You know the kind. They’re from publishers gone astray, who’ve led kidlit authors down the garden path of gimmickry. These books are more tease than text, with doodads pouring out of their shrink wrapping like muffin tops over low-rise jeans.

The Big Houses are the most promiscuous, as you might expect, in fudging the centuries-old definition of “book” with puzzles, blocks, charms, chalk and – lest we forget – stacks of CDs. They arrive unsolicited by the carton, bright and loud and clashing, clamoring for my children’s attention, screeching sour notes with their awkward meter, near-miss rhymes or “activities” that occupy some time but few brain cells.

My favorite independent publishers aren’t immune – and you know who you are. Though when I sat down to make a list of what I’d gotten recently and from whom, I discovered to my pleasant surprise that the most memorable “value addeds” were from the independent houses. There was a Mozart CD and a build-it-yourself-microphone that briefly bobbed to the Top of the Tots list at our home.

But when did reading stop being enough? You have to distract kids from learning actual words with book-like-thingamabobs because the symbol that really matters is the capital S with a vertical line through it, $ee? Sorry to sound cynical. It seems to be a part of a parent’s job description.

Sure, I come across many quaint, traditional stories with such outmoded “features” as character arcs, plots, metaphor, subtext and even big words. Give me Candlewick or Peachtree or Barefoot Books or Kane/Miller or geeky Sylvan Dell. They’re the Bohemian literary types renting a fifth-floor walk-up and subsisting on Ramen Supreme while the Value Addeds make all the money and fret about being properly accessorized.

I have no statistics to back up my assertion the stuff is everywhere. But I can hear it. So much of it pings and rattles, clicks, clacks, rings, purrs and, mostly, breaks. The box should say: Some re-assembly required.

Somebody with marketing credentials could probably pinpoint how much worse it’s getting. I do know that I usually throw away brochures and even whole catalogs from the Big Houses listing licensed characters and movie tie-ins and whatnot. Occasionally, this stuff arrives anyway, and I have to toss it or give it away—quick—before my kids spot it and I’m doomed to plot cliché hell.

But the Value Added stuff is tougher. Some of it’s too clunky to hide, doesn’t fit easily into the trash, or is made of materials too suspect to recycle.

My anecdotal evidence is that, yes, the Value Added books—and I use the term “books” loosely—are becoming more ubiquitous and brazen. I’m not talking your standard lift-the-flap or scratch-n-sniff or touch-n-feel or snort-n-drool or whatever. Those books have been around since, well, I dunno. A long time, I suspect.

A Humongous House once sent a full set of classic books with tiny dangly charms off the spine: Black Beauty, Secret Garden, a few others. We’re talking cheap, easily ingested, vacuum-clogging doodads probably made from lead or spent nuclear fuel rods. The sort of girl who can be lured into reading a book because it dangles a bauble probably has a ton of them already. Baubles, that is, not books. And the sort of girl who loves reading classic children’s books is, I would guess, doing so for rewards other than cheesy graft made by Chinese prison laborers.

I’m talking about boxes of puzzles attached to paperbacks that were drearily written, like the writer was stuck with this stupid ol' Easy Reader while his luckier colleagues got to translate complicated assembly instructions from Japanese into Pidgin.

I’m talking about books with magnets, books with gameboards, books with moving parts or pieces missing—deliberately. As if I need children’s books that come pre-destroyed.

Odd thing is, I don’t spot these books in bookstores, where the printed word still rules, but I do see them in toy stores from time to time. That’s fine for Cranium or Chronicle, with its brilliant, well-designed SmartLab line. But then I see smart parents buying smart toys and dumb books, which seems a pity and winds up wasting space in the landfill.

I can also give a little ground on the subject of CDs, which I see nearly all the publishers doing. For a biography of Mozart from North-South Books, a CD was indispensable, but another publisher sent one of bird songs that was fatally scratched. Now the CDs in my house are subjected to delicate surgery to pry them from skintight sleeves and place them in clearly labeled jewel cases—entirely too much work for one harried Mom.

