Like most workaholics, I struggle with this thing the rest of you call “summer.”  Now, I do understand the basic idea: You don’t go to the office.  You don’t check your e-mail. You sit on things like boats or beaches and talk to other humans whom you call “friends” or “family.”  You sometimes grill meat or fish outdoors, you drink alcohol while it’s still light outside and you don’t talk about kids’ TV.

Now, I understand that this gives some of you a feeling of calmness and well-being.  But not me.  I can’t do it.  I’ve tried and I just get bored before noon.  Or maybe 10:30.

It’s not that I don’t like spending time with other people.  I do.  But only for about an hour or so at a time.  After that, I have to start searching for things to say like, “Have you seen ‘Inception?’”  or, “How ’bout that mosque at ground zero?  Wow.  Whaddya think?”  It may be that I’m just not good at making conversation but I’ve yet to attend a dinner party or a barbecue that I wasn’t happy to leave.  (Which is why, I suspect, I don’t get invited to them anymore.)

On a semi-related note, Mary and I got a puppy recently, a mini-Australian Shepherd which, despite my protests, Mary named “Buffy.”  (I wanted to name her something more working class like “Bo” or “Flo” but Mary wouldn’t have it.  So “Buffy” it is.)  Now, in addition to being perhaps the cutest and sweetest puppy on earth, I’ve also learned a few things from Buffy about the source of my own work habits.

If you’ve seen “Babe” then you know that Australian Shepherds are “working dogs.”  This means that after many generations of pairing the hardest working boy dogs with the hardest working girl dogs, we humans have created an entire breed of canines that actually love to work.

Hmmm.

In fact, if Australian Shepherds are not given a task to perform (i.e., chasing a sheep, catching a ball or digging a hole) they’ll most likely do something you don’t want them to do, like turning your red Crate & Barrel couch into confetti.

I can identify.

I’ve learned from Buffy that I am the human equivalent of a working dog.  For me, work is play.  And sitting in a beach chair for more than ten minutes with a John Grisham novel and a watermelon mojito is work.  But writing this blog (which is not due for two weeks) on my first Sunday off in over a month is, for me, play.  I like being what my old friend Essie Chambers from Noggin calls a “work martyr.”

Now, I’m not saying this is good.  I’m not endorsing this lifestyle or asking any of you to feel guilty for not returning my e-mails for, what is it, three weeks now?

In fact, if you believe my therapist, holidays are actually quite important and make one healthier, happier and more productive.  Coincidentally, she’s on holiday herself this week, which probably explains, at least in part, my current state of agitation.  (She shouldn’t feel guilty either.)

But I refuse to take a holiday this summer.  In fact, I deny summer altogether.  And so does Mary.  And Buffy.  No Thai cooking classes for us.  We’re staying home this August.  I’m making my preschool shows.  Mary started her own small business (AnythingButTheGym.com).  And Buffy learned how to catch a tennis ball.  We’re a little family of working dogs.

But please don’t feel sorry for us.  Just hurry home from your beaches, your boats and your barbecues and respond to our e-mails.  Or we’ll eat the couch.

By David Kleeman, Guest Blogger

My “must have” bookshelf for children’s media creators isn’t long, just five titles, but each book contributes unique pieces to an overall picture.

I’d start with Gerald S. Lesser’s 1974 “Children and Television:  Lessons from Sesame Street” (out of print but available used).  Lesser was the founding advisory board chair as that landmark series took shape.  His “present at the creation” account (illustrated by Maurice Sendak) reveals the truly revolutionary thinking that led to the series and even after 35 years remains as insightful about the challenges of harnessing television for truly educational purposes.

Next on the shelf is Edward L. Palmer’s “Television and America’s Children:  A Crisis of Neglect“  (1990).  Palmer, too, was a charter leader at Children’s Television Workshop and his book reflects on the beneficial potential of TV and shortcomings of American media policy and funding.  In the end, Palmer lays out a plan by which the US could have comprehensive educational TV for less than a penny a day (in 1990) per child.

