language, literature

Why Cliffhangers Make Children’s Books Better

Children’s books have a magic of their own. They manage to tell powerful stories with just a few words, relying on rhythm, rhyme, and suspense to captivate young readers. But one of the most underrated techniques is the cliffhanger. When done right, it turns a children’s book into a real page-turner.

It’s been about two years since I started reading a lot of children’s books again. It’s been a joy, as they tell incredible stories. It’s remarkable how much impact stories can have with just a few words and a lot of implied meaning. The books are wonderfully diverse: from the minimalism of Het bos van Anno (Anno’s Forest) by Mitsumasa Anno to the detailed overload of Alfabet (Alphabet) by Charlotte Dematons. From the framed narrative of Waar is de taart? (Where is the cake?) by Thé Tjong-Khing to the yet simple yet highly effective storytelling of Dick Bruna. From the humor of Slaap maar fijn, bouwterrein (Goodnight, goodnight, construction site) by Sherri Duskey Rinker and Tom Lichtenheld to the heartwarming Vosje (Little fox) by Edward van de Vendel and Marije Tolman … I could go on forever.

Now, I recently read a book that didn’t quite work for me: Waar is de draak? (Where is the dragon?) by Leo Timmers. Don’t get me wrong – it’s beautifully illustrated, with shadows that look like a dragon but turn out to be a boat full of Vikings, a tree packed with birds that have large beaks, and other stunning details. And all of this presented in a unique and beautiful style. What I didn’t like had to do with the book’s format and its language. That was disappointing, but also thought-provoking.

Children’s books often share fascinating linguistic traits. One such trait I call the “problem-solving-in-threes.” Mama kwijt (A bit lost) by Chris Haughton is a perfect example. At the start of the book, the little owl loses his/her mother. A helpful frog leads the owl to three wrong animals. They all share one characteristic with the owl’s mother (big eyes, being large…), but none of them are the real mom. In the same way, Klipperdeklop (Clip-clop) by Nicola Smee and Over een kleine mol die wil weten wie er op zijn kop gepoept heeft (The story of the little mole who knew it was none of his business) by Werner Holzwarth follow a similar pattern. These are just a few random examples from my collection, but there are plenty more.

Another recurring element is end rhyme (ik zag een paard/het stond bij de haard). This is primarily associated with poems. It’s actually quite funny, because in “serious” poetry, end rhyme has been in decline since the nineteenth century. There is much to say about the emergence of end rhyme as well. In children’s books, end rhyme is certainly not always present, many children’s books do just fine without it. Still, rhyme isn’t just found in many children’s songs and stories for no reason; it serves a purpose. It supports language development, as a colleague from Nijmegen concluded some years ago.

But rhyme itself isn’t that interesting. Anyone can make two lines rhyme. True mastery only shows when it comes to a related aspect: meter. Take these two lines from Boer Boris gaat naar oma (Farmer Boris goes to grandma) by Ted van Lieshout and Philip Hopman:

Ze NEmen EERST de SPRINter EN ze KIJken DOOR de RUIten
en ZIEN ze KOEIen IN de WEI dan ZWAAIen ZE naar BUIten

(They FIRST TAKE the SPRINter AND they LOOK THROUGH the WINdows
and SEE the COWS IN the FIELD then WAVE to THEM OUTside)

The somewhat aggressive use of capital letters demonstrates a regular sequence of stressed and unstressed syllables – which is the definition of meter. In fact, the sequence of weak-strong is one of the most well-known metrical feet, the iamb. Put seven of them together, as above, and you have an iambic heptameter. All very literary and classically appropriate: figures like Lord Byron and Edgar Allan Poe were already using it for their literary masterpieces. Understandably, because this rhythm flows effortlessly. This is probably why Ted van Lieshout, and many others, choose to use this pattern. However, most authors opt for fewer metrical feet: Dick Bruna, for example, always uses three, as can be seen and heard here:

A final fascinating and recurring aspect of the specific language of children’s books is the order of the pages. Tension is often held by presenting the problem on the right-hand page. Whether the problem is solved is only revealed when you turn the page. The resulting delay, combined with the physical act of turning the page, increases the suspense. Is this animal your mom? Turn the page: no! Extremely effective, and surprisingly funny. Although the earlier mentioned elements appear in other narrative forms as well, I personally only know them from children’s books. It’s a bit like a cliffhanger, similar to those at the end of chapters in detective novels and thrillers, but it still feels different in some way.

Based on these characteristics, it’s easier to understand why Waar is de draak? (Where is the dragon?) didn’t appeal to me as much. The lines rhyme, but they have an irregular meter. The bigger issue lies in how the suspense is built. Tension is built on a double-page spread, but only resolved when you turn to the right-hand page of the next panel. Having to read the left-hand page of that panel first causes the tension to deflate, like air slowly escaping from a balloon.

In the two years I’ve returned to reading children’s books, I’ve expected meter, rhyme, and suspense to follow the pages. Not all books have that, and that’s fine. But it’s so much better when they incorporate these elements. That’s when your children’s book turns into a Gesamtkunstwerk (total work of art), where the illustrations, story, and language align. It may be a cliché, but don’t you want the best for your child? Then make sure you get your child the best children’s books.

• children's books