I’m not a Luddite, truly. I embrace any technology that drives production costs down and makes all kinds of publishing innovations possible. But can I ask on behalf of my kids, their friends, their teachers and other busy parents that there be some motive for the onslaught of Value Addeds other than desperation?

For example, I recently had dinner with Sondra LaBrie, marketing guru for Kane/Miller, which reprints foreign picture books. She proudly described her house’s commitment to its backlist.

“Some of these books have been around longer than I’ve been there,” she said.

For books to hang around several years after their artificially imposed “sell by” date, you can bet their charms are found in their pages, not dangling from their spines.

Posted by: Anne Boles Levy

Try telling a roomful of ardent book lovers that they’re writing reviews all wrong. I’d never given a presentation – ever – yet I had to wean my favorite kidlit bloggers from thinking that reviewing is all about their opinions.

It isn’t. Nor is it necessarily even about individual authors or books.

No, it's about what former Los Angeles Times book review editor Steve Wasserman called "a cultural conversation of critical importance."

I took it to mean that no book exists in a vacuum. It’s part of a genre or it breaks from it; it’s typical of the author’s work or it’s a departure; it’s of the moment or reminiscent of another era. It has its hyper-specific niche or is part of a  movement. There’s always a larger something or other to say about it, and a reviewer’s job is to pin that something, as nebulous and slippery as a jellyfish, to the wall.

I decided to wallop the kidlitosphere with the particulars of this “cultural conversation” at a first-ever conference in early October. Librarians, booksellers, authors and the similarly obsessed emerged from their virtual worlds into the real one for one day in a conference room at a Radisson hotel in Chicago, the  tables arranged so we all faced one another, who’d been avoiding the light of day like those tube worms at the ocean’s bottom, pale and shy and blinking uncertainly. 

When my turn came, I scrambled beneath my table to the center well and faced the writers I admired enough to reprimand.

The review genre

Of course, all these people are ridiculously nice or they'd be blogging about politics or law or other grouchy topics. So I had nothing to fear, right? Except that I was there to tell them that the fun can't go on forever. That to write at a professional level means understanding that reviewing is a genre, with its own tropes and quirks and readers' implicit expectations.

Function follows form in reviewing, and I’ve adopted the mission of teaching those forms to whoever will sit still long enough. It's anathema even to nice bloggers, however, who are accustomed to the freewheeling, unedited, unexpurgated Express Yourself theme park that’s become the blogosphere. It’s tough to be told there are forms to follow, and they make sense, and the wheel doesn't need constant reinventing.

Plus, there was no getting around the fact that my 12-page handout did not fit neatly into the allotted 50 minutes, after I had prepared for a 90-minute workshop.

I raced through the material and there were many salient points that I had to skim or drop altogether. People were slow to get started, perhaps lulled by the easygoing nature of other presentations. Mine was high key, and I think many were startled at the size of the handout and the announcement that there would an editing exercise.

Where we are now

I began with an overview of the print vs. blog reviewers animosity. I stated flatly that print reviewers are gatekeepers, with an impulse to keep the barbarian hordes (that’s us) at bay out of self-preservation.

And one look around the book blogging world does indeed reveal a gap in skills, to put it gently. But the gates to the castle are easily opened; by knowing what a good, meaty book review looks like, you can join that cultural conversation Mr. Wasserman asserts in his excellent, if somewhat bitter personal essay on the subject of reviewing. 

Everything else, to me, is book chatter – also valuable, of course, but it doesn't employ the same analytical thinking or provide the same depth of insight.

Forms vs. Formulas

Before I could launch into the forms of book reviewing, I reminded people that forms aren't formulas. I used a shopping analogy (payback for all those overused sports analogies – I'm not much of a "team player" and I never "hit one out of the park"):

This isn't like going into a department store looking for size-12 sportswear and all you find are size-8 cocktail dresses. This isn't about one-size fits all.

Switching metaphors (you can do this when you're talking a mile a minute), I said imagine the structured review as a dinner plate. Just because everyone uses a dinner plate doesn't mean we're all eating the same meal. What you prepare and how you present it are entirely your own.

