader’s letter without thinking of you!

I finally did move back. Hicks and I exchanged a few emails but kept postponing our meeting. He was ill for a little while, then entered rehab. He phoned one day to apologize for not being able to meet. And then, before I knew it, he passed away in September of 2010. I was deeply saddened to hear of his passing. He was 90 years old.

Mr. Hicks

Mr. Hicks

I see that you can still link to his old website via the Wayback Machine. I bought a couple of the newly reissued books for one of my nephews, who loved them. The Alvin books marked a turning point in my life as a reader. They were among the last kids’ books I read before making the switch to predominantly books written for adults. In a sense they were the literary dividing line between the adult and the kid world. Hicks’s stories whetted my appetite for mysteries in general. And you could say that when I was through reading his books, I was well prepared for the larger world of adult mystery fiction. 

But, as it turns out, I’m not through with Alvin Fernald. The year before he left us, Hicks published a brand-new Alvin Fernald book, entitled Alvin Fernald’s Incredible Buried Treasure. That title rounds out the Fernald books to a perfect 10. I think of it as a parting gift from the magical Mr. Hicks. And I can’t wait to dig in.

2019 Update: This post appeared on my old blog on August 26, 2011. I’ve since located a couple of other articles about Hicks and his work, here and here. Frankly, the books are still a challenge to find. Amazon carries four or five of the new reissues, but you need to dig for used copies to read the others.


Yes, I am trying to post here more often. Thank you for noticing. If you want to sign up for my newsletter and claim your free ebook, go here. Thanks — Joseph D’Agnese

My Fibonacci book @ Dali Museum

This was a cool. One of my bookseller friends, Caroline (above) spotted my Fibonacci book on sale (in copious quantities) at the  Salvador Dali Museum in St. Petersburg, Florida.  The artist Dali referenced the Fibonacci Sequence in many of his works. I love when one of my books connects with a museum gift shop. Their priorities are vastly different from traditional bookstores, and they’ll keep a book in stock long after the other stores have returned them and moved on.  * * *  Meanwhile, Caroline’s employer,  Malaprops , is in the news this evening. This   New York Times  article  announces that they are one of more than 50 indie bookstores that will receive a grant from mega-author James Patterson.

This was a cool. One of my bookseller friends, Caroline (above) spotted my Fibonacci book on sale (in copious quantities) at the Salvador Dali Museum in St. Petersburg, Florida. The artist Dali referenced the Fibonacci Sequence in many of his works. I love when one of my books connects with a museum gift shop. Their priorities are vastly different from traditional bookstores, and they’ll keep a book in stock long after the other stores have returned them and moved on.

* * *

Meanwhile, Caroline’s employer, Malaprops, is in the news this evening. This New York Times article announces that they are one of more than 50 indie bookstores that will receive a grant from mega-author James Patterson.

Why I Love "From The Mixed-Up Files Of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler"

E.L. Konigsburg (1930-2013)    I’ve been meaning to write something about the authors we lost this year who’ve meant something to me. Before the year winds up, I thought I’d better get that done.   This picture shows the cover of one of my favorite books from childhood:  From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.  This is the actual book. I’ve kept it all these years. I was saddened to hear that that author,  E.L. Konigsburg, died earlier this year, in April, at age 83 . The funny thing is, I’ve never read any other books by her except this one.  Mixed-Up Files  was enough to carry with me all these years. Only recently have I realized the debt my writing owes to this book.  The story of the book doesn’t sound terribly remarkable. Feeling unappreciated in her white-bread Connecticut household, a young girl named Claudia decides to run away from home. She knows herself well enough to know that she requires money and comfort to pull off this caper. So she enlists the help of her brother Jamie, a master card cheat, who has the princely sum of $24 to his name. The two run away to New York City and move into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. By day, they educate themselves by tagging along with school groups. By night, they swipe pocket change out of the fountain and sleep in Marie Antoinette’s bed.  While living in their magnificent digs, Claudia becomes obsessed with nailing down the provenance of a mysterious statue of an angel, which the museum has recently acquired. Rumors identify the statue as the work of Michelangelo, but the experts beg to differ. Claudia and Jamie spend the remainder of their money to travel to the home of the statue’s last known owner of record, Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, who just might know the truth. Frankweiler offers the children a challenge: The truth is hidden somewhere inside her Mixed-Up Files. If they are clever enough, they can find the answer. The children accept, and what they discover in their search makes me want to cry forty years later.  I like two things about this book. It just took me until adulthood to figure them out.  One is that the book is supposedly written in the first person by Frankweiler herself, who doesn’t appear until the last quarter of the tale. Despite the fact that she won’t be present for most of the book, she tells us early on that since she’s interviewed the children extensively, she feels qualified to present this unbiased account. This narrative framework seems dodgy, but I’m currently using it with a book I’m writing. It seems to be working.  I think you should read  Mixed-Up Files  if you haven’t already, so I won’t give any spoilers. Suffice to say that the children solve the mystery, and Frankweiler—who by now you’ve realized is a proxy for Konigsburg herself—manages to save one last secret for the book’s final pages.  The second reason the book charmed me is that it’s remarkably wise. The author understands that all children—young and old—want to feel special, and solving a mystery is one of the best ways to arrive at that specialness.  Here’s the quote that sells it. Frankweiler, in a conversation with Jamie, says:   Claudia doesn’t want ad­ven­ture. She likes baths and feeling comfortable too much for that kind of thing. Secrets are the kind of adventure she needs. Secrets are safe, and they do much to make you different. On the inside, where it counts.   Yes. Yes. Absolutely true. Konigsburg, throughout her long career, became known for spouting similarly profound gems in her writing. I sometimes like reading quotes people have pulled from her books. She was that good. Here’s another:   Some days you must learn a great deal. But you should also have days when you allow what is already in you to swell up and touch everything. If you never let that happen, then you just accumulate facts, and they begin to rattle around inside of you.   When I was still working at Scholastic, one of my office mates was lucky enough to interview Konigsburg about one of her new books. Like me, my friend loved  Mixed-Up Files  and so she asked one too many questions about that book. Konigsburg bristled at this, saying  Mixed-Up Files  was one of her first books, it was  old , and puh-leeze, she was trying to promote the  new  book.  These days I know in my heart how she must have felt. But  Mixed-Up Files  won the Newbery Award in 1967 and has touched millions of readers since. E.L. Konigsburg wrote a lot of great books, and I’m sure that in time I’ll read them all. But if I never do, all I need is this one.

