Seriously Collaborative Fun by Christy Hale

For me, memories of reading are about connection: curled in my father’s lap, listening to stories from The Fairy Tale Book by Marie Ponsot, or my mother at my bedside reading classics like The Secret Garden and Little Women. I even felt connected to Louisa May Alcott because we regularly drove past her house in Concord, Massachusetts.

And so, books and friendship are intertwined for me, too. Every Saturday, after finishing my chores and claiming my allowance, I walked down the street to my very first friend’s house, then together, Laura and I continued on our journey. We passed the housing development and woods with the neighborhood tree houses, the swamp with cattails and pussy willows, the railroad tracks, then the busy intersection with Crystal Pond on one side and Miss Faye’s Country Day School on the other. Older houses gave way to small businesses, and at last we saw the flag. We had arrived at the library!

We returned last week’s selections and made our choices for the coming week. Juggling new stacks of books, we each dug into our pockets for our dimes, then crossed the street to the IGA, our second—secret—destination. We took as much time scanning the many flavors of Lifesavers as we had among the shelves of books. Then at last, with the week’s allowance spent, Laura and I began our sweet walk home.

When I was ten, my parents split, and my mother, brothers, and I moved 3000 miles away to California. Though I was sad and lonely, I began to flourish in my new school. My East Coast school had been on double-sessions, overcrowded, with eight sections of each level. My Palo Alto school had only two classes per grade. It was small enough that the friendly principal could greet every student by name. The best part of each day was after lunch recess, when we lay our heads on our desks and the teacher read aloud to us. With these new stories a new friendship grew.

When our teacher read Harriet the Spy, my classmate Leslie and I wanted to be Harriet, so we started our own detective agency. After murmuring the secret password and flashing ID cards with our fingerprints, height, weight, hair and eye color, we lifted the trap door in her bedroom closet, shone flashlights into the dark cavity below, then climbed down a ladder to our underground headquarters. Between meetings we dressed in disguises and rode bikes around the neighborhood, whipping out secret notebooks to record our observations in words and pictures, just like Harriet. And when our teacher read My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George, Leslie and I wanted to “live off the land” like Sam Gribley, so we camped out in the empty lot behind her house for a week and even dug a fire pit, using pine needles for kindling. We acted out the stories we’d heard, expanding them in our play. This brought books to life.

Both of these titles were also illustrated by their authors, and, so inspired, I dreamed of becoming an author and illustrator, too. Leslie and I began writing and illustrating our own stories together, rushing home from school most days to do this. We also made trips to the Palo Alto Children’s Library, the oldest free-standing, city-owned children’s library in the U.S., which featured its own “secret garden” where we shared many more stories. Leslie grew up to become an editor and writer. For both of us our childhood play became our work.

These themes of creative collaboration and the merging of work and play are what drew me to learn more about Charles and Ray Eames, the mid-century design duo best known for their furniture design. Their legacy is so much more than famous chairs! They also did photography and designed architecture, graphics, textiles, fashion, films, exhibitions, and even toys. They played. They tried things in multiple ways, believing that “real learning comes from primary experiences.” They simply followed their curiosity wherever it led, as far as it could take them. Charles said, “The most important thing is that you love what you are doing, and the second, that you are not afraid of where your next idea will lead.” Like Ray, Leslie and I created paper dolls, we drew fashion designs, and we made our own clothes. Like Charles, we designed architecture, drawing elaborate floorplans of our dream houses. Curious minds spark creativity—in oneself, and in one another.

Though I wrote, illustrated, and designed Serious Fun!: Work & Play with Charles & Ray Eames, I was never on my own. My editor had a vision and offered fresh perspectives, challenges, and sustenance throughout the development process. I leaned on my talented critique group for feedback. A group of five, we have been meeting for years, developing strong trust and respect. When I am stuck, my group offers possible directions forward, affirmations when I’m pleased, and hope when I’m discouraged. As Ray said, “We worked very hard at that—enjoying ourselves. We didn’t let anything interfere with what we were doing—our hard work. That in itself was a great pleasure.” For each of us, our work is our play, and our play is our work. Now, with this book I’ve created, I hope to spark the same threads of connection for my readers too: between friends and family, between play and work, connection between one idea and the next. That’s the legacy I hope to leave behind me.