Having an Ideal Reader

I spent only a brief time asking bloggers to consider not just readers who routinely visit their blogs, since writing for this immediate circle eventually becomes limiting and self-referential.

You unwittingly erect your own gates, admitting only those who "get" you and your stylistic quirks. To reach a broader audience, you have to imagine who they should be.

I never imagined that Book Buds would draw so many librarians, and while I love every one of them, my ideal reader is still the lost parent in the bookstore, afraid to venture beyond what they loved from their own childhoods into the wilderness of all those new titles. I always write for that parent, imagining him or her anew each time.

The Three Forms of Book Reviewing

I taught that book reviewing – or really, any kind of reviewing – breaks down into three forms based on length: capsule reviews, mid-length or daily reviews (so called because they appear in the daily sections of newspapers instead of Sunday) and long-form essays topped by a billboard (explanation below).

We spent the most time on capsule reviews, because we find it most often on blogs and it offers the easiest opportunities for freelancing. It's also a pain to get it right, and therefore the most flagrantly abused.

My advice: write tight, eschew too much plot rehash, have a distinct perspective, be authoritative.

I had people edit a short, highly critical review of a Hanukkah book that had been sent to me by a writer looking for editing advice. I was surprised when many people (authors all) stalled on the idea that the writer would even bother with a negative review.

Many authors simply couldn't emotionally grapple with the reality of negative book reviews, of their being a vital part of that "cultural conversation."

Daily Reviews

We moved on to the dailies, which I insisted must have two characteristics: thematic consistency and brisk writing.

My advice:

Simply listing all your likes and dislikes doesn't make for a review, even if you think you're being thorough. Especially if you think you're being thorough!

Ruminate on the book as deeply as time allows. Where does it fit in its genre? Or into the author's body of work? Or in pop culture? If there's one notion in your head that shines brighter, there's your theme, which acts as a thread to pull readers through to the end.

Organize all your quotes, plot details and exposition around that ONE theme. That's all there's room to do in a daily. As with capsule reviews, keep plot rehash to a minimum. Weave in only those details that make sense for the theme you've chosen. If there are plot details that MUST be included that DON'T fit your theme, you may have the wrong theme.

The long form

The long-form essay deals not necessarily with one particular book -- unless it's a seminal work -- but with a writer's career, or a trend or movement in literature, or it paints some much larger picture than is possible in the 500-800 words usually reserved for dailies.

I didn't get to say this, but the long form can go very long -- up to 25,000 words or so, after which it's time to get a book contract!

To keep it manageable, the long form features what's known as a "billboard," basically a signal of what's to come. Its two characteristics are the anecdotal lead of 1 or 2 extremely large paragraphs or 3-6 shorter paragraphs, plus what's called the "nut" paragraphs because they contain the kernel of your arguments.

The opening anecdote -- often but not always drawn from the subject's life -- ends in an "aha" moment when the reader finally learns why he or she's reading this.

That's when biography stops and the hard work of laying out your themes begins. A longer piece needs more than one theme, and EVERY SENTENCE in the nut graphs lays out a different theme, each subsequent sentence building on the one before.

I used an excerpt from a recent piece on Jack Kerouac (his "On the Road" turns 60 soon) and quickly pointed out where we shifted into "nut" mode and labeled the anecdote as "A" followed by themes B, C, D and even E.

Throughout the piece -- indeed, every long piece -- writers will wheel through ABCDE (or however many letters) again and again. To put all the plot rehash or anecdotes or quotes (the "A" stuff) together would make little sense except as a book report; to put all paragraphs on theme B or theme C, etc., together gets wearisome. People like patterns and the mind absorbs them without effort.

If, each time you dip into the well for "A" matter, you then work it through each theme, you create a circular movement that propels readers along, always coming back to A again, and so forth. You build momentum.

(This is tough to explain without showing, but if you want to peek in at Book Forum, any Sunday book review section or the New York Review of Books, you'll find plenty of examples to dissect this way.)

