Sid Fleischman is the Newbery-Award winning author of The Whipping Boyand several Americana children's classics, including the McBroom series, By the Great Horn Spoon!, and Jim Ugly. Fleischman, who grew up in San Diego, once traveled in vaudeville as a magician before turning to writing. He's now written over 36 books for children, but started out writing for adults. His first break came during World War II when Our Navy paid him six dollars for a short story. "When you're a writer who's never been published and you see yourself published, it has an impact on you," he says.

Fleischman had more than one major influence in his writing. "I remember reading stories by Jack London and J.P. Marquand and John Steinbeck. Those were wonderful stories and, without realizing it at the time, I chose them as my models." He admits that his adult novels all "went out of print in an hour and twenty minutes," but the main reason he never reestablished himself in the adult book world was that he didn't feel the same rewards in writing for adults that he did for kids. "Books don't mean that much to adults," he explains. "To kids, they're primary in their lives."

Fleischman feels blessed in the progression of his career from writing for adults to screenwriting to writing for kids. "By the time I arrived at writing books for children, I had developed a wide range of literary skills, so I was prepared for the technical aspects," he says. He also feels blessed in his personal life. "My wife passed away a few years ago and, of course, I miss her, but otherwise life has been great. I had a good marriage, I have loving and talented kids, I live in a comfortable community in a nice part of the country, and I look younger than my age, so what have I got to complain about?"

Nothing apparently, and neither do the thousands of kids who read his books.

Anna Olswanger: Was there a moment when you chose writing as your life's work?

Sid Fleischman: No, I kind of backed into it without realizing what I was doing. I began writing magic books—these were thin little guides for magicians only—and I didn't even realize I was writing. I was just explaining how to do tricks. Then the books would come out, my name would be on the cover, and there would be a little splash in the world of magic. I enjoyed this! But I wasn't going to make a living out of magic books, and I began thinking about writing O'Henry-type stories with trick endings. I read Writer's Digest and everything I could find in the library on the technique of fiction writing. I was still a magician during those years, and when the Second World War came along, I went in as a magician and came out—hocus pocus—a writer.

Olswanger: Did you start out wanting to be a humorous writer?

Fleischman: No, humor is a quirky thing. You're born with this odd eye or ear or whatever it is, and you see humor in things that pass other people by. I can't explain it. With the exception of the McBroom stories—those are tall tales and I knew I was writing comedy&38212;I don't sit down to write a humorous book. It just happens at the typewriter for me. In real life, I'm only funny two or three times a year.

Olswanger: How did your childhood affect you as a writer?

Fleischman: We all bring whatever we've been through to our writing. I was not gifted with a terrible childhood, so I have very little material there. I had a stable home and great love. But I graduated from high school during the depths of the Depression, and then came the Second World War, so those were the cosmic events of those early years.

Olswanger: How did the Depression affect you?

Fleischman: You had to learn to look after yourself. My father couldn't send me to college so I had to learn to be an autodidact. When I decided I wanted to be a magician, I had to teach myself by going to the libraries and used book shops and reading everything I could find on the subject. I still have some of those books I bought when I was eleven or twelve years old. When my ambition shifted to writing, I applied those same skills that I had learned as a child of the Depression, of teaching myself, because at that time you couldn't find anyone who could teach you to write. Later, when putting myself through college by giving magic shows, I discovered that colleges couldn't explain the mysteries of writing fiction. So growing up in the Depression molded that aspect of my character and developed those skills which I still use and, fortunately, passed on to my son Paul. I notice with great pleasure that he teaches himself everything, including the bagpipes and the banjo.

Olswanger: How did World War II affect you?

Fleischman: With just a couple of exceptions, I have not written about the war, but it was a great crossroads. I met people from all walks of life, people that I would never have met before and I got multiple views of the world that I didn't have. That helped as a writer.

Olswanger: Have you changed over the years as a writer?

Fleischman: Kids often ask me to write a sequel to earlier novels like Mr. Mysterious and Company, which was published forty years ago. I'm not the same person or the same writer I was then. I could not write a sequel to that book. Now, I reject ideas and lines and scenes that I would have written twenty or thirty years ago. You become more critical. You've done things before and you're not interested in repeating them, so it gets harder to find material that you want to run with. If you're going to spend a year or more writing a novel, you have to be very interested in that material or you're not going to bother.

Olswanger: You made a living as a screenwriter before you became a children's book writer. Was screenwriting good training for you?

