DOES ANYBODY KNOW HOW TO DO THIS?


In case you haven’t figured this out already, Diana Lutz is the editor of Muse magazine. Here is a picture she drew of herself at work. Either she has a very strange office chair or she can’t draw. But the dark cloud is true to life.

by Diana Lutz

Editing a children’s nonfiction magazine is hard. It’s probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I don’t think anyone really knows how to do it. Children’s fiction remains far more vibrant than children’s nonfiction. The best writers write for adult magazines, not children’s magazines. Children’s magazines cover the same topics again and again (some actually recycle copy after a year), and many interesting topics are never broached. Little of what is published has anything to do with the practice of science. Most of the competition is either out of date or so driven by school curriculum it is irrelevant to a magazine meant to please readers.

Trying to reinvent children’s nonfiction writing in the face of short staffing, underfunding, and writer resistance is no fun. But the kids are fun. The kids make it worth it. They’re tough critics and easily bored. But they’re also very generous, and they love, love, love our magazine. The idea that we might save them from the blank indifference to science and technology that pervades adult culture keeps me going.

I never expected to edit a children’s nonfiction magazine. It happened by accident. Nine years ago, I wrote an essay for the Horn Book complaining that children’s nonfiction was uninspired and secondhand. The writers didn’t appear to be interested in their own topics and they never seemed to speak to scientists who were. To my surprise, the essay led to a job offer. Would I edit Muse, a children’s nonfiction magazine published by the Cricket Magazine Group and Smithsonian Magazine? Under the circumstances, I could hardly say no.

But saying yes put me in the comical position of trying to do myself all the grand things I had so cavalierly told other people they ought to be doing. Seven years later, I am still struggling to come up to my own standards, much less anyone else’s. I’m a much better children’s editor than I used to be. But I still make ghastly mistakes, publish issues I can’t look at, and periodically lose all faith in my own judgment.

 

The kids make it worth it. They’re tough critics and easily bored. But they’re also very generous

 

One problem is that there are few good models to follow. At least, I haven’t found many. Each year I look at the best picks selected by the Children’s Cooperative Book Center, a research library at the nearby University of Wisconsin. And twice a year I trawl the lists of new children’s books in the spring and fall special issues of Publisher’s Weekly. So I have some idea what is being published.

I want new books to be good—for all sorts of reasons. I prefer to review books I like. And I’m always looking for potential reprints. But mostly I just want someone to show me new ways of talking to kids about science. Something that will ease the creative strain on my tired brain.

There are always a few good books, but most are disappointing. The problem that scares me most is that many of the books are boring. They lay out threadbare stories in flat expository prose illustrated with muddy snapshots.

Why is this happening? Part of the problem is the old attitude that science can stand on its own: it is intrinsically interesting and the job of the writer is to present it clearly, not to present it stylishly. Looking back at my career as a writer and editor, I realize I too was often undemanding. Because I found science interesting, I thought the reader would find it interesting, too. Of course this works only with the 10 percent of the American public who already have an interest in science. But it took me forever to realize that.

This problem is exacerbated in the children’s market by the pernicious influence of the informational book. Informational books are trade books bought by school libraries and used for homework assignments. They are written to please teachers, not kids. Nobody but a library would buy one, because once the report on the green turtle or the Anasazi people is finished, no one would ever want to read it again.

These books are of no help to me. I edit a magazine that goes into the home, not into the school. The kids read it only if they feel like it, and the parents renew only if the kids insist. Many of our readers are not committed to science; they’re checking to see if it is as boring in real life as it is in school. Yes, they’re open-hearted, open-minded, funny, bright, and curious; but they’re also undisciplined, easily bored, and impatient.

Fortunately, they have no guile. They tell me flat out when a story is boring, and this lets me learn what I’m doing wrong. I’m also lucky enough to have a contributing editor, Karen Hopkin, who keeps me up to the mark. She insists on asking why the reader should care. That can be a painful question, since an honest answer often means another revision. But asking it makes the magazine much better than it would otherwise be.

Because I’m trying to do things differently, I can’t draw on an existing pool of writers. When I first started, I commissioned many articles from “children’s writers.” I quit doing it after a few years. Often these writers seemed to think their job was to rephrase in language more suitable for children work that had been published elsewhere. Apparently, that’s what other editors wanted them to do. The giveaway was the lack of quotes, even when I had specified the article should include them. A recycled story is a boring story, and I gave up.

