Now and then I get asked to talk to about the need for diversity in young adult literature. These days, when the need for diverse books is being so prominently discussed, I have tried to understand why these talks are so hard for me. I have the sense when I show up that there’s nothing new I can say. Doesn’t everyone already know how vital is to for a young person to see him/herself in the books he/she reads? Isn’t it obvious how much we need all young persons to see how we are all the same deep down? Surely, everyone understands how empathy, how living in the mind and life of another, destroys racial and ethnic stereotypes. What more is there to say about the need for diverse books? So I talk about my birth in Mexico, my crossing to the United States when I was nine, my growing up in El Paso Texas, to explain why I naturally write about young Mexican-Americans. My characters are good role models, I think, despite (or because of) their human frailties. I’m sure their existence has helped kids, Latino and non-Latino, to understand themselves and others, but do I really have profess out loud that this is one of the reasons I write? Can I just say that I write about Latino kids because that’s what comes out? Ismael, Hector, Marcelo, Pancho, Vicky, they are just there, first as small seeds and then they grow slowly over the years in my mind and then they are born. I’m just the Stork here. I don’t create my characters. I simply deliver them. And sometimes, the characters that I deliver are white kids like D.Q. and Wendell and, I confess, I don’t do a lot of research about their culture to make sure I get them right.
These talks are so hard because there’s so much about what is being discussed that I don’t know. I’m just trying to write some stories. To a lot of the questions that I get at these talks I have to say, I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Why aren’t there more books about and by Persons of Color being published? I don’t know. The literary agents and the publishers and editors I personally know all love good diverse books and they go out of their way to find them. Some of them, as was (and is) the case with me, are willing to spend the effort and time needed to develop a book with potential into a good book. Is it a question of money, then, as so many seem to say? POC books don’t sell. I don’t know. My wife had a group of her Wellesley College students over to the house for lunch and I asked them: Do you think the Harry Potter books would have been less popular if Harry had been a Person of Color? The white students mostly said no, the Latino kids said yes. I don’t know. And if J.K.Rowling decided to re-publish her series but this time Harry’s parents were African, what else would she need to change besides Harry’s skin color? His speech? The way he thinks? Would he still be brave? So much of the diversity discussion is, ironically, divisive. Us. Them. You can’t possibly understand. Ironic because what good literature does best is unite by revealing glimpses of the soul that is the same in all. In the end, it comes down to you and me. What can I do? What can you do so there are more good diverse books written and read? That’s what I end up saying at my diversity talks. What I Francisco Stork can do is try to write good books, try to write books that will last, try to write books with the kind of characters that come naturally to me, that are in me waiting to be born, try to write books that speak to all. I can encourage kids of color to work seriously, patiently, at the craft of writing. I can, time permitting, help young writers with their manuscripts. And maybe, I’m not sure about this at all, but maybe, I need to keep on talking to groups, hard as it is, about the need for diverse books.
May 11, 2014
The Diversity Discussion
October 29, 2012
A Good Editor
-If you are lucky a good editor is an expert that you fully trust. If you are very lucky, a friend. If you are blessed beyond measure a soul-mate.
-Believes that grammar is a path to beauty. Is in love with sentences.
-Helps you say what you tried to say. Helps you discover the meaning of your work. Let’s you see your vision.
-Taps you on the shoulder and gently says, “Ah, remember the reader.”
-Sends you back to the drawing board for more goodness and more hope.
-Believes in you when you don’t. Waits for you until you do.
-Thinks she’s here (as on this earth) in part for you.
-Learns from you. Teaches you. Is inspired by you. Awakens you. Is deepened by you. Guides you.
-Does not accept good when there is better and won’t settle for better until it is your best.
-Diagrams your book so you don’t have to. Knows literary theory so you can be free to follow your gut.
-Articulates in actual words the vague sense you have that something is not right. Hears the little bells you decided to ignore. Surprises you with her delight.
-Knows there’s such a thing as too subtle and too obvious.
-Knows what others are writing and expects you to be different.
-Thinks you’re hot stuff, even if she’s smarter than you.
-Recognizes that it is not about you or her but about something greater.
July 21, 2012
David Foster Wallace on Good Writing
The miracle of reading is that now and then you run into an author who speaks for you, who articulates exactly what is in the depths of your heart. The following says about good writing what I would like to say.
“The last couple of years have been pretty arid for me good-work-wise, but the one way I’ve progressed I think is I’ve gotten convinced that there’s something timelessly vital and sacred about good writing. This thing doesn’t have that much to do with talent, even glittering talent like Daitch’s. Talent’s just an instrument. It’s like having a pen that works instead of one that doesn’t. I’m not saying I’m able to work consistently out of the premise, but it seems to me like the big distinction between good art and so-so art lies somewhere in the art’s heart’s purpose, the agenda of the consciousness behind the text. It’s got something to do with love. With having the discipline to talk out of the part of yourself that can love instead of the part that just wants to be loved. I know this doesn’t sound hip at all. I don’t know. But it seems like one of the things really great fiction-writers do – from Carver to Chekhov to Flannery O’Connor, or like the Tolstoy of “The Death of Ivan Ilych,” or the Pynchon of Gravity’s Rainbow – is give the reader something. The reader walks away from real art heavier than she came to it. Fuller. All the attention and engagement and work you need to get from the reader can’t be for your benefit; it’s got to be for hers. What’s poisonous about the cultural environment today is that it makes this so scary to try to carry out. Really good work probably comes out of a willingness to disclose yourself, open yourself up in spiritual and emotional ways that risk making you look banal or melodramatic or naive or unhip or sappy, and to ask the reader to feel something. To be willing to sort of die in order to move the reader, somehow.”
From: Conversations with David Foster Wallace – Larry McCaffery Interview, 1993.