Reactions

The reaction? Most people were gracious and approving. A few were shell-shocked at having to do actual thinking. But that’s exactly my point; jotting down newsy tidbits gleaned from press releases or rounding up links doesn’t require critical analysis. Dashing off comments isn’t a conversation. A thumbs-up, thumbs-down cursory reaction isn’t a review.

All those factoids and quips serve their purpose, but if we’re going to bury beleaguered book review sections, unwittingly or no, we ought not replace them solely with the printed version of a five-minute quickie. Just as a book still requires some luxuriating, even in our haste-addicted society, a sustained argument in a long essay is still a slow, deliberate seduction that engages the senses, lingers in the memory, and satisfies the spirit.

Posted by: Anne Boles Levy

There seems to be a whole mess of bad, awful, terrifying mishaps that can go wrong in cyberspace when all you’re trying to do is pick a favorite book. Sure, it sounds easy. You set up a blog, ask a couple acquaintances to do reviews, chat about likes and dislikes, and ta-dah ... We have a winner! Just like that.

Only it’s not at all like that. We—the other organizers and myself—ventured into unknown territory when we founded the Children’s and Young Adult Bloggers’ Literary Awards (our friends call us Cybils) that recently opened its second season at Cybils.com. But our success was hardly assured, and there are, I think, lessons for anyone believing that the Internet’s newness means that old rules don’t apply.

To start with, if human nature is a constant, as so many philosophers and writing coaches tell us, what to make of all the introverts, dreamers and unrepentant bookworms who make up the core kidlit bloggers? Could we all rouse from our armchairs long enough to hold a contest?

Would we all play fair—ignoring marketing hype to offer a level playing field for independent publishers?

And would it, in the end, have any impact at all, or just dissipate in a wave of self-congratulatory linkfests? Would our tiny craft ever take off?

It all started with a smart-alecky comment I left on someone else’s blog last year, after complaints that the Newbery's were too snooty and the Quills, well, not snooty enough. I said us blogging upstarts should up and start our own contest. Kelly Herold, whose blog it was, turned out to be one of these organized types and took me up on it.

We didn’t need a mission statement; our sense of purpose grew as we hashed out matters in comments and emails. Quality and popularity would both count; literary merit and kid appeal would be weighed equally. We would be democratic and elitist both. Everybody would nominate books, but only bloggers would judge. And the bloggers would be, well, just about anybody.

Our first cosmic obstacle was our name. I couldn’t stand any of the suggestions, like “mad hatters” or the “blogburys.” Hitting this head-on cost us precious momentum – hours, maybe even days, after the idea germinated, when time is measured in nanoseconds in the forget-it-yesterday blogosphere. I decided on Cybils when it seemed to appease both the cutesy and serious types.

I mentioned asteroids and black holes. The asteroids would be the organizational nightmares you don’t know are headed your way. They veered into our path over seemingly small things, like counting six genres until the poetry and graphic novels fans griped. All those genres needed their own chiefs and two sets of judges. Where would we find so many people? With blogs? About kids’ books?

Kelly had a blogroll like nobody’s business, sort of like an electronic rolodex, and she leaned hard on folks to join up instead of crabbing in the comments sections. Once we had a full slate of 80+ volunteers, we needed little things like a domain name and a hub to gather and do all the contest-related stuff, whatever that would mean. And then there were listservs and databases and all kinds of mind-numbing particulars that have gotten all the mention they need.

Even so, we headed straight for a black hole. Setting the contest up on a blog sounded cheap and easy, and it kept us in the blogging spirit. We listed each genre as a separate post and waited for nominations to roll in from the public. And ... then what? I was staring at three months of a dead blog – utterly empty space – until the short lists were announced.

How to fill the void? I wasn’t ready to write yet another blog, and Cybils wasn’t about me. And what was there to say, really?

Meanwhile, we’d gathered all these smart, witty, similarly obsessed people, and they all had opinions. On everything – not just books. People battled about ethics, about whether to keep blogging about the books they were judging, about whether we should solicit review copies from publishers; all big, potentially contest-wrecking issues. More asteroids.

