No one knows obsession like a middle grader. The gaps between moody personalities and awkward encounters often get filled with fixations on some sort of fantastical, pseudo-scientific, dystopia-filled story universe—and yes, I was absolutely one of those kids. Countless books and shows became everything to me at that age. I might laugh and cringe about it now, but in 2016 I held my interests and fixations very dear, through all my dramatics.

Stranger Things is exactly the kind of story that catapults you into its world, which is why it works itself so deeply into an adolescent brain (at least mine). And for years—like, a whole lot of years, 63 to be specific—A Wrinkle in Time has been a similar sort of beacon. It’s long been a cultural reference point for inter-dimensional travel: the kind of science-adjacent imagination that feels just believable enough to obsess over.

Disclosure: Madeleine L’Engle is my great-grandmother. My relationship to A Wrinkle in Time is personal—but it’s also the kind of readerly obsession I think the book invites.

So I wasn’t terribly surprised to find out that the newest season of Stranger Things alludes to A Wrinkle in Time. Twelve-year-old me is somewhere screaming into a pillow. Twenty-year-old me is slightly embarrassed by her adolescence, but also able to recognize how interesting this crossover really is.

From the start, Stranger Things has been packed with cultural references. Most notably, Stephen King’s It (no affiliation with IT, the disembodied brain of Wrinkle—I’ve seen some internet comments with an alarming lack of common sense; maybe that’s a call for us all to touch grass). Themes of friendship, loss of innocence, and a search for heroism—things that matter deeply to young people—run straight through the series. The same goes for Stand By Me.

Yes, the show clearly loves the ’80s and Stephen King, but it also leans on storytelling tropes that A Wrinkle in Time helped define: kids facing something enormous, adults unable to help, and the idea that emotional connection is often the only real way through. Watching the first episodes of the new season, I was excited to see those parallels emerging again, just as they have throughout earlier seasons.

While I could speculate endlessly about connections between A Wrinkle in Time and Stranger Things (there are so many), what really caught my attention was something that felt purposeful—and, honestly, lowkey thrilling: the way Wrinkle is used as an analogy within the show. Stranger Things is well known for using Dungeons & Dragons to explain the paranormal. But a younger character, Holly, doesn’t play D&D, so the show instead turns to A Wrinkle in Time as a way for her to understand what’s happening.

I won’t go into too much detail (being labeled a “spoiler” would be shameful and humiliating), but there are multiple references to Wrinkle’s characters and world that feel deliberate rather than decorative.

Wrinkle’s explanation of a tesseract—of folding space and moving between worlds—has long served as a helpful cultural shorthand (or a wormhole, though my aunt rejects that analogy). Stranger Things has leaned hard into that idea this season. Cool! Something else frigid? The Cold War.

Stranger Things is set toward the end of the Cold War, while A Wrinkle in Time was written near its beginning. Wrinkle expresses deeply anti-totalitarian, anti-conformist ideas by pushing them to an extreme, whereas other books of the era—like Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes—lean more heavily into anxiety. Wrinkle is more about reaction and resistance.

In an upcoming episode drop, there’s even an episode titled “Welcome to Camazotz.” I know nothing about what that episode holds, but I’m hoping for some pointed commentary on conformity and control. And honestly, there has to be something big coming about the power of friendship in this final season—after all, Meg’s love for Charles Wallace is what saves everyone at the end of Wrinkle. I also wouldn’t be surprised by a twist (man-with-the-red-eyes-controlled-by-IT energy, anyone?). There are far more parallels I could draw—Meg and Eleven, Charles Wallace and One, all the dad stuff—but that would take more time and words than I have.

These stories endure because they give young people problems to wrestle with and hope to hold onto when the world feels too big. Obsessions aren’t silly; they’re a way of trying to understand chaos.

It’s still wild to me that Madeleine created something so lasting, relatable, and adaptable. It’s also a little surreal to have this crossover land so casually (the family really didn’t know about it in advance, I promise). And while I would never want to relive being a moody seventh grader, I can appreciate that time as one of intense growth—and I’m grateful for all the stories that shaped me.

May middle-grade fixations live on.

May tweens always have something to obsess over.

May they stay awkward.

Scarlett L’Engle Roy is a musical artist based in London and New York. As an indie-rock artist with deep rooted alt-country influences, she uses music to tell stories for herself and others to relate to. She is currently finishing her musical studies at Trinity Laban Conservatoire. Roy is Madeleine’s great-granddaughter and carries her family’s legacy and love for literature with her. scarlettroy.com 

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Madeleine and Hugh’s wedding anniversary is January 26, and I thought it would be a meaningful occasion to write something. 

Madeleine and Hugh, 194a 

A long marriage is never smooth.  Madeleine and Hugh’s was no exception. In The Irrational Season, she talks about it:

I love this quotation, and turn to it often, because it has resonance beyond what happens in a marriage. This flashing fish of hope flicking its silver fins until a state of love returns feel like what happens over and over and over again in many different contexts. It’s what Meg learns in A Wrinkle in Time — that she has the strength and gifts needed to resist IT and the shadow — that love will return.