Fleischman: I learned pacing and how to be efficient. I just read a novel—I won't mention the title but it's on the bestseller list—and it's so overgrown, so weedy with research and details that you need a machete to get through the undergrowth. The poor author can't have a character pick up a pencil but he doesn't tell you what color it was, what number lead it was, how sharp the point was, how dirty the eraser was. Those are mistakes a writer for children doesn't make. You learn efficiency. You say the most with the least words because kids will not put up with your self-indulgence.

Olswanger: What's your writing day like?

Fleischman: I come downstairs and grab some orange juice, get to my desk, and I'm working in 10 to 15 minutes. I work for an hour or two and then I stop, have breakfast, shower and shave, and then get back to work. When I'm in the early stages of a novel—simultaneously plotting and finding the style and discovering the characters—I'm worn out by noon. God's gift to writers is the nap. I take one.

When I reach the midway point of a novel, I put in a second writing shift before dinner. Finally, coming down the home stretch, with a certain momentum built up, I do nothing but eat, sleep, and write.

Olswanger: Do you accept speaking engagements when you're writing a novel?

Fleischman: When you've been invited to speak, it's deadly to think, "Well, that's next November. I'll have time." It turns out that you need just one or two more days to finish a novel and it drives you crazy to get up, pack, and go to the airport and leave a novel that close to finished. It's happened to me twice. With my show business background, I enjoy speaking—Iım ham enough that if you put a microphone in my hand, you've got trouble. But I've had to make up my mind, especially since I've gotten older, how I want to spend my life, whether as a writer or a performer. I've chosen writing.

Olswanger: Do you show your work-in-progress to anyone?

Fleischman: Nobody sees anything I write until I'm finished with it—nobody. My editor doesn't even know the subject matter. You want to get some approval when you write something, to have somebody read it and say, "Youıre a genius!" But if you spring that too early, it takes some of the wind out of your sails. It's better to keep it bottled up until you've finished the thing.

Also, since my working style is fluid, I won't risk having a friend—or an editor—trash an idea while it's still forming. That's a sure way to kill a good idea. If it's a bad idea, listen to that inner voice. You'll hear it.

Olswanger: How many drafts of a manuscript do you write?

Fleischman: I don't write a rough first draft. I write a rough first page and I do that page over and over until I get it as good as I can. Only then do I go on to the next page, and the next. These early pages are tough—they need to juggle in background, character, voice, style, story movement—all at once. And adroitly. By the time I reach page 50 or so, I no longer need to do so much rewriting. By then, I know the characters, I know how they talk, I know what their relationships are, I know what the tensions of the story are, and I've got a fix on where the story is going.

Olswanger: Is this a technique you recommend to new writers?

Fleischman: Yes. No. Just because it works for me not to plot a novel in advance doesn't mean it's going to work for you. I'm full of bad writing habits. Well, they're not bad for me, but they might be bad for you. And that goes for advice you get from other writers. It may fit you, and it may not. So find what fits and find what you're comfortable with. You don't want to write like every other writer. Cloning is for sheep. And don't be discouraged. There are always people out there happy to pull the props out from under you. Just do what you have to do, no matter what people say.

Olswanger: Does writing come easily for you?

Fleischman: You know, writing demands so many different skills: plotting, character, background, dialogue, style. Sometimes it goes swimmingly, and sometimes it doesn't. As I said, I don't plot my novels in advance. I improvise from day to day. Normally I'm a good idea man, but sometimes I have plot problems. Other times, I have problems with scenes or characters or dialogue. I'm suspicious if the story goes too easily. The really good stuff comes out of the problems you have. In solving those problems, you come up with ideas that you would never have had otherwise.

Olswanger: How much of your time is spent promoting your books?

Fleischman: I think it's the publisher's job to sell the books, and my job to write my books. When a book first comes out, I may take an extra speaking engagement or two, but when I see the royalties at the end of the year, the few book signings I've done haven't made that much difference.

Olswanger: Do you think it's important to answer fan letters?

Fleischman: Terribly important for kids. The moment they drop the letter in the box, they're looking for an answer. After my first few books were published, the mail wasn't heavy and I could give each letter an individual reply. Certain letters now get what doesn't look like a form reply, but it is. It's difficult to keep up.

Olswanger: Which of your books are you the proudest of?

