My newest book, Son (Houghton, 2012), which creates a quartet from what had been The Giver (Houghton, 1993) trilogy, began as the continuation of Gabe’s story from those books. So many readers, over the years, had written to ask what happened to the baby? Was he okay? Did he grow up and thrive?Guest Blogger: Lois Lowry
My newest book, Son (Houghton, 2012), which creates a quartet from what had been The Giver (Houghton, 1993) trilogy, began as the continuation of Gabe’s story from those books. So many readers, over the years, had written to ask what happened to the baby? Was he okay? Did he grow up and thrive?
After completing my book The Race to Save the Lord God Bird (Farrar, 2004), I wanted to write about another animal in danger of extinction, but one for which there was more hope. My friend Charles Duncan, an ornithologist and conservationist, suggested several creatures, but none seemed the perfect choice.
Poetry forces me to be brief. All the facts and figures won’t fit in my verses, so I choose only those details that are most meaningful to me. My hope is that the uncrowded page will invite both reluctant and passionate readers.
As a YA author, I’ve written from the perspective of a guardian angel, a were-opossum, and even a pesky human or two. But the “character” who was hardest to connect with was my own teen self.
A new book or project always starts with an idea. My participation in I.C. Springman’s More (Houghton, 2012) actually began in 1995 with an idea I had for a story about a crow that collects too much stuff, builds multiple nests in a tree, and ultimately feels worn down by the sheer number of objects he has to curate. But the tale was way too long and hopelessly preachy. I don’t like message-forward books, and although I had a suite of sketches I was eager to turn into finished paintings, I never got around to submitting them. Over the years I went back, searching for a better way to tell the story, but I couldn’t find a way in.
First: If anyone tells you that writing is easy, you have my permission to remind him or her that if writing were that easy, everyone would be doing it. What I do (almost) every day is play with words. I love it, couldn’t live without it. But the “playing” part is a bit of a misnomer. Wordplay demands a comfortable chair, lots of coffee, and seven carts of patience pulled by tireless oxen.