At the lavish party held the night before the festival, I met the young, newly hired YA librarian who had invited me to visit, apparently without anyone else ever having read a word I’d written. I realized immediately that something odd was going on; people were giving me sickish smiles and moving away quickly once introductions were made.

Eventually the YA librarian confessed that she had something to tell me: she had spent the money she was given to publicize my visit on bookmarks for every middle-school and high-school student in the district. In her innocence, she didn’t realize that the district office had to vet everything handed out in the schools, and that they would not give out information about an author who wrote books about gay, lesbian, and transgendered characters. Hence, no publicity had gone out for my visit the next day.

She apologized profusely, and took me to meet the head librarian, an older man who had obviously wanted her to break the bad news before he got involved. Shaking his head sadly, he told me, “I went to bat for you. I called the district office and I told them you were married to a man and had two children.” I was stunned into silence by this bold admission of bigotry.

The following day, five thousand children and parents showed up for the reading festival. It was a huge success — the biggest crowd they’d ever had. Except, of course, no teenagers came to either my book-signing or my presentation.

This was a humiliating day, but, more than that, it was an infuriating one. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the kids in that school district who weren’t even allowed to know I was there — the queer kids who weren’t supposed to know that there were books written about people like them, and the straight kids who weren’t allowed to experience the kind of diversity that would make them more compassionate citizens of the world.

I was just too darn gay for that town, whether or not I was “married to a man and had two children.” And that wasn’t the only time I have been less than warmly welcomed. There is a price to pay for being an ally. For example, when schools invite me to visit, they sometimes ask me not to mention my “gay books,” by which they mean half of my novels in print. I agree to talk primarily about whatever books they prefer, but always with the caveat that if students have read other books of mine — including those with LGBT characters — and have questions about them, I will answer their questions. After which schools often suddenly “lose their funding” and must, sadly, withdraw their invitation.

I’m too gay for them, but, ironically, apparently no longer gay enough for the Lambda Literary Foundation, which has just changed their guidelines regarding their yearly award for LGBT books. Or, I should say, the award that used to be for books but which is now for LGBT-identified authors instead.

True, the Lambda mission statement hasn’t changed: “The Lambda Literary Foundation is dedicated to raising the status of openly lesbian, gay, bisexual and trans people throughout society by rewarding and promoting excellence among LGBT writers who use their work to explore LGBT lives.” However, in the past, straight authors have won Lambda awards a number of times. I’ve been nominated three times. I won the award for my YA novel Hard Love in 1999 and was nominated in 2007 for Parrotfish and in 2008 for Love & Lies.

What has changed is Lambda’s new policy statement, which now gives priority to LGBT-identified authors. Here’s how Lambda justified the change:

Today we continue to be excluded in heterosexual society as we have been historically. Our books are taken from the shelves of libraries all over the country and even from the website of Amazon.com this year. It is more difficult to be an LGBT writer now than it has been in many decades, more difficult to make any income from our written words, much less a living. Publishers have closed, stores have closed, the markets seem to be shrinking with each passing day. It seems more urgent than ever that LLF be as active and supportive a service organization as we possibly can be for our own writers.

The guidelines also mention the “despair” felt by LGBT authors when an award they were hoping to win is won by a straight author. It seems to me that not winning awards is the condition of most writers most of the time. We all lose many more than we win. To have a career in the arts means you will be judged subjectively. You won’t always win, you won’t always like the person who does win, and there’s not a thing you can do about it. Unless, of course, you change the rules to limit who can play, which is what Lambda has decided to do by disallowing nominations of books by straight authors.

Writers tend to return to topics about which they feel passionate, subjects that touch them. For me, one of those subjects is LGBT teenagers. If a straight person writes books with queer protagonists, chances are it’s because there have been important queer people in their lives whom they respect and want to honor. People my age watched their gay friends and relatives suffer when they came out (an event that, at least for some young people, is now easier thanks to those who went before). For my own reasons, I identified with that pain and wanted to help alleviate it. My goal in writing my novels has always been to show kids that people — queer or straight — are more alike than they are different, and that the most important thing in life is to live authentically.

By focusing on the author’s sexual identity, the Lambda awards committee seems to be saying we are different, so different we can’t even write about each other in meaningful ways. That makes me despair.