I talked about this quotation in a video I made for Diana Butler Bass’s substack The Cottage for her Advent series in December 2024. In the video, I take you into the attic bedroom at Crosswicks; Meg Murry’s bedroom — at least that’s what we’ve always imagined it to be — complete with a patchwork quilt made by J. A. Neilsen and an ancient Louise the Larger. It’s a small, special glimpse into the origins of one of her most beloved books, and I hope it helps you feel closer to the story.

​

May you sense the silver fins more frequently, and for longer. Remember that they are coming! Keep reading, lots of interesting things follow regarding the musical adaptation and new books!

Blessings,

Charlotte

Photo by Don Hicks.

Charlotte Jones Voiklis is Madeleine L’Engle’s granddaughter and executor of her estate. She is the co-author with Jennifer Adams of A Book, Too, Can Be a Star (October 2022), a picture book biography illustrated by Adelina Lirius; and, with her sister, Léna Roy, of Becoming Madeleine (2018), a biography for middle grade readers. Charlotte is producing the musical adaptation of A Wrinkle in Time, premiering at Arena Stage Summer 2025.

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Dear Ones,

When Madeleine was first married, she began what would be a years-long tradition of drawing, printing, and painting her own Christmas cards. This is her first after her marriage to Hugh Franklin, with her beloved French poodle, Touché. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about these little cards lately. The detail, the commitment to reality (see how Madeleine drew her gangly legs and pointy knees above), the clear love and affection that went into them. But mostly I’ve been thinking of the courage it takes to put pen to paper and draw. I, like Madeleine, am primarily a writer. I’m fairly confident in my ability when it comes to words. But there is something in me which craves expression in other art forms – music, drawing, dance – even though I’m not very good at them. 

Madeleine wrote a lot about how important playing the piano was to her, even though she wasn’t very good at it. (Though I’m not sure how bad someone who plays every day of their life could actually be.) I’m not aware of her having spoken about her own drawing. But she did write much about how hard it was to begin writing, how she would sharpen all her pencils, polish her glasses – anything to put off the moment of beginning. I experience this, too, sometimes. But for me, the blank page is the most terrifying when I intend to draw. I fear messing up. I fear creating something ugly when the thing in my mind is beautiful. I fear my inability to draw precisely, perfectly, is a reflection on my self-discipline, even my character. If art is important to me, why am I not better at it?

I think many of us feel this way about something. Some little bit of creative endeavor we feel drawn to, yet fear. Madeleine’s Christmas cards encourage me. Not that they are badly drawn. But they aren’t perfect, polished. And yet they demonstrate a keen observation of the world around her, and especially the people she loves (like her husband, Hugh’s, receding hairline). Perhaps all art is made of love plus courage. Courage to be vulnerable, to risk saying, “I love you,” in a creative way, to risk expressing ourselves poorly in the hope that we will stumble upon a new way of communicating our love. To risk being laughed at in the hope of being more truly seen.

I love Madeleine’s cards. They delight me. And they also make me braver. Perhaps after writing this blog post, I’ll pick up a pencil and face down the scary blank page. Perhaps that, too, is a way of flinging ourselves, like stars, like Mrs Whatsit, against the fading December light. 

The rest of the cards are compiled Christmas card video, in a video. And if you’d like to spend more time this season with Madeleine you can pick up her book, The Twenty-four Days Before Christmas: An Austin Family Story. 

Jessica Kantrowitz is the author of several books of prose and poetry, including The Long Night and 365 Days of Peace. She supports other authors through copyediting and social media management. More at jessicakantrowitz.com.

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by Barrie Kreinik

When my teacher announced the end of the silent reading period, I crawled out from behind the armchair in the corner of my second-grade classroom. I’d hidden there to maximize my peace and quiet. I blinked at the influx of light, feeling as though I were returning from another planet. And in a way, I was: I’d been on Camazotz with the Murrys, absorbed in A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle.

Two years later, my classmates and I were assigned the task of writing a letter to an author we admired. Having been told that I could not write to C.S. Lewis about Narnia because that author was deceased, I addressed my letter to L’Engle. By that point, I’d devoured the rest of the Time Quintet books, captivated by their fantastical plots and the relatability of heroine Meg Murry, who was bookish, bespectacled, and impatient, just like me. L’Engle replied with a form letter that included a handwritten note at the bottom: “Thanks for the photo!” I don’t recall what I wrote or what photo I sent, but I remember taking great satisfaction in knowing that this world-famous novelist had read my letter.

Madeleine and Marie Donnet, ca. 1941

I didn’t know then that Madeleine L’Engle had decades of experience answering fan mail, though not initially her own. In 1940, while a student at Smith College, Madeleine and her best friend Marie Donnet wrote to the illustrious actress, director, and producer Eva Le Gallienne, asking her to consider directing one of Madeleine’s plays. In reply, Miss LeG (pronounced “le-GEE,” as everyone called her) encouraged them to look her up when they moved to New York after graduation. Two years later, a series of fortunate events led the two young women to visit Miss LeG at her apartment, where Madeleine happened to mention that she could type. (See Becoming Madeleine for the full story.) Hired on the spot to help answer Miss LeG’s correspondence, Madeleine went on to work with her for more than two years—not only as a typist, but also as an actress, understudy, and assistant stage manager.

