Some books get you in their talons and won’t let go. You know a book has you in its grip when…

… you choose to make risotto for dinner because all that stirring will buy you reading time.

… you find yourself hauling your laundry bag, plastic tub, detergent, and sack of quarters all in one hand so you can hold your book with the other.

… you ignore texts and phone calls you actually should take because the pages are just too compelling.

I could have made up funnier, more extreme examples, but all three of these really happened the other day when I was reading Chris Crutcher’s Period 8. I have always been a Crutcher fan, but hadn’t read a book of his in a while. In fact, the last one may have been his HILARIOUS memoir of childhood, King of the Mild Frontier: An Ill-Advised Autobiography. So this new Chris Crutcher was a hot item staring out at me from my galley shelves, and I snapped it up — and then couldn’t stop. It’s got all the chewy goodness of a Crutcher teen athlete novel, ramped up with a mystery that unfolds in a most creepy way. Won’t say too much more about the plot because then you’ll feel you’ve read it, and that would be a big loss for your soup-stirring, laundry-sorting afternoon.

I’ve always loved how this author manages to tread teenage territory realistically, neither pretending teens don’t have and/or think about sex a lot, nor making it the raison d’être of the book. Well, hmm, that’s not entirely the case here, actually, since the suspenseful part of the plot rests on a certain kind of trafficking — which is clear from the first couple of pages. So don’t hand this to a 12-year-old. Still, Crutcher has such a fabulously even-handed, rational, realistic way of addressing issues that you want teens to read and talk about his books. He goes for ethics rather than morality, and he lets his characters make stupid choices, be honest about them, then work through the murkiness — with some help from friends and maybe even some trusted adults — to come out the other side.

I also love how “guy” his books are; I always feel like I’m hanging out with my male buddies when I read him — that specific mix of humor and heart, bravado and doubt. His characters are, for the most part, trying to be good (not goody-two-shoes) people — and to figure out what exactly that means. Which pretty much sums up being a teenager, if I remember accurately. There’s also a real adult in Period 8, a caring teacher who isn’t perfect but one every kid might dream of having: an easy-to-talk to grownup who will listen, isn’t quick to judge or freak out, has a sense of humor, who calls you on your stuff and gives you the straight response you need to hear, who’s involved with the kids he teaches without being too involved (or creepy, or needy).

Okay, so sure, maybe aspects of the plot and the bad guys and the action climax in Period 8 are a bit over the top, but isn’t that what we look for in an escape read? It’s popcorn, but popcorn as written by a thoughtful, funny soul.

When you’re done with Period 8 (Greenwillow) and are looking for similarly compulsive suspense reads, try Michael Northrup’s Gentlemen (Scholastic/Push) and Tim Wynne-Jones’s The Uninvited (Candlewick).

Readers, what are your telltale signs of being gripped by a terrific book?

This year marks my 20th BEA or so (I started going back in 1989, when I was a whippersnapper in publishing, the show was called “ABA,” and it was held in venues other than the Javits Center). Though this undeniably makes me a veteran show-goer, I still find myself accumulating tips on how to make the most of the biggest book gathering of the bookselling and publishing year, and how to suffer least while doing it.

Some things I tend to forget every single year, such as:

• Shoes that are perfectly comfortable for daily use at home will blister the heck out of my feet walking around the show floor and Manhattan. (This wasn’t an issue when I lived in NYC; I guess my feet and shoes were accustomed to all that concrete. But now I apparently have tender country toes that can’t withstand the hard surfaces.) WEAR COMFORTABLE SHOES. I cannot emphasize this enough.
• Bring business cards. Yes, this is a no-brainer — for everyone but me. Somehow, it’s always a scramble at the last minute to find and pack my cards — or get them printed at some Kinko’s in New York after I get there.
• Linen is not a travel-friendly fabric. I find it irresistible, especially in the New York heat, but then I end up looking like a crumpled tissue by midday.
• Pack light. And by this, I really mean, on the show floor. Nothing is worse than lugging 1500 lbs. of books and catalogs on one tilted shoulder all day long except not having enough time to chuck them at the hotel before your evening cocktail party. There are places to check bags, but the lines are maddening, so I try to avoid them.