Jumping several years, my bookshelf includes two books that emerged in rapid succession.  Lisa Guernsey’s “Into the Minds of Babes“ (2007) and Dade Hayes’ “Anytime Playdate” (2008) grew from similar parental curiosity, as the authors marveled at their children’s engagement with TV.  Aimed primarily at parents (but revealing and insightful for media makers), the two authors chose different and complementary angles.

Guernsey takes readers on a tour of the research into media’s influence on the developing child, using her journalist’s probing mind and parents’ “get real” eye. She picks apart studies, connects disparate findings and proposes a decision-making framework for parents built around the individual child, not a generic directive.

Hayes, by contrast, goes behind the scenes of a series in development (warts and all), exposing the 90% of the children’s TV “iceberg” that is transparent to the viewer but essential to a coherent and beneficial program.

The final book on my shelf is new this year.  It’s not about children and media, yet it’s transformed how I look at content across platforms.  Ellen Galinsky’s “Mind in the Making” outlines seven essential skills for lifelong learning that are gained in childhood:  focus and self-control, perspective taking, communication, making connections, critical thinking, engaged learning and taking on challenges.

I read “Mind in the Making” while attending the Prix Jeunesse international children’s TV festival.  Book and screen began to swirl together and Ellen’s foundation started popping up across platforms, target ages and genres.  The seven essential skills aren’t necessarily the primary focus of a program, website, game or app; often they lurk quietly beneath the surface.  Sometimes, one or more of the seven skills, infused into the creative framework, embeds more fundamental long-term learning than the stated curriculum.

Here are some concrete examples where I see children’s content rooted in one of the essential skills.  “The Wonder Pets!” overtly is about teamwork but it rests on a creative structure that in every episode fosters connection building - the solution to rescuing the baby animal has been hinted at in assembling the Flyboat).  A game like Tickle Tap Apps’ Count Caddy may have learning objectives rooted in preschool math but success demands focus and self-control.  Sesame Workshop’s Panwapa website encourages young people to learn about other world cultures, by necessity that requires perspective taking.  CBeebies’ “Zingzillas” promotes itself to parents as “helping your child explore music and sound.”  The subject is music to “explore” defines engaged learning.

Galinsky’s insights don’t apply only to educational media.  Virtually every superhero and a lot of game contestants use critical thinking to save the world or win the prize.

I don’t intend for “Mind in the Making” to become a development bible or a burden to producers or writers. Instead, I envision its presence on their bookshelf as a touchstone, a place to return for insight to the child’s emerging needs, interests and abilities.

Obviously, my complete bookshelf includes other works - case studies, policy analyses, academic compilations, memoirs.  Many are by friends, some even include my own writing.  But these are the books that draw me back often for inspiration, insight and citations.

What books have you found most useful in learning about children, media and children’s media?

When I was in my twenties and worked at Sesame Street I used to get a winter break between the writing seasons that lasted about three months.  I would use part of this time to write my own stuff and for the rest of it I would travel.

Every summer, I’d go to the St. Mark’s Bookshop in the East Village and sit in the travel section and read all the Lonely Planet books.  I would pick my destination in the fall and then, in December, I’d get my backpack out of the closet and go.  Australia.  Micronesia.  The Galapagos Islands.  Malaysia.  Bali.  The further away the better.

Sometimes I’d go alone and sometimes I’d go with friends but I’d always keep my plans loose and I would always stay at youth hostels.  Why?  The people were friendlier and more interesting in the hostels than in the hotels.  There were scruffy German hippies hauling their babies around the world, Israeli musicians blowing off steam before joining the army and Dutch art school instructors heading off to Australia to pick fruit so they could afford to fly home.

There was always an unspoken agreement among the backpackers that the destinations weren’t as important as the traveling itself and that half the fun of any trip was hanging out with people you met along the way.

Lately I’ve begun to feel the same way about my fellow indie producers as I felt about the backpackers.  Though indies don’t fly business class and our amenities are few, there’s a real spirit of cooperation and friendship between us that’s been buoying me up these days.  More than ever I find that I’m in almost daily contact with other preschool creators and producers from England, Brazil, Australia, Korea, Norway, Canada, France, Ireland, Singapore, Scotland and others.

