Continuing on with our series on everything we think we know about writing middle grade and why some of it may be wrong.

A few weeks ago we talked about how The Attention Economy Changed Everything.

Today, I want to expand on that slightly. We’re going to talk about how boredom, is the real villain.

There is a piece of advice about writing for kids that I think we have taken a little too far. “Kids have short attention spans.” You hear it everywhere. Heck, even I have said it.

• Keep the chapters short.

• Get to the action quickly.

• Use lots of white space.

• Don’t let a scene go on too long.

• Make sure something happens every few pages.

And while there is some truth buried in all of that, I think we’ve drawn the wrong conclusion.

Kids don’t have short attention spans. They have short patience for boredom.

There is a difference.

Give a kid a story they love, and suddenly they can sit for hours. They’ll read an entire book under the covers with a flashlight, sometimes in one sitting. They’ll play the same video game for an entire Saturday, or watch a three hour movie if they’re invested.

They’ll listen to their favorite YouTuber ramble about something incredibly specific for twenty minutes without blinking.

So maybe the problem isn’t attention span.

Maybe the problem is that boredom is the real villain of middle grade fiction.

And if you’re writing middle grade, boredom is the thing you should be hunting down in every scene.

Boring Isn’t the Same as Slow

This is where I think writers sometimes get themselves into trouble. We hear that kids get bored easily, so we start trying to make everything happen faster.

• Faster dialogue.

• Faster scenes.

• Faster action.

• Faster reveals.

• Faster everything.

The result can be a book that moves incredibly quickly but somehow feels completely lifeless because pace and speed aren’t the same thing.

A scene can be slow and still be fascinating. A kid walking through an abandoned house can be riveting, or maybe a character sitting at a lunch table can be hilarious.

Two friends arguing about something completely ridiculous can be more entertaining than a dragon fight. A character lying awake at night wondering whether their best friend still likes them can have enormous tension.

Nothing has to explode all the time, something just has to matter.

That’s the key.

Readers don’t need constant action. They need constant reasons to care.

Think About What Boredom Actually Feels Like

Imagine a twelve year old reading your chapter. They aren’t sitting there with a stopwatch.

They’re not thinking:

This scene has exceeded 1,200 words. I shall now abandon it.

They’re asking something much simpler.

“Why should I care what happens next?”

And if the answer isn’t obvious, they’re gone. Maybe not literally. Maybe they’ll keep reading another page. But they’ve started looking for an exit and a reason to DNF your book.

That’s what boredom feels like.

It’s not necessarily that nothing is happening. It’s that nothing feels important.

Your character might be walking through the school hallway, but what if they’re trying to avoid the kid who stole their backpack?

Now that hallway matters.

Your character might be sitting in math class, but what if they’ve just realized the substitute teacher is actually the monster they’ve been looking for?

Now math class matters.

Your character might be eating lunch, but what if their best friend has just announced they’re moving away?

Now lunch matters.

The setting didn’t change, and the activity didn’t change.

The stakes changed.

That’s where middle grade storytelling gets powerful.

Kids Will Read About Almost Anything If You Make It Matter

One of the mistakes we make as writers is assuming kids only want exciting things.

• They want dragons.

• They want monsters.

• They want explosions.

• They want magic.

• They want quests.

• They want hilarious disasters.

And sure. Those things are great. I want those things! But kids don’t necessarily care about those things because they’re inherently exciting.

They care because those things create problems they desperately want to see solved.

• The monster is interesting because your character is trapped in the bathroom with it.

• The dragon is interesting because your character has to convince it not to eat his little brother.

• The magical kingdom is interesting because your character has three days to save it.

• The school is interesting because your character is about to walk into the cafeteria wearing two completely different shoes.

The problem creates the story and problems don’t have to be world ending. In fact, one of the great advantages of middle grade is that they don’t have to be.

To an adult, being embarrassed in front of the entire sixth grade might seem relatively minor.

To a twelve-year-old? Wow! It can feel like the end of civilization.

That’s enough.

The Villain Doesn’t Have to Be a Villain

When you’re revising a middle grade manuscript, I think it’s useful to stop asking:

“What happens in this scene?”

Instead ask:

“What is the character trying to do, and what is making it difficult?”

That’s where the energy comes from.

• Your character wants to get through the school day without anyone finding out about the embarrassing thing they did.

• Your character wants to convince their parents to let them go on the trip.

• Your character wants to beat their rival.

• Your character wants their friend back.

• Your character wants to get home before anyone realizes they’re missing.

• Your character wants to figure out what’s making that scratching sound inside the wall.

Those desires create forward motion.

And I want you to notice something: None of those require an explosion.

They require friction.

If your character wants something and something is standing in the way, the reader has a reason to keep going.

The “Something Must Happen” Rule

I think there’s another piece of writing advice worth reconsidering:

“Something needs to happen in every scene.”

Technically, yes. But I would rewrite that rule slightly.

Something needs to change in every scene.

That’s different.

A character can enter a scene wanting one thing and leave wanting something completely different.

• They can learn something.

• Lose something.

• Discover something.

• Misunderstand something.

• Make a decision.

• Change their mind.

• Make a new enemy.

• Make a new friend.

• Realize they’ve been wrong.

• Realize they’re right.

• Or simply make their problem much, much worse.

That is movement, and movement is what keeps a story alive.

Sometimes the most exciting scene in a book is the one where a character discovers that the thing they thought was true isn’t true at all.

Guess what? No explosions required.

Read Your Manuscript Like a Kid

Here’s an exercise I love. Take your manuscript and forget that you’re the author. Forget your intentions. Forget how hard the scene was to write. Forget the beautiful sentence you’re particularly proud of. Forget that the information in this chapter becomes important three chapters later.

Read it like a kid. And every time you feel yourself thinking:

Okay, get to the point.

Mark it.

Every time you think:

Why are they telling me this?

Mark it.

Every time you think:

I already understand this.

Mark it.

Every time you find yourself skimming?

That’s a warning light.

You don’t necessarily need to cut the scene, but you may need to figure out why the scene stopped pulling you forward.

• Maybe the character isn’t trying to accomplish anything.

• Maybe the conflict is too weak.

• Maybe the information could be delivered through action instead of explanation.

• Maybe the scene begins too early.

• Maybe it ends too late.

• Maybe the stakes aren’t clear.

• Maybe the character’s desire isn’t strong enough.

Or maybe the scene is doing exactly what you intended but what you intended simply isn’t interesting enough.

That’s okay.

That’s what revision is for.

Don’t Write Faster. Write With More Tension.

This is probably the biggest lesson I’ve learned. When a middle grade manuscript feels boring, my first instinct used to be to speed it up.

• Shorter chapters.

• Shorter scenes.

• Less description.

• More dialogue.

• More action.

Sometimes that works. The first two Iggy & Oz books did just that. But often the better solution is simpler:

Give the character something they desperately want

1. Then put something in the way.

2. Then make the situation worse.

3. Then give them a choice.

4. Then make the choice matter.

That’s story. And you can do that in a haunted castle, or in a middle-school cafeteria. You can do it on a spaceship, at summer camp, in the back seat of a minivan or even do it during math class.

Because the thing that keeps a middle grade reader turning pages isn’t necessarily spectacle.

It’s curiosity.

• What happens next?

• Will they get caught?

• Will they make it?

• Will their friend forgive them?

• What is behind that door?

• Why is the teacher acting weird?

• What happens if they push the button?

• Can they stop the monster?

• Can they fix what they broke?

• Can they make it home before Mom finds out?

That’s the engine.

So yes, write short chapters if they serve the story. Use white space if it makes the book more inviting, start scenes late and keep the story moving.

But don’t mistake those techniques for the actual solution.

The solution is not making your book faster. It’s making your book matter.

Because kids aren’t afraid of a 3,000 word chapter.

They’re afraid of a boring one.

And as middle grade writers, that’s the villain we should be hunting.

Make your protagonist relatable.

I sort of understand where this advice comes from. Kids want characters they can understand. They want characters who feel emotionally real. They want to see pieces of themselves on the page and they certainly don’t want to see a middle aged dad be the hero.

But I think we have taken that idea too far. Because I don’t think kids are primarily looking for relatable heroes. At least not with Gen Alpha.

I think what they’re looking for are aspirational heroes.

And there is a pretty big difference.

A relatable character says, I’m like you.

An aspirational character says, You could become like me.

That second one, is pretty powerful.

Think about the stories kids have historically fallen in love with. They aren’t necessarily stories about ordinary kids having ordinary lives. They’re actually stories about kids who discover something extraordinary inside themselves.

Harry Potter discovers he belongs to another world.

Percy Jackson discovers he’s a demigod.

Katniss Everdeen becomes a symbol of rebellion.

Luke Skywalker leaves Tatooine and becomes something far greater than the farm boy he was because he is the new hope.

Peter Parker is an awkward kid who suddenly has the ability to do extraordinary things.

Even when the protagonist begins as an ordinary kid, the story usually isn’t about how ordinary they are.

It’s about who they might become.

That’s the part I think we sometimes forget when writing for children. Kids don’t need us to constantly remind them that they’re kids.

Trust me, they already know.

A kid already knows what it’s like to be afraid, or what it’s like to be left out. They know what it’s like to be embarrassed in front of their friends, and what it’s like to feel small, powerless, confused, or misunderstood.

They live that reality every day. What they don’t know yet is who they’re going to become. That’s where fiction comes in.

One of the cool things about middle grade novels is they can give a child a glimpse of that person.

The brave person.

The clever person.

The loyal friend.

The kid who stands up when everyone else backs down.

The kid who faces the monster.

The kid who tells the truth.

The kid who takes responsibility.

The kid who screws everything up and gets back up again.

The kid who discovers that courage doesn’t mean you’re never afraid. It means you do the right thing when you’re afraid.

That’s what an aspirational character is.

And I think aspiration is one of the great gifts of children’s fiction. We shouldn’t be afraid of giving kids heroes who are larger than life. In fact, I think we should be careful about doing the opposite.

Sometimes, in our attempt to make characters relatable, we sand away everything that makes them heroic. We make them flawed enough to be believable, but not exceptional enough to be inspiring. We give them anxiety, insecurity, social awkwardness, a bunch of family problems or school problems, friendship problems, and every other blasted problem imaginable.

