 The Write Reason for Research |
This Week's Headlines - 06/16/2010
Attention: WritersNewsWeekly is preparing a series on the impact childhood books have on their young readers. If you’re an author interested in being interviewed, or if you think you have a unique perspective on the topic, contact us at submissions@writersnewsweekly.com.
I've Been Tommy-Ed
About ten years ago, I won a Tommy Award for my book Desperation.
I remember how it made me feel to win the award because I had worked very hard on that book, had re-written it a hundred times, and truly believed in its cause.
I also remember being quite proud because I knew the namesake for the award, my friend through the years, uh…Tom, of course.
Now, I'm not going to say too much about Tom because he is a dignified man with a good sense of humor, and he isn’t very comfortable accepting too many accolades…but just know that if you were to win such an award, it would certainly be an honor.
By Carlotta G. Holton
The Help is a literary treat. It exemplifies regional writing at its finest. In setting her novel in the midst of the racial struggles of the 1960s civil rights movement, Stockett combines the craft of good storytelling with the message of human rights and dignity.
Variously told by several black maids from Jackson, Mississippi and Eugenia Skeeter Phelan, a young white college graduate and would-be writer, the tale shines light on the plight of blacks and their hopes for equality in a tumultuous time in American history. To protect their positions in society, the women decide to anonymously publish a book with a major New York publishing house.
Turn the light off and go to bed!
In our house, my father was the bedtime storyteller. My mother would make sure I had clean teeth and a scrubbed face, but it was my father who tucked me in and read me stories. When I was a very little girl, we read Bear and the Big Ripe Strawberry, Goodnight Moon, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, and many other classic children’s books. When I got a little older, we moved on to the poetry of Shel Silverstein and Jack Prelutzky and read and reread so many of the poems that I soon knew many by heart. These poetry books were hard to put down—there was no “The End” to signal it was time for bed, just pages of fun, humorous reading. Each night, my father would tuck me in and sit beside me, reading me countless poems.