Fleischman: The Whipping Boy is one. By the Great Horn Spoon!,a novel about the California Gold Rush, is a second. By the Great Horn Spoon! has been continuously in print for more than 40 years and sells a huge number of copies every year. It's widely read in fourth grades in the West. That and The Whipping Boy, I suppose, will be my legacy. It's not to say there aren't others out there I'm happy with. I've had fun with the McBroom stories. I love Mr. Mysterious and Company—I canıt tell you the magicians I've met who were turned on to magic by that novel. And I think Scarebird is the best piece of work I've done. I wish I could do it again. It's a picture book, one of those books you feel you wrote under special grace that doesn't visit you often. I had all kinds of problems with it, but the finished book is as close to perfection as I will come.

Olswanger: How did winning the Newbery affect your career?

Fleischman: The Newbery changes your life. You know something's hit you and you never quite recover. It's hard on you for the first year because you are asked to speak all over the place. You get so many phone calls and so much mail. It's pleasant and you just roll back and enjoy it and realize you've been anointed. Of course, it has a profound effect on your income because the books sell much better than they did before.

Olswanger: What are some of the intangible rewards of writing for you?

Fleischman: There's the satisfaction in knowing that your books have had an impact. You discover that from the letters you get. Kids tell you they have gotten pleasure from your books, or parents and teachers let you know that one of your books turned a resistant child on to reading. There's also the reward of doing a good job. When you finish a novel, and you've solved the problems, that's a tremendous satisfaction. And there's the reward of the lifestyle that writing has given me. I have complete freedom, although we writers work ourselves much harder than people who have a boss. I work seven days a week, and I don't know how many hours between doing all the things that go along with it—researching, writing, answering the mail. If I were working for a salary, I would want a raise!

Olswanger: What's the most exciting part of writing for you?

Fleischman: After you finish a novel, you don't know where it's going to go. It's like having a child that you watch grow, develop, and send out into the world. A book, too, has to make its way in the world. It may only sell 3,000 copies and vanish from sight. But it may end up as a movie and be translated into many languages. I have books I can't read, in languages ranging from Finnish to Korean and Japanese. You don't know when you write a book what its destiny will be.

Olswanger: If you couldn't be a writer, what would you be?

Fleischman: That's easy. Iıve kept up with magic. I write articles for magic journals and still invent magic tricks. If I could scrape together a living doing card tricks, that's what I would do.

Olswanger: Do you still perform as a magician?

Fleischman: I don't work professionally anymore, but when I speak at a school, I break the ice with a little magic. They think Shakespeare's going to walk in, and I want to disabuse them in a hurry, so I do a magic trick or two. That eases the tension and we become friends quickly.

Olswanger: Is there a connection for you between magic and writing?

Fleischman: I used to think that one reason I'm good at plotting is that as a magician, I learned to see around corners and I brought that to plotting. By "see around corners," I mean the unexpected. My novels are full of surprises that take a certain magicians' cunning. If I think, "I want this card to reappear in a can of coffee," it may take nifty thinking to figure out how to do it. I approach story problems in the same way. Almost always, a solution surfaces.

Also, magic is a performing art. Those scenes that I write in a book are really performances on the printed page. The arts cross-pollinate. Much of what I have learned behind the footlights has accompanied me to the typewriter—or computer, as I've finally joined the 21st century!

Olswanger: What's it like to have a son who is also a writer?

Fleischman: It was tough on Paul at the beginning. He started on a novel but abandoned it early on because he realized it was too much in my style. I said, "Paul, I don't have an exclusive option on this genre," but he couldn't go on. He quickly found his own voice—he has a powerful instinct for fiction—and it's a great satisfaction to watch his career develop. You can imagine the excitement in this house when he, too, won the Newbery. We're the only father and son ever to be struck by that happy lightning.

Olswanger: What's your advice to new writers?

Fleischman: It's okay to make mistakes early on. Those are finger exercises, those first stories that you write. But you have to keep in mind that you're competing with professionals when you sit down to write a story. You'd better be as good or even better than the professionals. People would regard it as ridiculous to pick up a violin and expect to play Carnegie Hall, and yet they sit down and write a story and expect it to be published. That's not realistic, especially when it comes to fiction which is full of traps and invisible technique.

Olswanger: How long does it takes to learn "invisible technique?"

Fleischman: It's a game of patience. It's not apt to happen overnight. You have to pace yourself and give yourself a long view. In five years, you can learn to write fiction. Eudora Welty said a marvelous thing and this goes for all writing: each novel teaches you how to write it, but not how to write the next one, and that's the rub. You have to learn to write good dialogue and good descriptions and you have to learn to develop characters who cast shadows. It takes time to learn these techniques.

But what's the hurry?

Text copyright © 2002-2003 Anna Olswanger and Sid Fleischman. Visit Harold Underdown's The Purple Crayon for other interviews by Anna Olswanger.