Though technically an older middle-grade title, The Postcard was placed on a list of books to read over the summer for incoming freshmen at my town’s high school. It was an honor to be on the list, of course, but it was also interesting to me that it was considered a book appropriate for post-middle-school readers. I’d more or less always considered it so, (and I wrote it because, I suppose, I wanted to read a book like it), but the official age range was a fact debated at the time of development with no clear agreement.

Most people will not read the book. It weaves two stories together in, depending on which review you read, an un- or brilliantly successful way. There are two time lines, one roughly a century long, the other three or four days in the present. It’s probably non-arguably a too-long 359 pages. It’s a scorecardishly complicated mystery with lots of characters. A three-generational love story. An essay on real estate shenanigans in early Florida. Likely the only book published this year to feature an autogyro in a major offscreen incident. And an emotional and slapstick comedy. One reviewer said it might be too ambitious. You think? (Thanks, Gail; I actually liked that.) Another reviewer said that the early story, a hardboiled novelette couched in bits throughout the present story, was a load of “charming hooey.” This was also a brilliant characterization.

In any case, I was asked to lead the book discussion at the high school at the end of last week. It was a hoot.

First of all, I was asked to take attendance. That was fun; not hostile, but not all that enlightening, either. Names and check marks, you know? I pressed on.

The period was, bell to bell, some fifty minutes long. I did most of the talking. Of the 24 or so froshpeople, five or six gave more than one answer, a good tally, I’m told. I think I had the eyes of most all of them at one time or another. If you’ve ever led a book discussion (this was my first), and there is at first a muted response, you find yourself asking questions of an increasingly basic nature.

Me: “And when Jason heard the footsteps in the hallway, what did he do?”

Student: “He closed the door.”

Me: “That’s exactly right! He closed door!”

I exaggerate for effect. Teachers are to be praised for doing this day after day. I was delighted by the mid-period warm up of atmosphere, the settling into seats, and the lovely nodding of heads when you say something you meant to be interesting or provocative. There is an art to this, the give and take of words and body language. If you say X, and there is, for example, no head nodding, you think about a way to restate X. You can see understanding or puzzlement in their eyes, the way they lean forward, backward, to the side, tuck hair behind their ears, glance at the clock. It’s a beautiful thing, a classroom in session.

Because I wrote the book and found some of the strictly technical aspects of writing a complex-mystery-novel intriguing and felt I could describe them pretty accurately, I thought it would be fun to share some of the ways ideas became words, and how they became plot and character and story. Setting the stage for this, I asked the students, “Does anyone here like to write?”

Startling and sad was the response. One person’s hand went up.

Me: “Really? You like to write? What, poetry, fiction, non-fiction? For yourself, or for class?”

Student: “For class.”

Hmm. Of course, it might be — and teachers could tell me — that writing’s an activity high schoolers might not want to admit, even to a writer. My immediate thought was that much competition for their time have these students, and I fear some of it is electronic. Never mind. They were there and they were listening. In fact, more than listening. Several students made comments with insight and critical awareness. That was really rewarding. Further, it seemed to me that most of the kids had actually read at least some of the book and that that they took the summer assignment seriously. When the discussion leaders in other classes were asked how many of the students appeared to have read their book, I felt very good about my class. My “class.”

As always, you digest these things over time. I will mention the amusing moment just before the bell rang when I asked if anyone hated the book. You know, you don’t think people will actually shout out: “ME!” But a student did raise her hand. I said, “You hated it? Really?” She looked at me. “Oh. No.” And she finished tucking her hair behind her ears.

So it ended well.

To quote from the Scholastic website, “Kids Are Authors is an annual competition open to students in Grades K–8 and is designed to encourage students to use their reading, writing, and artistic skills to create their own books. Under the guidance of a project coordinator, children work in teams of three or more students to write and illustrate their own book. The creative process of working in teams helps provide a natural environment to practice editing, teamwork, and the communication skills necessary for future success. All students involved get a sense of pride and accomplishment from submitting the team project.”

This year, there were three winners, in Fiction, Nonfiction, and a new category, “Going Green.” Since I write for Scholastic, and the Fiction award winners are students at a school only a couple of towns away, I was invited to speak for ten minutes or so on the writing process. What an honor! Yes, yes, yes!

The Fiction winner this year is Little Prickles, about a friendly and generous young porcupine of the same name. It’s a charming tale written by Kate and Gavin Nelson (seventh graders at the Montessori Middle School in Wilton, Ct.) and illustrated with their cousin Layne Surhe (seventh grade, Lake Bluff Middle School, Lake Bluff, Ill.) It should be noted that Kate and Gavin were the Fiction grand prize winners in 2005, too. Scholastic’s paperback publication is as professionally produced as any paperback reprint of a standard hardcover picture book. The winners and their families must be proud to see their work in this professionally finished form.