Winning an award is not the bottom line here. What this new policy feels like to me is a misunderstanding of my intentions in writing the books I do and a rejection of my abilities as a writer. When I speak to students in Kansas City and Spokane (and maybe someday even in South Carolina) and when these teens read my books, I am sometimes the first author they’ve encountered who is willing to address the topics of sexual and gender identity. And they are hungry to talk about it.

Yes, there are more children’s and YA books with LGBT characters in 2010 than there were a decade or two ago, but the numbers are still appallingly low. If the goal is for all kids in all communities to feel good about themselves no matter their sexual or gender identity, authors should be encouraged to include queer characters in their books, not discouraged, which the new Lambda policy in effect does. Authors don’t decide what books to write on the basis of which awards they might win, but by telling straight writers we are no longer eligible for a Lambda award, the policymakers are discounting our work. They are effectively telling straight authors to stay in their own yard. I think any perceived benefit of that is outweighed by the losses.

A study published by Boston Children’s Hospital researchers in 2007 found that gay and lesbian youth were three to four times more likely to be bullied than those who identified as heterosexual. And according to GLSEN (Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network, a national education organization), LGBT students are six times more likely than the general population to skip school, often because of the harassment they face there, and they tend to do worse academically because of it. The 2007 Massachusetts Youth Risk Survey estimated that gay, lesbian, and bisexual youth attempt suicide up to four times more often than their heterosexual peers. For transgendered youth, some studies put the rate of attempted suicide as high as fifty percent. Along with others who write books with LGBT characters, the most moving letters and e-mails I receive are from kids who claim that reading one of my books saved their life. It seems obvious to me that the more queer books there are in the world, the more queer kids we reach with the message that they are not alone, the fewer LGBT kids become one of these grim statistics.

People will likely draw parallels between the new configuration of the Lambda awards and the American Library Association’s Coretta Scott King Book Awards, given annually for the best children’s books by African American authors and illustrators. The idea for the CSK, first awarded in 1970, was to bring attention and visibility to African American authors and illustrators, who had been largely overlooked by the mainstream award committees. But times have changed. African American authors and illustrators Walter Dean Myers, Christopher Paul Curtis, Jacqueline Woodson, Kadir Nelson, Marilyn Nelson, and Jerry Pinkney, among others, have swept up ALA medals and honors from the Newbery, Caldecott, and Printz committees in addition to winning multiple CSK awards. Some have begun to wonder if there is still a need for the Coretta Scott King Award. Or should the King prize perhaps now be opened up to writers or illustrators whose subject is African American life, no matter their own heritage? I think this is the direction we ought to be heading. (There is precedence for such an award: the Sydney Taylor Book Awards, for instance, have always focused on subject rather than author. Their mission statement is to reward “outstanding books for children and teens that authentically portray the Jewish experience.”)

Curiously, the Lambda awards have long been given without the restriction that only LGBT people were eligible, yet now, as queer authors become more visible in the mainstream, Lambda has reversed its decision, claiming that “it is more difficult to be an LGBT writer now than . . . in many decades.” But is it the LGBT authors who are discriminated against, or is it the LGBT content? And isn’t it more difficult to be any sort of writer in an era when publishers are cutting back their lists and laying off editors, bookstores are closing, and nobody has enough marketing money? I would argue that as a straight author I am at a disadvantage when it comes to announcing my books to their intended audience and that the Lambda nominations have been one of the primary ways I’ve been able to overcome that disadvantage.

The new Lambda policy explains how they will define LGBT. They won’t. “The writers and publishers are the ones who will be doing the self-identifying,” they say, throwing up their hands over the messy policing of the new rules. “If the book is nominated as LGBT, then the author is self-identifying as part of our LGBT family of writers, and that is all that is required.” I suspect that this will not be a problem for younger writers, for whom sexual identity seems to be more fluid. Maybe someday we’ll all define ourselves as bisexual and everyone will be eligible for a Lambda award, but at this moment in history, as sexual identity becomes less of an issue in the culture, it seems strange to me that it’s becoming more of an issue for the Lambda awards committee.