And those things can absolutely belong in middle grade fiction. Don’t get me wrong.

But the question shouldn’t simply be:

“Will a kid relate to this character?”

The better question is:

“What will a kid want to become because of this character?”

That’s a different question, and I think it leads us to different stories.

Imagine a twelve year old reading about a protagonist who is exactly as insecure as they are. That can be comforting. Sure. But imagine that same twelve year old reading about a protagonist who is terrified but still walks into the dark.

Now they’re not just seeing themselves. They’re seeing themselves becoming braver.

That’s the magic of writing aspirational characters.

This is particularly important in middle grade because this is an age of enormous transition. Kids are just beginning to figure out who they are and they’re testing identities. They’re trying figure out what kind of friend they want to be, what kind of person they want to become, what they value, and even what they’re capable of.

Stories can give them models.

Not perfect models.

Aspirational ones.

The hero can fail. YEP!

The hero can be scared. YOU BET!

The hero can make a terrible decisions. THEY DO!

The hero can be selfish, stubborn, awkward, impulsive, or completely clueless. But underneath all of that, there needs to be something worth aspiring toward.

Because the kid isn’t necessarily asking:

“Is this kid just like me?”

Sometimes they’re asking:

“Could I be that brave?”

“Could I do that?”

“Would I stand up if that happened to me?”

“Could I become that kind of person?”

Those are much more interesting questions and they’re questions that middle grade fiction is uniquely positioned to answer.

So yes, make your characters emotionally authentic, believable, give them flaws and let them struggle.

Basically let them be kids.

But don’t confuse relatable with ordinary.

And don’t confuse representation with imitation.

Kid don’t need every protagonist to be a mirror. Sometimes they need a window and a doorway. Sometimes they need a hero standing on the other side of the page saying:

Come on. You can do this too.

That’s what an aspirational hero offers. Not a reflection of who a child already is.

A vision of who they might become, and I think kids are hungry for that.

By the way, my new book, How to Write Middle Grade, is now available for pre-order as an ebook exclusively on Kindle. The paperback will be coming later.

The book began as a serialized series here on Substack, where I spent a year working through the things I’ve learned about writing middle grade. It collects some of my best thoughts on characters, reluctant readers, humor, story structure, and what makes middle grade fiction work.

If you’ve enjoyed the conversations here, the book pulls many of those ideas together in one place.

Snag a Copy

That’s fine. I’m not really the type of person who likes to sugarcoat everything just to make sure nobody gets upset.

Over the past few weeks, we’ve seen two major creators accused of using AI.

Did they use it? I honestly have no idea. And quite frankly, I don’t really care.

I make my stuff, I write my books, I market my books, I’m honestly too busy trying to keep up with my own to do list.

What other people do is their business.

I’m also not particularly interested in jumping on whatever flavor of the week the Rage Brigade has decided we should all be angry about.

But there is something I do care about.

I know authors who are genuinely afraid they are going to be falsely accused of using AI.

Some have started dictating their books, others are handwriting manuscripts. I do both of these actually partly because my wild ADHD brain finds it strangely relaxing. I know several who are obsessively documenting their writing process because they’re afraid that someday, someone will point at their work and say:

“AI wrote this.”

Even though it didn’t.

So that’s the question. What do you do if someone falsely accuses you of using AI?

Here’s what I would do.

1. Ignore it.

Seriously, just keep posting on your social media. Keep doing your writing, leep talking about your books, and keep showing up.

Don’t suddenly disappear because somebody decided to make an accusation.

The internet has the attention span of a goldfish with a caffeine addiction. Today you’re the villain. Next week somebody else will be.

If you go silent, you’ve allowed somebody else’s outrage to determine your content calendar.

Don’t do that. You don’t owe the internet a twelve-part documentary explaining how you wrote Chapter 17. You don’t need to produce screenshots of every Google Doc revision you’ve ever made. You don’t need to prove your innocence to every anonymous account with a profile picture of a cat.

Keep moving.

2. Troll them right back.

Now this is probably what I would do. So take this piece of advice with a grain of salt. And I say this not because I think authors should spend their lives fighting with strangers online. But because I’m not particularly interested in allowing somebody else’s ridiculous accusation to intimidate me.

If someone sends me a hateful DM, I’m probably going to have some fun with it.

If somebody leaves an obnoxious comment, I might answer with something that makes them wish they’d never hit send.

Because here’s the thing:

For every five people screaming at you, there are probably fifteen people who aren’t screaming at you at all.

They’re reading, they’re watching, and they’re quietly supporting you. And some of them are perfectly willing to stand up and say, “Hey, that’s not true.” Don’t underestimate the silent majority simply because the loudest people have the biggest megaphones.

3. Take a break if you need one.

And then come back. There’s nothing wrong with stepping away from social media for a week if the whole thing is getting to you.

Take a breath, go write, read a book, spend time with your family.

Then come back.

What I would not do is make the accusation the center of my entire online existence. Because the moment you do that, you’ve handed the critic control of your content.

They attack.

You defend.

They attack again.

You defend again.

Then somebody else jumps in.

Now you’re explaining yourself to three different people on four different platforms while your actual book sits untouched on your desk.

That’s a terrible trade.

And eventually, you find yourself trapped in an endless cycle of attack and defend.

Don’t let them set the agenda.

And yes, let’s talk about AI.

AI sucks. People who use it to spit out large blocks of text also suck.

There. I said it. Are there tools that use AI that can be useful?

Sure, there are. I’m not going to pretend otherwise.

You get to decide where your line in the sand is. Not someone raging online. Maybe you won’t use any AI whatsoever, maybe you’ll use certain tools for certain tasks. Maybe your line is somewhere completely different from mine.

Fine. Draw your line, know where it is, and stick to it.

But once you’ve made that decision, stop obsessing over defending it.

You have a book to write. That’s what matters most.

So sit down. Write the best blasted book you can. Make it funny, make it scary, make it beautiful, make kids stay up past their bedtime because they can’t put it down.

Then go write the next one.

Because here’s the uncomfortable truth: You cannot control what other people say about you. You can control whether you let them derail you.

And if the Rage Brigade comes knocking at your door?

Well...

Hopefully you’ve got thick enough skin to deal with them.

Because they’re going to move on eventually.

They always do.

And when they do, you should still be standing there doing exactly what you were doing before they showed up:

Writing your books.

If you’re interested, I’ve started a new YouTube channel called Geeky Dads Read.

I’ve been rather discontent with social media for a while. I just don’t enjoy hanging out in those spaces anymore. So my social media strategy has become simple: post, then check in once a day.

I have readers in multiple places, so I don’t feel comfortable just walking away. And I still have friends there. But I don’t scroll anymore. I’ve fought hard to break that habit.

What I do miss is the social aspect that social media used to have.

That’s what Geeky Dads Read is about: getting dads to stop the scroll and read more. I’ll be sharing book recommendations, reviews, top-ten lists, and live interviews as we move forward.

And no, it’s not just for dads. Moms are absolutely welcome, too.

So if you want to hop over and join the community that a few of us are trying to build, come on over.

Today I want to focus on another assumption we make about writing Middle grade and why it’s wrong. If you’ve spent any time around schools, libraries, or publishing, you’ve probably heard some version of this statement:

“Boys just don’t like to read.”

It’s repeated so often that it’s become accepted as fact.

But I don’t think it’s true.

I think it’s incomplete.

Because the moment you say boys don’t like to read, I can introduce you to the kid who has memorized every Diary of a Wimpy Kid book. Or the one who has read every Percy Jackson novel twice. Or the kid who spends every afternoon devouring manga. Or the fourth grader who knows more about World War II than most adults because he’s checked out every nonfiction book his school library owns.

Those boys aren’t avoiding reading. They’re reading exactly what interests them. And that’s an important distinction.

As middle-grade writers, we don’t have the luxury of blaming readers. Our job is to understand them.

Interest Comes Before Habit

One of the biggest misconceptions about reluctant readers is that they lack discipline. In reality, many of them lack discovery. They simply haven’t found their book yet.

Think about your own reading life.

Do you enjoy every genre equally?

Probably not. I know I don’t. Toss a romance in front of me and I’m out. I want space battles, fast pace, and magical wizards on epic quests.

You might be the same. Some of you may love science fiction but bounce off historical fiction. You might devour mysteries while avoiding romance. You may have shelves full of fantasy novels but haven’t picked up a biography in years.

No one looks at that and concludes you dislike reading. They conclude you have preferences.

Kids deserve the same grace.

Let’s look briefly at the next point.

Reading Looks Different Today

When people say boys aren’t reading, they’re often talking about novels. But reading is much broader than that.

Many boys spend hours reading graphic novels, comic books, gaming guides, sports articles, instruction manuals, online fan communities, or encyclopedic entries about their favorite hobbies.

Is that the same as reading a 300-page novel? Ugh… No.

But it demonstrates something important:

They’re willing to read when the subject captures their imagination.

Because here is an important point. Interest opens the door, and confidence usually follows.

Which leads me to the most important lesson I’ve learned about writing middle-grade stories.

Stop Trying to Impress Adults

Some middle-grade books feel like they were written to impress teachers, librarians, or award committees. There’s nothing inherently wrong with writing beautifully. But somewhere along the way, we’ve occasionally forgotten who the primary audience is.

Kids.

Kids don’t always want what adults want. Especially boys. Who often want stories that move. They want humor. They like adventure, mystery, danger, friendship and embarrassing moments.

Boys want impossible situations, characters who make bad decisions, plots that refuse to sit still.

None of this means boys can’t appreciate emotional depth. What it means is that emotional depth usually works best when it’s wrapped inside an engaging story.

Think about the books boys recommend to one another. Rarely do they begin with, “The prose was incredible.”

Instead they say things like:

“You have to read this.”

“Wait until you get to chapter six.”

“This part is hilarious.”

“I couldn’t stop reading.”

That’s not shallow reading. That’s engagement. And that’s what the issue is with a lot of Middle-Grade.

Because here is the reality…

The Right Book Changes Everything

Nearly every teacher or librarian has a story about the student who claimed to hate reading. Then they discovered one series.