I first learned of Madeleine’s connection with Miss LeG in Helen Sheehy’s vividly rendered biography, Eva Le Gallienne, which I read shortly after graduating from college in 2007. “She loved me in a benign, maternal way,” Madeleine told Sheehy. “She was incredibly kind and encouraging to me as a writer.” Indeed, Miss LeG championed Madeleine’s writing from the start, as did her then partner, the director Margaret Webster. In 1943, Webster invited a group of theatre professionals to a reading of Madeleine’s play The Christmas Tree, writing, “Miss LeGallienne and I have read several of her plays, and feel that her talent is most unusual and of very distinguished promise.” Madeleine fulfilled that promise in 1944 when she penned her first novel, The Small Rain, inspired by her theatrical adventures with Miss LeG and written in the wings of the touring production of “Uncle Harry.” Though she soon transitioned fully from playwriting to novel writing, Madeleine would later assert that the theatre was “the best school for a writer,” and the time she spent in Miss LeG’s inner circle would remain a treasured memory.

Eva LeGallienne

By the time she met Madeleine L’Engle, Eva Le Gallienne was one of the most accomplished theatre artists in America. Born in London and raised in Paris and Copenhagen, LeGallienne—who liked to say she was “a step ahead of the century,” having been born in 1899—became an overnight success in the West End at age sixteen, then moved to New York to pursue broader theatrical horizons. She achieved Broadway stardom at twenty-one and national celebrity status at twenty-four, but renown was not her ambition: she wanted to grow as an actress, and she felt that in order to do so, she couldn’t keep playing in long-running shows. The repertory system, in which a single acting company performed a variety of plays in constant rotation, didn’t exist in America, where all theatre was considered “show business.” Le Gallienne longed for the government-subsidized theatres of Europe, which produced a panoply of plays at affordable prices. Having won what she called the “Battle of Broadway,” she used her fame and influence to fulfill her dream of creating a “people’s theatre.” In 1926, at the age of twenty-seven, she founded the Civic Repertory Theatre on West Fourteenth Street.

Funded entirely by private subsidy—i.e., wealthy patrons whom Le Gallienne cajoled into donating large sums—the Civic Rep sold tickets at a much lower rate than that of Broadway theatres, attracting a diverse audience and fulfilling Le Gallienne’s maxim, “The theatre should be an instrument for giving, not a machinery for getting.” As lead actor, director, and producer, she ran the company successfully for more than seven years, earning a reputation as a bold female innovator in an industry dominated by men. By 1934, however, the Depression had diminished the fortunes of the theatre’s supporters, and the Civic Rep was forced to close. For the next five decades, Le Gallienne continued working as an actor, director, and producer—on Broadway, on tour, and eventually in the regions—as well as the author of several books and new translations of Ibsen and Chekhov. But she never abandoned her quest to bring non-profit repertory theatre to the United States. When she died in 1991, Miss LeG left a legacy of innovation and artistry that would inspire future generations of theatre artists and writers—including Madeleine L’Engle and myself.

In 2016, I learned more about that legacy when I befriended the late Broadway actress Carole Shelley, who performed with Miss LeG in the 1976 national tour of Kaufman and Ferber’s comedy “The Royal Family.” After telling me many delightful stories about their work together, she lent me her signed copy of Miss LeG’s autobiography, At 33—which was so compelling, I read it in a single sitting. I had always been mystified as to why such a vital pioneer of the American theatre had fallen largely into obscurity since her death. I’d taken three semesters of Theatre History in college and never heard her name, despite the fact that the Civic Rep set the stage for the Off-Broadway and regional theatre movements that swept the country in the 1950s and ’60s. I decided to adapt the tale of Miss LeG’s early life into a stage play, using the art form she adored to introduce her to a new generation of audience members. But after three years of development, the pandemic killed all the momentum I’d been building toward production. Finally, in 2022, I met with an audiobook producer who had seen the play’s first public reading and expressed interest in turning it into an audio drama. I adapted the script, turning stage directions into sound effects and streamlining the list of characters that the five actors (including myself) were to play. This month, that audio drama, The Queen of Fourteenth Street, was released by Hachette Audio. I still hope that the play will one day be produced onstage, but in an era when live performance tickets are often prohibitively expensive, the ubiquitous medium of digital audio seems a perfect conduit for the story of a woman who wanted theatre to be accessible to everyone.

I knew when I wrote to Madeleine L’Engle thirty years ago that I wanted to be an actress and a writer when I grew up. Now that I am, it’s been thrilling to explore the connection between two of the creative artists I most admire. As Miss LeG always said, “The dead help the living.” I’m grateful for the help and inspiration I’ve received from both of these extraordinary women.

Barrie Kreinik is a writer and performer based in New York City. She is the author of the original audio drama The Queen of Fourteenth Street, released on June 4th by Hachette Audio, which tells the story of Eva Le Gallienne and the Civic Rep.

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Extended family is on my mind this time of year. Not only is Thanksgiving around the corner, but also I recently helped co-direct the L’Engle Writing Retreat in Litchfield, CT, mere miles from Madeleine’s beloved farmhouse, Crosswicks. 