The Lambda Literary Foundation isn’t saying straight people can’t write queer literature, but by restricting our recognition they are saying they don’t value or appreciate how well we do it. True, they state on their website:

We celebrate those who support our writers, those in all the allied areas of our literature: our readers, publishers, booksellers, publicists, agents, etc. We celebrate straight allies of every kind and always have throughout our history, with the Bridge Builder Award, Small Press Award, Publishers Service Award, Editor’s Choice Award, among other awards and acknowledgments, and we’ll continue to do so.

But of the awards mentioned, the Small Press Award and Publishers Service Award obviously don’t go to authors, and, as far as I can tell, the Bridge Builder Award and the Editor’s Choice Award haven’t been given since 2004. It’s hard to even find mention online of who has won these awards; the list of award winners on the Lambda site doesn’t include them. And it is precisely that listing that publicizes both nominees and winners.

I’m disappointed that an organization like Lambda has decided to judge people on the basis of who they are rather than what they do. Isn’t this what LGBT organizations have been fighting against for decades? It’s legitimate for the Lambda foundation to want to honor its own, but what is the point of discouraging your allies, of telling them they are no longer part of your “family of writers”?

Amicus Curiae

YA author Brent Hartinger posted this response to Lambda’s guidelines on the website AfterElton.com:

The foundation is certainly free to make this move . . . But personally? I think it’s a bad idea. Basically, it guarantees that future Lambda award nominees and winners are going to end up being less good.

How so? By eliminating the sizable number of non-GLBT-written GLBT books, there will be fewer submissions (which always affects quality).

Think about this: the reason why books by non-GLBT people sometimes win these awards is because the panels of judges (on which I’ve served) think they’re the best.

Worse, over time, the fact that the books will be less impressive, less “outstanding,” will slowly diminish the clout of the awards themselves. In fact, by even making this announcement, the foundation is communicating to the world that they’re a restricted group, marginalizing their own award and further reducing its clout.

The Lambda Foundation will get their end result: more GLBT people will win Lambda awards. But the price they’ll pay is that the awards themselves will mean less and be taken less seriously by the industry and — I’ll say it — even by our own community.

Ironic, isn’t it? But what do they say about the road to hell and good intentions?

From www.afterelton.com/print/200998/lambda-award-should-you-be-gay

From the July/August 2010 issue of The Horn Book Magazine

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She and Sean now have two sons, Jack and Eli. They live in the neighborhood where she grew up, and where When You Reach Me takes place. The family has moved a few times, but always to apartments close to Absolute Bagels. The bagels are too delicious to ever move away.

Rebecca and I met in 1997, as students in an adult short story workshop at the 92nd Street YMHA. She was a young lawyer and a fine writer. I was an editor at Delacorte, taking the class to get a break from children’s books. After the workshop ended, a few of us, including Rebecca, formed a writers’ group. But her job was very demanding; eventually she dropped out, and we lost touch. In 2003 I was delighted to hear from her. She was now taking time off between jobs to stay home with Jack and Eli, and to write. She brought me an early version of what became her first novel, First Light. First Light is set on, and within, Greenland’s ice cap. In that book, Rebecca revealed an unusual talent: to examine the workings of the natural, daily world, while convincing us that astonishing things are possible.

Which brings me to When You Reach Me:

Rebecca was inspired by an article she read in the Times about a young man who appeared, wandering around with amnesia. Under hypnosis, he remembered that his wife Penny and children had been in a car accident, but could recall nothing else. His picture was broadcast all over the country, until he was finally identified by Penny herself. But it turned out that she was his fiancée, not his wife. And they had no kids yet.

Which made Rebecca think — what if? What if he had lost his wife and kids, in the future, and somehow found his way back to prevent it? But lost his mind in the process?

About that time, Rebecca and her family moved to an apartment near the building where she grew up. The move made her want to write about her memory of herself and her first independence (being on her own in her neighborhood for the first time, what she observed, what she thought about) and about her emotional landmarks. Back then, there was a scary man on her corner, and she tried to understand: who is he, why is he there? He was a mystery she was always trying to figure out. He became the anchor as she wrote When You Reach Me, although when she began, she had Miranda addressing “you” before Rebecca knew who that “you” was.

Rebecca sent me the first two-thirds of the book in December 2007, up to the line: “And then it was Christmas vacation.”