Suddenly they were asking for the sequel. They’re reading under the desk. Borrowing books for weekends. Recommending titles to friends.

What changed? It wasn’t the child.

It was the match.

Finding the right book can transform a reluctant reader into an eager one almost overnight. That’s one of the great privileges of writing middle grade.

We don’t just tell stories. Sometimes we hand a child the first book they’ve ever loved.

And that’s the best feeling ever. Which means…

Write for the Reader in Front of You

If your goal is to reach reluctant readers—especially boys—don’t begin by asking how to make them read. Start by asking what would make them forget they’re reading.

Would they laugh?

Would they stay up past bedtime because they have to know what happens next?

Would they shove the book into a friend’s hands and say, “You have to read this”?

Honestly that’s the standard worth chasing. It’s what I chase. Not because boys are incapable of reading. But because every child deserves a story that makes reading feel less like homework and more like an adventure.

When we stop asking why boys don’t read, and start asking what kinds of stories they can’t put down, we begin writing different books.

And those are often the books that create lifelong readers.

Let’s Talk

Have you ever watched a child go from saying, “I hate reading,” to becoming completely absorbed in a particular book or series?

What was the book and what do you think made it click? Let me know in the comments or hop into the chat.

Next week in our series Everything We Think We Know About Writing Middle Grade (And Why Some of It Is Wrong), we’ll explore why Your First Chapter Is Selling a Promise.

The Attention Economy Changed the Rules

Not long ago, books had fewer competitors.

A kid might have ridden their bike, watched Saturday morning cartoons, played outside until the streetlights came on, or picked up a book. Reading wasn’t the only option, but it was one of the better ones.

Today, that’s no longer true.

A middle grader can watch endless videos, play games with friends across the country, text classmates, scroll memes, build worlds in Minecraft, or watch someone else play a game for three hours straight. Every one of those experiences is designed to grab attention and refuse to let go.

And yet, I still hear people say, “Kids just don’t have the attention span they used to.”

I’m honestly not convinced that is true.

Watch a twelve-year-old spend two hours building the perfect world in Minecraft. Watch them memorize hundreds of Pokémon. Watch them explain every twist in their favorite fantasy video game series. Watch them binge a television show over a weekend.

Attention isn’t gone.

Attention has become expensive.

As middle grade writers, that’s an important distinction.

Our competition isn’t another author on the bookstore shelf. Our competition is every notification, every game, every video, every app, and every other thing asking for a kid’s attention.

That sounds discouraging until you realize something else.

The same kid who spends hours glued to a game can also disappear into a book they love.

We’ve all seen it happen. The child who “hates reading” suddenly devours an entire series. The student who never checks out books from the library starts asking when the next installment comes out. The reluctant reader becomes an enthusiastic reader almost overnight.

What changed?

Usually, it wasn’t the child.

It was the book.

That’s why I believe middle grade authors should spend less time worrying about page count and more time thinking about momentum.

Every page is making a promise.

Every chapter is asking the reader to turn one more page.

Every scene is competing with a thousand other ways a kid could spend the next five minutes.

That’s not a reason to panic. It’s a reason to write with intention.

One of the biggest mistakes I see is treating the opening chapter like a runway.

Writers spend pages explaining the world, introducing every important character, setting up future conflict, and making sure readers understand everything before the story begins.

Meanwhile, the reader is still waiting for the story to begin.

Kids are remarkably patient once you’ve earned their trust.

But you have to earn it first.

That doesn’t mean every book needs explosions on page one. It doesn’t mean nonstop action.

It does mean curiosity.

Questions.

Voice.

Humor.

Momentum.

Give readers something that makes them wonder, laugh, worry, or smile before you ask them to absorb your worldbuilding.

Once they’re invested, they’ll happily follow you almost anywhere.

Think about your favorite middle grade novels. Chances are, you weren’t hooked because the author explained the magic system in exquisite detail.

You kept reading because you cared about someone.

Or something strange happened.

Or the voice made you laugh.

Or you simply needed to know what happened next.

That’s the real currency of today’s attention economy.

Curiosity.

Not spectacle.

As writers, we can’t out-compete YouTube at being YouTube.

We can’t beat video games by writing like video games.

But we can do something those mediums can’t.

We can invite readers inside someone else’s thoughts. We can make them laugh out loud in the middle of class. We can make them care so much that they forget to check their phone.

That’s still powerful.

Maybe more powerful than ever.

From the Backpack

Here’s a challenge for this week.

Open your manuscript and read only the first three pages.

Then ask yourself one question:

What has the reader become curious about?

Not what have you explained.

Not what have you introduced.

What question have you planted that makes someone want to keep reading?

If you can’t answer that in one sentence, your opening may need more curiosity and less setup.

Let’s Talk

When you think about the books you couldn’t put down as a kid— or even the ones you can’t put down now— what grabbed you first?

Was it the voice? The mystery? The humor? A character?

I’d love to hear your answer in the comments, or the chat.

Here’s what’s coming

📚 The Attention Economy Changed the Rules
📚 Boys Don’t Hate Reading
📚 Your First Chapter Is Selling a Promise
📚 The Uncool Hero Wins
📚 In Defense of Gross Humor
📚 Kids Aren’t Looking for Relatable
📚 The Reluctant Reader Doesn’t Exist
📚 Voice Isn’t Vocabulary
📚 Plot Is Just Escalation
📚 Boredom Is the Real Villain
📚 Stop Teaching Lessons
📚 Write the Book Kids Won’t Shut Up About

If you write middle grade— or maybe you want to write stories kids actually can’t put down— I think you’re going to enjoy this series.

Today, they’re selling out stadiums across the country, drawing millions of views online, and have become one of the most talked-about sports entertainment brands in America.

Most people look at their success and say, “Great marketing.”

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That doesn’t mean young readers are disappearing. It means the storytelling expectations are changing faster than the market is adapting. And Upper Middle Grade may actually be better positioned for the future than much of modern YA.

A few weeks ago I appeared on the Christian Publishing Show with Thomas Umstattd Jr. Give it a listen if you haven’t already. One of the things we talked about was how storytelling feels like it’s shifting right now for Gen Alpha

For years, YA has been shaped by older readers. Publishers know it. Authors know it. And a significant portion of the YA sales comes from adults in their twenties and thirties. That reality slowly changed the category itself. Books became longer. More introspective. More emotionally layered. More focused on identity discourse, internal monologue, and slow-burn relationships.

Meanwhile, Gen Alpha is growing up in an entirely different environment. And considering Gen Aplha dates all the way up until 2024, it means they are going to be the predominant readers for Middle Grade for awhile. They are also the generation moving into the Upper Middle Grade and YA market.

This generation has been raised inside a nonstop stream of narrative competition. YouTube. TikTok. Minecraft roleplay. Roblox stories. Livestreams. Discord communities. Manga. Anime. Video essays. Interactive storytelling. AI-generated content. Infinite entertainment, that is always available instantly.

As a result, Gen Alpha has developed a very low tolerance for narrative drag.

Not because they are incapable of focus. I hear that a lot, and the theory is just plain wrong. That argument misses the point entirely. Because here is the deal. Kids will still spend six hours building worlds in Minecraft or watching lore videos about games most adults have never heard of. The issue is not attention span. The issue is engagement.

Modern YA often assumes patience before payoff.

Gen Alpha expects payoff while moving.

This is where Upper Middle Grade has a massive advantage.

Upper MG still tends to understand pacing instinctively. The stories move quickly. Chapters end with hooks. Characters pursue clear goals. Humor and danger often exist side by side. Friendship dynamics matter. The stakes escalate consistently, and there is usually an adventure engine driving the story forward.

A lot of YA, by contrast, has become emotionally interior.

Many contemporary YA novels feel less like stories unfolding and more like emotional states being observed for four hundred pages. Scenes stretch longer than they need to. Dialogue circles around the same tensions repeatedly. Entire chapters function as thematic reinforcement rather than momentum.

Older Gen Z readers tolerated this because they were raised during the Tumblr era of internet culture, where emotional articulation itself became a form of identity. But Gen Alpha communicates differently. It’s Faster. Stranger. More ironic. More layered with humor.

They are deeply suspicious of anything that feels performative. (Which is why I’m adamant against author automation. But that is a different rant for a different day.)

This deep suspicion of performative may be one of YA’s biggest problems moving forward.

A surprising number of YA protagonists no longer sound like actual teenagers. They sound like adults carefully constructing idealized versions of teenage consciousness. Characters often speak with an almost therapeutic self-awareness that feels socially optimized rather than authentic.

But Gen Alpha has spent their entire lives online. (And before you argue that parents are giving their kids less screen time let me assure you that’s non-sense. The majority of public schools issue chrome books. Kids are online. Roku TV’s all come with YouTube. Kids use discord. Get the idea that they aren’t digital out of your head. They are online and they have been raised online.) The point is they know what performance looks like. They can sense when dialogue is trying to sound Important instead of true.

Real teenagers are messy contradictions. They are insecure and arrogant at the same time. Funny and cruel. Deeply lonely while pretending not to care. Obsessed with ridiculous things one minute and existentially afraid the next.

Upper MG, those writing for the 12 - 15 year old age range, still allow characters to behave this way more naturally.

However, current YA increasingly pressures characters to function as representatives of ideas rather than kids trying to survive life.

That distinction matters.

Another challenge is tone.

Gen Alpha humor is absurd, rapid-fire, and emotionally defensive. They process seriousness through jokes, memes, references, and irony. A story that takes itself too seriously too quickly risks losing them.

This does not mean Gen Alpha cannot handle depth. In fact, they may crave emotional honesty more than previous generations. But they want sincerity that emerges organically through story and character, not through speeches or thematic framing.

Upper MG often succeeds here because it naturally blends wonder, danger, humor, and heart without overexplaining itself.

YA sometimes forgets that stories need oxygen.

There is also the issue of digital realism. Much of contemporary YA still feels strangely disconnected from how young people actually experience life online. Social media is either awkwardly inserted or barely acknowledged at all. Yet for Gen Alpha, digital life is not separate from real life. (Don’t make me go on another rant) Reputation, identity, friendships, humor, conflict, and belonging are all filtered through connected spaces.