The rambling, 250-year-old building has been the private residence for many generations of Madeleine’s family since the 1940s. It plays a key role in her works: from the memoir-esque Crosswicks Journals (such as A Circle of Quiet and The Summer of the Great-Grandmother) to various fiction series for tweens and teens. Indeed, a signature theme in Madeleine’s fiction is the presence of large, multigenerational families all under one roof. 

The Murrys in A Wrinkle in Time are the best-known example, of course. A house like Crosswicks is the setting that bookends the Newbery winner, hosting no fewer than four siblings, multiple pets, classmates, neighbors, alien creatures, and even angels. One of Wrinkle’s sequels, A Swiftly Tilting Planet, depicts the family gathered at the farmhouse on Thanksgiving weekend. Meg Murry (Wrinkle’s teen protagonist) is now a young woman, married to her friend Calvin and pregnant with their first child; while her youngest brother, Charles Wallace, must time-travel across continents and cultures to fulfill a prophetic rune delivered by Meg’s mother-in-law. It’s a big family story par excellence.

An adjacent series known as The Austin Family Chronicles features a similarly large cast (minus the intergalactic beings), which grows with each successive story. In Meet the Austins, the family adds a newly-orphaned child to the household, while in A Ring of Endless Light the grandfather’s terminal illness sets the stage for the extended family’s reckoning with death and dying. Here, too, everyone is under one roof. 

This emphasis on multigenerational relationships is something I’ve always loved about Madeleine’s books. When I was a young child, my nuclear family lived with my grandparents for several years while my father was in graduate school. Their home was a busy hub, filled to the brim, especially at the holidays. Perhaps that’s why, during middle and high school, I was drawn to fictional characters like Meg Murry and Vicky Austin: because my earliest memories were shaped by a household like theirs. 

What I didn’t realize, as a young reader, is just how unusual such stories are.

For one, it’s tough to pitch multigenerational plots to a publishing industry that often segregates audiences by age–e.g., Middle Grade (MG) for ages 8-12, Young Adult (YA) for ages 13-18, etc. My own forthcoming novel Once a Queen, which releases Jan. 30, began as YA in conversations with one publisher, but then morphed into MG when the sales team questioned the target readership. YA books, as a genre, are “issues-driven,” whereas my story features a fourteen-year-old girl named Eva who must navigate generational wounds passed down from grandmother to mother to daughter. Eventually my agent pitched the book to a different publisher as “Young Teen” (we coined the term, we think!), which did the trick. However, since “YT” is not an industry category, Once a Queen will release as YA. 

This insistence on pegging audiences by age was particularly frustrating to Madeleine. When asked about her proposed readership for Wrinkle, she protested, “It’s for people! Don’t people read books?” In time, she embraced the role of children’s author by claiming, “If a book will be too difficult for adults, then you write it for children”–which was her way of both affirming young people and critiquing the industry that forced her to choose.

Another challenge is that it’s hard not to engage MG/YA stories from the perspective of the adult characters. After all, as adults ourselves, the grownups are the ones to whom we relate best. And yet, they’re often unreliable participants in the child’s world, creating expectations the child can’t meet and/or vice versa. While writing Once a Queen, for instance, I had to continuously ask myself, How is Eva feeling right now? What does she need? I tried to keep in mind Madeleine’s statement, “I am still every age that I have been. Because I was once a child, I am always a child. Because I was once a searching adolescent, given to moods and ecstasies, these are still part of me, and always will be…” 

Yet another challenge to big family stories is this: The more one adds siblings, grownups, friends, neighbors, and side characters, the tougher it is to keep everyone’s unique personhood at play. This is as true in real life as in fiction! I’m currently writing the sequel to Once a Queen, featuring the four siblings of Eva’s best friend, Frankie–plus a host of local villagers and an entire cast from a magical world. The deeper I get, the harder it is to keep everyone from becoming flattened tropes and plot devices. How will I bring all these relational conflicts to a satisfying conclusion? Many of us might ask the same while sitting down for Thanksgiving dinner.

I’m thankful that Madeleine gave us glimpses of how compelling intergenerational relationships can be. Teens aren’t just interested in contemporary “issues”: they also negotiate complex, multifaceted family relationships on a daily basis. They inhabit crowded stories in real life. Thanksgiving, in particular, is the annual backdrop for much of the stresses, challenges, and overall drama that shapes households, for better or worse. 

While we might not live in places like Crosswicks, stories that echo family realities can give all of us–young and old alike–tools for navigating those spaces with creativity and grace.

Sarah Arthur is the award-winning author of numerous books, including A Light So Lovely: The Spiritual Legacy of Madeleine L’Engle. Her YA novel Once a Queen debuts Jan. 30, 2024 from Waterbrook/Penguin Random House, which is offering exclusive perks for those who preorder.  Learn how to download Ch. 1-3, plus a printable journal full of creativity prompts, quotes, and original sketches, at www.saraharthur.com.

