I started.
I didn’t intend to write a
book with layered text. To be honest, I’m not even sure I’d heard the term when
I started writing. But the pattern of short phrases followed by longer sections
of prose on the same page emerged, so I went with it. It’s just what worked.
I explored.
I had already waded deep
into my project—my curiosity about horseshoe crabs led to internet searches,
piles of books and articles, phone interviews, and horseshoe crab tagging.
Then, on a research trip to help band migrating shorebirds, I wandered down to
the beach before dawn. I thought I’d be lucky to find a few clusters of
horseshoe crabs. But as my eyes adjusted, I discovered a swath of thousands of these
animals clambering in the waves as far down the shore as I could see.
Knowing about the annual
horseshoe crab spawning event and standing in the water as moonlight reflected
off each point and curve of their convoluted shells were two entirely different
things. Alone that morning, I knew I had to find a way to share this moment. But
how could I capture on paper the jumble of energy, facts, and observations that
were in my head?
I wondered.
I started by asking myself a
lot of questions, and I made a lot of lists. What was it, at the most basic
level, that I wanted to share? Which details mattered most? I was dedicated to
creating a nonfiction book, but as much as I love all the incredible
information—and truly, the facts are fascinating! —it was ultimately the
feeling of awe, the wonder and amazement, that I was trying to communicate.
I structured.
When I distilled my lists
and thoughts down to the basics, I ended up with…another list. But now it was a
list with shape, a mini-symphony of horseshoe crabs, birds, and people braiding
in and out. It built, it crescendoed, it receded—kind of like the annual
spawning cycle itself. I’m always a little uneasy until I find my structure, that
unsung hero that holds a project together. Now I had it—short, repetitious
bursts of words that linked the various parts together and felt sturdy enough
to hold what I wanted to say.
I layered.
With each bit of text, I
could easily recall my pre-dawn walk, the way tiny shore birds peeped and
skittered along the water’s edge, and all the other experiences I’d had. But for
that kid in Kansas or Chicago who had never seen wild horseshoe crabs, I wanted
more. So, I added sentences full of observations, facts, and sensory moments to
develop the feeling of excitement and make the drama of the event clearer.
I envisioned.
Picture books have another
layer, too: illustrations. As an artist, I pay close attention to how images bring
a book to life and create a deep connection with the reader. In this case, I
knew that for many children, just going outside, let alone staring down a
bizarre, prehistoric-looking creature, might be overwhelming.
Before I ever sent the manuscript
to an editor, I used a draft of my text to make a book dummy, and then sketched
out some illustrations myself. From that process emerged the idea of having a
guide—in this case, a child to follow through the pages.
Thankfully, my fantastic editor
and illustrator were both open to my idea. (This is not a given, and I was very
thankful for their openness to my suggestions!) In the final illustrations, we
see friendly, inviting faces that amplify the feeling of the moment and put the
reader at ease. Hey, I hope the reader thinks, if that kid can be out
there, face-to-face with a horseshoe crab, I could be too.
I recommended.
Tempted to try layered text
for your project? There are lots of benefits. Young children, impatient listeners,
and parents with only a brief time to read can focus on the short top layer,
and enjoy the images. Other readers can dig deeper into the main text (and the
back matter—yet another layer), depending on time and interest. Repetition in
the top layer provides an opportunity to consider how the same phrase can change
meaning depending on the expanded text below it, and it allows readers to enjoy
success with recognizing familiar words and sounds.
For examples, mentor texts,
and more thoughts on this subject, check out the resources listed below.
It’s over…until I start
again.
I’m happy with how the
layered text worked for this project. But who knows what structure will emerge next
time! For any project, I look forward to the moment when I’m finally able to
relinquish control and let whatever it is I have to say take over. It’s a
little scary, a little exhilarating, and—despite the layers of challenges in
this sort of creative work—it’s the thrill that keeps me coming back for
more.
Mentor Texts:
- Homes in the Wild by Lita Judge
- A Nest is Noisy by Dianna Hutts Aston and Sylvia Long
- Feathers: Not Just for Flying by Melissa Stewart
- Pink is for Blobfish by Jess Keating
- Melissa Stewart’s post and recommendations
- Wendy Hinote Lanier’s post
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lisa Kahn Schnell writes,
draws, and shares the stories of the strange and wonderful creatures she
encounters wherever she is—from Alaska to Ghana to her current home in
Pennsylvania. High Tide for Horseshoe Crabs, a celebration of one of the
animals Lisa has fallen in love with, was an AAAS/Subaru SB&F Excellence in Science Writing Prize
Finalist,
an Outstanding Science Trade Book, a
Cook Prize Honor book, and one of Bank Street College of Education’s Best
Children's Books of the Year (Outstanding Merit). Visit
Lisa at lisakschnell.com and follow her @lisakschnell
ABOUT THE PRIZE
Lisa will be giving away one
picture book critique.
Leave one comment below about what struck you in the post.
You’re eligible to win if you’re a registered NF Fest participant and you have contributed one comment below.
Leave one comment below about what struck you in the post.
You’re eligible to win if you’re a registered NF Fest participant and you have contributed one comment below.