I was hooked! I loved the tone, Miranda, the other characters, the way Rebecca had woven A Wrinkle in Time into the story, and how Miranda claimed the book for herself. It was fascinating to see the ominous, gritty Manhattan of 1979 through Miranda’s eyes. I hadn’t a clue who might be writing the letters. I wondered: where is this going? But I never doubted that she could pull it off.

The editing of this book was different from that of First Light, which went through several drafts, with line editing, rethinking, and reshaping. The language in When You Reach Me was always just right. Miranda’s voice was natural and distinctly hers. I’ve worked on hundreds of books, and this is the only novel that I did not line edit. I don’t believe that I changed a word in any draft.

Caroline Meckler, associate editor, had many valuable editorial suggestions. Revisions were subtle: refining, linking, adding clues, shading characters. When questions from readers came up (such as, Could Julia have more of a role? or, Why did the laughing man lie under the mailbox?), Rebecca quickly thought of inspired solutions that deepened the story immensely in a few lines.

We talked about A Wrinkle in Time. If the book was going to stay in, it had to play a significant part. Rebecca read and re-read it from the perspectives of the different characters in When You Reach Me, and added scenes where the kids discussed A Wrinkle in Time and time travel. We hoped that L’Engle’s iconic novel would help develop the characters and establish the possibility of time travel for readers who found that idea challenging.

Readers like me. Whenever I was actually talking to Rebecca, it all made beautiful sense. I felt so smart! A few hours later, I’d call her and say, “Wait! Wait a minute. Why did . . . ?” and I’d type madly as she explained, so I could hang onto it. Rebecca was endlessly patient. Though I was slow, I knew that young readers would understand. Children are open to big questions about the universe and can grasp all sorts of ideas that many adults cannot.

Rebecca was very careful about giving the reader enough clues to believe in the time travel and the logic, but not to get bogged down. We shared drafts with new readers, adults and children, to make sure that revisions hadn’t created any holes or contradictions in the plot. All along, the goal was to be certain that the logic would stand up to the merciless scrutiny of a smart kid. Someone who would finish the book and then go right back and start again, reading so closely that she or he would spot any inconsistency. We didn’t want to let that reader down.

Sometimes in the subway I see a sign:

Take a class! Improve yourself! Meet new people! Change your life!

That was some workshop at the Y in 1997. Who knew? Who knows? It’s New York City. Anything is possible. But first, you have to lift the veil.

Rebecca Stead is a rare storyteller. In only two books, she has shown us a new way to look at the natural world, and to see it as more flexible, more responsive to human perseverance, faith, and genius, than we ever knew.

When You Reach Me begins with a quote from Einstein: “The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious.”

There is still mystery at the heart of Rebecca’s novel. There’s plenty to wonder about after you finish the book. Just as we wonder why our feelings can change so suddenly, or why someone like the laughing man appears on the corner one day. Or whether something astonishing could ever happen one block from home.

When I walk by the corner Rebecca wrote about, I think of Miranda, and Sal, and Marcus, and Julia, and Annemarie. I think of twelve-year-old Rebecca, who inspired this story. I think of the children who now claim the book for themselves.

Such smart kids.

Editor Wendy Lamb’s profile of Rebecca Stead, the 2010 Newbery Medal-winning author of When You Reach Me. From the July/August 2010 issue of The Horn Book Magazine.

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Sixteen years ago, the pioneer spirit overtook my husband, Drew, and me. We packed our wagon (a U-Haul) and, with our cat riding shotgun, left Pittsburgh and set out for the Santa Fe Trail and Albuquerque, New Mexico. You know, the place where Bugs Bunny should have turned left? It’s been a grand adventure. We are still in awe of the big sky, the high desert landscape, and the fascinating history of the West. Writer that I am, it’s not surprising that I have found much wisdom and wit in the idiom of Western icons — that black-and-white, get-to-the-point, simple way of talking, from a time when folks helped each other and a handshake was enough.

As I give thanks for this award, I’d like to share some cowboy wisdom with you.

When you get to where you’re goin’, the first thing to do is take care of the horse you rode in on. I’m going to reverse the usual order of things and express my gratitude up front because I sure rode in on a whole herd of horses.