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“Tell me a story, Mother…” Madeleine begged many mornings of her childhood, climbing into her parents’ bed before breakfast. Goldilocks and nursery rhymes didn’t interest her—she wanted stories about the Madeleines who came before. The great-grandmother after whom she was named—Madeleine Saunders L’Engle, who died the year before her namesake was born—had danced at the Spanish royal court as a teenager in the 1840s alongside Queen Isabella II and Countess Eugenie (future Empress of France, wife of Napoleon III); later, she served waffles to Robert E. Lee in an adobe hut at Fort Mason, Texas, on the eve of the Civil War. The name “Madeleine L’Engle” was an apt inheritance for a child who would grow to think in far-flung plot lines. 

There were other stories, too, about other ancestors who anchored her to a continuum. As Madeleine’s biographer, I’ve read them all. Madeleine’s family tree flowered opulently, lush with lore and Americana, in all its triumphs and sins: Old World origin stories, one-way voyages across the Atlantic, a fateful shipwreck, colonialism, slavery, Revolutionary and Civil wars among smaller scuffles, westward pioneering, and American bootstraps prosperity.

The tales were passed down to Madeleine’s mother primarily through unpublished memoirs written to preserve the family’s history—contemporaneous accounts written by ordinary people. To name just a few: “Notes of My Family and Recollections of My Early Life, Printed for the Use of My Children Only,” by Susan L’Engle (Madeleine’s great-great grandmother), December 1887; “William Johnson L’Engle, MD, (Madeleine’s great-grandfather), by his daughter, Lina L’Engle Barnett, circa 1920; and an untitled 1914 memoir by her grandfather, Bion Hall Barnett, detailing his childhood on the Kansas prairie.  

As Madeleine grew up, these texts filling the deep well from which she drew her identity and literary inspiration. In her Reconstruction-era novel The Other Side of the Sun–dedicated to the Madeleine after whom she was named–she named characters after her great-great grandmothers, Anna and Leonis (whose full name was Marie Madeleine Leonis L’Engle). The terrible fire in Ilsa, and the scene in which characters frantically slash treasured paintings from their frames to save them from the flames, comes straight from a relative’s account of the Great Jacksonville Fire of 1901. And, of course, one of her own four memoirs, The Summer of the Great Grandmother, draws on anecdotes from forebears’ manuscripts in an effort to make sense of herself by analyzing and organizing her heritage.

In 1953, Madeleine’s mother followed suit, engaging a woman named Margaret West to write her memoir, “Young in the Eighties: Remembrances of my Childhood.” (That’s the 1880s.) Her preface reads: 

To my very dear grandchildren,

From the time your mother was old enough to want me to tell her stories other than Goldylocks [sic] and the Three Bears, her favorites were “When Mother Was a Little Girl.” I realize that my childhood was passed in an era which in its simplicity must seem almost incomprehensible to you—no automobiles, airplanes, radios, moving pictures or televisions. So now, with the help of my good friend Margaret West, without whose encouragement I would never have written these few notes, I am ‘summoning up remembrances of things past,’ hoping you will be interested in ‘When Grandma Was a Little Girl.’

I’ve played the role of Margaret West for many people over the past seven years. Like Madeleine’s non-famous ancestors, my clients understand that everyone’s life story—not just celebrities’—is worth telling for the sake of posterity, catharsis, and self-awareness. I wish I had my forebearers’ memoirs of life during the Civil War, but they may have assumed that their lives weren’t interesting enough. After all, everyone of their generation lived through the Civil War, just as all of us lived through the advent of cyberspace, 9/11, #MeToo. And certainly they didn’t share our 21st century understanding of self-care through self-analysis. 

The Summer of the Great Grandmother wasn’t written as a highlight reel of illustrious family history. Madeleine was grappling with how she came to be herself. The Robert E. Lee waffles story didn’t make the cut; instead, she included an anecdote about her grandfather, Bion, nearly losing his leg to gangrene as a child after a whittling accident in Kansas. She chose it because the story illustrated the “measure of courage—and stubbornness” she hoped she inherited from him. “My forebears have bequeathed to me the basic structure of my own particular pattern, both in my cells and in the underwater areas of my imagination,” she explained.

Writing your story—either on your own or “as told to” a professional like me—is an opportunity to claim agency over your rich, complex, fraught history—and to understand your present by examining your past. When your future generations climb into their parents’ beds and ask for family stories, what will your descendants tell them? 

Abigail Santamaria

Abigail Santamaria is co-founder of  Biography by Design, a boutique business specializing in helping individuals, families and corporations tell their stories in a variety of written formats: book-length memoirs, website narratives, coffee table books, and more. She is a professional biographer of famous subjects, but also believes that everyone has a story worth telling. With her esteemed colleague, Kate Buford, she has extended her skills of interviewing, researching and writing to the broader population. Abby and Kate have been hired to document the lives of parents and grandparents; to write histories of multi-generational family businesses for milestone anniversaries; and to work with individuals who, like Madeleine, are driven by a need to make sense of their lives. (You can find a selected list of their projects here.) Abby is the author of Joy: Poet, Seeker, and the Woman Who Captivated C.S. Lewis, and has written about lives for “The New York Times,” “Vanity Fair,” “Christianity Today,” and other publications.