We talk to each other.  We advise each other.  We’re Facebook friends.  We find opportunities to collaborate and share information about new platforms, funding, technology, great designers and emerging markets.  We may all be operating on small budgets but there’s a feeling that we’re at the very front of this large ship called children’s media and that we’ll likely be the very first ones to spot land.

Conversely, I have found that many of the larger indies (and some of the broadcasters) have taken on a fortress mentality lately.  You can feel it as soon as you sign in with the security guards in the lobbies of their buildings.  And then, when you go upstairs, everyone seems to be watching everyone but nobody seems to be talking to anyone.  And once you’re alone with whomever you’re meeting with, they will invariably confess to you just how dysfunctional their organization has become and how difficult it is for anyone to make even the simplest creative decision.

The reality these days is that the larger companies have become too top heavy to make the kind of swift and brave creative decisions that would help them succeed in this rapidly changing and very competitive marketplace.  And, to make matters worse, many are getting crushed by the weight of their overheads and having to lay off some great people.

This is why I feel very hopeful for small independent production companies.  We are still the ones who can operate (and sometimes even dance) on a shoestring.  We are still the ones willing to take the creative risks.

Now, there’s no doubt that being really big is very helpful when you’re trying to get a show out across the planet to as many families as possible.  And I believe the big networks fully deserve to reap the benefits of the extraordinary platforms that they have built over the past few decades.  But when it comes to creating or producing a preschool show, the broadcasters will always need the slightly renegade, backpacker attitude that indies provide.

For many things, smaller is simply better.  So if you’re an individual or a small indie out there looking for a ray of hope in this earthquake zone called the children’s media industry, then here it is:  By being small, you can be more nimble, more resourceful and better equipped to create new IP than the big boys and big girls sipping espresso up in business class.  You have the advantage of being small.

In keeping with last week’s theme of tough times, I wanted to share with you a letter we received a while back from a young guy looking for a job at Little Airplane.  Though we didn’t have a spot for Thomas, we were thoroughly charmed by his letter and, with Thomas’ permission, I am reprinting it here exactly as he wrote it.  When Little Airplane’s Tone Thyne first shared the letter with me, he read it aloud using a Shakespearean accent and you may want to read it the same way to experience the letter’s full effect.

Little Airplane Productions, Inc.

207 Front Street

New York, NY 10038

Dear Little Airplane,

It seemed my professional life was to be an inevitable tragedy.   With equal love for the collaborative and professional world of media production, the sense of expression and raw humanity found in songwriting, and the soul-feeding joy experienced only in working with children, it was as if my interests had betrayed me.  Surely, no job would require my trinity of qualifications, a fit I yearned for as I bounced from one internship to the next:  Radio?  A desolate place, nary a child’s soft giggle.  Children’s fashion photography?  Not a song to be sung nor string to be plucked.  Middle school musical productions?  Ah, so very close, but where is the competition, the professional drive?  My search was utterly futile, that is until I came across Little Airplane’s “Join Our Team” webpage.  It was as if a business-savvy, cherubic minstrel had placed his hand over mine and willed the mouse’s click.

You have advertised several possible job openings for which I am qualified.  As I mentioned above, rather dramatically, I have worked in a variety of fields, the combination of which has provided me with a skill set that would prove most valuable to your organization.  I am proficient in a number of computer programs, including, but not limited to, Photoshop, Adobe Audition, and InDesign.  My skills in Flash, however, are rather basic.  I have experience writing and recording music, both professionally and privately.  My creative experience also includes writing and illustrating a weekly comic strip for my college newspaper at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst.  I have developed an extensive knowledge of children’s educational wants and needs through my academics and my work experience as a part-time nanny, a camp counselor, and most recently, as a musical director for a series of grammar and middle school productions.  I have worked for companies such as Sirius Satellite Radio, Washington Square Films, Photovision Digital, Porchlight Productions, and Liquid Music Production.

I have attached my resume for your consideration.  It is my hope that I can meet with someone on your staff to discuss any opportunities for me to prove myself an asset as a member of your team.  Perhaps you’ll see it fit for me to join the Wonder Pets in their jubilant chant for TEAMWORK!  Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Thomas Pederson

pederson.thomas@gmail.com

I feel sad today.  For the third week in a row I have received news that dear friends in the international preschool TV business have, for one reason or another, found themselves looking for a job.  And these are extraordinary people, smart people, creative people who have given a decade or more of service to their companies.

