HAPPY BIRTHDAY E.B. WHITE!
E.B. White was born
today in Mount Vernon, New York, in 1899. As I’m writing this,
a tiny spider has spent the past week living on my lampshade and crawling
around my desk in stutter steps. Of course whenever I see a spider, especially
a tiny one, I think of Charlotte’s little spiders in Charlotte's Web. Like Fern with the runt
pig soon to be named Wilbur, I’ve already saved this spider from impending
death a few times. First, from being swallowed up by my keyboard (a quick
turning over of the keys and a few shakes brought the spider out, from which
he landed upside down but somehow righted himself. I’m convinced it is a he). And second, from being killed by me. I confess
that when I first saw him stutter-stepping in between the lined paper of my
revision notes I grew frightened, took the paper into the bathroom where I dropped
him in the waste basket, only to feel guilty and find him again, gently coaxing
him back onto the paper (this took three attempts) and then back onto my desk where
he could crawl up my owl lamp and onto the lampshade where he lives.
THAT’S THE IMPACT E.B.
WHITE HAS HAD ON ME.
(Looking for the spider
at this moment, I notice that ironically, he’s got a thread-like line between
my illustration of a pig and my computer screen, and I quickly move my
paperweight out of crushing distance.)
 | |
| E. B White writing at his Brooklin farm in Maine. |
E. B. White also taught
me a lot about writing. Like a good beginning and how details matter--the kind
of detail that editors might want to remove--the kind of detail you fight to keep in
manuscripts so that readers like you and me can enjoy a line about the rain because it’s just, well … enjoyable. (Even though it
doesn’t propel the story forward.) CASE IN POINT: the opening of Chapter 4 in Charlotte's Web:
Rain fell in the barnyard and ran in crooked courses down into the lane where thistles and pigweed grew. Rain spattered against Mrs. Zuckerman's kitchen windows and came gushing out of the downspouts. Rain fell on the backs of the sheep as they grazed in the meadow. When the sheep tired of standing in the rain, they walked slowly up the lane and into the fold.
Now doesn't that make you feel differently about sheep or at the very least, want to find out what pigweed looks like?
As for how to write something in a grammatically acceptable way, I’ve also been carrying around a copy of The Elements of Style since I was a
teenager. (White edited the definitive guide on grammar & style.) And I know I should be reading it more often than I do.
In 1978, White was awarded a special Pulitzer Prize for his body of work as a whole. He died seven years later at age 86 of Alzheimer’s
disease, which makes me sad. I wouldn’t have wanted him forgetting how much his
work mattered to so many people, or how many lives he changed with his books.
My love for animals grew because of him and does to this day. My love of Maine
is also another thread that E.B.White wove into my life.
And on the 60th
anniversary year of Charlotte’s Web,
and what would have been E. B. White’s 113th birthday, I encourage you to think
happy thoughts about animals--including spiders--and to think about dusting off
your copy of Charlotte’s Web and
reading it again.
