Peter Brown’s THE WILD ROBOT: Seeing Yourself in a Book that is Totally Not About You or For You

I just read Peter Brown‘s The Wild Robot. By the time this post is live, I’ll have discussed it in a virtual book club this weekend, but we come at our books as writers looking at the craft and I don’t think that discussion and this post are going to overlap much. Because, as good as it is to learn from the books we read, it’s also good (or at least important to me) to simply have an emotional response, fall in love, and share that love.

Honestly, I am intrigued by The Wild Robot. I said to my husband, explaining why the book is going to land on his nightstand once I’m done with the book club chat, “It’s a different little book.” He is not a big reader of children’s books, although–of course–he reads more of them now than he did before he met me. 🙂 But I think he may like this one–I’m sure in a different way and for different reasons than I do. But I think this book, in its pretty unique little package, might have a broad appeal–it might be intriguing for a lot of people other than me.

It’s a wonderful adventure. It’s great science fiction, it’s a coming of age book, it’s a nicely woven social commentary. Okay, now I feel like whoever wrote the trailer cards for the original Miracle on 34th Street, but I really do think the book is all those things.

For me, it’s a lovely little story about being a parent.

I know, right? Because Peter Brown sat down in his studio one day and said, “You know what? I’m going to do something different from a picture book. I’m going to write my first novel, and you know what else? I’m going to write it for and about a middle-aged woman, her journey from being the inexperienced mother of a newborn baby all the way up to the time that baby reaches young adulthood and departs for his first season of college.” Peter Brown so totally did that.

He so totally did not. The Wild Robot is a middle-grade novel, written for middle-grade kids. In some sense, I think it targets the young end of that spectrum–Roz the robot is super cool, Brightwing the gosling and his friend Chitchat the squirrel are engaging and entertaining, and the other animals act at once true to their animal natures and completely fantasized as a community that would never coalesce in real life. This book is written for kids, and I think many kids would love it. It’s a much more complex story, with many more layers than Ruth Stiles Gannett‘s My Father’s Dragon, and ‘yet something about the voice and the clarity of prose remind me of that book (which is an all-time favorite of mine).


  • When Roz first finds Brightwing the baby gosling: “The robot gently cradled the fragile thing in her hand.”
  • When the other animals start to lecture Roz about how to take care of Brightwing: “Yes, I do want him to survive,” said the robot. “But I do not know how to act like a mother.”
  • When Brightwing can’t go to sleep in his new nest: “Roz held him. The robot’s body may have been hard and mechanical, but it was also strong and soft. The gosling felt loved. His eyes slowly winked closed. And he spent the whole night quietly sleeping in his mother’s arms.”
  • When Brightwing has his first swimming lesson, and Roz can’t go in the water with him: “Roz pointed to the flock. ‘I cannot swim. Go have fun with the other geese. You will be safe with them.’…Roz spent the morning watching her son swim around and around the pond.”
  • When pre-adolescent Brightwing flies away to a place Roz has told him he is too young to go: “Brightwing had never run away–or flown away–and suddenly Roz was computing all the things that could go wrong. A violent storm. A broken wing. A predator. She had to find her son before something bad happened.”
  • When Brightwing leaves to migrate for a season with the other geese and Roz stays behind: “The island was quiet. The migratory birds had all left, the hibernators were asleep, and everyone else had begun their simple winter routines. Everyone but Roz. Now that she was alone, she didn’t know what to do with herself.”
  • And there’s one more at the end, but that would be a spoiler. Plus, it might make you cry.

Now, of course, I had friends before I was a parent, but I made new friends when my son was born, and some of them are still the best friends I had. I never covered myself with leaves and twigs and learned animal sounds to fit in better with the bears and the birds and the badgers, but if you’ve ever carried a relatively new baby into a pre-arranged playdate with other moms you’ve never met–it’s really not all that different. And while Roz’ limits of understanding and abilities come because she is a robot who’s programming wasn’t designed to parent, oh, wait–that’s exactly what being a new parent is like.

I do believe that Roz is the hero and the protagonist of the story. She steps out of the normal world of her crate, and she adapts and learns and grows and makes that world better-for herself and those around her. And, at the end…oops, never mind, spoiler. And I think kids will see her as a hero and love her, and I think that most will connect with the mother/robot-child relationship. But I do think they will connect with the coolness of the robot, too, in a big way.

Me, I connected with the uncoolness of the mother, the mother who had to parent and learn about parenting all at the same time, who–despite making the choice to raise the baby–went into it with no knowledge, no experience, and no preparation. And who stumbles, goofs up, worries, and frets. Brown does a beautiful job of showing the learning possibilities of artificial intelligence. He also does a beautiful job of showing the learning that we parents of “real” intelligence just hope we succeed in doing.


Tiny Virtual Book Club: My Father’s Dragon

There were a couple of really fun conversations going on over at Facebook today. Erin Dionne shared a question from a class discussion she was having: Whose story is Charlotte’s Web? There were several opinions!

Then Melissa Wyatt (and several other people) posted a link to a Bustle article about people’s first literary crushes, and that got a few of us talking about who was not on the list.

Anyway, I jumped in with my two cents (Wilbur’s! Calvin O’Keefe!) a few times, then got back to work.

But the fun has stuck with me. So tonight, right here, I’m putting up a Tiny Virtual Book Club post. I say “tiny,” because for all I know, it’ll just be me. And maybe you. But probably we won’t break any fire codes with the crowds. And whether I do this again, with another book? Who knows, we’ll see, making no commitments and applying no pressure.