But this is a sign of the times.  The kids’ TV business has lost a lot of blood in the past three years.  License fees now barely cover the cost of dubbing.  There are warehouses full of preschool shows that cannot find a good home.  And new lines of business like apps won’t make up for the collapse of the DVD market any time soon.

Our whole industry is in freefall at the moment so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that many companies are restructuring and jobs are going away.  But it still hurts.

What to do?  How to feel?  Where is the silver lining?

What I keep thinking about is the year 1999, which is the year I was let go from Sesame Street.  I had been there for 10 years and I loved it and I felt very secure.  But with one five-minute phone call from the new executive producer, it was over.  I felt abandoned.  This had been my first and only job in children’s TV and, as far as I was concerned, Sesame Street was the children’s TV industry.

So I did what any naïve preschool TV writer/producer would do:  I started a business.  I called it Little Airplane Productions.  And it was a very slow take-off.

For the first year it was just myself and my friend Lori Sherman (now Lori Shaer) working out of a one room office in Tribeca and sitting on the cheapest Ikea furniture we could find.  Back then, we paid ourselves according to a formula we called, “A third, a third and a third.”  Meaning, every time we finished a small production job, we would split whatever profit was left in the budget three ways.  Lori got a third.  I got a third.  And Little Airplane got a third.  That first year we both earned less than the guy washing our windows.  But we really didn’t care.

It was an incredible year of hustling, struggling and learning.  We had to figure out how to meet and impress unfamiliar companies like Noggin, Disney, Discovery Kids and Nickelodeon.  We were scraping by on small live-action service jobs and a little bit of our own original IP, an interstitial series called, “Oobi!” But we happily discovered that there was life after Sesame Workshop.

None of this would have happened had I stayed at Sesame.  The simple fact of not having a regular paycheck forced me to ask myself, “Who do I really want to be when I grow up?  What do I really want to make?”  And, more importantly, it forced me to look within for some good, honest answers.

And I think that’s what any big upheaval does for us.  It requires us to step out of the daily flow of activity that we’ve become so accustomed to and say, “Who am I without this title, this company, this relationship?”

And if we are patient with the answers to these questions, if we allow them to rise up slowly and naturally from within, they are likely to reveal a deeper ambition and truer purpose than the one we have known in the past.

“Perhaps all the dragons of our lives,” wrote Rilke, “are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave.”  I believe this is true.  And I believe that the pain that so many are experiencing right now is really just the preamble for whatever brave new adventures lie ahead.

As I’ve said before, none of us go it alone.  That’s as true in the good times as the bad.  If this is a bad time for you, don’t be afraid to reach out to your friends and colleagues in the children’s media world.  Don’t be afraid to ask for their help, their contacts, their inspiration.

And remember, new businesses and new industries are being created daily.  Maybe you’ll become a part of the next Google, the next Facebook or the next Sesame Workshop?  Maybe you’ll discover a new way to teach a child to read?

And don’t be afraid to come to me.  I’ll do whatever I can for any of you out there on Planet Preschool.  Because we are still, first and foremost, a community.  And, rest assured, when my time comes, I will be coming to you.

I love making preschool shows.  I know that this type of specialization is out of vogue at the moment but that’s what I love to do.  And it isn’t a business decision, it’s a calling.  I don’t have a calling to make an app.  And I don’t have a calling to make toys (but if nobody buys our toys then nobody finances our shows - so go buy our toys.)

But I love making the shows.  And so does my staff.  We don’t get giddy at Little Airplane about elaborate co-production deals that spread production across two or more continents.  But we do get giddy rushing from the music room to the edit station to watch a Small Potato dressed as a Rastafarian singing the reggae tune, “Potato Love.”  And we do get giddy when we hear a whole kindergarten class on the subway chanting, “What’s gonna work?  Teamwork!”  We are, quite simply, preschool TV geeks.  We just put up with everything else so that we can make our preschool shows.

And, thankfully, all the other businesses - toys, apps, publishing, DVDs - are still largely dependent upon a successful preschool TV series.  I do understand that this may change in the coming years but, at least for now, people still seem to need high quality preschool shows to generate interest and eyeballs for all the other stuff.