Some things I do tend to remember every year:

• Set goals for your day. BEA is so big and so overwhelming that a little advance planning can go a long way. Figure out what you’re really using the show for: is it to see all the new fall books? make appointments with reps? meet authors and have books autographed? attend panels and seminars and book talks and discussions? place orders, taking advantage of show specials? discover new publishing houses? network with your peers? make new professional connections? (If you’re an aspiring author, read the special note below for more on this last.)
• Don’t be greedy. The show is expensive for publishers, and they spend enormous amounts on the ARCs and freebies they give away. Gathering books you intend to read and share is wonderful. But there is something about the show that seems to unleash a certain glazed-eyed grabby frenzy among otherwise civilized people, so try not to be one of them. Sorry this sounds kind of preachy, but it’s a huge turn-off when people are stealing booth copies of books or grabbing heaps of items they will likely ignore once they get home.
• There is a shipping center.
• Less is more. Trying to do and see everything will end up making one weep, at least if you’re me, so try to be as zen as possible about the BEA experience. If you come away with one fabulous new discovery or connection, that is a good show. Two or three, and it’s a great one.

Special note: BEA is NOT a good place for aspiring authors to pitch their works to publishers. For one thing, the folks at the booths usually are from the publicity and marketing, not the editorial departments, so they aren’t the folks who would be reading your manuscript anyway. For another, the people in the booths are working at full capacity; their agenda is to sell books, make rights deals, support and promote their authors, and connect with booksellers and librarians and other customers. So they may be polite but frazzled if you approach them for other reasons. BEA IS a great place to see what’s being published, and by whom, so you get an even more refined sense of what houses might be right for your work. It’s also a great place to meet book people of all stripes and soak in the giddifying magic of being around ALL THOSE BOOKS and people who love them!

Other veteran BEA-goers out there: what are YOUR best tips for newbies?

I’ve just spent 10 of the past 17 days in the company of children’s book writers and illustrators, first at the New England Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators conference in Massachusetts, and then at a writing retreat in Taos. Not long before those, I was at the Albany Children’s Book Festival. All three venues reaffirmed the conclusion I come to time and again: that we have the best field imaginable with the best people in it. This includes all of the people involved in and passionate about literature for young people: the writers and artists, editors and designers, marketers and reps, teachers, librarians, and booksellers who dedicate their professional (and usually personal) lives to it.

Many times, I’ve spoken with writers and artists who don’t work with children’s books but have friends who do, and they comment on how unusually supportive children’s book folks are of one another. One gallery owner told me that while children’s book illustrators attend openings, routinely compliment one another’s work, and buy each other’s art, that almost never happens with artists in the adult realm. Apparently, this lack of support is also noticeable at readings. “At a fiction reading,” one author told me, “you rarely see other authors in attendance, much less enthusiastically cheering one another on. The adult literary world is cattier and so much more jealous.” This is in stark contrast to book events for kids and teens, which routinely include picture book, MG, or YA writing colleagues there to cheer on friends and acquaintances.

The contrast puts me in mind of the “crab effect,” which came up in discussion in Taos last week. The “crab effect” refers to the phenomenon whereby crabs in a bucket will actively seek to pull back one of their own who nearly escapes. It seems like such a waste of time and energy, to make the world smaller by begrudging someone else’s success. It’s human (and, evidently, crab, too), of course, especially since a creative person’s lot is to fend off insecurities and doubt, but I think children’s book people are particularly good at being able to do this without needing to bring others down. How nourishing it is to be in a creative field where people actively help one another, sharing their expertise and opinions, their encouragement and wisdom, and leaven it all with plenty of humor to help each other get through the bad times.