First, I thank my Lord for helping me through this past year and giving me hope for the future. I lost my brother to cancer and my mom to Alzheimer’s in 2009. Amid all the sadness, Bad News for Outlaws: The Remarkable Life of Bass Reeves, Deputy U.S. Marshal was released and received terrific reviews. Bad News kept me from digging myself into a hole. A cowboy saying goes — You can just about always stand more’n you think you can. Still, when the year ended, I told my husband, “I just want 2010 to be a straight line.” Well, that didn’t happen! The 2010 Coretta Scott King Book Awards jury saw to that. I am now happily taking back my wish for a straight line.

It was Martin Luther King Day at ALA Midwinter in Boston when I got the news. I was entering a program honoring Dr. King and reaching to turn off my phone when it rang. The caller said, “This is Carole McCollough.” Being a youth services librarian, I knew Carole was chair of the CSK jury; that it was Youth Media Awards day; and that winners are phoned right before the press conference. The moment she said her name, all these details connected. My heart started pounding, and I got choked up even before I heard why she called. I would have been pretty embarrassed if she’d said, “Let’s do lunch.” I’d love to have lunch with Carole, but I’m glad that isn’t what she said.

Having served on ALA awards committees, I know how difficult it is to select one from so many worthy titles. I know the odds. To start the new year with this firm nod of approval from my library colleagues, this amazing gesture that says, “You’re doing great, Vaun!” is a blessing. Thank you, dear, marvelous members of my CSK jury — Carole McCollough, Eunice Anderson, Alan R. Bailey, Brenda Hunter, Jonda C. McNair, Martha Ruff, Robin Smith. Thank you for appreciating the work and for helping to bring Bass’s story to readers. You have filled my heart with so much happiness. I will love you all my life.

I’m much obliged to my husband, Drew — my best editor, best critic, best friend; my protector and biggest fan. Drew believes in me more than I do. Although Bad News is finished, I’m not done with the West, being married to a man who is a cowboy at heart. At the end of my story, there’s nothing I want more than to ride off into the sunset . . . with him.

I love and fear words — their potential to uplift or tear down. My father taught me to respect that potential. Dad, a man of few words, wrote poetry and sketched. My mother made me love stories. She’d sit at the top of the stairs every night and create magic with a book. It was reader’s theater. If Mommy couldn’t be there, she assigned the reading to whomever she’d deputized to watch us that night. But no one could do it like her. So much of the writer in me is my parents’ doing. I got really lucky with them.

My siblings, Renee, Regina (who taught me to read), Billie, and Eddie teased me, bossed me, taught me, fought me, protected and loved me. I thank them for all of it, and for providing me with a deep well from which to draw my stories. I thank them and my huge extended family for being the net beneath my tightrope.

Thanks to Tracey and Josh of Adams Literary for allowing me to focus on the writing while they take such good care of the business.

A heap of thanks to Art T. Burton for his invaluable assistance. The true Bass Reeves expert, he generously shared his knowledge and passion. His commitment to Bass’s story is unmatched.

Thanks to my editors, Shannon Barefield and Mary Rodgers, for their patient understanding of my maternal concern over every word. And to Adam Lerner and everyone at Carolrhoda and Lerner — Danielle, Zach, Lois, Lindsay, Kathleen, Brad, Elizabeth, Terri, Julie, David, and Andrew, for their kindness to me and their respect for Bass.

Thanks to the masterful R. Gregory Christie for bringing Bass’s story to life through his amazing paintings. I think Bass would be proud of how Greg portrayed him.

I’m grateful to my writing group — Stephanie Farrow, Lucy Hampson, Katherine Hauth, Uma Krishnaswami, Jean Whitehouse Peterson — for never complaining when, for the umpteenth time, I brought yet another revision of the manuscript for just one more read. This award is partly theirs.

Special thanks to my pard Lori Snyder for her friendship. And to everyone back home at Rio Rancho Public Library. Thanks to all my friends in Pittsburgh and elsewhere, especially Christyl and Justin Brown, for their encouragement and caring.

Thank you, friends and colleagues in the library, writing, and publishing communities, for cheering me on over the years. I can hardly believe I’m standing up here. I’m used to being out there with you, looking in this direction. Thanks to my posse from the 2002 Newbery committee, the committee that refuses to let go. Most were seated with me when the announcement came and, in wild fashion, swarmed me in a mass embrace. It was a moment I will never forget.

Thanks to G. P. Putnam’s Sons for taking a chance on a brand-new author back in 1986, and to Random House for helping to keep that writer moving forward.

