According to educator Alan November, one of the three essential skills needed for workers to thrive in the 21st century is that they should be able to “process enormous amounts of information, sift through it and synthesize it into new work that has added value.” This skill is exactly what children’s nonfiction authors do and it got me thinking. When I write about science — something that is the subject of a gazillion books and articles — what do I bring to the party? In other words, why should anyone read my books when there are so many others on the same subjects? What is my “added value?” I think that this is a question that all authors of children’s nonfiction should think about. Here’s what I think I offer:
Accessibility to difficult concepts
My first writing assignment, a high school chemistry text book, had to “sound simple.” My task was to make concepts in chemistry accessible. The editor/publisher made me do three drafts of the first chapter before giving me a contract. So taking abstract concepts and making them relevant to the uninitiated reader was the first piece of added value to my work. I cannot write so that it sounds simple unless I have a deep grasp of a concept myself. My very solid educational background in the sciences is my foundation here.
Respect for the reader
Many authors of so-called “informational material” just write the facts and expect readers to do the work to figure it out for themselves. I truly honor my readers. I make the assumption that most of my readers are reading my books because they have a school assignment. They have no curiosity or real interest in the subject matter. So it is my job to grab their attention and keep them interested. As a result I pay a lot of attention to my lead sentences. Does it make them want to keep reading? I use playful language to engage them and have fought battles with editors over that because they are so steeped in the traditional (boring) way writers have discussed science in the past. Examples:
“Want to smell something rotten? Take a deep breath by a garbage can. If it’s rotten your nose knows.” (This is an out-of-print book on microbiology for thre third grade.)
“There are some natives of Australia who are famous for sleeping stark naked on frozen ground.” (This book, also out of print, is about going into very hostile environments.)
The formats of children’s books, which include art, put constraints on the length of the text. For an author, this means every word counts. I curate the information I include, often making ruthless decisions about what to omit. There is such a thing as “too much information” and there’s nothing quite like it to turn off a reader. I write for the uninitiated. If my book is the first one a child reads on science, then I have failed if it is also the last.
A different vantage point
Science has traditionally been presented to children by attempting to induce them to enter the world of science. They are told that science is fun. My books bring science into the world of children. I show them how to look at some aspect of their world as a scientist might so that they learn something new about something very familiar. A drop of water skating around on waxed paper gives insight into how water can make them wet. Standing with one’s back to the wall makes it impossible to pick up a ten dollar bill on the floor at their feet and there’s science to explain why. Changing the paradigm and bringing science into the world of children makes me think about what that world is. It keeps me in touch with the child I once was and as a result I speak “child.”
Playful language and an irreverent tone
I write the kind of book I would have loved when I was a kid. I have a sense of humor, a command of language, and they define my writer’s voice. I know how to wink at my reader verbally so that we see humor in the same kind of thing. An example: “How many different ways can you make sounds with your body without using your voice? Experiment and find out.” [in the illustration, a female character with the initials VC—obviously my alter ego—says in a speech bubble] “Remember, not all sounds are polite!” This is another example of speaking the language of the people I wish to lead.
Extensive research and new findings
Then there’s the research part. Every writer gets a rush when s/he discovers something pertinent to the work that is not widely known. When writing about colds, I found out that our noses are computers — that our nostrils take turns doing most of the breathing and you can tell which nostril is dominant by breathing on a mirror. The dominant nostril produces a larger circle of condensation. I knew kids would love knowing that! When researching our sense of taste, I discovered that spicy hot food actually stimulates pain receptors in the tongue (not taste receptors) and that you can “taste” hot peppers on your wrist.
I’ve been writing science activities for kids for so long that I’ve been dubbed the “Julia Child of kids’ hands-on science” because I seldom come across an activity I don’t already know. Even so, I do every experiment before I write it up to make sure that it works as well as possible. This leads to improvements in procedures and generates ideas for my own discoveries, like heating apples in Fantastik® as a test for sugars instead of using Benedict’s solution, a lab reagent.
Connecting the dots
Hands-on work is important to science but for almost all of my formal education there was little connection between what we did in the labs and what was presented in the lectures. I make it a point to integrate a hands-on activity whenever I can into the context of the subject I’m writing about. When I tell kindergartners, in I Face the Wind, that air is real “stuff” even if it is invisible, I give them an activity that proves it. They can’t see air but they can catch it by twirling around with an open plastic grocery bag and twisting it closed. Without the context of what they’re discovering the activity has little value or meaning. But in the context of proving something that is invisible is also very real, they are truly excited to engage in it. Thus, the simplest activity has import if presented in context as it illustrates a concept. On the other hand, there are many terrific science activities in books that don’t explain their significance. Extracting real DNA from onions is a relatively complicated process. When I give the procedure I connect it to the history and significance of this amazing molecule. A baking soda and vinegar “volcano” has relatively little added value by itself.
When I write a biography or talk about big ideas in science, I create a narrative using many of the techniques of fiction writers. Stories have an arc — a beginning, a middle and an end; they have well developed characters; they have dialog; suspense is generated by foreshadowing. For example, in my biography of Harry Houdini, I recreate in language (and with great photographs) how the relatively uneducated son of an immigrant Jewish rabbi became the first great international superstar; as well as an autodidact Renaissance man with high ethical standards despite knowing all the tricks of charlatans.
Writing is one profession that improves with age. Life experience, mastery of craft, self-knowledge, a sense of self, constant interaction with the world of ideas all feed the singular intellect of every writer. Even if we all wrote on the same subject, the works would be different and would have the added value that each singular intellect brings. If students read several works from different authors on the same subject, they would have a basis for critical evaluation (the sifting process) that will lead to the development of a singular intellect of their own — the goal of education.
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