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When I was young, I remembering staying home from school with a tummy bug. I heard my mum explain to someone on the phone that we couldn’t make it because I had gastro. Having never heard the word ‘gastro’ before and imagining it to be some sort of terrible insult, I was incensed that Mum would tell this lie about me. I rushed up to her while she was still on the phone and cried at the top of my voice, “I don’t have gastro!” As you can imagine, Mum wasn’t very impressed. I’d made her look like a liar. Kids have an in built sense of what is true and what is false. It’s how they can tell such creative whoppers in the first place.
As a child, I found the concept of truth quite confusing. On the one hand, adults explained that it was wrong to lie. On the other hand, I observed grown-ups fudging the truth. (“Don’t tell your mother I bought you an ice-cream.”; “No, no, your new haircut looks fabulous.”) I learned that telling the truth was far more complicated than merely avoiding lying.
In my latest book, Lucy the Lie Detector, I wanted to explore this grey area, and all from the perspective of a feisty young girl. Lucy appoints herself chief ‘Lie Detector’ and her mission is simple: find out what is truth and what’s a lie?
In the end, lying is a complicated matter, something Lucy finds out as she navigates this tricky path.
Nothing compares to the pain of being falsely accused. When I was in kindergarten, it was time for my school’s annual Easter Hat Parade. Every child got to make a hat with an Easter theme then, for reasons best known to the organisers, we had to march around in a circle in front of our parents wearing said hat. As always, there was a competition for ‘Best Hat: Original Creation’ and ‘Best Hat: Assisted by an Adult’. I’d spent an entire afternoon slaving over mine, a tall cardboard tube painted with stripes, sprinkled with glitter and adorned with milk bottle tops and stars. You can see a picture of it here www.mariannemusgrove.com.au/about.htm
I duly stood in the line for ‘Best Hat: Original Creation’, only to be redirected to the ‘Best Hat: Assisted by an Adult’ line. I explained that the hat was my own design, but no one believed me. I was, in effect, accused of lying. The teachers believed there was no way a kindergartener could have designed such a hat unaided. (It was a pretty awesome hat, but still …) Let me state for the record, that that magnificent creation was entirely my own! I still remember the sting of that false accusation.
Part of being a children’s writer is remembering how it feels to be a child. I’ll warrant there isn’t a child in the world who hasn’t been falsely accused of lying at some stage or another, and who remembers the incident in great detail. Just because a child is small, it doesn’t mean their feelings are small or less deserving of respect. When a child’s character is impugned (as mine was), and worse, they have no power to right the wrong, this will stay in their memory for a long time (32 years, in my case).
To read more about the complexities of truth telling, not quite truth telling, and being falsely accused, check out my latest book, Lucy the Lie Detector.
You’d be surprised at what you can learn from The Brady Bunch. I recall one episode where Cindy Brady tells a lie. Alice, the housekeeper, helps her to see the virtue of telling the truth and, when Cindy eventually comes clean, Alice gives her a lollypop as a reward for her honesty.
Around the time I watched this episode, I was about seven years old and had done something somewhat naughty. What that something was, my mind has firmly suppressed. What I do remember is that I blamed my sister for it and she got in trouble. I squirmed with guilt all day. Later, as I watched The Brady Bunch, I got to thinking: If Cindy got a lollypop for telling the truth, what kind of a reward would I get? I confessed all to my parents and, to my infinite surprise, I was sent to my room. Where was my lollypop? I wondered. From then on, I never looked at Cindy Brady in quite the same way.
In my latest book, Lucy the Lie Detector, Lucy is confronted with a similar problem. When she accidentally scratches Dad’s brand new car, she decides to apply some paint to cover it up. Things don’t go quite to plan and, when Lucy is faced with the prospect of punishment, she places the blame on her brother. From here on in, it’s one whopper after another as Lucy tries to right the wrong she created with her initial fib.
Lying is complicated; telling the truth, even more so. In her unique style, Lucy van Loon is on a quest to figure out the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
There’s been a bit of press lately about some research suggesting children who lie do better later in life. Dr Kang Lee of the Institute of Child Study at Toronto University found that children who lie at a young age demonstrate advanced brain development. These children, some as young as two, are able to able to simultaneously hold in their heads the truth whilst telling a falsehood. That’s no small feat. By the age of four, 90% of children can lie. By age twelve, lying is at its height. Does this mean lying is good for your child? No. It’s just means it’s perfectly normal for children to lie and, as long as it doesn’t become pathological, your child is in no danger of becoming a criminal.
So what does this have to do with children’s writing? I’ve long been fascinated by how and why kids lie. When my mum opened up her dresser drawer and found all her lipsticks pushed in, she confronted my sister, the more likely culprit of us two siblings. My sister swore blind she didn’t do it (she did) while I looked as guilty as sin yet I hadn’t even touched the lipsticks. How is it some kids lie with great ease while others cannot?
Lying has a lot to do with power. Kids live in a world in which all the rules are laid down by adults. In my latest book, Lucy the Lie Detector, Lucy is struggling to find her way through the maze of adult rules and regulations. Her best friend, Harriet, seems to understand these rules with ease but, to Lucy, they’re a mystery. Rules about lying are made even more complicated when the adults themselves tell fibs. (“Don’t tell your father I ate the last Tim Tam.”) Lucy appoints herself ‘Lie Detector’ and sets out to figure out this lying business once and for all.
Let’s get something straight: I firmly believe it’s important we tell more lies, but not in the way you imagine. I’m not advocating lying as a way of life. I do, however, believe that writing a story in which every character always tells the truth is terribly boring. Having flawed characters is how you create drama and drama is what interests the reader.
Some of the most memorable children’s stories centre around a lie. Harry Potter’s aunt and uncle lie to him about his magical heritage; Charlie in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory lies about drinking the fizzy lifting drink, thus, risking expulsion from Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory; and every single adventure in Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events focuses on evil grownups lying to the three Baudelaire orphans.
Lies create intrigue and suspense, reveal hidden aspects of a character and can also be used to humorous effect. Sometimes, the reader is in on the lie. Sometimes, the lie is a complete surprise. In my latest book, Lucy the Lie Detector, Lucy finds herself in quite a pickle when a small fib turns into a big whopper, shortly followed by more and more whoppers as she tries to cover up her initial lie. Her adventure progresses as this self-appointed ‘Lie Detector’ tries to figure out the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
I like to write about moral quandaries, often starting the story with no idea of where it will end. I let the characters feel their way, often taking the story in a direction I never anticipated. Lucy van Loon is quite the fiesty character. I hope you enjoy the adventure she takes you on. (I was just along for the ride.)
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