Like many introverts, I like to think I have very little ego, which actually makes leadership tough when you’re determined that everything go all friendly-like. No hurt feelings, no tough talk ... and nothing gets done. And I’m new to awards. I never won any, unless you count a good citizenship certificate for being pretty much the only kid in my high school to never get busted. A dull life suits my bookish self just fine.

So I joked that Kelly and I were benevolent dictators, but the term gave us cover to step in when things veered off course. Sure, you all can blog about these books, just don’t tip your hand, voting-wise. Send me links and I’ll post excerpts at Cybils. Voila! The black hole gets filled and an asteroid avoided. Hey, y’think the publishers will send review copies? Yes! More disaster averted.

Complaints rolled in as often as compliments, but if you’re going to insist you have no ego then you listen and you nod and you keep updating your FAQs and revising the rules and go from there.

On Feb. 14, we announced nine winners and 5,000 people leaped onto our blog to end the suspense. Five of the winning titles came from independent publishers, including a graphic novel from a publisher who never got back to us about review copies. Both rounds of judges had to hunt the book down in comics shops or online.

An organized “buy Cybils” push saw dramatic drops in the Amazon sales ranks (a good thing) for many winning titles. We were written up in the online or newsletter versions of Publisher’s Weekly, School Library Journal and of course ForeWord. Even GalleyCat, a big publishing industry blog, threw us a shout out.

Some lessons learned: our fancy-schmancy press releases were never picked up by the press. They did better posted at blogs and in online forums. The “viral” marketing that so many business gurus talk about really does work in non-traditional markets like ours, but only when the people spreading your message have something more than hype or buzz or vague promises or stock options to blather about. Keep it real, and people will come.

I keep seeing Cybils mentioned in Amazon or GoodReads reviews – usually footprints left by a supporter. There’s even a Cybils mention on Wikipedia, under Melanie Watt’s page (her picture book, Scaredy Squirrel, from Kids Can Press, was a winner).

Kelly and I learned to keep it simple, stupid: neither of us is judging this year while we’re busily zapping those asteroids. Kelly’s most arduous task is nabbing review copies: after publishers rightfully bellyached about being hit up for free books at every turn, we’re submitting one master list via one person. Nobody assaults authors or pesters publicists; all contacts are via Kelly or her henchwoman in charge of smoothing our relations with the independents, the mercilessly well-organized Sheila Ruth of Wands and Worlds (http://www.wandsandworlds.com/blog1/), herself an independent publisher.

And while chatting with your co-workers seems a fairly basic Management 101 thing to do, it’s tough when it’s all online. So Kelly and I grabbed a chance to meet some of our virtual co-conspirators at a kidlit blogging conference in October; we had no agenda and opened the floor to questions. That could’ve been a disaster!

Instead, we walked away amazed at both the great sense and intense passion of our volunteers, who get paid in nothing but links, a few free books and ample gratitude. Their feedback is gradually being incorporated into every stage of the contest, from the website’s readability to the judging criteria and much, much else.

Yes, we’re back; nominations opened Oct. 1 and close the day before Thanksgiving. We let everybody who can click their way to the Cybils blog nominate a single, solitary, lonely book in each of eight genres, from picture books up to young adult, and of course graphic novels and poetry. We’ve gotten better about enforcing our few rules, and are still coasting on readers’ goodwill and generally honest nature.

We expanded our roster of volunteers up to 90 bloggers, and have made good on promises to include a large percentage of newcomers so we don’t become cliquish.

Once again, New Year’s and Valentine’s Days will be the dates to circle for short lists and winners, respectively.

We’ve added BookSense links to the Amazon ones, with people still using last year’s short lists for early holiday shopping. With those tiny commissions plus a few droplets of ad revenue, we hope to make enough to buy actual awards for this year’s winning authors and illustrators. Right now, our humble thanks are all we have to offer.

Back by popular demand are book reviews of the nominees from our bloggers, with links back to their sites – some of the most impassioned and active voices in the kidlitosphere. And, of course, we’re featuring some of the best books of 2007. We hope yours are among them.

See you at Cybils!

Posted by: Anne Boles Levy