A/C : Chicago Arts & Culture - Art

In Conversation: Rebecca Stead And Wendy Mass

Rebecca Stead is the author of middle grade novels including When You Reach Me, Liar & Spy, and The List of Things That Will Not Change. Her books have been awarded the Newbery Medal, the Boston Globe/Horn Book Award for Fiction, and the Guardian Children's Fiction Prize. Wendy Mass is the author of the Willow Falls and Candymakers series and 30 more novels. Her debut novel, A Mango-Shaped Space, won the Schneider Family Book Award, and her latest is Lo and Behold. Stead and Mass combined creative forces for their 2018 middle grade novel Bob, and this August they're back with The Lost Library, a fantasy-tinged mystery. We asked the duo to discuss their new collaboration, finding inspiration during the pandemic, and the magic of Little Free Libraries.

Wendy Mass: Howdy, partner! I can't believe the Lost Library is soon going to be found by people other than us! I remember the day so clearly when I was walking my dog and got your phone call with the first suggestion of working on something post-Bob. It was such a nice surprise in the midst of the chaos of that time—something to look forward to when everything was so uncertain.

Rebecca Stead: It truly is hard to believe that the summer of The Lost Library is here at last. And yes, we started this adventure in late 2020. Writing always means time working alone, but that year was obviously a special challenge. I remember longing to work on something playful, something that would be an escape for our readers—and also an escape for me, I think.

Mass: It was also nice that we both had the same idea of the kind of story we wanted to tell—about the love of books and reading, and an obsession with libraries (little and big!). Then came experimenting with different genres and story structure and a more "storytelling" tone than either of us had before. And we were united with one goal: to write it very differently than the seven-year unplanned journey that was Bob!

Stead: Absolutely. I embraced the "Wendy way"… planning! Thinking about story and structure ahead of time, instead of groping along in the dark the way I usually do.

And we had a lot of fun (actual fun, I think), talking about genre-bending. Or maybe we should call it genre-collecting? We knew from the start that we wanted to write a mystery. With ghosts. Told (partly) by a cat. But it's also a story about real life.

Mass: Yes, and real kids.

Stead: I think there are at least four mysteries solved by the end.

Mass: At least! There were many threads to weave during many socially distant walks (made easy by being in different states!), brainstorming and what if-ing until we had a pretty good picture of the various plotlines, all centering around a handmade Little Free Library that went up overnight in a small town. As fellow orange-cat lovers, we knew Mortimer (the self-appointed keeper and protector of the LFL who is very old, hence his name "More-Timer") would be fun to write—part curmudgeon, part sensitive loner, very aware of his fluffy cuteness. Like all the other characters, he grew a lot by the end.

Stead: Absolutely. The cat grows. Even some of the adults grow, in this one. Although, our fifth-grader Evan is worried about some of the growth ahead. He's graduating from elementary school, but he kind of wishes he could stay. Which is pretty much how I felt at his age. Were you excited to go to middle school?

Mass: Yes, K–6 in one building was a long time. And middle school meant I would walk to school instead of taking the bus, and that made me feel Very Grown Up.

Stead: Do you want to say a little about the Little Free Libraries in your life? I feel like those were part of the inspiration for you.

Mass: Our first (of many!) Little Free Library discoveries was on a cross-country family road trip during that awesome Every Kid Outdoors presidential initiative. Our daughter had just lost one of the Percy Jackson books—or finished it and ached for the next, the details are fuzzy—but the gist is that at our first sighting of one of these magical little boxes on the side of the road, the exact book she needed was there, just waiting for her. For her bat mitzvah a few years later she built, stocked, and became the steward of her own LFL.

Stead: Opening one and seeing the very book you need feels slightly magical. One of my favorite things about The Lost Library is the way the town responds to the Little Free Library's sudden appearance, slowly surrounding it with extra bins and a wagon full of books. There's a suitcase of poetry and an umbrella to protect everything. I remember getting a happy chill when that part was coming together, imagining a town hungry for books, and hungry to share the books they already love.

Of course, this is a town that has been without a real library for a long time… and Evan has to figure out why. Not even the ghosts know what happened.

Mass: The cat knows, but the cat can't tell him.

Stead: I think that's mystery number four. Or five.

Mass: 😂😂

The Lost Library by Rebecca Stead and Wendy Mass. Feiwel and Friends, $17.99 Aug. 29 ISBN 978-1-250838-81-0

Booksellers Sue Over Texas Law Requiring Them To Rate Books For Appropriateness

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A coalition of Texas bookstores and national bookseller associations filed suit on Tuesday over House Bill 900, which aims to ban sexually explicit material from school libraries.

