Think of the Children
There’s an ominous moment in Randy Susan Meyers’ fabulous book, The Murderer’s Daughters, when you realize something terrible is about to happen to two little girls. Beautiful girls, girls I’d fallen in love with in the pages that came before. The squeamish reader inside me begged Randy to stop. Save the girls and, if at all possible, spare them future nightmares. I wanted the easy way out — not for the sake of the narrative but for the sake of the children. I could see kids in harm’s way. I had to protect them.
This surprised me because I’d spent months resisting feedback from readers who cared more about protecting my fictional baby than protecting my narrative. I am writing about a troubled mother who unintentionally puts her daughter in danger and I didn’t want to sugarcoat that unpleasant reality. I thought grownups could deal with a difficult book. I’d suffered through The Book of Ruth and Beloved; I wasn’t going nearly that far. Surely, readers could handle a little narrative tension with kids in the house?
Well, yes and no. They can handle it when the danger is integral to the plot as it is in The Murderer’s Daughters. But concern for a child’s safety can be distracting for a reader – even a hearty reader who can handle a difficult book or an unlikable narrator.
My first reader warned me that she couldn’t travel the narrative distance with a fictional mother without knowing for certain whether her baby was safe. It not only determined how she would judge the mother; her instinctive concern for the baby loomed so large that it threatened to displace all other interest in the plot. She needed to know how high the stakes were going to be, and she showed me that I could give readers some comfort without relieving all dramatic tension. Done.
Readers want to know – and be repeatedly reassured — that however close a child dances to the fire, he will not get burned. Or if he does, the scene had better be the point and the perpetrator had better be punished.
Consider the moment in John Updike’s Rabbit Run, when a drunken Janice loses her baby in the bath. There is no forgiving the mother there, but thanks to the gorgeous writing, I can forgive the author. I felt the same reading Jennifer Haigh’s gorgeous Mrs. Kimble as one character, Birdie, sinks deeper into an alcoholic depression. As Birdie clings to her proud, demure and woefully out-of-date self-image, I could feel her pain as acutely as I felt her children’s hunger and need. As with Updike’s Janice, I was stuck there with her, in a pool of bottomless regret.
A writer who forces us to re-experience the vulnerability of childhood by placing a child in a frightening or calamitous situation is testing our trust. This had better be worth it, we think. I’m not going on this ride for nothing. And if something bad happens, there must be justice.
There’s a whole village out there waiting to protect our imaginary children.
And that seems like a pretty nice place to live.
What do you think? Is there a book you couldn’t bear to read because of the liberties it took with a child’s safety? Which writers or books do you think best walk the line?
Stephanie Ebbert grew up near Reading, PA, the birthplace of John Updike and the setting of his Rabbit, Run series. She ran to Boston, where she has been a reporter for The Boston Globe since 1997, covering news and politics. Previously, she worked ...
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I can think of (almost) no greater hot button topic for a novel to dissect than this one. I don’t have kids, but I don’t need to to squirm if I know a child character is in danger. And in fiction, how the parents/adults handle said danger says volumes about them. The Murderer’s Daughters is a perfect example of how to handle this correctly.
Such a good topic. This is my Achilles in literature, because my threshhold for bearing this has gotten lower I think with each year of parenting. I can name any number of books that have brought me to the edge of my comfort zone, and a few that have overstepped it. But it’s not a bad thing to be brought out of one’s comfort zone.
Still, I sometimes find myself wishing books had a rating system, say, with Sophie’s Choice and Sarah’s Key at one end, and Goodnight Moon on the other.
Wonderful topic and post (and thank you!)
This is a hot button for reading and writing. SOPHIE’S CHOICE definitely my hardest read–and Janice in Updike’s. Reading about a child’s death is so difficult–and yet, it is a topic which must be addressed in fiction, yes?
I think those who can write of this are very brave. I can more easily read a book about it, than write one.
Funny that your post came just as I was once more (revision, revision) dropping three children off a cliff in the Rockies. I don’t think this could be within anyones comfort zone. Your notion of distraction makes me uneasy, but I’m hoping the event is over fast enough to let the reader focus on the survivors and how they cope. You do have a good point though, I couldn’t get past the beginning of the Lovely Bones.
Ah, yes, Liz, the Lovely Bones. Threw it across the room in two pages, although I understand so many people loved it. There are certain places I can’t go, no matter how well-written the passage. But your children in the Rockies are well worth it. I wept for them, but I understand why they are gone. Thank you all for your thoughts!!
[...] have included Boston Globe reporter Stephanie Ebbert’s post Think of the Children even if she hadn’t mentioned my book and even if it wasn’t on a multi-writer blog to which I [...]