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On a cold day in winter, there is nothing I’d rather do than wrap up in a warm quilt with a good book. Maybe a cup of tea. Perhaps that is why I first connected with “Meg Murry” so strongly. In the first lines of A Wrinkle in Time, when the storm outside her windows rages on, she grabs an old quilt.

The brass bed in the attic bedroom at Crosswicks.

Never did I imagine that I would one day be piecing a quilt for “Meg’s bedroom”—or at least the attic bedroom at Crosswicks that inspired Madeleine’s beloved character.

Let’s be clear. It all started as a bit of joke during a webcast from the attic at Crosswicks. And I suggested that the room was missing a quilt! Charlotte and Lena—Madeleine’s own granddaughters, who knew Crosswicks as well as their own homes—asked if I made quilts. Up to that point, we’d only talked about our creative works within the confines of our shared interests—writing. But during the spring of 2020, I was spending much more time with my sewing machine making fabric masks than I was with my laptop. I imagined I could pull some of my collected fabrics and send them a small quilt—something simple in between the practical mask-making. What has resulted became much bigger and took much longer to deliver in person than we imagined. It has also been a great honor.

Madeleine’s dress from which the quilt was made.

Soon after that podcast, a box arrived from Connecticut, having crossed our wide continent to land at my front porch in the Pacific Northwest. Inside was a hand-sewn, vintage tunic-style dress with swirls of bright color and grand floral patterns—purple, turquoise, green, and red outlined on a background of crisp white and black. It was begging to be made into something new.

And yet I balked. Simply pulling the dress from the box felt like a sacred act. And taking a seam ripper to the collar—not to mention scissors—felt like sacrilege.

But I thought of Madeleine. And I thought of what she may have to say about making her dress into a thing to be worshipped. She had some strong words about idols. She was also a New Yorker who transplanted her family and learned how to do life in a rural farmhouse. Which meant she knew when it was time to be practical and quilts are a decidedly practical craft.

Creating a quilt is a strange combination of tearing apart and piecing together. It is using and re-using fabrics, so that nothing is wasted or becomes forgotten in the back of a closet. It’s taking something old, maybe even something beloved, combining with new elements and re-fashioning it, so that the result is a new creation. And in that way, quilts are familiar. They provide warmth, both in a literal sense and from the embrace of memory interwoven into the layers.

The lessons I have learned about quilt-making—spoken and unspoken—come from generations of women in my family, many of whom had transplant experiences of their own, where they learned to do life in a new and bewildering place, often facing practical challenges themselves. And they were all whispering to me to get over myself, embrace this lovely invitation—and get to work. 

So, I started sketching. When I could go back into fabric shops in person, I took a piece of that collar with me and held it alongside dozens and dozens of fabrics, hand dyed batiks, designer makes, and novelty prints. I made a couple of masks and sent them to Charlotte.

And we waited for the world to open up.

Like crafting a novel, it took time, more time than any of us expected, and many, many hands went into the creation of the final product. I leaned on my son’s innate artistic eye when selecting fabrics to complement the dress material. My daughter is a steadfast accomplice when it comes to creating anything with textiles—sorting, ironing, and layout. And so many hands tied knots to secure the quilt—students and teachers at the middle school where I am a librarian, my husband who put his surgical skills to work, and dozens of attendees at the Circle of Quiet Writing Retreat this past fall—when we could finally all meet in person again after a two-year delay.

A quilt is not a thing that can be made in isolation. In a Circle of Quiet (1972), Madeleine said that stories “come out of a response to what is happening to us and the world in which we live.” This quilt is like that. Even in the time when I was by myself sketching and cutting and piecing, so many people and stories were there with me. I felt their presence as if they were in the room.

Barbara Braver with the quilt and a cup of tea at Crosswicks.

The quilt on the brass bed in the attic at Crosswicks.

And also, like a book, when I give a quilt away, and send it out into the world, it is with the hope that it will be loved by the people I created it for. That it—the small piece of my heart bound up in stitches—will be used and washed and reused, until the blanket itself grows soft, and the colors are muted. I hope it will provide warmth when the world rages outside, and bring comfort—perhaps so that a reader can enjoy their favorite story, even if the cover has also grown soft and pliable with age.

So, thank you to the hands and hearts who helped make this most unique of quilts. Thank you to Charlotte and Lena for entrusting me to lead the effort. And thank you to Madeleine who created “Meg,” the type of girl we can all relate to, who reaches for a quilt on stormy nights.

J. A. Neilsen is the author of the YA Fantasy, The Claiming (Fractured Kingdoms, Book 1), and winner of the 2020 Pacific Northwest Writers Association Literary Contest for Young Adult literature. She has spent most of her professional life in education—as a therapist, teacher, librarian, and administrator. When not writing, she is most likely playing with her family in the forest, on the water, or in the mountains of the Pacific Northwest.

The post Guest blog post: The Practical and Transformative Act of Making a Quilt appeared first on Madeleine L'Engle.

Today is Madeleine and Hugh’s wedding anniversary (they were married in 1946), and it is also the pub date of a new book: Charles Wadsworth Camp and World War I: War’s Dark Frame and History of the 305th Field Artillery.