These days we get writers mostly by poaching from adult science magazines, such as Discover, Science, or New Scientist. This strategy works better, because the science is fresher and the authors can get a quote. But it has its own problems. We don’t pay that well, and we make the authors jump through as many hoops as other magazines—sometimes more. We make them think about the topic and whether it would interest kids as well as adults. We make them think about the art, because art takes up half the space in our magazine. And we make them think about background information. They have to explain material normally taught in introductory science courses, but they can’t be boring. It can get very sticky.

Many people think the hardest part of writing for children is hitting the right level. I’d say it’s much harder to select a good topic. Check out the children’s non-fiction section in Borders or Barnes and Noble. The bookstores are full of what are considered sure-fire kid pleasers: trucks, dinosaurs, the rain forest, grossology. In my experience many of these topics don’t actually play well with kids. Dinosaurs, for example: our kids have asked that we not run any more articles about them. The rainforest and environmentalism, in general: too much bad faith writing for children on that topic and they’re smart enough to know it. Grossology (boogers and farts): same deal. For the most part, you can’t find the breaking news, the stuff that really interests adults, in the children’s section. I don’t know why. Perhaps it is considered too ephemeral to make money.


GRARHIC OF GROSS UNIVERSE: ©2004 MAPLE TREE, INC., TORONTO

For a while I thought the answer to the topic problem was to commission a child’s version of the standard Discover article: send a reporter to accompany a scientist on his descent into a volcano or on his ramblings in Patagonia. Houghton Mifflin started a series of children’s books like this called Scientists in the Field. But the longer it went on, the less I liked it. For a report from the field to work, your writer has to be good, your scientist has to be outspoken, and something has to happen in the field. But the books in Scientists in the Field are like weak Discover articles in hard covers. Again, I’m not sure what the problem is, although I suspect Discover edits more deeply than Houghton Mifflin.

So what does work? There is no formula. I prefer quirky one-off books that were selected by an intelligent editor at Atheneum, Harper Collins, or Candlewick. There aren’t many of them, but at least they’re books I want to buy and to keep:

The Man Who Made Time Travel by Kathyrn Lasky
Shipwreck at the Bottom of the World by Jennifer Armstrong
Six Days in October by Karen Blumenthal
An American Plague by Jim Murphy
A Drop of Water by Walter Wick
And anything by Larry Gonick, Rhoda Blumberg, Susan Quinlin, or Jay Ingram

Level, it turns out, is actually the easiest part of writing for children. If the children are young, you have to worry about the number of syllables per word and the number of words per sentence. But for Muse the problem lies at a much higher rhetorical level. Our kids are good readers, but they need more background information than adults would. This means some topics are unsuitable for us because the writing would be weighed down by background information. The kids also don’t do well with long arguments (although they can handle long narratives). Delayed payoffs are bad, as are qualifications and complications. I try to give articles a simple, linear structure or chunk them into units that are complete in themselves.

The thing, is reading habits are changing. I think most of our readers are smarter than I am, but they’re not all that smart about print conventions. They read books, but not like I did. Instead, they go online and launch stuff off the bored.com meta-site while they instant message their friends and update their live journals. They’re multitasking, certainly, but I’m not at all certain they’re synthesizing. Beyond that I have no idea what they’re doing. They’ve clearly crossed an Einstein-Rosen bridge to an alternative universe leaving me waving forlornly goodby and godspeed. I just hope we managed to convince them science is interesting before they got too old for Muse.

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Why should I care?

Muse contributing editor Karen Hopkin’s standard article critique, with identifying information removed to protect the innocent:

I guess I have the same problem with this as I do with so many of the physical science pieces we get: Why should I care? What difference does it make to me what [substitute topic of your choice] is like?

To be generous, I think that you don’t need to demonstrate that the [substitute topic of your choice] has anything to do with our day-to-day lives. But I think that you do need to suggest why scientists are keen to study this. Aside from “it’s there to be studied.” Would there be ramifications if [substitute alternative reality of your choice]? Does any of this explain how [topic of choice] was made…or any of its special properties…or any phenomenon with which readers might be familiar?