A relative of mine once said the best thing my mother ever taught him was that love is not a pie, that one piece to someone does not mean there’s less to give to the next person. She taught him that love begets love, expanding to accommodate everyone in its circle. I feel that way about the children’s book world: there is room enough for everyone with talent, dedication, passion, and perseverance. I believe that a good story will find its home, and that every work of excellence lifts the entire field along with it. I feel lucky to work in a field where, by and large, rather than begrudging another writer or artist’s success, people in our field truly do celebrate each other’s work. Perhaps it’s because people who create art for children are — by trade! — almost necessarily sensitive to other points of view, to tender feelings, to the desire to be one’s best self. I suppose children’s book folks would like to live up to young people’s expectations and hopes of us, and it makes us all better human beings to strive to meet those hopes.

It’s not that there are no egos and petty insecurities among children’s book authors; of course there are. But those are much rarer than the deep and sincere appreciation most everyone in our field expresses for terrific books and their creators. Over and over again in these past two and a half weeks, I was reminded of this, in the generous workshops people gave at NESCBWI, in the camaraderie at the book festival, and in the deep connections made during a week’s writing, talking, sharing, and laughing.

So if you’re a children’s book person, pat yourself on the back and feeeeeel the love! And if you aren’t, you may want to consider switching fields.

Remember that lovely surprise ShelfTalker enjoyed recently when I posted about a customer sharing a special Richard Scarry book with his toddler and received a comment from the man’s son himself, artist Huck Scarry? In his comment, he asked for our address, and what arrived the other day from Austria was the happiest little piece of art, soon to grace the Flying Pig Bookstore’s walls. First, the envelope, which was almost as marvelous:

We are feeling very fortunate these days! What a lovely, lovely gift.

If you have a chance, try to track down some of Huck Scarry’s books. In addition to carrying on his father’s timeless work, Huck also has illustrated gorgeous sketchbooks of Tuscany and Venice, as well as intricately detailed tours of life on a fishing boat, travels in a hot-air balloon and a steam locomotive, and more. He’s such an accomplished watercolor and pen-and-ink artist!

Almost nothing delights us more than seeing how children’s book illustrators draw the flying pig. We have received some fabulous pigs through the years, and the aviator Mr. Frumble is a treasure.

It’s been a fabulous week! Enjoy your weekends, everyone.

Grinning ear to ear, your correspondent,
Elizabeth

I’m not sure if all booksellers do this, but I start planning my BEA (BookExpo America, the biggest annual industry event for publishers and booksellers) weeks in advance. It requires charts and folders, printouts of schedules of panels and signings and educational sessions and cocktail parties and lunches and dinners, and reams of backlist orders. It involves trying to find meeting times with PR folks and grabbing $8 Javits Center coffees with friends and colleagues in the teeny gaps of time left between all the other things. Oh, and then there’s the show floor, where thousands of fall titles will be on display. We need to spend some time there, too.

Usually, Josie and I divide and conquer at BEA, but she can’t make it this year, so I will be pulling double duty trying to schedule and absorb everything. BEA always inspires me, makes me want to read twice as fast, gets me revved up about books and bookselling no matter how challenging the climate in a rapidly changing industry. It’s an opportunity to see booksellers and author and illustrator pals from all over the country, and to meet new ones. It’s a chance to talk with knowledgeable, enthusiastic marketing folks at booths about the fall books they’re most excited about and plan author events at our store.

Things I’m excited about: the Association of Booksellers for Children hosts an annual silent auction of children’s book art. The generously donated pieces are glorious, and proceeds benefit the important work of the American Booksellers Foundation for Free Expression. This year, a rare Maurice Sendak piece is being auctioned off! You can preview all of the art here. The ABC, along with the Children’s Book Council, are sponsoring an author speed-dating session and author tea. The author breakfasts all sound fabulous, there’s a discussion between Kate DiCamillo and Cynthia Voigt I want to hear, and a “Picture Book Powerhouse” panel with Oliver Jeffers, Loren Long, John Bemelmans, Judy Schachner, and Jan Brett. Jon Scieszka, Brandon Mull, and Jack Gantos will be talking about writing for boys, and middle grade and YA editors will be presenting some of their favorite upcoming titles. My friend and esteemed bookselling colleague, Kenny Brechner, will be talking about the Common Core standards and how bookstores can work with schools to support them in thoughtful and fruitful ways. It’s a cornucopia, people!