Christy Hale plays at work. She has fun exploring and seeing where her ideas take her.
Books she has written and illustrated include Reaching Across the Sky: A Celebration of Bridges, Serious Fun!: Work & Play with Charles & Ray Eames, Copycat: Nature-Inspired Design Around the World, Out the Door, Todos Iguales: Un Corrido de Lemon Grove/All Equal: A Ballad of Lemon Grove, Water Land: Land and Water Forms Around the World, Dreaming Up: A Celebration of Building, and The East-West House: Noguchi’s Childhood in Japan.

She lives with her husband in Palo Alto, California. You can find her online at ChristyHale.com.

Windows, Mirrors, and SEL: Teaching Empathy Through Story by M.O. Yuksel and Razeena Omar Gutta

Most people have heard of Ramadan and the holiday that follows it, Eid al-Fitr. But have you ever heard of Hajj and Eid al-Adha? And how are they connected? If you’re not as familiar with these, you’re not alone.

For over two billion Muslims around the world, Hajj—the annual pilgrimage to Mecca— and Eid al-Adha, the Festival of Sacrifice, are among the most sacred and joyful occasions of the year, marking devotion, community, and the spirit of giving. Yet for many readers, kids and adults alike, the depth and meaning of these traditions can be difficult to grasp from the outside. Storytelling has always been one of the most powerful ways to bridge that distance, which is why we’re so excited to share our picture books, Zamzam for Everyone, and Sami’s Special Gift: An Eid al-Adha Story.

Zamzam for Everyone takes us into the experience of Hajj through a child’s eyes. We see people from all over the world gathered in one place, connected by faith, kindness, and small acts of generosity, like sharing water with a stranger. It’s a beautiful reminder of how something simple can carry deep meaning.

Sami’s Special Gift brings us into Eid al-Adha through a more personal story. Sami is navigating the holiday while also grieving for his grandfather. As he learns about giving and sacrifice, he finds a way to honor both his grandfather and others in need. The story opens space for conversations about loss, empathy, and what it really means to give.

So how are Hajj and Eid al-Adha connected? Just like Ramadan leads into Eid al-Fitr, Hajj leads into Eid al-Adha.

Hajj is one of the five pillars of Islam, an act of worship that many Muslims hope to complete at least once in their lifetime. Each year, millions of people travel to Mecca, retracing a story that goes back thousands of years to Prophet Abraham, his wife Hajar, and their son Ismail.

Eid al-Adha comes at the end of this journey. It honors Prophet Abraham’s willingness to make a great sacrifice out of love and devotion to God. When he was tested, and remained faithful, he was given a ram as a gift. This story is also shared in the Christian and Jewish faiths, and for Muslims, it’s remembered through acts of giving, sharing, supporting others, and showing gratitude.

And that’s where these two books meet. Both stories invite readers to think about what it means to give, to share what we have, to care for others, and sometimes, to let go of something important. They also open the door to meaningful conversations.

Here are some classroom activities to try after reading the two books:

Writing prompts:

· What does it mean to give when it’s hard?

· How can we honor people we’ve lost?

· In what ways can small acts of kindness make a big difference?

· Write about your own holidays and traditions. Describe what is similar and different compared to the stories you’ve read.

Classroom extensions:

Service Projects— Brainstorm ways to support your community. For example, create care kits for the homeless, donate blankets to a shelter; write letters to nursing homes.

You can find more free resources and activities on our website: www.moyuksel.com and www.razeenareads.com.

Happy reading and Eid Mubarak!

M.O. Yuksel is an author and educator whose award-winning children’s books such as In My Mosque bridge diverse cultural experiences through storytelling. Her books highlight little-known historical figures, and illuminate Muslim traditions, inspiring readers of all ages. Yuksel was born in Türkiye and grew up in NYC. Her multicultural experiences shape the stories she tells, and she continues to contribute to the literary landscape by highlighting the beauty of cultural diversity and the importance of empathy and understanding.