Ignoring that reality can make a contemporary YA novel feel outdated before it even releases. And yes I know, a lot of YA is fantasy right now, and there are those books that do deal with the digital emotions of teenage life.

Perhaps the biggest issue AND what I’m ultimately trying to say is this: Gen Alpha is growing up during an era of institutional exhaustion.

They are inheriting instability. Economic fear. AI anxiety. Loneliness. Distrust in systems. Endless noise. Endless content. Endless outrage.

Because of that, they may hunger for stories with older storytelling virtues hidden beneath modern packaging instead.

Adventure.
Loyalty.
Courage.
Sacrifice.
Friendship.
Competence.
Wonder.
Hope earned through struggle.

Not necessarily simplistic morality. But clarity. Direction. Characters who choose something meaningful and act.

Upper MG already leans naturally toward these elements. YA, meanwhile, often remains trapped in cycles of deconstruction, emotional ambiguity, and internal paralysis.

That may not connect with the next generation nearly as deeply as the industry expects.

The future likely belongs to stories that combine the best elements of both categories: the momentum and wonder of Upper MG with the emotional complexity of YA. Stories that move fast without becoming shallow. Stories that are funny without becoming cynical. Stories that understand internet culture without sounding like marketing departments trying to imitate it.

Gen Alpha will still read.

But they may force YA to rediscover something it has slowly forgotten:

Young readers do not just want stories that understand their feelings.

They want stories that take them somewhere.

These are the last few days to grab the special pre-order of my new Middle Grade novel Surviving the Midnight Hurl at Camp Whurl.

There are two options available…

Option One: Camp Survivor Edition

Survive the night. Question everything.

• Early access eBook

• Exclusive Signed paperback (First Printing edition)

• Camp Hurl Survivor Swag Pack

$17.99

Option Two: Midnight Hurl Edition

You’re not just a camper. Your’re part of the mystery.

• Early access eBook

• Exclusive Signed paperback (First Printing edition)

• Camp Hurl Survivor Swag Pack

• Your name printed inside the book

$22.99

Grab the Midnight Hurl

Before we talk about school visits, I wanted to mention I have a new middle-grade humor book available for preorder!

One thing I’m especially excited about is that you can order directly from my publisher. That means bypassing the third-party distributors and getting a signed copy, plus early access to the ebook before publication. Not to mention swag! Who doesn’t love some swag! To options avaiable. One for $17.99 and the other for $22.99. Both are excellent deals and only last until MAY 23rd. So don’t wait! Get them while they’re still available.

Check out the link below, and thanks so much for the support. It truly means a lot.

Camp & Midnight Survive Editions

When I go into school visits, I always have a plan. Talking points, stories, a sense of how I think the day will go.

And then… I meet fifth graders.

I’ve learned pretty quickly that the plan is really just a starting point. And you will too once you have done a few. Because once the questions start, things tend to take a turn—fast. One minute we’re talking about writing books, and the next I’m being asked if I’ve ever been chased by a bear, whether I prefer pizza or tacos as my “author fuel,” or if I think naps should be required during school hours.

This week one kid actually asked me if you had to be old, like me, in order to be an author. The questions are wild.

And honestly? That’s where the fun is.

This week I met with three different fifth grade classes. And not every question was about writing. Not even close. But the curiosity is real, and it’s unpredictable in the best way. They’re funny without trying to be, brutally honest in a way adults forgot how to be, and completely unafraid to ask whatever pops into their heads.

What I’ve come to appreciate most is that school visits aren’t really performances or lectures. They’re conversations—sometimes chaotic, often hilarious, and occasionally derailed by a completely unexpected question that sends the whole room laughing.

And somehow, in the middle of all that, we still talk about stories, creativity, and what it means to make things from imagination.

So yes, I go in with a plan. But I’ve learned the real skill is holding it loosely enough to follow wherever the kids take it. And that’s my advice. Don’t take your plan seriously. Be willing to be flexible. And the most important part of a school visit- it’s about the kids. Not you.

Because when you make it about them you’ll learn: the best moments usually show up anyway.

When we talk about middle grade stories, we often start with plot. The adventure. The mystery. The big bad problem to solve. And those things do matter. They’re the engine that keeps pages turning. But if you strip a middle grade novel down to the studs, what actually makes it stick with a reader isn’t the plot.

It’s the emotional core.

It’s what the story feels like to a kid who’s right in the middle of becoming someone new.

Middle grade readers are in a very specific season of life. They’re not little kids anymore, but they’re not teenagers either. They’re starting to notice the world differently—and, maybe more importantly, they’re starting to notice themselves differently. That shift is where your story lives.

So what do kids actually care about at this age?

Let’s start with friendship, because this is often ground zero.

In middle grade, friendship is no longer simple. It’s not just “we like the same games, so we’re best friends.” It’s layered. It’s fragile. It’s political in a way kids are just beginning to understand. Who sits with who. Who gets left out. Who changes over the summer. Who suddenly isn’t the same person anymore.

A fight between friends in a middle grade novel can carry as much emotional weight as a life-or-death situation in an adult thriller—because for that reader, it is that big.

And the key isn’t just showing the conflict. It’s showing the fear underneath it:
What if I lose my place?
What if I don’t belong anymore?
What if I’m the one being left behind?

That leads us right into another core concern: fairness.

Middle grade readers are deeply tuned into what’s fair and what isn’t. You’ll see this come up again and again in successful books—rules that don’t make sense, adults who are wrong, systems that feel stacked.

At this age, kids are starting to realize that the world doesn’t always work the way they were told it would. That realization can feel both confusing and energizing. They want to push back. They want to fix things. They want someone—maybe your main character—to say, “This isn’t right.”

That’s powerful territory for a story.

But fairness isn’t just about big systems. It can be small and personal. A sibling who gets treated differently. A teacher who doesn’t listen. A friend who breaks an unspoken rule. These moments hit just as hard because they feel immediate and real.

Then there’s identity, which is quietly humming under almost every middle grade story.

Kids at this age are asking questions they might not say out loud:
Who am I, really?
Where do I fit?
What kind of person do I want to be?

This doesn’t have to be handled in a heavy or overt way. In fact, it usually works better when it’s woven into the story rather than announced. A character trying out a new hobby. Choosing whether to stand up for someone. Deciding if they go along with a group or break away from it.

Identity in middle grade is often about first choices. First moments of self-definition.

And those choices matter, even if they look small from the outside.

Finally, there’s independence.

This is the age where kids start to push—gently or not—against the boundaries set for them. They want more control. More say. More room to make their own decisions, even if they’re not always ready for the consequences.

That tension is gold for storytelling.

You’ve got a character who wants to do something on their own, and a world that isn’t quite ready to let them. Or a character who is given independence and realizes it’s more complicated than they expected.

Either way, you’re tapping into something real: that mix of excitement and uncertainty that comes with growing up.

And here’s the thing that ties all of this together.

The plot of your middle grade novel—the mystery, the quest, the big external problem—is the vehicle. But the emotional core is the reason the reader stays in the car.

A kid might pick up your book because it sounds fun or intriguing. They’ll keep reading because they recognize something in it. A feeling they’ve had but maybe didn’t have the words for yet.

So when you’re working on your story, it can be helpful to ask a slightly different question. Not just “What happens next?” but:

What is my character afraid of losing?
What are they trying to protect?
What are they just beginning to understand about themselves?

If you can answer those questions, you’re not just building a plot.

You’re building something that feels real.

And that’s what middle grade readers are really looking for, whether they know how to say it or not.

Descendant Publishing is trying something different—and honestly, it’s the kind of move that just makes sense. They’re stepping into the middle-grade space and going straight to where readers are, bringing books directly to homeschool conventions and connecting with families face-to-face.

This year, they launched a new imprint I’m especially excited about being part of: Paths to Portals Books.

If you’ve got kids (or nieces, nephews, grandkids), it’s worth jumping on their newsletter so you can keep up with what’s coming next.

And on a personal note—book one in my series drops this summer. I’m really looking forward to getting it into readers’ hands.

Paths to Portals Books

But middle grade isn’t dead. It’s been misunderstood.

This is something I’ve been saying and recently shared by Vicky Weber - which ask for my thoughts on. It’s a good article and I do recommend reading it.

My Literary Life

Middle Grade Is "Dead" And I Think That's Good News

I say this at conferences a lot. I’ve been saying it for about a year, actually, ever since a conversation with a large publisher that genuinely rearranged something in my brain. I’ve been meaning to…

Read more

5 months ago · 273 likes · 92 comments · Vicky Weber

Yes, graphic novels are thriving. Kids are reading them in huge numbers, and for good reason. They’re accessible, fast-paced, and visually engaging.

But the conclusion many in the industry have drawn (that kids no longer want prose) is the wrong one. What kids have rejected isn’t reading. It’s a particular kind of reading experience that no longer meets them where they are.

A large part of the problem as was suggested in the above article can be traced back to the post Harry Potter era. The runaway success of that series reshaped expectations for middle grade fiction. Length became a marker of value. Publishers began acquiring and promoting longer, denser books, assuming that young readers would rise to meet them. And for a subset of strong, enthusiastic readers, that worked.

But that subset was never the whole audience. They were the exception.

Even before the pandemic, there was a wide range of reading ability and stamina among middle grade readers. And in the years since, that gap has only widened. Many kids are still building fluency and confidence. For them, a 350-page novel filled with dense paragraphs isn’t an invitation, it’s actually a barrier. They pick it up, flip through, see walls of text, and make a quick, rational decision: not this one.

That decision often gets misread as disinterest in reading itself.

In reality, these same kids will eagerly devour stories that feel approachable. Shorter chapters. More white space. A quicker narrative pace. Books that create momentum rather than demand endurance. This is one of the reasons graphic novels have surged—they remove friction. They offer story without the same cognitive load, and in doing so, they rebuild reading confidence.

But prose can do this too. It just hasn’t consistently been allowed to. Something I said in a previous post where I mentioned Middle-Grade readers don’t want “Homework Energy” in their books. See the below article

There has been a problem for awhile now. But we’re seeing wider push back. For years, there’s been a quiet push from educators, librarians, and some authors for middle grade that better reflects how kids actually read: leaner, faster, more visually breathable.

