life – Ink And Spine

David Sederis and Ian Falconer

This picture book is fantastic in so many ways. First, it’s funny and a wee bit gross. Second, it has a multitude of universal themes, so it doesn’t matter how old you are when you read it; you GET it. This book would be an amazing text to use when introducing Socratic discussion of the subjectivity of “beauty.” Fourthly (yes, FOURTHLY!!!), it makes THE most effective text to teach writing in any grade.

In his picture book “Pretty Ugly”, David Sedaris shows us that looks are irrelevant to the depth of familial love. When Anna made ugly faces so often that one permanently stuck, she tried everything, including visiting a doctor to change her appearance to what it was before, but to no avail. Her family tries to assure her that “beauty is on the inside” and that they love her very much. Pondering her family’s words, she reaches inside and turns herself inside out, ultimately making herself more beautiful than before.

This book is concise and perfect for teaching how to summarize. It also lends itself nicely to personal and persuasive writing. For example, an introductory paragraph for a persuasive essay for junior high could be:

“Beauty is in the eye of the Beholder” is a phrase we have heard so often it has become trite. How can we internalize the authenticity of this statement? Why picture books, of course. In the picture book “Pretty Ugly”, David Sedaris shows us that familial love renders looks irrelevant.

So, if you’re looking for an exemplar to teach summarizing, paragraph writing, or persuasive writing, this book is perfect.

Or, if you want to read a picture book that will make you think while you giggle, “Pretty Ugly” is perfect.

….oh, I just realized you could also use the title to teach oxymorons.

Thank you Netgalley and Astra Books for the free digital copy.

The older I get, the more difficult it is to sleep in on weekends. I can understand that when you’re really young, the world is a new and astonishing place and you’re little neurons, and dendrites cry out to be developed and elongated (or whatever neurons and dendrites do when they’re being used). As babies, we stood in our cribs and shook the sides with impatience calling out to whatever parental unit will come and release us from the confines of our bumper-padded cell.
So that we can crawl and smell and touch and taste every and any new thing.
Then we get older. And the world calls out for us to use it as our canvas or our stage. And there doesn’t seem like enough daylight hours to build the best fort ever built, or paint enough empty milk cartons with mud (or our own bodies for that matter) and a stick that serves as a painter’s brush.
And we live as though our life was made up a thousand summers to be lived and tweaked and lived again.
Then we get even older, and there doesn’t seem like we can sleep in long enough. No amount can be stockpiled high enough to give us the energy to get out from beneath the covers and bounce into the day unrestrained and unfettered by insecurities and boredom. We want it dark and quiet and tomb-like. A room that is a refuge. We are made hostile by the sound of the vacuum or the clanking of pots and pans and therefore strike out with venomous words to the unsuspecting parent whose task it is to probe and prod the mass of blankets and quilts to see what, or if life exists underneath.
To sleep perchance to dream, of boys and clothes and songs. Imaginings far more enchanting than the teenage existence that exists.
As an adult, I wrestle with feelings of guilt. What won’t be accomplished throughout the day if I stay for long in a state of inertia. It is guilt and anxiety that serve as motivating forces that compel then propel me up and out of bed. I wish for a big giant hand to pin me down. Nothing quite so heavy as to suffocate me or contribute to claustrophobia, but exerting just enough pressure to serve as an excuse not to leave the confines of my quilts. “Well I WOULD get up, but this giant hand is keeping me here. Guess I’ll just have to stay cocooned in my covers…now if I could just reach the novel I” m reading.” But I feel as though I’m running out of time. I have things to do, places to go, and people to see. It no longer feels as though there are endless summers before me.
This Saturday I’m going to try to stay in bed AT LEAST until 8:00 am. I’ll let you know how it goes.