Razeena Omar Gutta is an international children’s book author known for her bright, playful, and joyful picture books. She has lived in Zimbabwe, South Africa, and now in Australia, and is an active member of her local community where she volunteers with people of all ages and cultures. These experiences have allowed her to explore different perspectives from around the globe. This, along with her desire to see books on shelves that she never had growing up, informs and guides her writing.

Falling to Fairyland with Cricket the Ward by Sarah Jean Horwitz

The working title of my upcoming middle grade fantasy novel, Falling to Fairyland, was originally a lot less magical-sounding. From day one of its inception as a baby idea to pretty much the finished product, I called the book Cricket the Ward. It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, I know. I also knew that a lot of people, especially younger readers, might not even know what a “ward” was. Wiser heads than mine prevailed and the title was changed to something far more reader-friendly and no less accurate, but I often still called the book by its original title in my head, and I started to wonder why that was. I think it’s because that at least at the beginning of the novel, my characters aren’t ready to fall anywhere, least of all into the adventure they’re about to have.

My main character, Cricket, has lived nearly his entire life as a ward – in his case, as a human child under the guardianship of a powerful fairy sorceress. Cricket is a changeling – a human child stolen from our world and taken to Fairyland. The only life Cricket’s ever known is a secluded one, confined mostly to the walls of the Fairy Witch’s tower, where he spends his days serving as her most trusted spy. At the beginning of the novel, when another character asks who he is, Cricket doesn’t merely say his name. He introduces himself as “Cricket, ward of the Fairy Witch of the North.” Hence Cricket the Ward. Cricket is fully defined by his relationship with – and subservience to – the Fairy Witch.

But after a mysterious prophecy throws Cricket’s status in the Fairy Witch’s court into doubt, he’s forced to leave the tower and go on a quest to prove his worth to her. And as he journeys through Fairyland and meets its various denizens – both friend and foe – his unshakable faith in his identity as “Cricket the ward” is challenged. Cricket has his own secret power, which the Fairy Witch has insisted he keep hidden for all these years: he is a shapeshifter. For the first time, he’s given the opportunityto explore that power on his own, to use his gifts not just in service of the Fairy Witch, but for himself and the friends he makes along the way. Over the course of the novel, others begin to call Cricket “Changeling” with a capital ‘C.’ With his ability to transform into whatever person or creature he desires, he is not just a changeling human, not just a boy, not just a ward – he is a changeling who changes. That’s real power, and it comes from within.

As I wrote the book that I called Cricket the Ward, I was going on a journey of my own. Just as Cricket was questioning his identity, I, too, was questioning mine. It’s no secret that Falling to Fairyland is fundamentally a story of queer identity. I’ve been comfortable with the labels of “asexual” and “biromantic” I chose for my own queer identity for many years now. But writing this novel forced me to examine the fact that, while I was pretty confident about my sexual identity, I had just as much to explore about my gender identity as Cricket did. The book is very much done now, but my journey – and Cricket’s – isn’t over. I’m not exactly sure which label is right for me (though I think I lean more towards the agender part of the spectrum), but writing Falling to Fairyland made me realize that there’s no pressure to decide – not right away, and maybe not ever. At the end of the novel, Cricket doesn’t immediately replace being “the ward” with something else. He’s just Cricket, and he’s excited for where the rest of his journey will take him. I am, too.

I also realized that the title change to Falling to Fairyland was better from more than just a marketing perspective. Because if I’d kept the title Cricket the Ward, then in a small way, I would be keeping Cricket defined by a label that no longer suits him by the end of the book. By letting that label go, I’m letting Cricket free, too.

In the introduction of the book, one of the narrators explains the experience of falling to Fairyland from the human realm. Though the narrator gives plenty of advice, they ultimately end with the line, “Sometimes, falling is the most any of us can do.” What I hope the rest of the book shows is that while falling can be painful and messy and scary, it can also be beautiful and joyous and empowering. I hope my readers will take a moment to feel the sun against their face and the wind rushing through their hair as they take the plunge into these pages and go on their own journey through the fairy realm. Because never fear – I wrote this book to catch you when you land.