As for the books themselves, for those of you who are planning to attend BEA, what ARCs are you excited to get your hands on? One of my staffers has already sent me her wish list. What’s on yours?

P.S. Back in 2008 when I was a wee guest blogger for ShelfTalker, I did a post from BEA about how swag-impaired I am. I bemoaned how some people can work the floor for two hours and reappear with rare loot, like jewel-encrusted totes or holographic ARCs or something, while I am the one limping around with blisters, developing a kyphotic hump from lugging around my bag of newly acquired catalogs that probably came in the mail back home. So this year I am determined to come home with one cool item. I am prepared to bribe for tips on likely booth numbers.

You know how life is full of loose ends that never get tied up? Well, the other day, I received the most incredible letter, one that tied up a loose end from almost a decade ago — tied it up not just with parcel string, but with the most glorious big red bow, and I wanted to share it with you all.

Some backstory: several years ago when I was an as-yet-unpublished MFA student, I wrote a picture book manuscript about a little girl who uses her nearsightedness to solve crime. It was called Iris Spectacle: Accidental Private Eye, and I had a deep, amused attachment to it. It skewed old for a picture book, especially these days, with 1500 words and a main character who was eight or nine years old. Still, the story had a certain something; it won a blind picture book manuscript competition that Candlewick Press (not yet my publisher) sponsored through Vermont College. But Iris didn’t sell; at the time, I just wasn’t able to either trim the story to make it younger and drop the crime-solving plot, or expand it into a chapter book. So she sat in a file.

A while later, a librarian on a children’s literature listserv I subscribe to put out a call for books about girls who love their glasses. I sent her a copy of Iris to share with her patron. I never heard whether or not the child liked the story. In fact, I suspected that perhaps Iris hadn’t resonated with the young reader and the librarian just hadn’t had the heart to tell me. Over the years, from time to time, I wondered about the little girl with glasses — the only child who had ever read Iris.

Fast forward almost a decade to the other day, when the most spectacular, funny, beautifully written email arrived in my inbox from that little girl, now seventeen years old. Here is what she wrote (reproduced with her permission):

Hello!

I’m not expecting you to remember me at all, so don’t worry if you don’t. I’d just like to start with that. Anyway. When I was eight I had already spent the previous six years of my life unable to see more than one foot away and even then not very clearly. With some great technology and fabulous doctors I was given these enormous larger-than-harry-potter glasses that barely fit on my face. And I could see, which you think would get me leaping for joy at figuring out the sky is blue, and that there actually is a sky, and all sorts of things. But I was terrified. The world was too big to fathom and I’d rather just make myself a small nook and stay there forever. And then I learned to read. Reading was perfect because I could be in a giant world at the palm of my hands. And I was happy, which I mean was more of a confidence booster to my parents who had this weirdo kid depressed about seeing.

(I’m getting to the part where you come in soon, just hold on.)

Soon I started to love my glasses and being able to see so much that I would not take them off at bedtime until my eyes were closed tight. But as I kept reading with my new-found vision I ran into a problem. There were great children’s books about girls and how great they were and there were great books about boys with glasses and how great glasses were, but nobody seemed to have combined the two. Being an avid fan of both girls and glasses I begged my parents to get me books about girls who had glasses AND loved them, like me. Of course, my parents are not literature experts and had nothing for me, so I enlisted the help of one extraordinary world-class children’s librarian Charlotte Rabbit.

(Okay now I’m getting to your part.)

Mrs. Rabbit found me what was about half a dozen published works that to be honest, eight year old me found really really REALLLLLY REALLLLY boring, as only eight year olds can. So then Mrs. Rabbit sends me something that most definitely isn’t a book. It’s a bunch of white paper clipped together. She told me the book hadn’t been published but I got to read it early. This being the coolest thing that had ever happened in my eight years (besides the whole being able to see thing, which had gotten kind of old at this point) I read Iris Spectacle: Accidental Private Eye about three times in a row. And I loved it. And I brought it to school and bragged about my connections in the literary world and basically felt invincible. Hopefully you remember the book but if not, you wrote it. Anyway finally I had written proof of how cool girls with glasses are. And also a good starting point for my two year detective/spy phase, but that is a whole other story.

