“Enough with the chicken noises.” A guest post by Sean Ferrell

My middle-school history teacher was a unique woman. She was fond of using phrases like “nummy-nums” when she thought people were eating in class. She wore gaudy medallions around her neck that seemed barely larger and slightly uglier than hubcaps. She wielded a quirky and quiet power over the room. And, I found her thoroughly confusing. 

“No more chicken noises.”

I looked around the room. I hadn’t heard any chicken noises. I had been quietly listening to her talk about historical this-and-that’s and absentmindedly making circles on the desk with the back of my pen. I looked around to see if anyone else heard what she heard, to see if in fact a chicken had somehow made it into the room. I found only other perplexed students. It seemed that I wasn’t alone in my confusion of being called out for misbehavior. I whispered to Jeff, the cool kid who sat next to me, “What chicken noises?”

Jeff laughed. 

I was new in the school and had trouble making friends. I leaned heavily into my shyness and while no one was (overly) aggressive to me I was definitely alone. Jeff’s laughter was welcome—a cool kid thought I was funny—but I hadn’t made a joke. 

Now I was doubly confused: why was the teacher admonishing us over an invisible chicken, and why was I funny?

I searched the room again. I sat in the most coveted seat—last seat, middle row—which put four other students between me and Ms. Volaille. This was the best seat for an isolated kid. I was out of sight, and quiet, and happy to be left alone. I sank into my seat and waited for the silent chill of her displeasure to lift. I wondered how I could keep Jeff amused.

Ms. Volaille resumed her talk, students returned to dutifully listening, and I returned to absentmindedly making circles with the back of my pen. One circle, two, three… and then I heard it. 

Hey, this circling pen makes a noise. 

My curiosity was piqued.

One more circle, just to confirm, and to identify what kind of sound the plastic made against the wooden desk. Was it the plastic? The desk? Where did the noise come from? I just needed to be sure I was hearing it properly.

Bawk. 

That was the sound from the last circle. A bawk. That must have been the sound from the earlier circle. From every circle. Bawk-bawk-bawk just like a—

“Sean, I said enough of the chicken sounds. Come up here now.”

I didn’t set out to write about protagonists who don’t understand why they’re in trouble. The Snurtch and I Don’t Like Koala each told a version of that for picture book readers, but in those cases it felt more like a background for the character as opposed to the question that the protragonist asks. When I began to create the story that became The Sinister Secrets of Singe, I recognized that the main character was a little older than the picture book characters. As I zeroed in on Noah as a 12 or 13-year-old, I also recalled how often I found myself at that age wondering, “Why is this happening? What did I do?”

The Sinister Secrets of Singe began as a bed-time story I made up every night for my toddler son. Like every fairytale and fable he was fond of hearing—Goldilocks, Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood—I started with a young character trying to understand how the world works. I instinctively highlighted the character’s isolation, and the story evolved over time into something with a wild bunch of pirates, a new best friend named Winona, and robotic creations made by the hero that aid in both the danger and deliverance of the gang of friends. As a young reader, I had been drawn to stories about kids who rise up to save the day, despite adult interference. Here I was crafting such a story for my son. But overcoming adversity isn’t the start of the story. It’s the curiosity of the untested hero that carries that weight.

What started as an improvised story told at bedtime was repeated and refined until—as my son approached the age when he no longer wished to hear it—I realized I had crafted a story that was as much for me as it was for him. I had been creating a story about boy who had to navigate a world he didn’t quite understand, a world where he knew he brought joy or dismay but didn’t understand why. As the story had evolved the protagonist had grown older. Noah was no longer a young boy just a few years older than my son. He was a middle schooler, but not in school. He was isolated, but not out of shyness. He knew he was somehow on the wrong side of being right but wasn’t sure how he had gotten there or how to get out. And he was talented. Talented enough to scare the adults around him. The machines he could make were like something from HG Wells. The pirates he befriended like something from Jules Verne. And the friendships Noah forged, and the important one he lost, were like the best and worst moments that a kid just out of elementary school but not yet in high school could imagine. All his actions were rooted in his desire to understand the world better. All the repercussions were tainted by his lack of understanding why the adults wanted things just so.

In short, I had written a book where a child’s instinctive curiosity conflicts with The Rules and The Reasons of the adult world. Still, it wasn’t all loss and loneliness. I had also written a story where a boy could find himself in allegiance with the cool kids—even if not understanding how. And he was a character who could recognize an ally when he needed one most. And most important, he never loses his curious drive to know more. It’s what leads Noah to question, to search for his father, and to find a solution to monstrous problems. I wanted to write a story where I rewarded the character’s curiosity (Noah finds out so much about himself), and where the difficulties of curiosity could be explored. Curiosity helps us unlock the world, but it doesn’t do it in a way that always meshes with the needs or desires of those around us. As a kid I liked stories about kids who could take care of themselves, but I also needed those stories where the kid figures the world out—even if only in a small way—in order to avoid a future misstep.

So, I wrote a book that would please a middle school kid who wants to hear his pen cluck just one… more… time.

Meet the author

Sean Ferrell has published works for adults and children. He lives and works in Brooklyn, NY. He likes protagonists (both children and adults) who don’t understand why they keep getting into trouble. Sometimes those stories are for adults. Sometimes for children. His work is usually speculative in nature, and often involves robots, pirates, or both. 

LINKS: www.seanferrell.com

TWITTER: @byseanferrell

About The Sinister Secrets of Singe by Sean Ferrell, Graham Carter (Illustrator)

The Wild Robot meets Sweet Tooth in the first book in a sweeping adventure series packed with robots, smugglers, battles, and a lonely boy trying to find where he fits in the world.

Eleven-year-old Noah has grown up in a mysterious house that grows larger every night with only his mother and a robot-boy for company. He spends his days building robotic devices for the city of Liberty, a place he’s not even allowed to visit—not since his father almost destroyed it when Noah was only a baby.

When Noah discovers a message hidden in one of his father’s inventions, he decides to run away to find him. He’s sure that at his father’s side he’ll finally get the recognition he deserves. With the help of a band of smugglers (especially unofficial second in command, young Winona), he sails to Singe to rescue his father, who he’s certain is as misunderstood as he is, but the man he finds there is even more of a monster than his mechanical creations. And when Noah returns home, he accidentally leads his father’s robot army to Liberty once more.

Now, it’s up to Noah to rescue the city—but to do so, he’ll have to make a terrible choice.

ISBN-13: 9781645951834
Publisher: Holiday House
Publication date: 06/06/2023
Series: The Sinister Secrets #1
Age Range: 10 – 12 Years

Filed under: Guest Post