However, recently, even agents have started voicing the same observation. When books are designed with real readers in mind—not idealized ones—kids pick them up. They don’t just read them; they finish them. And finishing matters. It builds identity: I am a reader.

From there, everything opens up.

This isn’t an argument against graphic novels. On the contrary, their success offers a clear lesson. And I say this as a dad whose youngest would rather read Calvin & Hobbs. What graphic novels prove is that kids are hungry for stories. They show what happens when format aligns with audience needs. The mistake is treating them as competition rather than as evidence.

The real opportunity for middle grade lies in recalibration. Not a retreat from prose, but a rethinking of it. What would happen if more books were structured to invite rather than intimidate? If pacing, layout, and length were treated as central craft decisions rather than secondary concerns? If accessibility wasn’t seen as lowering the bar, but as widening the door?

There are already books doing this work, and they’re finding readers. The demand hasn’t disappeared, it’s just been waiting.

So my entire thesis is this.

Middle grade doesn’t need saving. It needs listening.

Kids have been telling us, through their choices, exactly what they want: stories that respect their time, their attention, and their current reading lives.

Our job is to meet them there, and trust that they will come. Not just to graphic novels, but to prose, to series, to entire shelves of possibility.

The state of middle grade is not decline. It’s correction.

And that’s a far more hopeful story.

There is still time- although it’s closing quickly- to register for my MASTERCLASS this weekend on writing humor. Even if you can’t make it, you have access to the recordings for the next three months

Register for Write2Ignite

Before we get on to today’s email I want to remind everyone of my Virtual Master Class taking place on Saturday, April 18th with Write 2 Ignite. I’ll be teach three sessions on infusing humor into your stories.

SESSION 1: Humor is More Than Jokes

SESSION 2: How Humor Changes by Age Group

SESSION 3: Toolbox – Building Hilarious Scenes

You can head over to Write2Ignite and join us on April 18th

Even if you can’t join us on that date- you have three months access to the recordings.

Register for Write2Ignite

The Hidden Power of White Space in Middle Grade Books

White space is doing more work in middle grade books than most writers realize.

It isn’t empty. It isn’t decorative. And it isn’t a concession to short attention spans.

I like to refer to White space as structural mercy.

One part I believe most moving from YA, or even the adult genres, is that Middle grade readers don’t move through text the way adults do. They scan before they commit. They feel the weight of a page before they read a word. A dense block of text signals effort for many kids. A page with breathing room signals invitation.

That First Glance Matters.

White space lowers the barrier to entry. It tells a reader, You can handle this. And for a kid who has been trained by school, screens, and constant evaluation to expect difficulty, that reassurance is powerful.

This is why reluctant readers often choose books that “look easy” even when the content isn’t. They’re responding to visual pacing, not vocabulary.

White space also controls rhythm. Short paragraphs accelerate momentum. Single-line beats create emphasis. A sudden break in the text forces the eye to pause, even if the story doesn’t. You as the author can use white space to speed up action, or sharpen emotional impact without changing a single sentence.

This is one part I think most miss. In middle grade, pacing is felt physically. A page with long paragraphs slows the body down. A page with varied spacing keeps the reader moving. This isn’t about dumbing things down. It’s about aligning the physical experience of reading with the emotional experience of the story.

White space also acts as a recovery zone.

Kids read amid interruptions. They’re pulled away and dropped back in repeatedly. A wall of text often subconsciously punishes re-entry. A page with space allows the reader to find their footing quickly. Each paragraph becomes a handhold. Each break helps them reorient without frustration.

This is one reason middle grade novels reread so well. The structure anticipates disruption and builds in forgiveness.

There’s also a confidence issue at play. Dense pages make kids feel behind before they start. White space builds momentum through small wins. Finishing a page quickly matters. It creates a sense of progress. Progress builds trust. And trust, keeps kids reading.

That sense of accomplishment is not trivial. It’s foundational.

White space also helps clarify thought.

Middle grade stories often deal with big emotions— fear, anger, shame, loneliness— but kids process those emotions differently than adults. They feel intensely, but they don’t linger on them abstractly. Breaking emotional beats into smaller visual units helps readers track what matters without drowning in it.

A single line surrounded by space says, Pay attention.
A paragraph break after a revelation says, Let this land.

This is not accidental. It’s design. Which is why I say writing Middle Grade is psychology.

White space also encourages voice.

Middle grade narrators often sound conversational, immediate, and present. That voice gets buried in long paragraphs. Shorter chunks allow the rhythm of speech to come through. The page starts to sound like a kid thinking, not an adult explaining.

That distinction is everything.

There’s also a educational effect writers rarely talk about. White space teaches stamina. By easing kids into longer reading sessions, it quietly expands their capacity. Readers who feel successful with spaced text are more willing to attempt denser books later. White space isn’t the end of reading development. It’s the on-ramp.

This is why trimming paragraphs during revision often strengthens a middle grade manuscript. You’re not removing depth. You’re redistributing it. Meaning doesn’t live in paragraph length. It lives in precision.

Of course, white space can be misused. Trust me, I’ve made some mistakes. Random line breaks without purpose feel gimmicky. Over-fragmentation (one of my weaknesses) can cheapen moments that deserve weight. Like any tool, it works best when it serves story rather than style.

But when used intentionally, white space becomes an invisible assistance.

It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t call attention to craft. It simply makes reading feel possible, then enjoyable, then inevitable.

That’s the hidden power.

White space doesn’t make middle grade books easier.

It makes them readable.

And for kids deciding whether to turn the page or put the book down, that difference is everything.

Now, let’s go write some non boring books for kids!

Maybe I should contact some indie bookstores and see if they’d let me do a signing.

It sounds simple enough. You imagine a small table, a stack of books, maybe a few readers wandering over while you sit there with a pen ready.

The reality is a little different.

Most indie bookstores have seen their share of lonely signings. An author shows up. The author’s mom shows up. Maybe one confused customer who thought the chair was part of the furniture.

It’s not that bookstores don’t want authors. They do. Indie bookstores love authors. What they don’t love are events that don’t bring readers through the door.

And this is where middle grade writers actually have a hidden advantage.

But first, you have to approach the relationship the right way.

Step One: Become a Regular Human Being

Before you ever ask for an event, go to the bookstore.

Buy books.

Talk to the staff.

Ask what kids are reading these days.

Indie bookstores are staffed by people who genuinely love books. If you ask them what middle grade titles are flying off the shelves, they will happily tell you.

And you’ll learn something useful too.

You’ll learn what real readers are actually buying, which is often very different from what the internet says is popular.

More importantly, you stop being a stranger.

When you later say, “Hey, I’m a local middle grade author,” you’re no longer some random email address asking for space in their store.

You’re the guy who comes in and buys books.

Step Two: Find the Right Person

Most bookstores have someone who handles events.

Sometimes it’s an event coordinator. Sometimes it’s the owner. Sometimes it’s the employee who accidentally said “yes” once and now runs the entire events calendar.

The easiest way to find out is simply to ask. “Who organizes author events?” That one sentence will get you pointed in the right direction.

Step Three: Don’t Pitch a Signing

Here’s the biggest mistake authors make.

They pitch a signing.

Bookstores don’t actually need signings. What bookstores need are events that bring people into the store.

This is where middle grade writers shine.

Kids events work.

Storytimes work.

Workshops work.

Families coming into the store on a Saturday afternoon to hear a story and let their kids draw dragons? That works.

So instead of asking for a signing, offer something more interesting.

A short reading.

A “Create Your Own Fantasy Creature” workshop.

A “How to Write Your Own Adventure Story” session.

Kids love this stuff.

Parents love it because it gets their kids off screens for an hour.

And bookstores love it because families walk through the door.

Step Four: Bring Your Own Audience

This is the part most authors miss.

Bookstores don’t expect you to fill the room, but they do appreciate authors who help promote the event.

If you mention that you can invite:

• homeschool groups

• local teachers

• church youth groups

• your email list

…suddenly the event becomes much more interesting.

You’re not just asking the bookstore for space. You’re bringing readers to them.

That changes the entire conversation.

Step Five: Make the Store’s Life Easy

Bookstores juggle a thousand things at once. Inventory. Events. Customers. Publishers. Coffee machines that refuse to cooperate.

If you make the event simple, they’ll appreciate it.

Offer something straightforward like I mentioned above.

A 30–45 minute program.

A reading.

A short activity for kids.

A chance to sign books afterward.

And let the store handle the book sales. Always.

They’re the bookstore. Let them sell the books.

Step Six: Think Long-Term

The real goal isn’t one signing. The real goal is a relationship.

Once a bookstore knows you can run a fun event that brings families into the store, something interesting happens.

They start inviting you back.

Summer reading events.

Holiday events.

School partnerships.

Book clubs.

And suddenly you’re not chasing events anymore. You’re part of the bookstore’s community.

The Secret Advantage of Middle Grade Authors

Here’s the thing many writers don’t realize. Middle grade authors are not just selling books.

They’re building readers.

Indie bookstores know this.

If you become known as the author who runs great kid events, encourages young readers, and supports the store, you become incredibly valuable to them.

Because every kid who walks through that door might become a lifelong reader. And every lifelong reader becomes a lifelong customer.

That’s good for the bookstore.

It’s good for the families.

And if we’re honest, it’s pretty good for the author too.

Not bad for what started as a simple thought:

Maybe I should call a bookstore.

My friend and fellow Middle-Grade author Laurie Christine just launched her new book. Check it out below.

Land of the Giants

A secret alliance, A dangerous mission, A deadly enemy.

Twelve-year-old Shem wants one thing—to become a warrior. But his father, Noah, is too busy building a giant ark to train him. The world mocks his family, and Shem is tired of feeling left out and embarrassed. He’s ready to trade his tools for a sword and show the Cobras, the toughest gang in the city, that he’s not just some weird kid with a crazy dad.

When Shem makes a secret deal with the son of a family rival, he finally gets the training he’s always wanted. But something isn’t right. Monstrous giants called Nephilites have invaded the land. And the dragon they serve is more dangerous than Shem ever imagined. If Shem wants to protect his family, he’ll have to learn what it really means to be a warrior.

Land of Giants is an action-packed Biblical adventure, perfect for readers who long to battle dragons, defy giants, and discover the true strength that comes from the King.

