So many teachers are caught up in test results that they have little time for meaningful writing. I've discovered an alternative to test-driven instruction that gives me hope. The Six Traits, a model developed by the Northwest Regional Educational Laboratory, proposes guidelines based on sound principles for good writing. They urge the link of reading and writing and their six criteria make sense. They emphasize elements of ideas, organization, language patterns, word choices, basic grammar and punctuation conventions, and voice. The last is probably the most difficult to achieve, but it's one of the most important determiners of a fine story. As the power of the Six Traits spreads through the country, I find myself noting characters' voices and how they strengthen stories. Voice certainly has a profound effect in two new novels.
Raleigh writer, Frances O'Roark Dowell's first novel, Dovey Coe (Atheneum, $16.00; ages 9-12), uses such a dynamic voice that it immediately immerses readers in the heroine's world. In Dovey Coe's 1928 small mountain town, her family may not have all the money it needs, but their closeness and individuality mark them as unique . Dovey's father is a jack-of-all trades who loves music, fiercely adores his family, and is run by strong emotions. Her mother is wise, kind, and encourages a sense of propriety. Her brother Amos is bright, deaf, and mischaracterized as crazy by the townsfolk. Her sister Caroline is the town beauty.
Dovey, the youngest Coe, is a bright and insightful twelve year old who takes no-nonsense, talks straight, and will win the hearts of readers quickly. Her inflammatory statements and actions are unmitigatedly honesty, but she seems unaware of how these might prejudice people around her. In the first paragraph, Dovey proclaims, "I reckon it don't matter if you like me or not" and "that she has not murdered Parnell Caraway", the haughty son of a local merchant. There is immediate tension created by her declaration, but her self-assured voice pulls the plot line even more taut than the impending death she announces. While Dovey refuses to see herself as victim of poverty, classism, gossip, or appearance; savvy readers will suspect that her strength might lead to her downfall.
Dowell specializes in complex characters whose actions add a depth to the story and Dovey's recounting draws attention to the ironies. Her sister Caroline's relationship with Parnell is unpredictable and unequal. Caroline is angry at being categorized as beautiful, but she uses these gifts shamelessly to gain advantage. Dovey believes her deaf brother Amos needs her, but in the end, she is the one who needs him. Dovey's combative dialogue and actions make her the target of assumptions, but only from this vantage point is she able to see how she has judged others and grow compassionate. Dovey Coe is a short novel which gains power because of the author's extraordinary use of voice. Dovey narrates with colloquialisms, dialect, and flourishes of fresh and moving imagery that lead to a literary triumph.
The character's voice strengthens What Happened on Planet Kid (Henry Holt, $16.95; ages 10 and up), the newest novel by Newbery-honor author, Jane Conly. The story takes place in 1958 and the heroine is twelve-year old Dawn who is sent to spend the summer on her elderly aunt and uncle's farm while her mother recovers from an operation for severe rheumatoid arthritis.
From the beginning Dawn's voice reveals her former carefree life and her own solemn nature. She characterizes herself when she remembers the day her mother pretends the vacuum cleaner is a dragon and asks the serious Dawn, "Don't you ever just feel like dancing?" That secure laughing world has been shattered with her mother's illness; Dawn's siblings sent to one aunt and Dawn to a rural existence alien to apartment life in her Washington, DC neighborhood that's a mix "better than the best pizza you ever ate, 'cause it's like a slice of the whole wide world."
In the country, Dawn keeps herself steady by throwing a hundred pitches every morning, practicing the piano, and rambling with her neighbor Charlotte. Her voice is a mix of longing and confusion, filled with foreboding details with which Dawn refuses to concern herself. She meanders along pleasantly as if she is cheering herself, while readers note the mounting tensions that she occasionally acknowledges. Her friend, Charlotte wears a dress that is too small, is called "poor white trash", and threatened continually by the ominous power her father has over the family. Another friend, Delbert, is a sickly black boy with a stammer who is also summering away from Washington. Dawn is thrown off balance by prejudice, narrowness, and class distinctions she never experienced in her urban life.
There is peace in the girls' hide-out, Planet Kid, where problems fade and adolescent silliness rules, but the pressures are relentless and unavoidable. Charlotte's family does not have enough money, nor her mother enough courage to escape her father's brutality. When he knocks a child into unconsciousness the day before Dawn's parents arrive to get her, Charlotte suggests Dawn return home and "pretend none of it happened." But by the story's end, Dawn true self emerges as she sobs out the truths of her summer and releases the fears which the readers have felt lurking below the surface throughout the story.