Sarah Jean Horwitz grew up next door to a cemetery and down the street from an abandoned fairy-tale theme park, which probably explains a lot. Her love of storytelling came from listening to her mother’s original “fractured” fairy tales, a childhood spent in community theater, and far too many rereads of her favorite fantasy books. She now lives with her spouse near Boston, Massachusetts, in a neighborhood sadly lacking in witches’ towers. Find Sarah Jean online at sarahjeanhorwitz.com.

Mirrors, Windows, and Runways by Nicole Melleby

I think sometimes it’s easy to forget that writing should be fun.

I write a lot about queer kids. About sad queer kids. About mental health issues, particularly how they affect queer kids.

And I love making the space for that. I love giving sad stories and characters for sad readers who may need them. To see themselves, to see their feelings reflected, to know that it’s okay to be sad, it’s okay that things are hard, it’s okay that you’re struggling.

In my newest book, Brady Mason’s Perfect Fit, Brady struggles. She’s an orphan who feels alone and yearns for family. She’s a queer kid thrust into a public world of fashion that she doesn’t understand or relates to. She’s a tough kid who wants to find a safe and soft place to land.

But at the heart of it all, while writing about this kid and her journey, I also wanted to have fun.

The Devil Wears Prada is one of my favorite movies. There’s something so delicious about watching Meryl Streep dressed in some of the best clothes I’ve ever seen being mean and a little unhinged while Anne Hathaway tries to keep up with her demands. And, well, I’ve always loved Anne Hathaway, will always love Anne Hathaway, from her Princess Diaries years and onward. Because there’s something magical about that, too, isn’t there? About being a fifteen-year-old who suddenly realizes you’re actually a princess, that fairytale moment that I think we all have our own versions of.

So when I sat down to write this story, this emotional journey of a queer kid trying to find her place in the world, trying to find a family, trying to be comfortable in her own skin…well, I happened to be watching The Devil Wears Prada. And I knew, then, I wanted to take the things I loved about The Devil Wears Prada, with Princess Diaries, and decided to find a place and story for Brady within them. Inspired by them.

And it was fun! It was fun imagining a younger modern version of Miranda Priestly and how she would come up in the fashion world and how she would deal with a smart mouthed, rough and tumble Jersey girl showing up and saying she’s her daughter. It was fun thinking about what the fantasy of Princess Diaries would look like for a girl like Brady. And it was fun to take these things and do what I always do when I write: make it queer, make it real, make it emotionally honest.

I still had to learn things along the way. I don’t know much about fashion, for all my love of the Chanel boots Anne Hathaway wears, and I maybe got myself a Vogue subscription to prepare a bit more. I had to think about, if I wanted it to be honest and real while also being a fantasy (orphan is actually a rich woman’s daughter), how can I still tell this story in a way that isn’t too fantastical? How can I give Brady and kids like her the space to have this wish fulfilment story but not move too far away from feeling real?

But I think that balance was where the magic actually happened. Because while we need the mirrors that reflect our struggles, we deserve the windows that look out onto something spectacular, too.

Writing Brady Mason’s Perfect Fit reminded me that while we write to survive, we also write to play. And if I can give one reader the chance to see themselves not just in the struggle, but in the strut down the runway?

Well, that makes the fun even more worth it.

Nicole Melleby, a New Jersey native, is the author of highly praised novels for young readers, including the Lambda Literary finalist Hurricane Season, ALA Notable book How to Become a Planet, Camp QUILTBAG (co-written with A. J. Sass), and The House on Sunrise Lagoon series. She’s also the author of Sunny and Oswaldo, as well as the co-editor of Athlete Is Agender: True Stories of LGBTQ+ Excellence in Sports. She lives with her wife and their family and invites you to visit her online at nicolemelleby.com.

