Little Bunny Foo Foo: An Example of Good Intentions, but Poor Editorial Advice

Most of you are familiar with the children's poem, the one where a mischievous rabbit abuses a tribe of supposedly innocent field mice whilst on his way to whatever unknown and undocumented nefarious woodland activities little bunny foo foos engage in:

Little Bunny Foo Foo
Skipping through the forest
Scooping up the field mice
And bopping them on the head

The story starts off well enough. The main character is introduced early and the conflict is clearly established. The tension begins to build when the antagonist intervenes:

Down came the Good Fairy, and she said:
"Little Bunny Foo Foo I don't want to see you
Scooping up the field mice and bopping
them on the head.
I'll give you three more days, and if you don't
behave, I'll turn you into a Goon."

The tension rises to fever pitch as Little Bunny Foo Foo continues his abusive ways for two more days, apparently entirely undeterred by the fairy's threats (though we can only guess at this, as there's no internal dialogue to help us understand our MC better).

But then, having run out of time, what does our deliciously naughty protagonist do? Defies the Fates, of course, leaving that meddlesome G. Fairy with no choice but to turn our poor defenseless friend into a goon (which, by the way, wiktionary defines as "a thug." I mean, isn't that a bit redundant?). Anyway, the point is, that's how the story ends, all just so we can say (go on, I know you wanna do it):

"Hare today, goon tomorrow."

But, really, is there anyone else who thinks this is just gratuitous word-play at the expense of good story development? Don't you feel cheated? Didn't you want LBFF to just bop that obnoxious fairy do-gooder on the head and shut her up once and for all? And maybe those field mice deserved it. Ever think of that? Hey, maybe they liked it! Maybe they asked the darn bunny to bop them. He was set up! And we'll never know if money exchanged hands because, well, the story ended too soon.


My grandfather, rest his soul, thought it wise to provide his own editorial touch when he recounted the tale to me many years ago. A former boxer-turned-Baptist minister, he was, paradoxically, probably one of the gentlest men I ever met (he preferred to let my grandmother carry out the fire and brimstone activities), but despite his good intentions, his version of the story was even worse than the established one.

First, he had the fairy threatening to turn our MC into a broomstick. Er, say what?

Then, LBFF actually becomes reformed just before the witch's - excuse me, the fairy's - spell can take hold. His story ends with the bunny patting the field mice on the head. Blech. How perfectly bland.

I never knew the real ending until I came across an old dusty record of it when I had my own children to tell it to. Imagine how cheated I felt, all because my beloved g-pa thought I wouldn't be able to handle fluffy Foo Foo getting turned into a "thug."

But perhaps my biggest argument against any of the established and nontraditional versions is that they all lack one thing: Sequel Potential.

Really. I mean, think about it. What if LBFF set a trap for G. Fairy? He captures her and makes her do his bidding, magically bopping all the field mice in the entire world, not just the forest, so he can concentrate on further developing his evil plans to take over the world? Hey, who wouldn't like to see their favorite evil politician bopped on the head by a rabid rabbit?

And think of the possibilities! Book Two has LBFF and G. Fairy teaming up against their will as they struggle not to be bopped by mutant field mice in a televised game for the entertainment of the priviledge few. Call it Mockingmice.

And the third book? I don't know. Maybe something with vampires, perhaps.

The point is, whoever came up with "Hare today, goon tomorrow," wasn't looking at the big picture.

The Listing WIP and Whether to Correct It

No, this is not a post about speech impediments, rather writing impediments. Namely, what happens when your inner and outer muse start to fight.

I'm working on an MG right now that is supposed to be a total comedy/fantasy/unrealistic story about a boy at war with his dad. Really. Like, his father is an evil super villain and it's up to the boy to save the world. Problem is, all these serious feelings and issues and subplots keep intruding, wanting to be part of the story. I thought I could get away with supressing them by adhering to a strict regimen of Comedy Central and a well-developed story outline.

Right. My story keeps veering off to the side, straying off into those murky waters of adolescent angst.

So, last week I decided to let it ride, see where things would take me. Or, at least, that's what I thought I was doing. Actually, I was just humoring my subconscious while still pretending to write the story I set out to write.

Talk about Jeckle and Hyde. The thing reads like Percy Jackson meets Nate the Great. Ugh.

So, what to do? I really like the idea of writing a funny, quirky tale that doesn't try to be serious about anything. But I guess what I need to write is the serious one first. Which bothers me, because I don't like the feeling of having something I need to exorcise. And yet I know it'll be therapeutic. So, that's what I'm going to do. Oh, my MC is still at war with his father, whom he still believes is a secret super villain bent on destroying the world. Sounds silly, right? But, when you think about it, isn't that really the premise of a lot of serious stories?

What do you do when your inner and outer muse start to fight? Which do you go with?

WRT: The Importance of First Words - What Does Your Character Crave?

It's a rookie mistake to introduce your main character as a flawless, perfectly content human being. Who cares? Well, you do. You love your protagonist and you don't want anything bad to happen to him. But your reader does. That's what makes your reader come back for more. There are two things you, as a writer, will naturally resist doing to your character.

1. Make them want something.

2. Put obstacles in their way to getting it.

The first is called Craving, and it's what I'm focusing on today. It's what compels your character to act, and what compels your reader to connect. Which is why it's so important to define what your MC wants very, very soon after you introduce them.