E.L. Konigsburg (1930-2013)

I’ve been meaning to write something about the authors we lost this year who’ve meant something to me. Before the year winds up, I thought I’d better get that done.

This picture shows the cover of one of my favorite books from childhood: From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. This is the actual book. I’ve kept it all these years. I was saddened to hear that that author, E.L. Konigsburg, died earlier this year, in April, at age 83. The funny thing is, I’ve never read any other books by her except this one. Mixed-Up Files was enough to carry with me all these years. Only recently have I realized the debt my writing owes to this book.

The story of the book doesn’t sound terribly remarkable. Feeling unappreciated in her white-bread Connecticut household, a young girl named Claudia decides to run away from home. She knows herself well enough to know that she requires money and comfort to pull off this caper. So she enlists the help of her brother Jamie, a master card cheat, who has the princely sum of $24 to his name. The two run away to New York City and move into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. By day, they educate themselves by tagging along with school groups. By night, they swipe pocket change out of the fountain and sleep in Marie Antoinette’s bed.

While living in their magnificent digs, Claudia becomes obsessed with nailing down the provenance of a mysterious statue of an angel, which the museum has recently acquired. Rumors identify the statue as the work of Michelangelo, but the experts beg to differ. Claudia and Jamie spend the remainder of their money to travel to the home of the statue’s last known owner of record, Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, who just might know the truth. Frankweiler offers the children a challenge: The truth is hidden somewhere inside her Mixed-Up Files. If they are clever enough, they can find the answer. The children accept, and what they discover in their search makes me want to cry forty years later.

I like two things about this book. It just took me until adulthood to figure them out.

One is that the book is supposedly written in the first person by Frankweiler herself, who doesn’t appear until the last quarter of the tale. Despite the fact that she won’t be present for most of the book, she tells us early on that since she’s interviewed the children extensively, she feels qualified to present this unbiased account. This narrative framework seems dodgy, but I’m currently using it with a book I’m writing. It seems to be working.

I think you should read Mixed-Up Files if you haven’t already, so I won’t give any spoilers. Suffice to say that the children solve the mystery, and Frankweiler—who by now you’ve realized is a proxy for Konigsburg herself—manages to save one last secret for the book’s final pages.

The second reason the book charmed me is that it’s remarkably wise. The author understands that all children—young and old—want to feel special, and solving a mystery is one of the best ways to arrive at that specialness.

Here’s the quote that sells it. Frankweiler, in a conversation with Jamie, says:

Claudia doesn’t want ad­ven­ture. She likes baths and feeling comfortable too much for that kind of thing. Secrets are the kind of adventure she needs. Secrets are safe, and they do much to make you different. On the inside, where it counts.

Yes. Yes. Absolutely true. Konigsburg, throughout her long career, became known for spouting similarly profound gems in her writing. I sometimes like reading quotes people have pulled from her books. She was that good. Here’s another:

Some days you must learn a great deal. But you should also have days when you allow what is already in you to swell up and touch everything. If you never let that happen, then you just accumulate facts, and they begin to rattle around inside of you.

When I was still working at Scholastic, one of my office mates was lucky enough to interview Konigsburg about one of her new books. Like me, my friend loved Mixed-Up Files and so she asked one too many questions about that book. Konigsburg bristled at this, saying Mixed-Up Files was one of her first books, it was old, and puh-leeze, she was trying to promote the new book.

These days I know in my heart how she must have felt. But Mixed-Up Files won the Newbery Award in 1967 and has touched millions of readers since. E.L. Konigsburg wrote a lot of great books, and I’m sure that in time I’ll read them all. But if I never do, all I need is this one.