Tonight, we’re going to talk about one of my favorites, a book I consider perfect for what it sets out to do and what it accomplishes. We’re going to talk about Ruth Stiles Gannett’s My Father’s Dragon, illustrated by Ruth Chrisman Gannett.


You haven’t read it yet? Well, that’s okay. Go pick yourself up a copy. We’ll wait…

Now, this is not a book review, and lucky for you, because it would be such a gushy one, you’d need a heap of tissues just to mop up after me. I should mention, also, that I have never succeeded in participating in a non-virtual book club, so this may not become a book discussion either. But you never know, so here we go: Questions for discussion. Place your thoughts in the comments. And if there are more than one of you, take a look at the other comment(s) and drop in a reply.

  • Why do you think Ruth Stiles Gannett used Elmer Elevator’s son as a first-person frame narrator?
  • What story elements does Stiles Gannett use to keep the young reader engaged until we get to the island?
  • Once we get to the island, the chapters become more episodic. Why do you think Stiles Gannett chose that structure? What effect do you think the structure might have had on the young reader?
  • Can you think of any books published in the past 5-10 years that you would liken to My Father’s Dragon? Think about the structure and the length and the balance of language level with story complexity. Or do you think Stiles Gannett’s book is a “genre” of the past only?
  • What happened to the cat? (You may have to use your imagination on this one!

There you go. Don’t be shy–jump on in. Not sure yet if I’ll simply comment with my own take on these questions (yes, obviously I have a take on the questions), or whether I’ll wait and respond as comments (possibly) come along from others. But you’ll hear from me one way or another.


Comparisons: A Small Rant

People, people, people.

I am glad you all love Mockingjay. I’m happy you’ve been able to immerse yourselves in it over the past day or two. I’m thrilled that it seems to be proving all you wanted. Full disclosure: I haven’t read it yet, but I will, and when I get there, I’m pretty sure I’ll be seriously impressed as well.


Please don’t compare yourself as a writer, as a not-as-good writer, as a writer-who-will-never-write-this-well. I don’t know Suzanne Collins personally, but I am willing to bet this was NOT HER GOAL when she wrote her trilogy. Really.

Okay, not everybody’s doing this. But I’ve read a few posts on Facebook and Twitter, though, and probably you’re half-joking, at least. I hope. Because comparisons stink. They make you feel bad about yourself, with no reason. No, I can’t tell you you’re wrong. In many ways, you’re right. Suzanne Collins has written a wonderful book, one you will not write yourself. I won’t write it, either. I also won’t write The Princess Diaries, My Father’s Dragon, Zen and the Art of Faking It, Donuthead, or Wuthering Heights.

Thank goodness someone already did.

Because these are some of the stories that made me fall in love with books, and keep me there. They’re the reason I write.

I know you guys don’t really mean it. I know you’re in love with Suzanne Collins’ stories and are happy, SO happy, that she’s given them to us. I wince, though, every time I read a post saying one of you will never be this kind of writer. I want to hug you, to tell you it’ll be okay, and then–honestly–to throw a pillow at you (a soft, feathery one, but still…).

YOU’RE WRITING. You’re doing wonderful things, putting together beautiful (okay, and not so beautiful) combinations of words that nobody has created before you. You’re telling your story, the best you can…and that’s HUGE!

Remember that, okay?

Author-Appreciation Week: Friday Five Excerpts

To end out the week, I’ve decided to go with the openings from five of my favorite books from childhood…a few of the ones still on my shelves. These stories got me started, and my appreciation for this is without bounds.

Thanks again to Heidi R. Kling for setting up the week & Sara from Novel Novice for designing the avatar. And thanks to everybody for all the great posts, as well.

     One cold rainy day when my father was a little boy, he met an old alley cat on the street. The cat was very drippy and uncomfortable so my father said, “Wouldn’t you like to come home with me?”
MY FATHER’S DRAGON, by Ruth Stiles Gannett, illustrated by Ruth Chrisman Gannett

The wind swept around the corners and chased clouds of dust out of the ruins of bombed houses. The cold, clinging darkness of the October evening dropped down upon the strange city from a leaden sky. The streets were deserted. Nobody was out who could possibly help it.
THE ARK, by Margot Benary-Isbert

When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression. Her hair was yellow, and her face was yellow because she had been born in India and had always been ill in one way or another.
THE SECRET GARDEN, by Frances Hodgson Burnett, illustrated by Tasha Tudor

Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies’ eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through these woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde’s Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde’s door without due regard for decency and decorum…
ANNE OF GREEN GABLES, by L. M. Montgomery

     The porter, carrying Cathy’s suitcase, went ahead through the doors of Idlewild International Airport. “You want to weigh in now?” he asked of the portly woman who walked beside a small, dark-haired girl of about twelve.
     Mrs. Bertha Branson shook her head. “Not right away. Someone else has this young lady’s ticket. We’re to wait at the foot of the stairs to the observation deck.”
     The porter nodded and walked on so fast that Cathy had to skip now and then to keep up with his long legs. Because she was anxious and uncertain, she grasped her shiny new red overnight case more tightly and shifted the coat over her arms.
MYSTERY ON THE ISLE OF SKYE, by Phyllis A. Whitney

Have a wonderful weekend of reading, writing, and–hopefully–sunshine!