And many thanks to Deb Taylor and the CSK committee for their labor of love promoting books for youth by African Americans, and for allowing me to be part of this good work.

My love affair with Bass Reeves began in 2003. Drew wasn’t jealous. He, in fact, introduced us. Drew had already won my heart and knew, like it or not, he’d be stuck with me to the end of the trail. Besides, Bass had been dead since 1910, so Drew had no fears of finding us together except through the written word.

My research for Bad News began in 2003, but the project didn’t become real until 2005. My then editor, Shannon Barefield, told me Lerner was hoping to publish more picture book biographies and wondered if there was anyone I might be interested in doing. I immediately thought of Bass, but just said, “Maybe.”

I wasn’t sure of my ability to tell Bass’s remarkable story for a picture book audience. Could I do it justice with such limited text? There was so much captivating and complex stuff to consider . . . the keeping of slaves by Indians, the emergence of black towns, the culture of Indian Territory, not to mention the violent times in which Bass lived and the guns and killing that I couldn’t avoid. Though he took no pleasure in using deadly force, this was part of Bass’s job as a peace officer. I recalled my own childhood and how we loved the Old West, the shootouts, the horses, the grubby life of cowboys. And I realized I was falling victim to adult worries about children and violence. I decided if I told Bass’s story well, kids could handle the violence, and they’d eat him up as we did our Western heroes. I do want adults to love my work (and I’m thrilled the CSK jury did), but I write for kids and, selfishly, myself.

Here’s another bit of cowboy wisdom:

You don’t need decorated words to make your meanin’ clear. Say it plain and save some breath for breathin’. Working with Western language was a delightful challenge. I liked the touch of humor and flavor of the times this language added to the telling. My challenge was using it gently, finding a balance. I didn’t want to diminish the serious nature of Bass’s accomplishments.

There is much to admire about Bass — his strength, fearlessness, and skill with weapons, his clever use of disguises, phenomenal memory, and sense of duty and honor. Some believe he was the inspiration for the Lone Ranger. When we pretended to be cowboys, my siblings and I argued over who got to play Hopalong Cassidy, the Lone Ranger, Wyatt Earp, Roy Rogers, and other favorites, most of whom were fictional. I don’t recall spending a lot of time thinking about race during my childhood, but I wonder how I might have felt if among our heroes stood Bass Reeves — a black man who was not a minor character or a bad guy. A black man who was a hero — a real hero.

Old West lawmen like Wyatt Earp and Wild Bill Hickok were peace officers for less than a decade. They couldn’t hold a candle to Bass, who worked as a deputy U.S. marshal for thirty-two years in what was arguably the most dangerous area of the country. Imagine, a slave who rose to become the most feared and respected lawman of his time! Bass deserved so much better than he got. I am proud that Bad News is playing a small part in giving him his due.

Well, I can’t be jawin’ all morning. My moment is about over. I reckon it’s gettin’ time for me to mosey. So let me end with more cowboy wisdom, which comes from a fine book by Texas Bix Bender called Don’t Squat with Yer Spurs On!: A Cowboy’s Guide to Life, published by Gibbs M. Smith.

Here goes:

Makin’ it in life is kinda like
bustin’ broncos: you’re gonna get
thrown a lot.The simple secret
is to keep gettin’ back on.

Think the best of people, but it don’t
hurt to count your change.

Lettin’ the cat outta the bag is a
whole lot easier’n puttin’ it back.

Don’t worry about bitin’ off
more than you can chew.

Your mouth is probably a whole
lot bigger’n you think.

The quickest way to double your
money is to fold it over and put it
back in your pocket.

Don’t never interfere with something
that ain’t botherin’ you none.

Comin’ as close to the
truth as a man can come without
gettin’ there is comin’ pretty close,
but it still ain’t the truth.

Don’t let so much reality
into your life that there’s no
room left for dreamin’.

There’s one more, but before I share it, I again want to express my thanks to everyone who played a part in my being here today. I’m beholden to you all. And we all owe a debt of gratitude to Deputy U.S. Marshal Bass Reeves for his service to our country. He was, indeed, someone to ride the river with.

Okay, here’s the final piece of cowboy wisdom:

Never miss a good
chance to shut up.

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