Now it is almost ten years later and after some handy dandy googling, I found you and I had to email you to thank you. Even though I guess the story never got published, that’s the least important thing in my mind. Because even if I was teased for having four eyes or I couldn’t make friends because glasses made me look weird, I had that book to read when I got home and know that glasses were good and the world knew it, even if the third grade didn’t know it. Now I am a rather confident high school junior President of a slew of clubs including theatre, and the leadership team, and captain of my ski team. I am a confident actor and very happy in my weird glasses-wearing skin. And I owe a lot of that to you. You and Iris Spectacle were my first friends who didn’t mind the glasses and I can’t thank you enough for that.

Anyway now my long lame-o story is over and I really appreciate that you took the time to read this. And I hope you know that your book, published, unpublished, whatever — it made a difference in my life. Which is all you need to take away from this. If you don’t remember eight year old me or Mrs. Rabbit or that manuscript I stole, it doesn’t matter. This is just a simple thank you.

Thank you.

–Sylvia

Sylvia, when she was eight

********

(Now back to me, Elizabeth.)

Isn’t Sylvia fabulous? This is a kid with moxie, and a way with language. I fully expect to host her at an author signing at the bookstore some day. And if that happens, I will still be glowing from this gift of a letter.

I can’t tell you what it means to an author to hear that her story has helped a young reader in some small way. This is the privilege of writing for children — the joy of connecting with the best people on the planet, through stories and humor and our best attempt to share our hearts on the page.

Thank YOU, Sylvia, for taking the time, all these years later, to find and write to a stranger who once sent a bunch of white paper to a librarian and a little girl far away, and wondered about her. And thank you, Universe, for tying up one of your loose ends.

Every year, I like to resurrect at least a few favorite older books to recommend for summer reading.

The 21 Balloons by William Pène du Bois (Viking) is a perennial favorite because it includes a hot-air balloon wreck at sea, diamond mines, an exploding volcanic island, and best of all, scads of whimsical inventions in the houses of the secret civilization on Krakatoa, where the shipwrecked main character washes up.

Beds that rise through skylights so kids can sleep outdoor at night.

The author was also an incredible artist, and his depictions of inventions mesmerized my sister and me when we were kids. We were fascinated by the living room with chairs connected to overhead electrical grids so they could zoom around the room, and beds whose sheets could be wound to new freshness on a big roll (like old-fashioned cloth handtowels that used to be in public restrooms), and the clever balsa-wood items that replaced regular items too heavy for hot-air balloon travel. The book has a slow beginning, especially for 21st-century attention spans, so I let kids know that ahead of time, showing them some of the great illustrations, and reassure them that once the Professor gets up in his balloon, there’s clear sailing ahead — for the reader, at least.

I also have been on a roll recommending Elizabeth Enright’s Gone-Away Lake (HMH). It is a perfect summer story for grades 4-6. I read this book several times as a child, and although I still don’t remember much of the actual plot, what drew me to it time and again was the appeal of having a place of one’s own. Two cousins, a boy and a girl, are on summer vacation with family when they discover a little ring of old houses around a lake. No one lives there except two adorable little old people, who befriend Portia and Julian, and invite them to choose any house they like to explore and make into their own clubhouse. There’s something pleasingly, not frighteningly, haunting about this vanished summer lake, something out of time. Pretty much all you have to do to get a kid (at least a girl; I’m not sure I’ve handsold this one to boys, but will see what happens) interested in this book is to mention the hidden lake and the kids getting to choose a whole house of their own, and they’re in.

Finally, Rebecca Rupp’s absolutely charming Dragon of Lonely Island (Candlewick) is always, always a hit with kids ages 7-10. It combines everything you want in a summer story: adventure, humor, the sea, and of course dragons. Well, one glittering golden dragon with three heads, who is quite old and sleepy, but kind. It befriends the three children who discover its cave, drawing them in with riveting stories about past adventures from its 20,000 years of life. While the children get a taste of ancient China, at sea in 19th-century England, and a plane crash in early 20th-century America, they also realize that someone else has discovered Fafnyr’s den and wants to kidnap their dragon friend.