The Dragon Slayer Bible Series features Bible-based adventure stories and devotions for kids 8-12.

Get Land of the Giants

I try not to use this newsletter for self-promotion.

Most of the time, I’d rather talk about writing, storytelling, and how we can all get better at reaching middle grade readers. That’s the goal here.

But every now and then… I need to break my own rule.

And if I’m being honest, this is the part I’m not great at—asking for help.

So here it is.

I have a new middle grade novel releasing June 2nd with Descendant Publishing’s Path to Portals imprint:

Surviving the Midnight Hurl at Camp Whurl.

I’ve had an absolute blast working with this team, and we’ve got a cover reveal coming the week of April 6th, which means…

It’s time to build a launch team.

(Or, in less professional terms: I need a few brave volunteers willing to help me yell about this book on the internet.)

So, without further dramatic buildup, awkward transitions, or pretending this isn’t exactly what it is…

I’m launching:

Camp Legends

(The Official Street Team for Surviving the Midnight Hurl at Camp Whurl)

Camp Legends is a small group of readers who get some free books, exclusive content, and a few ridiculous camp perks…

In exchange for helping spread the word when the book launches.

What You Get

If you join Camp Legends, you’re getting a pretty solid stack of reads:

The Complete Iggy & Oz Collection
All four of my award winning middle grade novels in ebook

Bonus eBooks
Compulsion Novelette
The Chamber Novelette
My Friend Louie Novelette

Short Stories
Fourteen of my short stories in ebook format

Early Access
An advance ebook of my upcoming guide:
Writing Middle Grade Fiction delivered in Augist

Plus a few extras along the way:

• Sneak peeks at upcoming projects

• Early announcements

• Behind-the-scenes updates

• Occasional giveaways and fun surprises

What I’m Asking

Nothing crazy.

If you join Camp Legends, I’m simply asking that you:

• Join the cover reveal the week of April 6th

• Share the book during launch week

• Tell a few people who might enjoy it (parents, teachers, librarians, readers)

• If you read the book- Leave an honest review

That’s it.

No weird marketing hoops.
No copy-and-paste spam missions.

Just readers helping other readers find a good story.

Why This Matters

Books like this don’t grow because of ads.

They grow because a handful of people decide,
“Hey—this is fun. Other people should read it.”

That’s how most of the books we love actually spread.

Want to Join?

If you’d like to be part of Camp Legends, you can sign up below.

Become a Camp Legend

Because every legendary camp story starts the same way

“You won’t believe what happened that night at camp…”

The truth is, I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. As we close out early-bird registration for Realm Makers this weekend (and if you haven’t registered yet, consider this your reminder), I’m reminded of why I love the author community—why I’m drawn to it in the first place.

But I’ve also been reminded of the parts of publishing that irritate me.

I’ve been pretty antagonistic toward agents in the past. Not because of rejection, though there’s been some of that. Not because I don’t like them. But because I’ve never been someone who instinctively believes in “experts” in an industry that changes direction as quickly as the wind. What sells this year may not the next. The gate moves. The rules shift. And the people who supposedly know the path forward are often guessing just like the rest of us.

That skepticism has gotten me into some spirited conversations over the years. Trust me. It’s worth saying, though, that my stance has never been personal. I have friends with agents they adore—real partnerships built on trust and mutual enthusiasm. And I can see the value in that relationship. So, I don’t have a problem with agents. I just think sometimes they should pitch to us, as much as we should pitch to them.

I’ve also work with a small traditional publisher and I’ve genuinely enjoyed the experience. Good editors care deeply about books, and good publishers work hard for the stories they believe in. So no, I’m not anti traditional publishing.

My friction has always been with something larger than any one person. It’s with the mythology of publishing.

A friend of mine, Ted, put it perfectly in a SUBSTACK note: “Publishing has a persistent problem with survivor bias. We celebrate the authors who get agents, sign with dream publishers, or sell a bajillion copies.”

As we should.

But we hear much less from the authors navigating the quiet no’s.

First is a great writer and friend. He works behind the scenes on the tech side of Realm Makers, keeping everything from crashing on us. He’ll be joining me live on Geeky Dads on my normal SUBSTACK this coming Monday night. All that to say- Go follow Ted and subscribe to his SUBSTACK.

But getting back to his note, the truth is that most of the writing life happens in those quiet spaces. The inbox refresh that brings a form rejection. The long silence after a submission. The polite “this isn’t right for us.” The manuscript that took a year, two years, five years to write and then receives a response that took all of six seconds to send.

Ted recently shared that he’d received a form rejection on his latest fantasy manuscript. It stung, he admitted. But he also said something important: that those moments are a vital part of the journey that often goes undocumented.

And he’s right.

The public story of publishing is full of fireworks. Book deals announced online. Bestseller lists. Movie adaptations. Launch parties and glowing blurbs.

The private story is quieter.

It’s the rejection slips. The doubts. The second-guessing. The long nights wondering if the story you love will ever find its place in the world.

I’ve seen incredible writers rejected simply because they didn’t have a large enough platform. Which is an entirely different rant I won’t go into for now. They weren’t rejected because their stories lacked heart or craft, but because the math didn’t work. I’ve watched brilliant books struggle to find homes while far weaker ones sailed through the gates for reasons that had little to do with the writing itself.

And I’ve lived my own version of that journey.

Before I went independent, I was rejected by upwards of a dozen agents and editors. Maybe more. Eventually you stop counting because the number stops being useful. Each rejection felt like a door quietly closing somewhere down a long hallway.

So I took a chance on myself.

I went independent, not out of bitterness, but out of stubborn belief that the story still mattered. That readers might still care. That maybe the only person who needed to believe in the book first was me.

Since then, I’ve outsold a lot of traditionally published books.

Not all of them. Not even close. But enough to learn something important: there isn’t one path through publishing.

There never was.

The industry likes clean narratives. Find an agent. Land a big deal. Become a success story. But the reality is messier, more winding, and often far less glamorous.

Success in writing rarely looks like a straight line.

More often it looks like persistence.

It looks like sitting down when you don’t feel like it. Opening the document. Placing your fingers on the keyboard. Going to work when the last email you received told you the thing you created wasn’t good enough, marketable enough, or big enough.

Publishing is hard.

It can be brutal. Depressing. Infuriating. Sometimes even disrespectful.

It can also be deeply rewarding. Heartbreaking in the best ways. And occasionally it opens wounds you didn’t know you had—anxieties about worth, about voice, about whether the stories inside you deserve to exist outside your own head.

Publishing isn’t easy. That’s why you’ll usually find me and so many others in the corner cheering you on, unafraid to challenge the status quo or the so-called experts. Keep working. Keep improving. Keep learning. And no matter what always bet on yourself.

And if that means me being the antagonist who says out loud what many of you are thinking, so be it. I’ll take the heat.

Which raises the obvious question: why do we do it? It’s the same question I asked us last week.

Why do we keep submitting? Why do we keep writing? Why do we keep putting ourselves through the ringer?

Stephen King famously collected so many rejection slips early in his career that he eventually had to replace the nail with a larger one.

Most of us will never see that level of success. But the image is still comforting in its own way. Because behind every famous writer is a pile of paper that once said no.

And yet they kept going.

Maybe that’s the real secret of this whole strange profession. Not brilliance. Not connections. Not even luck.

Stubbornness.

The refusal to quit.

The quiet decision, over and over again, to keep writing.

We live in a dark world right now. War fills the headlines. Politics fractures families and communities. Everyone is shouting at each other. Everyone is convinced they’re right and anyone that disagrees with them is somehow wrong. Stress and anxiety sit heavy on people’s shoulders. Economies wobble. The future feels uncertain. And don’t even get me started on escrow shortages.

In times like this, stories matter more than ever.

Ray Bradbury once wrote, “You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” In another place he reminded us that books are not just entertainment, they are lifeboats, reminders of who we are and who we might become.

Stories carry hope.

They remind us that courage exists. That kindness still matters. That redemption is possible. That even in the darkest chapters, light can find a way through.

When the rejection slips arrive, hope can feel thin. Sometimes it feels almost meaningless.

But the truth is simpler than that.

Hope is why we write.

Next month on April 18th I’ll be teaching a new Master Class with Write2Ignite.

Registration is now open.

$79 non-members
$59 members and students
*$59 student rate for kids middle school through high school only

Writing funny is hard.

You write a joke, read it back to yourself, and laugh. Maybe even laugh a little too hard. You think, This is gold. Then someone else reads it and… nothing. They just skim right past it like it’s a weather report. I hope you didn’t do that with the story above.

And you’re sitting there thinking, What is wrong with you? That was hilarious.

Comedy is strange that way. Sometimes a joke lands. Sometimes it just thuds on the floor like a dropped bowling ball. What makes one person laugh might barely get a smile from someone else.

At its core, though, a joke is pretty simple.

It’s when two unrelated things collide.

There’s a setup that leads the listener down one path… and then the punchline shows up from somewhere completely different. That little moment of surprise—that twist—is what makes the brain laugh.

At least, that’s the theory.

In practice, it usually looks more like this: you tell a story you think is hilarious… and then wait nervously to see if anyone else does too.

I never set out to write humor, much like I didn’t set out to write middle grade. I was a kid who failed out of high school, somehow found a pen, and started writing. Honestly, it was all God.

My early stories were darker. More suspenseful. I liked tension, mystery, danger.

But then one day I sat down to write a story for my kids about two quirky brothers. And the humor just sort of… showed up. The jokes came naturally. The situations got ridiculous. The characters started making me laugh.

It surprised me.

It actually took me about a year to go back and deconstruct what I had done and why it seemed to connect so well with kids.

So in this class, I hope to share a few of the things I’ve learned along the way.

You can register today! https://write2ignite.com/master-class-registration/

Let’s get real for a minute.

The publishing world isn’t fair. It just isn’t.

I’ve seen good writers (great writers) with incredible books get tossed aside, ignored, or quietly pushed out of the room. I’ve also seen books that make you scratch your head sell thousands of copies. Sometimes the difference isn’t the writing.

It’s personality.
It’s charisma.
It’s timing.
It’s a look, a platform, a lucky moment in the algorithm.