Charles was a journalist, critic, novelist, and playwright, and this new volume is a compilation of his two books on the war, one written as a journalist covering the conflict before the US entered it, and one written as a soldier. It features and introduction by historian and National Guard officer Jonathan D. Bratten and an afterword by Charlotte Jones Voiklis. Bratten’s introduction puts Charles’ journalism and history in context, and describes the formation of the National Army. Charlotte’s afterword is a personal reflection on family history and Charles’ influence on his daughter Madeleine.

This is a first effort at self-publishing, and we hope you like it! The ebook is available now from wherever you get your ebooks: Amazon has special pricing until the release of the print edition which will be April 29 (the day Charles’ battalion arrived back in New York Harbor).

From the introduction:

Camp visits Paris, Lorraine, the Marne, Champagne, Flanders, Arras—in short, all the places that the French and British would have liked an American journalist to see in order to inflame US sensibilities concerning the war. He visits coal miners building tunnels under No Man’s Land into the German lines and describes a heart-pounding narrative of life in the British sector, where he dodges artillery shells and then has tea with British officers. His small snapshots of the war are vivid and filled with color. In the end, he keeps bringing his readers back to the same problem: what is the United States doing about all of this?

From the afterword:

My grandmother was a storyteller, and not just in written word but also in conversation. It is how she liked to engage in dialogue with people, offering narratives that invited the listener to imagine they were part of the same story. When I was a child, she told me stories while cooking, gardening, riding the bus, and during quieter moments sitting in her lap or, when I was older, drinking tea. She told stories about her parents and grandparents, as well as more distant relatives, particularly those who settled in north Florida when it still “belonged” to Spain. She left the South for college and only went back for short visits. She always considered herself a New Yorker and always felt that she had escaped the South. While her relationship to her southern roots was full of contradictions and ambivalence, she took pleasure in the stories she chose to tell (and that had been chosen for her, for there were many that had been passed down to her). She continued to tell those stories, not just to her grandchildren, but to her readers, too, keeping their memories alive but also fixed like a doll on a shelf that could be taken down and petted but not played with too roughly. I know there are other stories, too, that are not quite so pretty or proud, more like the shards of glass in the leather box—sharp and full of pain. Not all stories about her own parents and childhood were doll-like. Some of them were alive —shimmering, shifting, escaping her deft narrative skills—and created in me a curiosity and skepticism.

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One of the first times I traveled mentally to the stars, it was Madeleine L’Engle who took me there. I was nine years old when I discovered that her skill allowed the flat pages of A Wrinkle in Time to take on a third dimension – then a fourth and a fifth – in order to transport me to Orion’s belt and points beyond.

The universe she showed me was not a safe one. But it was intriguingly complex, in constant motion, and shimmering with unexpected beauty.

I’m privileged to spend a lot of mental time in deep space as an adult as well. I work for the public engagement team at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory, where I help tell the stories of the robotic spacecraft that rove the surface of Mars and buzz by the moons of Jupiter.

But I also explore the sky on my own. I’m lucky enough to live near the salt flats and sagebrush seas of Utah, where the night skies are profoundly dark and brimming with stars. Not a few flecks of light like you might see in the suburbs, but a dizzying snowfall of stars. I venture deep into the desert to photograph the night sky, especially the Milky Way. Out there, you can really see it, stretching from horizon to horizon like a smoky column of vaporized diamonds. The camera sees even more, revealing a vibrant canvas of light, textures, and colors — a surprising number of colors. Electric blues, purples, reds.

Saturn, Jupiter, the Milky Way — and Earth — as seen from the Cedar Mountain Wilderness Area in Utah. Photo by Bill Dunford

I can’t get enough of the night sky. It looks peaceful, but it is not still. It reels with unceasing motion, on time scales ranging from split seconds to eons. Meteors rain down continuously, tons of them per day, usually burning up in the blink of an eye. Watch the stars for even a few minutes against the horizon, and you can see that they’re moving. During the course of a night, the entire set of stars seems to wheel about in a great circle. Over the span of weeks, the planets can be seen wandering against the background constellations. Across centuries, the stars themselves change positions. Over the ages, they flower and die and new generations take their places.

A dark night sky dispels the illusion that the universe is somehow separate from us. That’s where you can see that the Earth is a planet, and that galaxies and comets and black holes are as much a part of Nature as a sunrise – which is nothing but a planet spinning to face its local star.

I was so pleased to learn that the seed of A Wrinkle in Time came more or less directly from the stars. In A Book, Too, Can Be a Star, the Story of Madeleine L’Engle and the Making of A Wrinkle in Time, the luminous new picture book biography by Charlotte Jones Voiklis and Jennifer Adams (full disclosure: Jennifer and I are married), we learn that “in a place called the Painted Desert, with its strange shapes and colors and its big skies scattered with stars, Madeleine had an idea for a new kind of book. It was inspired by sonnets and science and her sense of belonging when she looked at the night sky and listened to the stars sing.”

One of the ideas that most excites me is that this kind of interstellar inspiration is available to anyone, no telescope or camera required.

At least it used to be.

Due to the unceasing rise of light pollution, increasingly few places remain where city lights don’t dim the magnificence of the Milky Way. This map of artificial illumination, based on data from NASA and NOAA satellites, shows just how rare a dark sky has become.