HB 900 passed in the Legislature and was signed by Gov. Greg Abbott earlier this year. It is set to go into effect on Sept. 1 and requires book vendors to assign ratings to books based on the presence of depictions or references to sex. In school libraries, books with a "sexually explicit" rating will be removed from bookshelves. And students who want to check out school library books deemed "sexually relevant" would have to get parental permission first.

Plaintiffs in the suit include two Texas bookstores, Austin's BookPeople and West Houston's Blue Willow Bookshop, as well as the American Booksellers Association, the Association of American Publishers, the Authors Guild and the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund.

They are suing defendants Martha Wong, chair of the Texas State Library and Archives Commission; Keven Ellis, chair of the Texas State Board of Education; and Mike Morath, commissioner of the Texas Education Agency.

According to the official complaint, which was filed in an Austin federal court, the plaintiffs argue that HB 900 violates the First and 14th amendments by regulating speech with "vague and overbroad" terms and targeting protected speech.

They go on to argue that HB 900 forces the plaintiffs to comply with the government's views, even if they do not agree, and that the law operates as prior restraint — which is government action that prohibits speech or other expression before the speech happens.

"The book ban establishes an unconstitutional regime of compelled speech, retaliation, and licensing that violates clear First Amendment precedent and this country's history of fostering a robust marketplace of ideas," the complaint says.

The CEOs of both bookstores say it is not possible for them to comply with the rating system required of book vendors in HB 900. The sheer volume of titles they would need to rate is too much, Charley Rejsek, CEO of BookPeople, said in a statement.

In a joint statement by the three bookseller associations, they said they are not questioning that content for students should be age-appropriate, but rather that they believe HB 900 does not accomplish such a goal.

"It robs parents, schools and teachers from across the state of Texas of the right to make decisions for their respective communities and classrooms, instead handing that role to a state entity and private businesses," the statement says.

The complaint emphasizes how the plaintiffs believe HB 900 will "shatter" small bookstores in Texas, placing "additional economic pressure" on them.

Supporters of HB 900, like Cindi Castilla, president of conservative think tank Texas Eagle Forum, characterized the proposal as a child protection bill. In a Senate education committee hearing in May, Castilla said explicit materials in books are educationally unsuitable for students and that taxpayers should not fund such books.

"Our schools must not sexualize our students or provide them pornographic reading material or introduce them to inappropriate materials that distract from the educational goals we've set as a state," she said.

Lawmakers like state Sen. Angela Paxton, R-McKinney agreed, arguing that HB 900 is a "tool" to be used by communities to address "harmful sexually explicit material."

Opponents of HB 900 have been worried that by targeting so-called "sexually explicit material" lawmakers will be specifically targeting books that explore LGBTQ+ themes, including books such as "Calvin" and "Being Jazz." Bill author Rep. Jared Patterson, R-Frisco, also condemned the book "Gender Queer," a graphic novel that traces the author's experiences with gender growing up.

Many librarians and booksellers, including representatives from the Texas Library Association and individual libraries across the state, testified to the House and Senate in May that the bill will slow down book sales and acquisition of books by school libraries.

"Such oversight has not been needed in the past and is not needed now," said Mark Smith, the former director of the Texas State Library and Archives Commission. "The bill will interfere with student learning and achievement by blocking access to materials that have been restricted."

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I've Lugged My Books Through Nine Moves — I Can't Leave Them Behind

Commentary "Libraries were our cathedrals and books our most revered companions," writes Anne Gardner. (Getty Images)

I'm in the midst of a terrible breakup. With my bookshelves.

Over the past 15 years, I have moved nine times. Nearly all of these transitions were made at the request of my employer, which meant someone else bore the brunt of the financial cost. But the toll of such frequent change cannot be reduced to mere dollars and cents. All this physical upheaval has landed me in a vat of emotional quicksand.

At every stage of this novenary process, I have assessed each of my possessions in an effort to discern their enduring value, sentimental or otherwise. And therein lies the rub. If moving meant simply throwing lock, stock and barrel into a box and carting it to a new location, that would be one thing. But for me, the heavy lifting occurs long before I ever reach for the packing tape.

