AUTHOR INTERVIEW

Another fantasy author, Madeleine L’Engle, said that “A book, too, can be a star ... a living fire to lighten the darkness, leading out into the expanding universe.” In what ways did you conceive your story The Boy Who Woke the Sun to be this kind of living fire, to light the way for your audience?

That’s a beautiful quote, and L’Engle’s a brilliant writer. There are times I feel like I could write a book about writing this book. A lot went into it over a long period of time. When I first conceived it, I was going through a rather tumultuous period in my life, where I felt like I’d fallen into a parallel universe. Like there’d been a hiccup in space-time, and suddenly my life was on a completely different path than the one it was supposed to be on. I felt lost, and this book was born of that feeling. I found myself looking back on my life, contemplating the paths I’d chosen, or were chosen for me, or simply happened without choice, and how they all led to this point. And I pictured a boy trying to find his way through a dark, unfamiliar world. This book was about guiding him through it.

So, you’re right, it’s very much about lighting the way. And when Elliot wakes the sun at the end, that’s his soul shining, because he’s finally found his place in the universe. That’s his path being illuminated. He realizes in that moment he has the power to affect the things that’ve been keeping him up at night, causing him anxiety—namely, environmental destruction and the existential threat it poses to life on Earth, to the future. Which is something kids are extremely concerned about, as they should be. I was, too, when I was young, and still am now. My hope with this book is that kids come away with a sense of empowerment, an understanding that anything’s possible and they can affect change, even on a grand scale.

It appears that fantasy novels aren’t as popular with publishers these days, compared to realistic fiction. What is the role of fantasy, do you think, for young readers? Was fantasy literature important to you, as a child? What are your favourite genres now, as an adult?

Yes, fantasy literature was hugely important to me as a child. It was my introduction to literature, really, and to film. My father read all the Wizard of Oz books to me, and Roald Dahl. He must have read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory a dozen times or more. Jacob Two-Two Meets the Hooded Fang and The Secret World of Og stand out as well. And Star Wars had a big impact. It was the first movie I ever saw. I read just about everything, but fantasy—be it for kids or non-kids—is still what I read most.

For me, fantasy is reality in dress-up. It takes complex, difficult themes, adds robots and aliens and faraway planets, and makes it more palatable, more approachable, especially for kids. Fantasy exaggerates, accentuates, and adds metaphor. In my book, for instance, the butterflies are these fantastical, demonic creatures with skulls tied to their backs, but they’re also the pandemic. They’re an airborne menace that flies around, causing suffering and death and driving the world into hiding. Kids might not get that parallel, but they’ll no doubt feel it, which, in turn, can help them process emotions that might otherwise be too difficult to face head-on. Fantasy helps us understand ourselves and our world, while simultaneously providing an escape from it.

In his book The Art of Fiction, John Gardner observes that there are really only two plots in fiction: a stranger rides into town, and a person goes on a journey. Do you think this is true? What made you craft an epic journey as the heart of The Boy Who Woke the Sun?

I won’t argue with Mr. Gardner, but I will say my story is definitely one of the two examples he gives. Why an epic journey? Because life is an epic journey, for everyone in their own way. The Boy Who Woke the Sun is about someone at the beginning of that journey, trying to figure out who he is and how he should move through it, which is pretty epic stuff.

Your book includes a lot of unique elements that work super well together. How did you come to include a trampoline- loving octopus?

That was a gift from my daughter, actually—Penelope. We used to play this game when I put her to bed, where we’d give each other three things—an animal, an object, and a place—and then use them to make up a story. “A story from your mouth,” she’d call it, as opposed to from a book. One night, just before I started writing The Boy Who Woke the Sun, she gave me an octopus, a trampoline, and the ocean. So, I told her a story about an octopus who was swimming along the shore, when he saw a little girl jumping on a trampoline. The octopus was enthralled, so he waited for the girl and her family to fall asleep on the beach, then he sneaked out of the water, took the girl’s boots, braided his tentacles together, and slipped his “legs” into them. Then he had the time of his life, jumping on the trampoline. And I thought, what a fun character. I wanted to see more of him, which is generally a sign you’re onto something. And he ended up finding his way into the book—in a big way, obviously!