There are so many others I could write about: Edward Eager’s Magic or Not?, Anne Lindbergh’s Worry Week (Josie’s favorite summer book to recommend to ages 7-10), the more serious Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell, and on and on.

What backlist books about vacations, adventures, sand, sea, and sunshine put you and the kids you recommend to in a summer mood?

My Dearest Publishers, Editors, Jacket Designers, and Marketing Folks*:

We need to talk again about how you can make booksellers and librarians and — most importantly, your kid customers — extremely happy. Every week, we booksellers spend a lot of time with your series books: shelving them, tracking them down for customers, restocking them, and looking up the on-sale date of the next eagerly anticipated volume. All this serial contact means encountering certain frustrations again and again, and there are a few very simple things you folks can do to bring joy and delight to the land:

• Standardize your title/series treatment with Bowker, Ingram, Baker & Taylor, etc., so that when we fetch new titles into our systems, they don’t need editing. You would not believe how many variations of book and series title treatments we see. Titles might show up with or without the series name; if the series name is part of the title, sometimes it precedes, sometimes it follows, the individual book title. Sometimes the series title is abbreviated. Sometimes the numeral (e.g., Book 5) appears; sometimes it doesn’t. I’m not entirely certain that this is completely under publisher control; it’s possible those companies specify different preferences or make their own edits. But I suspect it’s more a case of lacking a single style sheet through the years. if that’s the case, then please, for the love of all things holy in publishing, standardize your in-house format for series. I cannot tell you how many hours I have spent editing our own series titles so our staff can find books quickly and easily. When a child says, “I need book 16 in the Magic Tree House series,” or “What’s book 9 in the 39 Clues?” or “What’s the next book after Scorpio Rising in Alex Rider?” etc., we want to answer them right away from our impeccable, easily searchable inventory records.

• List your series numbers on the spines! There is nothing easier you can do to help customers, booksellers, teachers, and librarians — and yet there are STILL holdouts. I cannot think of any positive reason to omit this very simple and helpful piece of information from a book’s spine. And please make it easy to read, as high contrast as good taste allows.

• Please list the entire series, in order, in a list in the front matter of the book. Parents spend a lot of time hunkered down in the fantasy section, flipping frantically through books trying to find the magical list of what’s in the series. (Obviously, those lists in the early volumes will be incomplete as each new volume comes down the pike, but they could conceivably be updated with subsequent printings.) Oh, and that antiquated convention of omitting the title of the book you’re holding in your hand from that front-matter list of the books in the series does not serve your readers. Include all the titles, and please do so in a way that makes it crystal clear what is the order of the series.

I think if the publishing folks who work on series titles spent a week (heck, even one afternoon!) working at a bookstore, you’d quickly understand the day in, day out, non-stop demand we have from customers, both kids and adults, needing series help.

Thanks for listening! Enjoy the gorgeous weather.

*Marketing folks — We know you’re not responsible for any lapses in series design efficacy, but you are included here in the hopes that you will use your prodigious influence to encourage change where needed!

E.L. Konigsburg had a glorious mind and she wasn’t afraid to use it. I was an advanced reader at a young age and drank in her smart, unusual books like refreshing, even necessary, water. She was brilliant, her characters were smart and/or interesting without being precious, and her stories carved out new territory time and again. Like Ursula Le Guin, Natalie Babbitt, Lloyd Alexander, Richard Peck, Katherine Paterson, Madeleine L’Engle, E.B. White, Kate DiCamillo, and a few other fine, unique writerly souls our nation has produced, Konigsburg’s work spoke to childhood fascinations and concerns, both subtle and plain, with a rare wit and a surprisingly supple creative genius.