Credit: Falchi et al., Sci. Adv., Jakob Grothe/NPS contractor, Matthew Price/CIRES. More information at https://cires.colorado.edu/artificial-sky

Too much artificial light wastes energy and money, has negative effects on wildlife, and even impacts human health. And while it’s harder to quantify, there’s also the inspiration deficit factor. Too many people have never seen the Milky Way, their own galactic home, with their own eyes, or felt that connection to the natural world that sustains us.

There is good news: the spread of light pollution can be slowed, even rolled back. Doing so does not require draconian lifestyle changes. Steps as simple as replacing blaring, wasteful light fixtures with sensible, cost-saving lighting on homes and business can have a real impact on light levels in a community.

One example is Sun Valley, Idaho. Thanks to simple measures (notice the lamp directs the light down where it’s needed rather than into the sky) people can enjoy a sky that looks like this, near the center of town…in a parking lot.

A parking lot not far from the town center in Sun Valley, Idaho. Look at all those stars! Reddish Mars makes an appearance just above the trees as well. Photo by Bill Dunford

A good place to learn about light pollution, and how effective its countermeasures can be, is darksky.org

We face bigger environmental challenges than light pollution, of course. Healing climate change and global poverty will require all the bravery, intelligence, anger, and love we can muster. But maybe starting with a directly solvable problem like restoring the night sky will show more and more people that protecting the natural world is necessary…and possible.

Bill Dunford (and Jennifer Adams)

The post Guest blog post: The Promise of a Dark Sky appeared first on Madeleine L'Engle.

The following is adapted from Becoming a Warrior by the author and is used with permission.

Madeleine would have been 104 today, and she loved celebrating her birthday! I can’t think of a better birthday gift than to share stories with others about the profound influence A Wrinkle in Time had on my life. From the first time I met Madeleine at the restaurant high atop the World Trade Center in 1979 to the last time I saw her shortly before she died in 2007, we carried on a 25-year long conversation about her beloved book. My hope is that my memoir, Becoming a Warrior: My Journey to Bring A Wrinkle in Time to the Screen, will inspire others to do as Madeleine did and taught me to do — light candles in the darkness. 

The first time I saw her in March 1979 she was standing near the elevator in the lobby of the North Tower at the World Trade Center in New York City. She was taller than I expected and wore flowing layers of colorful clothing. As we headed up to the restaurant Windows on the World, I practically had an out-of-body experience being in the same elevator with her. It was the first time I had ever met with anyone about a possible film option for anything, and I wanted so desperately to succeed in getting her to trust me as the champion for the film. In truth, not just me but Norman Lear as well, one of the most successful producers in Hollywood at the time—and my boss. 

The restaurant had a marvelous view of the Manhattan skyline, but it was so high up! As the maître d’ led us to a table next to a window I asked if we could sit a few feet away since I have a fear of heights, which made Madeleine laugh. As we settled in, she leaned across the table and said with such certainty, “You know, there really is such a thing as a tesseract.” I didn’t know what to say. She sounded so much like Mrs Whatsit, one of the three otherworldly spirits that guide the central characters on their cosmic journey. I never considered that a tesseract—a way to travel in the fifth dimension—existed. It took me four decades to learn that it does, although not in the way I originally thought she meant. 

Of all the conversations we had, one of the most moving took place the day we sat in her workplace at her home in Connecticut, The Tower. She spoke of the rejections she endured trying to get A Wrinkle in Time published. As she paced about the small room her voice became intense, angry, and vulnerable all at once. “Twenty-six times I heard the word no. I wanted to give up and thought I’d never write again. Then I realized I had to write and I took the cover off the typewriter and started a new book.” 

As I watched her, it hit me hard that this woman who had known such success also knew such self-doubt and despair. I swore to myself in that moment that if she could endure that kind of rejection to get the book published, I could do the same to get the movie made. No one knew better than she how difficult it was going to be. 

The great byproduct of my effort was that in convincing others about the merit of the film adaptation I internalized all that the book offers to people at different times in their lives: the joy I felt as a young girl when I first read the book; the inspiration I experienced when I was introduced to the story through Madeleine’s eyes; and the courage I found to face down the grief of my husband’s death. 

Madeleine gave me an autographed copy of A Wrinkle in Time and signed it with “Tesser well and may you land gloriously on Uriel.” I wondered at the time what did she mean by “tesser well?” I have come to understand that tesser well is an encouragement to get in the arena—and learn how to become a warrior against the darkness. Learning from Madeleine that love isn’t what you feel it’s what you do is how I became a warrior.

CATHERINE HAND’s career in the entertainment business was launched working for the legendary writer/producer Norman Lear. While pursuing the film adaptation of A Wrinkle in Time, Hand relocated to San Francisco where she worked as a development executive, co-owned a boutique production company, and started a family. Widowed suddenly and unexpectedly, Hand moved with her three young children to the DC area and carved out a successful career as communications consultant, including a stint as a political appointee for the Obama administration. In 2018, Catherine Hand was one of the two producers for Disney’s adaptation of A Wrinkle in Time. 

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