A week or so later, I was in need of a character who’d travel with Elliot and the octopus through Lappanthia, as their guide. I asked my other daughter, Amelia, for a name, and out of nowhere she said, Granny Yilba. So, just like that, Granny Yilba was born. It’s funny how these things find you.

In your story, a butterfly’s victim can be saved by giving the person something they love. In Granny Yilba’s case, she requires children’s laughter in order to recover. What would you say is your butterfly antidote?

A great question. For me, it’s my family. As far back as I can remember, I wanted to be a dad. That was my guiding light, the place where everything was headed for me. I’d go so far as to say, my family’s the only thing that makes complete sense to me in this world. And this idea of what makes people happy in the book—their “butterfly antidote” as you put it—is not always what they think it is. If someone were to say “money,” for instance, that might actually mean safety to them, or security, or freedom, or self-worth, or a parent’s affection. Often there’s something deeper they’re not seeing.

Although this is a serious story about how eleven-year-old Elliot overcomes many obstacles to find his way home, the story is also filled with humour. What role does humour play in a book such as this? How did you set out to create such funny scenes?

Humour’s great for establishing connections. It can bond a reader to a character, or to the writer. One of the things I love most about the Harry Potter books is Rowling’s voice. She’s extremely funny, and you’re instantly drawn in by that. You form a relationship with her voice and the way she describes things. Same as when you meet somebody new. If they make you laugh, you drop your guard, and it puts you at ease, lets you in. Humour can be great for throwing the reader off-balance, too. It can turn everything on its head. If things have been going along in a similar fashion for some time, dramatically speaking, a joke can reset everything, like a palate cleanser. It’s critical that humour comes naturally, though, that it’s never forced. Mostly I’m not aware of when I’m writing a funny scene, it just happens when it happens. It needs to be organic.

One of the strengths of your writing involves your ability to visually carry your audience through new landscapes. We swim in oceans, cross deserts, climb mountains, and encounter pirate ships, all presented in striking detail. How do you explain this cinematic ability to craft a story? Has it always been with you?

I was a filmmaker for twenty years, so that has something to do with it. But when I write, I try to visualize the scene first, and then describe what I’m seeing. And there’s always this internal debate about whether or not to include something. I appreciate brevity, so I’m always looking for a few key details, the ones that will bring the scene to life for the reader most efficiently.

When Elliot enters the desert, for example, I realized what gave the truest sense of wonder about the place wasn’t the plains of sand or the rolling dunes, but the sky, and just how enormous it was. When you stand in the middle of a desert, there aren’t any trees or buildings blocking your view, so you can see the entire sky, which is really incredible. There also aren’t any clouds or light pollution, so at night, the stars are so clear, you feel like you’re floating out there in space along with them. Sometimes, the details that’ll serve you best aren’t the most obvious.

What advice do you have for young writers interested in polishing their craft?

Be persistent, be determined, be committed, and above all, be patient. Writing takes time. It took me five years to write this book, and a lifetime to work up to it. When I started The Boy Who Woke the Sun, I was forty-seven, and I still had a lot to learn, even though I’d spent decades writing screenplays. You need to study and practice. Read books about writing, take classes, watch videos—there are some great online master classes, enter contests, talk to other writers, consult with professionals to give you feedback, if you can. And read a lot. Not just good books, but bad ones, too. That’s important, because you need to understand what not to do. Delve into it all deeply, and keep at it. You’ll get better over time. It may not feel like it in the moment, but improving as a writer happens in slow motion. You pick things up gradually along the way, and they stick with you. No doubt you’ll feel discouraged from time to time, but that’s all part of the process. Feeling discouraged is just you pushing yourself to be better. You’ll have moments where you feel like you have no business being a writer, that you can’t write at all, etcetera, etcetera. But those are growing pains. Stick with it. It’s hard work, but don’t give up. If you want it badly enough, you’ll get there. Every bit of time and energy you put into it gets you that much closer.

Thank you, A. T. Woodley, for following your dreams and creating this story!