The Intangible Real World of Story by Susan Metallo

The first graders gaped at me like zombie fish.

“An onlooker at the World Storytelling Day Event” by Pratham Books is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Can you picture it? Twenty-four six-year-olds sitting crisscross apple sauce on their industrial blue classroom carpet, their tongues languid in slack-jawed mouths, eyes round and unblinking—and standing in front of them, me: a twenty-something grad student halfway through my library science degree, at my first ever storytelling gig, creeped-out goosebumps peppering my skin.

Marilyn Torres-Sierra Tellebration 2013 (Public Domain)

I’d been forewarned, of course. My professor, Dr. Brian Sturm, had shared his research on the storyteller’s trance. Illogical opening phrases like “Once upon a time,” or “There was, there was, and there was not,” tempt the analytical side of the brain into standby mode, allowing the listener to divert all of their brainpower into building a world from the storyteller’s speech. The listener isn’t even seeing the storyteller anymore. The world between them has become so solid and concrete that the storyteller is obscured. Later, the listener will pass the teller on the street, and never even know.

“Storyteller’s Cafe” bytravelingnorthagency is licensed underCC BY 2.0.

As unique as the oral storytelling experience is, we didn’t lose the intangible real world of story when we started writing them down. When a book grabs me, I quickly slip inside, and that environment and its characters stay with me, like the aroma of baking pie that lingers in the kitchen. Even if I’ve already devoured my slice, the scent makes me crave more, keeping me from focusing on anything but the subtle yet insistent pangs of hunger.

This realness doesn’t come from any particular descriptive phrase on the page. Instead, it grows from a kernel of emotional truth that suspends between the author and the reader, the teller and the listener. These truths aren’t always profound (Dav Pilkey’s work endures in part because he embraces the deep emotional truth that poop is hilarious) but the emotion is key. The stories that grip us, stay with us, change us, are stories that make us feel.

When a story world feels real to me, it’s not visual, like watching a movie. It is experiential, like I’m inside of the world living alongside the characters. I don’t know whether I gape like a zombie fish, but I know that when family members talk to me while I’m immersed in that other world, I don’t hear them. I don’t realize if I’m too cold or too warm. I forget that I’m hungry or thirsty. I’m somewhere else entirely, feeling someone else’s emotions and breathing with someone else’s lungs.

This encounter is what makes a story matter to me as a reader. I learn to wear a protagonist like a second skin. I’m introduced to feelings and situations that I know are not my own, and yet pulse with that glowing emotional truth that tethers me there, a foot on either side of the looking glass. And despite the experiences not being truly my own, I somehow stumble back into my own world better. Better able to relax after playing at fear in a horror novel. Better able to empathize because of possessing someone else’s body for a time. Better able to problem solve after solving that murder (before the detective!).

Fiction breaches our world because it is true on some deep and fundamental level. Fiction cannot lie the way that nonfiction can, colored by a bias of the author’s view of events. Fiction does not mislead the reader, because the reader builds half of the fiction themselves, drawing from their own truth, their own life, and their own vision. The emotional truth of the story shimmers between the teller and the listener, but it is up to the listener to create a door and step through. Ultimately, the listener, the reader, decides what that invisible world will look like and feel like. They bring to it a part of themselves.

First graders turn into zombie fish because their brains are caught up in the work of building a story. That work connects them to the storyteller or the author who created the work. It also connects them to the other listeners and readers experiencing the same story. If we could peep into each of their story worlds, we would see something different, each particular one built in bricks of their own experiences, personalities, points of reference, and imagination. But at the core of each would pulse the same emotional truth.

This is what makes the intangible story world real: the parts of ourselves that feed its creation. This is how we get lost inside, fall in love, carry something out with us. And this is why some people fear stories, especially in the hands of young readers: because through story, we learn how to change the world.

Susan Metallo is a YA author and librarian. Her debut novel, Reasons to Hate Me, was an Indie Next Kids selection for September/October 2025. You can find her in the real world under a piñon tree in the high desert of New Mexico, online at susanmetallo.com, and everywhere with her nose stuck in a book.