{"id":175,"date":"2014-07-20T04:00:02","date_gmt":"2014-07-20T09:00:02","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/wildthings.blaine.org\/?p=175"},"modified":"2014-07-19T22:35:37","modified_gmt":"2014-07-20T03:35:37","slug":"true-tales-behind-famous-speeches","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/wildthings.blaine.org\/?p=175","title":{"rendered":"True Tales Behind Famous Speeches"},"content":{"rendered":"

[This is one of a series of posts in which we are sharing stories from our upcoming book (Wild Things: Acts of Mischief in Children’s Literature) that were cut from the original manuscript.]<\/em><\/p>\n

\"E.B.<\/a>
E. B. White and writing companion<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Not too long ago we posted a series of stories of terrifying school visits<\/a> by authors and illustrators.\u00a0 Of course, not all authors do<\/em> school presentations. And, well, if you were E. B. White or Robert C. O\u2019Brien, you just didn\u2019t even give speeches, if you could possibly avoid it. When The Harvard Crimson asked E. B. White to come give a talk, he cabled back the following response: \u201cSORRY CANNOT SPEAK DO NOT KNOW HOW\u2026\u201d When the George G. Stone Center for Children\u2019s Books awarded him the Recognition of Merit in 1970, he wrote, \u201cI\u2019m sorry I can\u2019t be there bodily\u2026but perhaps it\u2019s just as well; you may recall the story of Charlotte, that when Wilbur, the pig, was given the Award of Merit at the county fair, he fainted dead away\u2026I wouldn\u2019t want to put the Claremont conference through an ordeal of that sort.\u201d<\/p>\n

Robert C. O’Brien\u2019s aversion to speeches went far beyond merely stage fright. He was not only too shy to deliver his own Newbery acceptance speech in 1972 for Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH<\/em>, but he also wrote under a pseudonym and did so until his death in 1973. His real name was Robert Leslie Conly and, determined to remain anonymous, he didn\u2019t make public appearances to publicize his books. When Mrs. Frisby <\/em>won the Newbery Medal, O\u2019Brien opted out of the public speech most winners make at the annual conference of the American Library Association. Instead, he asked Jean Karl, his editor, to read his words.<\/p>\n

\"steig\"<\/a>
William Steig<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

William Steig likened public speaking to \u201cwalking on red hot embers & broken glass\u201d yet forced himself to deliver his own Caldecott acceptance speech for Sylvester and the Magic Pebble<\/em> in 1970. In the weeks before the presentation, he warned: \u201cI would almost rather die than have to formally address a group of people larger than two in number. I\u2019ve successfully avoided doing so for 50 years\u2026 I\u2019ve told this to many people, but no one believes me & I feel like a character in a Kafka novel. Please believe me when I say that speaking only a few words will require a superhuman effort for me; that I can no longer, in my sixties, hope to change my character; that I am making this effort only out of genuine gratitude; and also because I worry about my publisher, who could be an innocent victim of my neurosis.\u201d Subsequently, his Caldecott speech was short, sweet, eloquent, and to-the-point: \u201c{T}o reduce my discomfort, and yours — I shall make this a short speech\u2026 as a matter of form, it should not be as long as the little book that landed me here.\u201d\u00a0 In some editions of Sylvester and the Magic Pebble,<\/em> you can read his speech in its entirety in the back.<\/p>\n

Many years later, Steig seemed to have a different perspective on the trauma associated with book awards. Though he admitted that winning the Caldecott \u201ccauses many sleepless nights,\u201d he added: \u201cStill, I wouldn\u2019t mind going through that suffering again.\u201d<\/p>\n

And most authors and illustrators who win the highest awards in children\u2019s bookdom do<\/em> rise to the occasion, giving memorial speeches and having experiences which add to the mythos of their award-winning titles.<\/p>\n

\"Eleanor<\/a>
Eleanor Estes<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

When Eleanor Estes, who was terribly nervous about her 1952 Newbery acceptance speech, stood up to speak about winning for Ginger Pye<\/em>, she pulled a Jennifer Lawrence and fell to the floor. \u201cI thought she had probably fainted,\u201d legendary editor Margaret K. McElderry told Leonard Marcus in 1994, \u201cbecause she was in such a nervous state\u2026. But suddenly, I saw she was laughing!\u201d The man seated next to Eleanor, author Will Lipkind, had pushed back his seat to stand when Eleanor stood, and the chair\u2019s leg snagged Eleanor\u2019s skirt. \u201c{S}o she got part way up and then went right down,\u201d said McElderry. \u201cShe got up to the lectern, laughing her head off, and it was wonderful because it cracked the terrible tension in her. Then she said something like, \u2018All my life since I was a child, and I knew I wanted to be a writer, I have dreamed of winning this award. And what do I do? I fall flat on the floor.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

\"KONICA<\/a>
David Small<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Artist David Small also retained his sense of humor about a mishap that occurred during his speech. If you\u2019ve read Small\u2019s 2009 graphic novel memoir, Stitches<\/em>, you know that, as a child, he awoke from surgery on his neck only to discover he had no voice. You also know that he regained his speech, though he was left with only one vocal cord. This means that, when having to make public speeches, he pretty much has to cross his fingers and hope his voice holds out. \u201cOn the night of the 2001 Caldecott Award Ceremony in San Francisco, in a vast, packed auditorium, as I mounted the podium to give my 20-minute speech, I lost my voice,\u201d he said. \u201cAll I could do, painfully, was to croak out the words as I had written them down. Modulation, inflection, nuance, all of those flew out the door. The American Library Association, in bestowing on me their highest honor, turned me from a frog into a prince. That night, before their very eyes, I turned straight back into a frog!\u201d<\/p>\n

Perhaps Betsy Byars (1971 Newbery winner for Summer of the Swans<\/em>) provides the best portrait of the ceremony and grandeur of Awards Night — with a refreshing dash of humor. She recalls being led to her seat in the banquet room, all tricked out to look as if it were medieval times, by two teenage boys holding huge banners. They were dressed as King-Arthur-era page boys, and one held a banner that included a swan made out of real swan feathers. Byars was effectively transported out of the twentieth century into the Middle Ages until suddenly one of the boys muttered, \u201cI could just kill my mom for making me do this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Nom<\/a>
Nom nom nom<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

She\u00a0has also never forgotten that evening\u2019s dessert — blueberry cheesecake, her favorite, although couldn\u2019t swallow a bite during the ceremony, due to nerves. She proceeded to give her speech, and — after overcoming her anxiety and getting into the swing of things — she began to realize how hungry she was. \u201cAll I could think of,\u201d she said, \u201cwas that cheesecake. I could see it in my mind waiting there for me. Later my husband told me that the only thing wrong with the way I gave my speech was that I talked too fast at the end.\u201d When getting back to her table, pervaded by hunger, she came to discover that the blueberry cheesecake had been taken away. \u201cNow, I have had many pieces of blueberry cheesecake in the intervening years, but I tell you I have never had one that would have been as good as the one I would have had if I could have delivered my whole speech at the same rapid pace that I delivered the last few lines.\u201d<\/p>\n

And now, some rapid-fire memories of speeches past!<\/p>\n