Her books have woven a path throughout my life, as they have for so many readers. My first Konigsburg was Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth, and I read it several times, a little prickled/haunted by the shifting friendship dynamic in the book and the mysteriousness of Jennifer’s witchiness. It was a book unlike any I had read, and I loved it. From the Mixed-Up Files was next, and it knocked my ever-living socks off. I was a kid growing up in Arizona at the time, far, far away from the Metropolitan Museum, and yet I was Claudia. At some point later on, I discovered the beautiful (and less well known than it should be) The Second Mrs. Giaconda, a gentle speculation about the model for the Mona Lisa. I loved Konigsburg’s more obscure books, too; George and Up from Jericho Tel, and Father’s Arcane Daughter. I loved that she wrote about Jewish kids and families, something that was almost unheard of in books when I was growing up. As a school librarian, I taught a little medieval history to sixth graders through the fabulous A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver, and The View from Saturday still recalls our first year of bookselling at The Flying Pig; Ms. Konigsburg helped connect us to many a child (and teacher) that year. I can’t think of a five-year span in my life where I wasn’t moved or inspired by at least one of her books. She has wowed me for forty years; there aren’t many authors with that kind of longevity and a perpetually high bar, a quality that never wavers.

If you’re a fan, try to get your hands on a copy of TalkTalk: A Children’s Book Author Speaks to Grown-Ups (Atheneum, currently OP, I think). It’s a collection of nine brilliant, articulate speeches Konigsburg gave over the course of nearly four decades of writing. Her breadth of knowledge is so evident here; she was a wondrous light in children’s literature.

Somewhere in my own mixed-up files is a handwritten letter from Ms. Konigsburg in response to one I wrote her back in the early 1990s. I had intended to write to her for many years, but what finally spurred me to pick up my pen was not a literary epiphany, but the fact that Jell-O had finally created a flavor (I think it was cranberry) that one of her characters thought up in one of her books. I thought she might like to know, before I proceeded with the fan content about her writing in my letter, that she was also a crackerjack food innovator.

So many people and publications have written tributes about Elaine Konigsburg this week. For more personal anecdotes, my friend and colleague Sharon Levin posted a charming memory in her brand-new blog called Life, Literature, Laughter about E.L. Konigsburg’s kindness to her as a child. And the Horn Book posted this article, which also links to thoughts from Roger Sutton. Publishers Weekly’s informative obituary is here, Rocco Staino’s School Library Journal tribute is here, and the New York Times’ obituary is here.

I am sad that she is gone, and grateful that she left behind so much richness. To celebrate E.L. Konigsburg’s life, I am going to re-read at least one of her books this week. If anyone else is doing the same, which will you revisit, or set out to discover for the first time?

I couldn’t resist diving right into the ARC for Kate DiCamillo’s new novel, Flora & Ulysses: The Illuminated Adventures, even though it’s not coming out until September and I have stacks of ARCs from more recent months waiting to be read. This isn’t going to be a review of the book, yet; I’ll save that for closer to the pub date. However, even just a few pages in, it is clear that, once again, Kate DiCamillo proves herself to be one of those rare authors who write up to children, understanding that kids’ intelligence, curiosity, and ready sense of humor will be piqued by encountering a wide range of characters, experiences, and lively, rich language.

Nothing flattens a book more than the attitude that children shouldn’t encounter words they don’t already know — which, if you think about it, is a pretty silly cul-de-sac to drive down. Some years ago, when my younger nephew was five or six, I met the family for dinner at a restaurant. When I walked in the door, my little guy ran over, gave me a big hug, and said, “Auntie Boo, you look pulchritudinous this evening.” (Then he asked me if I knew what the word meant. That was pretty adorable, too.) He and his mom had been reading a Dick King-Smith chapter book, and my nephew had absorbed new vocabulary with delight.

I suspect it can be be hard to get words like “pulchritudinous” green-lit for the 6-8 crowd, and I understand there are some good reasons. Fancy language that draws attention to itself in a way that distracts from the story being told is a nuisance. But no one takes as much joy in delicious words as a child. When I travel to schools as a visiting author, one part of my presentation to elementary school kids is a slide of words I love, “catawampus,” “deliquescent,” “discombobulated,” and a couple dozen more. This is always a place where kids start reading the words aloud, rolling them around to see what they feel like.

Along with Kate DiCamillo, M.T. Anderson and Polly Horvath are contemporary American authors who don’t pull the plug on their vocabularies (or ideas) when writing for children.

Who else, dear Readers?