The award ceremony was originally scheduled for this Sunday, but weather looks iffy around here, so it’s postponed for a few weeks. Of course, there are so many things one can say, wants to say, and should say to young writers, especially award-winning ones, that ten minutes, hours, or days are hardly long enough. But you trim down and come up with a few things you can stand behind. Here’s the basic shape of my remarks.

Ahem . . .

Gavin and Kate [Layne won’t be there, I’m told], we’re here today to honor your creativity, and one of the first things we admire about your winning this award is the simple fact that you have made something — spent time, used your craft and your imagination, and made something — when so many others your age or any age do not have such an urge.

Viewed this way, Little Prickles is part of the great American tradition of creation — to take what you have and to use it to make something new.

You are excited, justly, at winning this award. You should be. Among other things, it’s a national achievement and the result of significant competition. And all of us — family, friends, teachers, administrators, writers, and publishers — are excited, too, to honor what you have done.

I’d like to say that I’m excited for another reason, also, which is to know that you are at the beginning of lives of many years of creativity.

You’ve entered this contest a number of times, excelling in writing as children often excel in sports. Five years from now, ten years, thirty years, think of what you will be producing. I think about it. And it makes me happy. We need more good books in this world, if the world is to endure and survive, and it’s exciting to meet you at this very early stage of your careers.

I’ve been writing books for young readers for close to twenty years. If I may, I’d like to take this opportunity to look back and offer five little lessons to help you negotiate the writing life that I’m sure lies ahead of you. These are all based, I should say, on the main rule of writing — which is to respect the reader.

FIRST LESSON: And this is borne of a lifetime of knowledge: You will not always win an award. This is bitter, I know. I can’t tell you how many mornings I’ve woken up only to find that, yet again, I have not won an award. Not an honorable mention. Not a commendation. Not a notice. Not anything. Most writers feel this deep, deep pain on a daily, even hourly, basis. But this pain is good. Why? Because, when you have not won an award, you can still look up. You can hope. You can strive. You can journey. You can work. Your life is still a quest to the summit. When you live on top, there is only one way to go, and it’s not up. Learn to see your work in a continuum, and don’t judge yourself by the acclaim or the silence of others. Enjoy the acclaim, dismiss the silence, but walk your own road.

SECOND LESSON: Learn everything you can, do everything you can possibly do. Do not break the law, however. Know what it feels like to be in different situations, without doing anything inappropriate or risky. What am I talking about? Gardening, running, volunteering, washing dishes, getting lost, finding someone who is lost, painting a sunrise, doing everything from hitting a golf ball to learning a new language to playing a ukulele to being on stage, singing, dancing, acting, or dressed as a flower. Anything and everything is fair game. Give of yourself in ways you feel uncomfortable doing. Being comfortable is not for creative folks like you. Sorry. Put yourself out there. Be prepared to be embarrassed. For me, it comes easily. You may have to work at it. But there is nothing quite so valuable as understanding how the fear of embarrassment holds you back. Go right up to that person you like and say, “I like you.” Experience failure. It’s good for you. I do it every day. You don’t have to be loud or popular, you can do things quietly, but know what is around you. Why? Because the more you know, the more that your writing will be true, and it’s TRUTH that we look for in art. We don’t get truth very many places these days, so we’re relying on you.

THIRD LESSON: Once Upon a Time . . . there was a waterfall. The water fell and fell and fell and fell. The End. I think we all know what’s wrong with this story. So let’s tell it again. Once Upon a Time . . . there was a waterfall. The water fell and fell and fell . . . and a little girl in a tiny boat neared the edge of the waterfall way up there. What’s right with this story? The character. She brings us into the story. Readers get into every story because of a character. Why? Because she has a heart that beats just like ours do. Character, character, character. As widely as you see and experience the world in its activities, see and experience the world’s people as deeply. Listen to them. The music of their voices. What they say to whom and what they don’t say to anyone but themselves. Look inside yourself. If you are young, you may think you don’t know enough to see very much. Wrong. The seeds of a long life are there in its very first years. You see this all the time when adult writers go back to what happened to them as children and find truths they may not have found at the time. Understand yourself. Or, accept the confusion of being you. The more you can feel, the better your writing will be. Listen to people to learn what they are like, why they say what they say, what they think, how they think. The characters you create will be real, and real is true, and truth is what we need.

FOURTH LESSON: Learn from everyone who has gone before you. You’re not reinventing the book. Read everything you can lay your hands on. I can give you a list of my own publications, if you are interested. Seriously, I mean everything. Newspapers, magazines, books far too easy for you, books far too difficult for you. Why? Because in every book that has ever been written the author has solved some of the problems of writing, and writing is all about solving problems: how to start a book or a chapter that draws the reader in, how to juggle five characters at once, how to write a quiet scene that moves mountains, how to write an action scene that forces the reader to run breathlessly with the characters, how to make the reader laugh out loud, how to make the reader cry, how to end a chapter, how to end a book, how to foreshadow events to engage the reader in your mystery. Read as a reader, of course. But also read as a writer. You can learn how other writers used dialogue, narration, humor, and action to get their stories to work. Let them teach you.

