When it comes to heroes in children’s literature, I’ve always had a sneaking weakness for fantasy’s chosen ones. I’m gripped by boys or girls with latent magic, outstanding talent, or simply qualities of innate persistence and courage that set them above the rest – those who seem entirely ordinary, but are concealing great prowess unknown to everyone, including themselves. Harry Potter, in short, is right up my alley.
The “middle-school misfit” is the antithesis of my favourite fantasy protagonists; an unlikely real-world sub-hero, concealing no great prowess whatsoever. Often American, invariably male, he tends to the comically-shaped and socially inept. He isn’t an out-and-out geek or an untouchable, but he’s undoubtedly outside the charmed circle of the cool kids, bumbling haplessly along in the midstream. What is it about this funny little oddity that compels readers – especially boys – to devour him in their droves?
The original middle-school misfit is undoubtedly Jeff Kinney’s Wimpy Kid, now on book nine and still an outrageous bestseller. From a quick sample of year fives at my daughter’s school, I glean that Kinney’s books are adored because “they’re so funny”; also, frequently, because “I like the pictures”. Funny is important – the latest Scholastic Kids and Family Reading Report suggests that children are most strongly drawn to books that make them laugh. Pictures are important, too; the reassuring balance of illustration to text is definitely a big part of the Wimpy Kid’s appeal, satisfying young readers’ comics yen, but placating parents and teachers by coming in a book-shaped package. The emphasis on images isn’t surprising; the series originated online, on the FunBrain.com educational site, and the punchline-delivering pictures are testament to Kinney’s experience as a cartoonist.
But it’s the character of the Wimpy Kid himself, the unchanging everyman Greg Heffley, who compels the reader’s loyalty. Everything Greg touches goes unstoppably awry as he observes and diarises it in a state of perennial, startled horror. His big brother picks on him, his little brother gets away with murder, he loses his best friend to his “back-up” friend, his dad wants him to do outdoor activities and his mum insists on educational enrichment when he just wants to eat rubbish and play video games. He will forever be small, smooth-chinned and put-upon, a maker of poor choices and a sucker-up of unintended consequences. But he will also forever be astute and witty, a “smart kid who doesn’t try”. He may not be a great role model, but he speaks to “can’t-be-bothered” tuners-out of education with an understated eloquence few can match.
Kinney’s colossal success has given rise to many others in the same mould. Cartoonists seem to have found the “misfit” middle-grade subgenre particularly fertile; Michael Fry, co-creator of Over the Hedge, provides an edgier, more thought-provoking take on school relationships and their struggles for power and acceptance in the adventures of the Odd Squad, narrated by Nick, who slides accidently over the line from bullied to bully. And the award-winning Stephan Pastis provides another all-American misfit – this time a brilliantly bad detective, with a polar-bear partner – in the shape of Timmy Failure and his “distinctive scarf”.
Illustrated misfit diaries aren’t a solely American phenomenon, either; Jim Smith’s Barry Loser is a Brit. Hamstrung by his unfortunate surname, Barry is obsessed with his favourite TV star Future Ratboy (catchphrase: “What in the name of unkeelness!”). Farting, bogeys and general vileness are all heavily featured (much to the delight of the year fives), as are outrageously-curved noses and drinks called Fronkle. But under the slapstick surface, there’s the same anxious emphasis on jockeying for position in an invisible, mysteriously fluctuating hierarchy of “keelness”.
And Liz Pichon’s Tom Gates - a new arrival to this week’s What Kids Are Reading charts, charting the books schoochildren really like, is another British bumbler in a lighthearted, gentle take on the genre. Rather than a diary, Tom doodles frenetically in his workbook, creating unflattering portraits of his unfortunate teachers (Mrs Worthington’s moustache is singled out for particular attention) and writing songs to pillory his long-suffering teenage sister with his incipient band, the Dogzombies. Will Tom ever win Amy Porter’s favour? Will he defeat the machinations of Marcus Meldrew? And will he ever hand his in homework on time?
I’d still prefer to curl up with Susan Cooper’s Will Stanton than Greg Heffley and his compadres. But overcoming my snobbish, knee-jerk aversion to illustrated diaries of the “misfit” kind has allowed me to appreciate their succinct wit – and the fact that they remain the height of keelness among kids for whom reading can often be anything but.
