Nikki Loftin

Archive for December 2nd, 2009

No More Books About Toy Rabbits

Okay, children’s book writers out there, I’m giving you fair warning: If you’re planning to write about a stuffed toy that learns to love a child, you’re going to need to make it a bear, or an otter, or a hedgehog or something. My husband has declared a permanent moratorium on stuffed bunny books in our house. And, after wiping the tears last night from the faces of my children, myself, and (almost) one or two from Dave, I have agreed.  No more bunnies.

The Velveteen Rabbit has long been known as the go-to book for sick, evil kids who want to watch their parents cry. (You know what I’m talking about. You’ve seen their eyes when you get to those last chapters. They’re watching you try to hold it together, not paying a bit of attention to the story. Little sadists.) Anyway, last night I read the last seven chapters of Kate DiCamillo’s book, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane (the rabbit in question), to my kids. We’ve been reading a couple of chapters a night, a very Norman Rockwell-ish thing to do, if I say so myself. It was all going very well until the formerly beloved authoress, Ms. DiCamillo, who gave us that lovely little mouse Despereaux, and her new, gloriously magical The Magician’s Elephant — Winn Dixie for crying out loud! — turned on us… and killed off a precious little four-year old character, a wonderful, flaxen-haired girl (there’s illustrations, yanno) who loved the rabbit, and her brother, and Jesus, and apple pie, and ponies (you get the picture) so much. The little girl we all fell in love with, just a little. Until she died. Gone. Kaput. Dead as a wedge. Buried. Worm food.

The tears started then. I kept reading, thinking surely this must have a happier ending. Surely, Kate wouldn’t do this to us! My children kept sobbing, my six-year old asking “Why, Mommy” Why did she die? Can’t she come back alive?” — and I never wanted more than to race down to my computer and revise a book — and I kept reading to find the happy ending, realizing as the pages left to read grew fewer and fewer, down to three, two, one… that it was not coming.

And then — no I’m not going to tell you what happened — a small, joyful burst of “happy tears”at the end, but too little. Too late.

An hour and a half of crying, four lullabies, and a couple of stiff drinks later, we were all able to move past it. (Um, don’t worry, The drinks were for the grown-ups.)

Do I recommend this one? Sure. If you want to weep yourself senseless. Just don’t make it your bedtime read-aloud. The writing was, as usual, glorious, so beautiful that at times I wanted to re-read it just to hear the words again. (Sound of Nikki tamping down jealousy here.)

So, Kate is a master at her craft, but she’s really, really mean, too.

I hope someday I can be just as mean. Now, it’s back to my own manuscript,where no one dies (well, not yet), and my MC has just performed inadvertent CPR on a dying man who was choking on a fishing lure.