FIFTH LESSON: Write all the time. What I find to be the hardest part of writing is trying to make the words on the page match the story that is taking shape in your head. That story, the unseen one, is so very lovely, its contours are perfect, its music is sublime, its effect is powerful, emotional, true. But what you write down is a clunky mess. A clinking, clanking, clattering collection of caliginous junk, to quote the Wizard of Oz. I have made a specialty of this. So, what do we do? We work. We write all the time, because the more we write, the less caliginous our words will be, the less clattering are our sentences, our paragraphs, our pages, our chapters. And, whether we win an award or not, whether we receive acclaim or silence, sometimes we manage to write something beautiful. Write all the time, because you will get better with each word you set down. And readers will come.

AND THE SIXTH OF MY FIVE LESSONS IS . . . humor. Maintain your sense of humor, even though you may not get the latest award. Humor makes your work human. I can’t do better than to remind you of what the great writer Groucho Marx once said on this subject.

“Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”

So, to recap: One, the road ahead may not be completely paved with awards, and that’s okay. Awards are lumpy. Two, the more you learn about how the world works, the more truthful your writing will be. Three, love people, the good, the bad, the ugly. They are your characters, they are your readers, and they are you. Four, read everything. Five, write all the time. Six, be truthful, respect the reader, but don’t forget to include a banana peel.

Finally, I’d like to leave you with the last lines of Stuart Little, which, to me, encapsulate everything we’ve talked about today.

“As he peered ahead into the great land that stretched before him, the way seemed long. But the sky was bright, and he somehow felt he was headed in the right direction.”

Congratulations, Kate and Gavin Nelson, on Little Prickles. Along with everyone here today, I know that you are absolutely headed in the right direction.

Thank you.

. . . is a term of power and sorrow, anger, dissolution, humor, and victory. Among other things, it is the title of Richard Wright’s novel about a man driven to violence by his realization that the world values power and that the single individual is “nothing.” This little essay is the first of an occasional series on the concept of the outsider.

As readers of her fiction and letters will know, Flannery O’Connor won the Rinehart-Iowa Fiction Award in 1947. She had been a student of the School of Writers at the University of Iowa, and her short stories, a few of which would become chapters in her novel, Wise Blood, were submitted by her teacher in the School, Paul Engle. The award included an advance of $750 against royalties if the publisher, Rinehart, in New York, accepted the finished novel.

Flannery came from the tiny town of Milledgeville, Georgia, but had made friends at Iowa and later at and through the writing colony of Yaddo in Saratoga Springs. Robert Penn Warren, Elizabeth Hardwick, Robert Lowell, Alfred Kazin, Philip Rahv, Engle; she was appreciated by writers and critics of the highest level, and this, before she was much published.

Things did not go well with Rinehart from the beginning:

January, 20, 1949, to her agent:

“Here are the first nine chapters of the novel, which please show John Selby [the editor at Rinehart] and let us be on with financial thoughts.”

February 17, 1949, the same:

“I received Selby’s letter today. . . . I presume [he] says either that Rinehart will not take the novel as it will be if left to my fiendish care (it will be essentially as it is), or that Rinehart would like to rescue it at this point and train it into a conventional novel.”

There is more, and writers of all stripes are urged to read about these first months of Flannery’s dealings with the publishing world, but this last line touches on what I mean by outsider. With the help of her agent, she is able to disentangle herself from Rinehart, move to Harcourt, from whom Wise Blood appears in 1952, and finally follow Robert Giroux to Farrar, her publisher until her death from lupus in 1964, at age 39.

There were undoubtedly miscommunications on both sides — when Flannery pulls away from Rinehart finally, she describes it to her old friend Engle thus:

“Selby and I came to the conclusion that I was ‘prematurely arrogant.’ I supplied him with the phrase.”

This also is important, the more so because the phrase was hers. Flannery learns she has lupus in 1950 and soon decides that she cannot live north any longer and returns to Milledgeville to live with her mother.

During her life, she published two novels, Wise Blood and The Violent Bear It Away, and a collection of stories, A Good Man is Hard to Find. After her death, a second collection of stories appeared, Everything That Rises Must Converge, a selected letters, The Habit of Being, and a miscellany of occasional prose, Mystery and Manners.

Finally, from a brave series of letters in her last weeks:

June 17, 1964, about her posthumous collection:

“I wrote Giroux and asked him to hold off the publication date of the stories until spring. In that way I thought I could probably manage another story.”

July 15:

“I have drug another out of myself and I enclose it. . . . I’m still in bed but I climb out of it into the typewriter about 2 hours every morning.”

July 21:

“I’m still puttering on my story that I thought I’d finished but not long at a time. I go across the room & I’m exhausted.”

July 28, her last letter before her death on August 3:

“Don’t know when I’ll send those stories. I’ve felt too bad to type them.”