This is never more apparent than when staring down the endless rows of books that litter my home. I blame my mother for my obsession with the written word, a passion that borders on religious fanaticism. Her love of reading was imprinted in her DNA and thus in mine. Libraries were our cathedrals and books our most revered companions.

As move number 10 quickly approaches I am, once again, tasked with separating my literary wheat from the chaff.

Libraries were our cathedrals and books our most revered companions.

I began this most recent process of discernment with the worn volumes of my youth. First up, the copy of "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" my mother used to read to my brother and me while we waited for the Howard Johnsons' waitresses to serve our grilled cheese sandwiches. We made this pilgrimage nearly every Friday night, saving my Catholic mother from preparing an endless parade of tuna casseroles. I would slide into the gaudy orange booths knowing I was in for a treat, the fantastical story of a place filled with candy.

Next on the shelf was a copy of "The Little Prince," adorned with such striking illustrations I never grew tired of its pages. Tales of the mischievous "Eloise" followed, the reason behind my lifelong fascination with New York City, and of course, a slew of Nancy Drew hardcovers whose battered yellow spines stand at attention like toy soldiers. Nancy was my first girl crush. She was smart and seemingly unafraid of the many adventures that came her way. I often read of her escapades by flashlight in an attempt to mimic her detective vibe. This section was my holy grail. Dispensing of any of these was unthinkable.

Then came the classics. For decades I have toted around various tomes, some of which I have read, others which have remained stubbornly in the queue. Tolstoy's "War and Peace" lives among the neglected, along with a compendium of Shakespeare's plays. I also have books I consider contemporary classics, including "Beloved" by Toni Morrison and the often-maligned "Catcher in the Rye." But the golden nugget of this collection remains Daphne du Maurier's "Rebecca." Although written in 1938, its contemporary flavor has returned now that the term "gaslighting" has become part of our everyday lexicon.

Many who know me would be surprised by the bevy of Southern writers whose work sits atop my shelves. Margaret Mitchell's epic "Gone with the Wind" was my first dalliance in this genre. Then came countless evenings turning the pages of William Faulkner and Flannery O'Connor, prose filled with the smell of magnolia and steamy air. I love my ghostly collection of photographs by Eudora Welty titled "Country Churchyards," along with a stack of offerings by Pat Conroy. His poignant musings captured in "My Reading Life" are a love letter to book lovers everywhere, including me.

Then came countless evenings turning the pages of William Faulkner and Flannery O'Connor, prose filled with the smell of magnolia and steamy air.

But my biggest soft spot is reserved for those who write of the titans of history, particularly politicians. The autobiographical musings of Elie Wiesel and Anne Frank sit beside Doris Kearns Goodwin and David McCullough, along with books featuring South Boston's checkered past: J. Anthony Lukas' "Common Ground," Dick Lehr's "Black Mass," and Michael Patrick MacDonald's "All Souls," among others. As someone who lives a stone's throw away from the former home of Louise Day Hicks, reminders of the complicated history of Southie abound.

The top corner of my shelf is reserved for books sporting an author's autograph. I own a few books signed by the great John Updike. I coaxed Desmond Tutu during his visit to the Episcopal Divinity School into scribbling his name across the title page of his book "No Future Without Forgiveness." The bombastic Peter Gomes placed his John Hancock inside the cover of my copy of "The Good Book." And I waited in a crazy long line to secure Hillary Clinton's moniker during the book launch of her autobiography "Living History."

But my most treasured autograph resides on the pages of my Episcopal prayer book, a splash of black ink care of primatologist Jane Goodall. She had come to speak at the school where I was then working. After the crowd had dissipated, I had the chance to talk with her about discerning one's vocational call. Her signature remains a keepsake from that treasured conversation.

Despite the star power of that upper ledge, my heart remains elsewhere. Over and over again, I return to the wisdom of Anne Lamott, Sue Monk Kidd, Kathleen Norris, Cheryl Strayed, Glennon Doyle, Nora Gallagher, Roxanne Gay and Caroline Knapp. These women are my literary "ride and die." I certainly couldn't part with any of these.

In the end, I donated a few guidebooks, a Spanish dictionary and a handful of textbooks I'd been carting around since high school to the nearest Little Free Library. After so many previous moves, there just isn't a lot of fat left on the bone.

The battle between my aging back and my imagination was a rout. When it comes to books, it's never a fair fight.

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Anne Gardner Cognoscenti contributorAnne Gardner is an Episcopal minister and author of "And So I Walked: Reflections on Chance, Choice, and the Camino de Santiago."

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