Those things can give someone an advantage that has nothing to do with the words on the page.

I’ve seen ego rewarded and humility overlooked.

I’ve watched authors get publicly accused of using A.I. while others who openly rely on it sell books by the truckload and no one seems to care.

Publishing is an unfair game. It always has been.

It doesn’t matter if you’re traditionally published, indie, hybrid, or selling books out of a cardboard box at a homeschool convention. The system is messy. It’s inconsistent. And sometimes it feels downright random.

And if you’ve been doing this long enough, the question eventually creeps in.

Why do we even bother?

I’ve asked that question more than once.

There are months where the royalty report looks decent. A few hundred dollars from Amazon. A little from Ingram. Some direct sales.

And then there are months where it looks like someone accidentally dropped spare change into your account.

Two dollars here. Seven dollars there.

You stare at the report and think, Really? That’s it?

And yet somehow the work behind that report represents hundreds of hours.

Writing.

Editing.

Rewriting.

Marketing.

Traveling to events.

Packing books into boxes.

Standing behind a table hoping someone stops long enough to ask, “What’s your book about?”

Sometimes the return feels wildly out of balance with the effort.

So again the question comes back.

Why do we do this?

Why do we wrestle with the words?

Why do we push through draft after draft?

Why do we show up to events knowing the day might end with only a handful of sales?

Why do we keep going?

Part of it, I think, is the simple joy of story.

We want to walk through the Shire with Frodo and Sam.

We want to push open the wardrobe door with Lucy and Edmund.

We want to follow Roland and his ka-tet across a broken world toward the Dark Tower.

Stories take us somewhere.

They remind us that courage matters. That friendship matters. That sacrifice matters.

And sometimes they remind us that evil doesn’t get the final word.

But even knowing that… the question still lingers.

Why not just walk away?

Why not toss the phone in a lake, delete social media, stop worrying about algorithms and launches and reviews?

Life might actually be quieter.

Maybe easier.

No pressure to produce. No pressure to perform. No pressure to constantly promote yourself in a world already shouting for attention.

I’ve seriously considered it.

More than once.

But every time I start to think about stepping away, I come back to the same conclusion.

I really don’t have a choice.

I don’t mean that dramatically.

I mean it honestly.

Stories are just… there.

They show up when I’m driving.
When I’m walking.
When I’m trying to fall asleep.

Characters start talking. Scenes start forming. Questions start nagging.

What if this happened?
What would this person do?
What would that world look like?

Ignoring it feels like trying to ignore a fire alarm going off in your own house.

Eventually you have to deal with it.

But there’s another reason I keep coming back.

And it has nothing to do with royalties or rankings.

It has to do with the world my kids are growing up in.

I don’t love it.

I see a world where the economy feels stacked so the top always stays ahead. I see constant conflict, endless political shouting matches, and a level of division that seems to seep into everything.

Everyone is angry about something.

Everyone is exhausted.

And kids are growing up right in the middle of it.

Which is exactly why stories matter.

Kids need adventure.

They need heroes.

They need worlds bigger than the one they see on their screens.

They need to believe courage still exists.

They need to believe good people still fight for what’s right.

And honestly?

Adults need that too.

We need stories that remind us that hope isn’t naive.

We need stories that remind us that sacrifice still means something.

We need stories that point us toward courage, loyalty, friendship, and redemption.

The world has always been messy.

But stories have always helped people navigate it.

That’s why the work matters.

Not because every book becomes a bestseller.

Not because every writer gets recognition.

But because somewhere out there a kid might pick up your book and disappear into it for a few hours.

And for that moment, the world becomes bigger.

Brighter.

Full of possibility again.

So if you’re a writer who’s tired…

If you’re frustrated with the industry…

If you’re wondering whether it’s worth continuing…

You’re not alone.

Most of us have asked those same questions.

But if the stories keep showing up…

If the characters won’t leave you alone…

If there’s still a part of you that believes stories matter…

Then maybe the answer is simple.

Keep writing.

Not because the industry is fair.

But because the world still needs stories.

And maybe, just maybe, yours is one of them.

Like… really tough.

Especially when you’re a middle grade author.

Because you’re not just trying to reach readers you’re also trying to reach kids through adults. Parents. Teachers. Librarians. Grandparents. School gatekeepers. People who already have a thousand demands on their attention.

And if you’ve ever stared at your phone thinking, “Do I really have to dance on TikTok to sell books?”…

Good news: no.

You can build a real middle grade readership without social media. In fact, some of the strongest, longest-lasting reader connections happen completely offline.

Here are 25 ways to find middle grade readers the slow, steady, meaningful way.

1. Visit Local Schools

Schools are the beating heart of middle grade reading. Offer free author visits, writing talks, or Q&As.

2. Partner with Librarians

Librarians are superheroes. Get your book into their hands and they’ll put it into the hands of kids.

3. Run Library Events

Host a reading, a writing workshop, or a “create your own character” event.

4. Join School Book Fairs

Book fairs are still one of the best ways to reach hungry young readers. This one is a challenge, because Scholastic has such a stronghold on book fairs, but it is possible.

5. Offer Classroom Resources

Make printable discussion guides or lesson plans teachers can use.

6. Do In-Person Book Signings

Independent bookstores love hosting local authors, especially for kid nights.

7. Connect with Homeschool Groups

Homeschool communities are often deeply invested in quality middle grade fiction.

8. Attend Kids’ Festivals

Look for local literacy festivals, fall fairs, or community events with children’s programming.

9. Get Into After-School Programs

Offer a one-time writing class or book club session.

10. Start a Newsletter for Parents

Email is not dead. Parents still open newsletters more than they scroll ads.

11. Pitch to Parent Organizations

PTAs and parent groups are always looking for enrichment opportunities.

12. Donate Copies to Classrooms

A single donated book can spark a chain reaction of readers.

13. Host a Book Club Kit

Create a ready made kit for kid book clubs: questions, activities, snacks ideas.

14. Work With Local Museums or Zoos

Many offer educational programming and love partnering with authors.

15. Get Featured in Local Newspapers

Small-town papers still run author spotlights and people actually read them. Some papers have also transitioned into the digital world.

16. Speak at Community Centers

Community centers often host youth events and family nights. The senior community center is a great place. They love finding books for the grandchildren.

17. Offer Writing Contests

Kids love contests. Schools love them even more.

18. Reach Out to Reading Specialists

Many schools have literacy coaches who recommend books directly.

19. Visit Summer Camps

Camps are always looking for special guests and creative programming.

20. Connect With Bookstore Staff Picks

A bookseller’s recommendation is worth more than a thousand likes.

21. Build Relationships With Teachers

One teacher who loves your book can introduce it to hundreds of students over the years.

22. Do Skype/Zoom Visits (Without Social Media)

Virtual visits still count and schools book them regularly. How do you think I sold the first 1,000 copies of The Plastic Dinos of Doom from August 2020 - May of 2021.

23. Create a “School Visit” Page on Your Website

Make it easy for educators to hire you.

24. Encourage Word-of-Mouth

Kids are the best marketers. If one loves it, others will follow.

25. Keep Showing Up in the Real World

This is the long game: becoming a familiar name in your community’s reading ecosystem.

The Truth About Middle Grade Readers

Middle grade books don’t usually explode because of influencer hype.

They endure because a kid finds them at the right moment.

A librarian puts it in their hands.
A teacher reads the first chapter aloud.
A parent picks it up on a whim.
A friend says, “You have to read this.”

That’s how lifelong readers are made.

So if marketing feels exhausting… Step away from the noise.

Middle grade stories have always traveled best through real-life magic:

Schools.
Libraries.
Communities.
Kids discovering books the way we always did…

One page at a time.

And honestly? That’s still the best way.

Now, all this sounds easy, right? No. That’s a list to get your creativity going.

The problem is… how do we actually do it? How do we pitch to schools and bookstores? How do we find the right live events?

Well, that’s exactly what we’ll be talking about in the coming weeks. Step by step, we’ll dig into the practical ways to get your middle grade stories into the hands of the readers who will love them most.

Because the truth is, once you know where to show up, the kids will be waiting.

Coming up:

How to Partner with local bookstores and build a loyal local following.

How to pitch, plan, and execute a school visit.

How to pitch, plan and work with homeschool groups.

How to work with local libraries to host events.

In a day where more and more people are leaving social media, authors are struggling with the same concept. I recently stepped away from all conversation curated social media (Threads, Bluesky, Facebook, and X.) My presence is now down to TikTok, IG, and here on Subsatck. But many authors I know are worried about leaving. And I get it.

What happens if I step back?
What happens if I log off?
Will anyone remember my book if I’m not constantly reminding them it exists?

For middle grade authors especially, this anxiety can feel sharp and immediate. We’re told platform is everything. We’re told consistency is king. We’re told that the algorithm rewards those who never stop posting.

And yet many writers are tired. Tired of performing productivity. Tired of measuring their worth in engagement. Tired of feeling that silence equals failure.

This is what I call the Fear of Social Absence.

It means if I’m not constantly visible, my book won’t sell. If I go quiet, I disappear.

But in the world of middle grade fiction where the actual readers are not scrolling your posts, this fear becomes even more complicated. Middle grade readers discover books through teachers, librarians, parents, bookstores, book fairs, and school visits. They find stories in classrooms and libraries far more often than through author feeds.

Which basically means that readers don’t find books because the author never logs off, they find books because the author kept writing — and then told the right people it existed.

This is an uncomfortable truth in an age that rewards constant output. Visibility feels productive. Writing feels slow. Posting gives instant feedback. Drafting offers silence.

But for us middle grade authors, the work itself is the engine of marketing.

Here are four important and brief points I hope makes you think a little more strategic about marketing and precedence as a Middle-Grade author.

The Foundation: A Book Worth Talking About

Middle grade readers thrive on story first. Adventure. Humor. Friendship. Emotional stakes. Relatable heroes. If the book delivers, if it makes a child miss their bus stop or read under the covers, marketing becomes amplification, not persuasion. (I’m still waiting for a parent to tell me their kid missed the buss because they were reading Iggy & Oz)

Here is the deal. No amount of daily posting can compensate for a story that hasn’t been fully realized. And no algorithm can replace the power of a teacher saying, “You’re going to love this.”