In Markus Zusak's Fighting Ruben Wolfe, Cameron Wolfe, Ruben's brother, is the narrator. In the book's opening page, we find them at the track making illegal wagers on the dogs:

A girl walks past.
Jesus, I think.
"Jesus," Rube says, and that's the difference.

Zusak immediately shows us the kind of person Cameron is. He idolizes and wishes he could be more like his older brother. This is how Zusak sets up the story, which we know almost from the start (if you haven't read the jacket blurb), entails an eventual boxing match between the two Wolfe brothers. Zusak helps us connect with Cameron by showing his weaknesses, because, like the rest of us, we all wish we were better and stronger and smarter than reality reminds us we are. (Although the next First Lines subject is about conflict, it's worthwhile to point out the irony in how Zusak provides it here: in order for Cameron to prove he's more like his brother, he'll have to beat him).

In the English translation of his book, the invisible, Mats Wahl tells us in the very first sentence what minor character (but the story's focus) Hilmer Eriksson wants:

It was on one of the first days of May that Hilmer Eriksson discovered he had become invisible.

It's obvious what Hilmer wants: to be visible. Why? And is he really invisible? And if so, what made him invisible? We shortly discover that Hilmer is missing, later presumed dead. During the investigation, Hilmer "haunts" the novel's main character, Inspector Fors. Which leads to an even greater craving by Hilmer: he wants to know what happened, for his disappearance to have meaning. Who among us hasn't at one time or another feared disappearing without leaving some kind of trace behind, for our lives to have meaning? (In fact, I would have to say that that is one reason so many of us write.) Reminds me of a quote by Jim Morrison (of Doors fame): "The appeal of cinema lies in the fear of death." It's what makes the invisible so appealing to read.

So, dear Writer, make sure you know and show what your main (and even secondary)characters want in your story's First Words.

Next time: Conflict.

Happy RoadTripping.

WRT: Importance of First Words – Context, China Rabbits and Cold Blood

Following on the heels of last week’s post about Prologues, I wanted to expand on the importance of first words and the things you, as an author, must do with them to make a reader (i.e., agent/editor and, eventually, the buyer) want to invest time in your book.

What must you accomplish with your first words? In simple terms, hook your reader. Sounds easy, but the HOW of doing that ends up being a bit tricky. Why? Because no two readers are alike, and it’s impossible for you to satisfy all of them all of the time.

However, there are a few basic things you can do to increase your chances of helping the reader quickly connect in some meaningful way with your story. I like to think about CONNECTING with your reader in terms of four more C-words: CONTEXT, CHARACTER, CRAVING and CONFLICT.

Today, I’ll talk a bit about Context.

So, what is it and what do I mean by it? Context is essentially the basic information your reader needs to orient themselves in your story. Not providing it is, well, disrespectful. Why? You don’t want your reader feeling lost and adrift from the very start of your story, do you? There’s nothing more disorienting than picking up a book, begin reading it, and having to wait to find out where the heck the thing’s set. Stories that begin with a whole bunch of dialogue and very little else fail in this way.

Think of it this way: You’ve just thrown reader into a whole new world. Whether it really is a different universe, a different planet, country, town or mindset, without providing context, you’ve essentially blindfolded your reader. Not good. You reader is bringing a lot of baggage along with him, all his worldly belongings of preconceived notions and a moving van of expectations. And if there’s no place to put that gold and purple couch with the silk tassels in your story, your reader is going to get awful tired real quick and leave. So, whether it’s in a submarine, in the mind of a comatose eleven-year-old, or a distant planet, you must provide some immediate clues to the setting so your reader knows where he can stand and put his stuff. Or, more importantly, where he can put your character.

Unfortunately, it’s not as simple as saying: "This story takes place here at a time when…."

Boring. Here’s your best opportunity to put your reader in the proper frame of mind, without letting them know you’re doing it.

Let’s look at a couple very different examples. I’ve chosen Kate DiCamillo’s THE MIRACULOUS JOURNEY OF EDWARD TULANE and Truman Capote’s IN COLD BLOOD.

Here’s the first sentence in EDWARD TULANE: "Once, in a house on Egypt Street, there lived a rabbit who was made almost entirely of china."

We know immediately where we are and can pretty much guess a lot more than DiCamillo provides: this is a house in which a child probably lives or once lived. We can guess that the family that owns the house is fairly well to do, perhaps well traveled, given that the address is somewhat exotic and the rabbit is made of china rather than plastic or fabric. We also know that this will not be a story set squarely in the real world, but probably somewhere where the lines between reality and fantasy are blurred. Why? Because this is a world where a made china rabbit lives.

IN COLD BLOOD begins: "The village of Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome area that other Kansans call ‘out there.’"

Brr. Can’t you just feel that cold wind blowing? Capote provides such a sense of utter isolation and desolation so extreme that even those who live nearby have difficulty saying much about it. But this lack of detail has the complete opposite effect on the reader: it provides all the information you need to understand the story as it unfolds.

Let’s break it down a bit more: The use of ‘village,’ for example, is intentional. It evokes images of a cluster of buildings, loosely connected. An outpost. It is also an old word, connotative of pilgrims, of simple living under harsh conditions. And harsh they are. The village ‘stands,’ as if in defiance. This is not going to be a touchy-feely story. But unless you’ve been living under a rock and bought the book without a cover, you already knew that.

Which is actually beside the point. The point is, the writer invites the reader into a different world, provides clues as to the type of world it is and the kind of story they’re telling. That’s context.

Next time I’ll talk about introducing your Character(s) to your readers.