Can you recall reading a story that made you smile, laugh, cry, fume, fear, and
feel all those emotions that refused to leave you even as you forced yourself
to try and sleep for the few remaining hours of the night? The emotions that
made you want to grab the nearest person and discuss the story to no end, only
to realize that everyone in the vicinity had already gone to sleep? The
emotions that played on your mind for the next many days, surfacing randomly
and unannounced as you went through your routine, triggered by the slightest of
memories.
Now, can you also recall
the last line of that same story, which said in big, clear letters, “The moral
of the story is…”?
If you’re one of those
few people who actually answered yes to both questions, there’s a high chance
that you might want to write away this article as pompous and self-righteous
(which admittedly, it is). But for the other group who read the second question
and went “Huh? What…?” – a group that I’m hoping is in the majority – this
might just be something you connect with.
For as long as I can
remember, the stories that we read in schools – the ones that not-so-subtly
taught us about good and evil – ended with a moral of the story. You know,
‘honesty is the best policy’; ‘slow and steady wins the race’; ‘a friend in
need is a friend indeed’, etc.
Cringe-worthy, I know.
But the fact is, these
‘moral of the story’ stories have reigned children’s literature for the longest
time. And as much as I criticize them, they’ve been a favourite of many
teachers and parents. Why? Because we as a society tend to believe that
children need to be taught values, and that stories are a great medium of doing
that. And in a way, that does make sense. After all, a lot of what I've learnt
has come from books. And what would be the point of having books for children
if they can’t pick up these values through them?
A lot, actually.
Last year, I did a
research project on children’s literature, and what parameters are / can be
used to determine what qualifies as good children’s literature. I spoke to many
writers and editors, and through that process, realized that one of the biggest
issues with children’s stories is that they are written for children.
Read that sentence again
if you need to.
Let me explain.
When people write a
story in general, they write it because they want to tell the story. The basic
intent is just that – telling the story. But when people write a story for
children, they’re suddenly burdened with the subconscious task of teaching them
something. About good. About bad. About choices. About struggles. And while
some of these subjects are worth learning about, they come at the cost of the
story itself. What results is a struggle, “a battle between instruction and
amusement, between restraint and freedom, between hesitant morality and
spontaneous happiness” (Harvey Darton).
Basically, the intent to
educate overpowers the intent to tell the story.
And that’s tragic,
because I loved Neil Gaiman's suggestion that the four words that best capture
stories are: “And then what happened?” These words capture the pull of the best
stories, the ones that leave you with the thirst for wanting to know what
happens next, and the power that stops you from putting the book down.
Replacing those words
with “What did we learn from this?” somehow doesn't match up to that
excitement. It takes away not just from the story itself, but also undermines
the children reading the stories.
The assumption that
children need to be taught about good and bad, that they need to be protected
from the complexities of difficult decisions, that they need to be presented
with a world that exists in black and white, - really undermines the kind of
thought they are capable of. An editor captured this by saying, “the happiest
things are there in stories and the saddest things are there in stories…just as
adults need exposure to them, so do children”.
So then, how does one
write for children, really? Starting with a disclaimer that I personally have
no experience in this particular field, I’d venture a guess saying: “the way
you’d write for anyone”. Begin the story by asking yourself about what story
you want to tell, and not what lesson you want to teach. Stop thinking of
children as children, because the moment we do that, we dilute the story with
the banalities of simplicity that pull out all the shades of colour from it.
But – what happened to
the learning? If we say that stories are a great source of learning, how does
that happen if we ignore the educational component?
Take the example of
Harry Potter (because, let’s face it, how can any blog that I write
[particularly one about good stories] be complete without a reference to Harry
Potter?) A study found that children who read Harry Potter showed increasing
tolerance to cultural diversity, and were less prone to prejudice. In fairness,
I can’t vouch for the validity of such a claim, but I can completely see it
happening. Who could read the Harry Potter series and escape without respect
for people with all kinds of magical and non-magical abilities? Who can claim
to love Hermoine and yet hate ‘Mudbloods’? And who can laud Harry's courage
without admitting to his fear and anger as well? The book is a great space for
grappling with values, but I doubt that J.K. Rowling set off to write these
books with an intention to teach children to be good. At least, I hope not.
Think back to some of
your favourite books and stories. What did they have? Personally, I think the
best stories have it all: the choices, the conflicts, the struggles, the fear,
the hope, the anger, the ups, the downs. The stories that stay with you are the
ones that draw you into the lives of the characters and make you feel what they
do. And watching the dilemmas and successes of the characters can foster empathy
and tolerance, and important moments of crisis in the stories can aid emotional
and moral development in children. But that development is incidental, not
intentional.
An editor summed up
these thoughts fairly well: “If you think about an issue and then write a story
about it, then it doesn’t seem natural. You might as well write an article
then.” Like this post. It’s self-righteous. It’s preachy. It’s presumptuous. But then, it was never meant to be a story.