So remember: Faithfulness to the work matters more.

Strategic Visibility, Not Constant Noise

This doesn’t mean marketing is irrelevant. I don’t think I’m saying that. Visibility matters. But in middle grade, visibility is strategic, it’s not constant.

Think for a moment about the key audience gatekeepers:

• Teachers
• Librarians
• Booksellers (Indie bookstores)
• Parents
• Reviewers
• School visit coordinators

Your energy is better spent building relationships with these communities than maintaining a relentless online presence. Trust me.

I would say a thoughtful newsletter sent quarterly, or weekly like I do, may do more than daily social posts. Think about your visits. A strong school visit program can outsell months of digital effort. A well-crafted discussion guide can keep a book circulating in classrooms for years.

Marketing middle grade is about entering ecosystems where children already read.

Long-Term Thinking

Middle grade authors benefit from long tails. Backlist matters. A book published three years ago can find new life through a school curriculum tie-in, a seasonal theme, or a librarian’s recommendation. The Plastic Dinos of Doom was published in 2019 and still sells a few thousand copies annually.

This is another reason I believe the Fear of Social Absence is misplaced. You are not a trending topic. You are building a body of work.

Consistency of your craft outperforms those bursts of visibility.

Protecting Creative Energy

There is also a creative cost to constant presence. Middle grade writing requires immersion in the emotional logic of childhood. That imaginative state is fragile. It asks for deep attention, empathy, and play.

When every drafting session is interrupted by the urge to document it, I personally think the magic thins.

If marketing consumes the energy required to create the next book, you have undermined your most powerful marketing tool: the next book.

The Healthier Equation

Instead of asking, “Am I visible enough?” middle grade authors might ask:

• Am I writing consistently?
• Am I building genuine relationships in the kidlit community?
• Am I making it easy for educators and librarians to use my book?
• Am I finishing projects?

Visibility is a spotlight.

Writing is the stage.

Which brings me to the biggest point I’m trying to make. Without the stage, the spotlight illuminates nothing.

In middle grade publishing especially, longevity comes from faithfulness to the craft, to the audience, and to the stories only you can tell. Show up strategically, yes. Communicate clearly when your book is available. Be present where it matters.

But do not confuse constant motion with meaningful progress.

Readers don’t need you to be everywhere.

They need you to keep writing.

A boy survives a plane crash. He is alone in the wilderness. He must figure out how not to die.

And that simplicity is exactly why it still works.

Because once the premise is stripped down to its bones, the book has nowhere to hide.

Gary Paulsen didn’t rely on twists, gimmicks, or clever narrative tricks. He trusted the oldest engine in storytelling: Present a problem, create effort to escape said problem, resulting in consequence, until finally the hero learns enough to overcome the problem. And for middle grade readers, that engine never breaks.

That choice shapes everything that follows.

As a child one of my favorite books to read was Hatchet. I devoured this book more times than I can count. Today, the book is still beloved by thousands of fans.

One of the primary reasons I believe Hatchet still endures is in the clarity of purpose. From the moment Brian’s plane goes down, the book makes a promise and keeps it. The goal is survival. Every scene, every discovery, every setback ties directly back to that goal. There are no side quests. No thematic detours. Nothing exists that doesn’t move Brian closer to life or death.

That kind of focus is rare. And guess what? Kids do notice.

And believe it or not. Middle grade readers crave that kind of narrative honesty.

They want to know what the story is about. They want to feel the stakes immediately. Hatchet never confuses them. Even when the wilderness becomes overwhelming, the story remains legible. Hunger. Shelter. Fire. Injury. Each challenge is concrete, understandable, and escalating.

But here is an important point.

Clarity alone, isn’t enough to sustain a story this spare.

There is another reason the book still works and that is how it treats competence. Brian starts helpless. He is afraid, grieving, and unprepared. But the book never mocks him for that. Instead, it honors learning. Each failure teaches him something real. Each success is earned through attention, patience, and humility.

That approach lands because it reflects how kids actually experience growth. This I believe truly matters to kids.

Middle grade readers are living in a constant state of becoming. They are always being told what they can’t do yet. Hatchet flips that script. It says growth isn’t instant, but it is possible. Skill comes from repetition and confidence comes from survival, not approval.

Paulsen reinforces that message not just through events, but through time itself.

One thing I love about this book is how Paulsen understood something crucial about pacing. The book doesn’t rush transformation. Brian doesn’t become capable overnight. Time passes. Seasons shift. Progress is uneven. That realism builds trust and kids know when a story is cheating.

The setting likewise plays an equally important role in maintaining that trust.

The wilderness itself is another reason Hatchet endures. It isn’t romanticized. It’s indifferent. Sometimes beautiful. Often brutal. The lake doesn’t care about Brian’s feelings. The animals don’t follow narrative rules. Nature operates on its own terms.

And because the world refuses to bend, success has weight.

That indifference makes Brian’s victories meaningful. Survival isn’t guaranteed. It’s negotiated.

For middle grade writers, this is a powerful lesson: the world should not bend too easily for the protagonist. When obstacles feel real, growth feels real.

However, Paulsen’s restraint extends beyond plot and setting into the language itself.

The prose plays a major role as well. Paulsen’s language is lean. Observational. Almost report-like at times. He doesn’t pause to explain the symbolism of the hatchet or the meaning of the wilderness. He lets repetition and experience do the work.

Kids don’t need to be told what matters. They figure it out through accumulation. And that accumulation ultimately reshapes Brian from the inside out.

Which brings me to the internal arc of Hatchet and how that is another quiet strength. Brian’s biggest change isn’t physical skill. It’s perception. He learns to see. To listen. To wait. Early in the book, everything feels hostile. By the end, the wilderness becomes something he understands, even respects.

That shift mirrors how kids experience growing up. The world doesn’t get safer. They get wiser.

Which is why the ending lands the way it does.
The ending of Hatchet often surprises adult readers. Rescue comes abruptly. There’s no grand farewell to the wilderness. No drawn-out reflection. Life interrupts survival.

But for kids, that ending feels right.

It reinforces a subtle truth: growth doesn’t always announce itself. You don’t always realize how much you’ve changed until something pulls you back into the world you left.

Taken together, all of this points to a deeper form of respect.

Finally, Hatchet works because it respects its reader. It never talks down. It never overexplains. It assumes a child can sit with discomfort, boredom, fear, and silence.

That assumption is rare and powerful.

Hatchet isn’t beloved because it’s exciting on every page. It’s beloved because it’s honest. It trusts that kids can handle struggle, patience, and effort. And in doing so, it gives them something few books offer anymore: the quiet confidence that they could survive more than they think.

That’s why it still works.

And yet, it teaches middle grade writers some of the most important lessons about how young readers experience story almost by accident.

Bradbury understood something fundamental: people don’t stop reading because books disappear. They stop reading because life gets louder than thought.

That insight matters deeply to anyone writing for kids.

The world of Fahrenheit 451 isn’t just anti-book. It’s anti-stillness. Screens shout. Cars move too fast. Conversations are shallow. Silence is dangerous. Clarisse isn’t threatening because she reads, she’s threatening because she thinks. Because she notices. Because she asks Montag to slow down.

That’s the same world middle grade readers are growing up in now.

Which means the novel becomes a warning and a guide.

One of the biggest lessons Fahrenheit 451 teaches middle grade writers is that

Bradbury doesn’t open with ideology. He opens with sensation. Fire. Motion. The thrill of destruction. He understands that before you can talk about ideas, you have to capture focus.

Middle grade writers make a common mistake here. Sometimes they lead with theme instead of tension. Bradbury does the opposite. He wraps theme inside momentum. You see the ideas don’t slow the story, they sort of ride shotgun.

That’s the point and what so many middle-grade publishers don’t understand.

Another accidental lesson is Bradbury’s use of clarity over complexity. Fahrenheit 451 is conceptually rich, but structurally clean. One protagonist. One central conflict. A steady escalation of stakes. Montag’s journey is linear, emotional, and easy to follow even as the ideas get heavier.

This matters for middle grade writers who think “serious” requires convoluted plots. It doesn’t. Bradbury proves you can say big things with simple movement. Complexity lives in implication, not confusion.

The novel also models something middle grade desperately needs: externalized inner conflict. Montag’s dissatisfaction isn’t delivered through long introspective passages. It’s triggered by encounters. Clarisse. Mildred. Beatty. The world pushes against him until something breaks.

Kids read emotion through action. Bradbury gets that instinctively. Every philosophical question in the book is embodied by a character or a choice. Nothing floats abstractly for long.

Beatty, especially, is a masterclass for MG writers. He’s honestly one of my favorites antagonist in fiction.

Why? Well for starters he’s terrifying not because he’s powerful, but because he’s articulate. He overwhelms Montag with language. With quotes. With certainty. He sounds smart. He sounds reasonable. And that’s what makes him dangerous.

Middle grade villains often fail because they’re too obvious. Beatty teaches writers that the most effective antagonists believe they are right— and can explain why. Kids understand that kind of danger immediately, even if they can’t yet name it.

Another lesson Bradbury accidentally teaches is about hope without sentimentality. Fahrenheit 451 is bleak, but it never collapses into despair. The ending doesn’t promise an easy future. It promises memory. Preservation. The slow work of rebuilding.

Middle grade thrives on that kind of hope. Not fake optimism. It’s earned resilience. The assurance that darkness isn’t the end of the story, even when it’s overwhelming.

Bradbury also shows the power of brevity. His prose is lyrical but tight. Scenes move. Images land and then get out of the way. He doesn’t over-explain. He trusts the reader to feel before they fully understand.

That’s in and of itself is crucial for middle grade. Kids don’t need every idea spelled out. They need space to connect dots. Bradbury leaves gaps and guess what? Kids lean into those gaps naturally.

However, perhaps the most important accidental lesson is this:

Not resistance against authority alone— but against distraction, noise, and numbness.

Middle grade writers are doing the same work, whether they realize it or not. Every book that asks a child to slow down, imagine, empathize, and think is quietly pushing back against a culture that profits from constant stimulation.

Bradbury wasn’t writing a manual for middle grade authors.

But he understood the enemy.

And if you’re writing for kids today, that understanding might be more relevant than ever.