So how does a show maker survive?  I don’t know, exactly, but I can tell you how this show maker survives:  We don’t put all our eggs (or all our shows) into one basket.  I know of many companies in the kids’ space who have reached the conclusion that they need to focus all their energy and resources into one or two BIG shows that tick all the boxes and have a good shot at becoming international mega-toy hits that will work across all known and unknown platforms.

To me, this is like going into a casino and putting all of your money down on one or two numbers on the roulette wheel.  I don’t care how good you are at roulette, you still stand an excellent chance of leaving the table with nothing.  Why?  Because the audience that we all work for is simply too young and too fickle for any of us to predict what new property they will anoint as their next big hit.

So I take a different approach.  I try to spread my bets across multiple tables.  I make a long form series at this table, a short form series at that table and I shoot a batch of interstitials using an HD Flip Cam in our lobby.  Since nobody ever knows WHICH show a preschooler will pick, it just seems logical to me that I have a better shot at making a successful show if I make a bunch of them.  (Not to mention the fact that it’s a lot more fun this way.)

Now, I admit that we do have the luxury at Little Airplane of being able to create our own IP in-house and we have yet to find ourselves short of ideas for new shows.  But many of the smaller indies I know have the same creative resourcefulness.  I’m thinking about places like J.J. Johnson’s Sinking Ship Productions in Toronto or Jamie Badminton’s Karrot Animation in London or Suzanne Ryan’s SLR Productions in Sydney.  All are thriving by being nimble, creative and very hard-working companies.  Ironically, I find that the larger, wealthier indies have a harder time creating and producing their own IP because they’re so encumbered by their sluggish bureaucracies.

One of the tables Little Airplane loves to play at is the short form table.  People always tell me, “There’s no money in short form.”  This just isn’t true.  What is true is that there is no fast money in short form.  Most of our shows began as short form series, including “Oobi!” and “The Wonder Pets!” and it took years of chutzpah and hard work for these to become long form shows on Noggin and Nick Jr.  Was this a burden for me or my team?  No.  We’re show makers so we were happy to be patiently developing shows.

As for long form, we have become very strategic about building alliances with great companies who are helping us develop and finance our next round of shows.  Let’s face it, in a market like this one, everyone needs some rich friends.  So, rather than going into the casinos alone, we now go in with very smart people who know many of the games far better than we do.  Such relationships do require a willingness to collaborate which, I confess, is something I have had to learn over the years.  But these days I do play very nicely with others and I now fully appreciate the value of listening to people who are smarter than I am.  (Which, as it turns out, is pretty much everyone in the industry.)

So, regardless of whether you are just starting out or you’re an established producer, my message to all of you on this hot July week is to spread your bets.  Make different sized projects with different sized broadcasters and media companies.  Don’t be afraid to get on an airplane.  And, whenever possible, gamble with other people’s money.

<–>

As some of you may know, when Little Airplane’s Tone Thyne worked at Disney Feature Animation, he was the inspiration for a certain character that was being developed by his friends over at Pixar.  Apparently many of the well-known Disney and Pixar characters were modeled on staff members from those companies.  Do you see any resemblance?  I do.

On my long flight home from the Children’s Media Conference in Sheffield last week, I got to thinking about who else in the kids’ TV space might have inspired other characters in the entertainment world.  After some digging, I did manage to come across quite a few “Look-alikes.”  At the risk of ending my career, I’d like to share them with you now.

Jan-Willem Bult, who heads up KRO in the Netherlands and who makes some of the bravest and most interesting children’s TV programming in the world, wrote something important on Facebook last week that I want to share with you:

“Show character, inside and outside the show.”

I love this.  And the reason I love it is that there is so very little character in preschool TV these days.  You used to be able to start with a great idea and then pitch it to a broadcaster and they would say, “I like this idea and I think the kids will like it so let’s give it a try.”

Then you’d get to make a couple of episodes or perhaps a few seasons.  And then someone would say, “This is really good, maybe we can make a book or some toys to extend the experience for the kids.”  Then sometimes you would sell products, and sometimes you wouldn’t, but my point is that the show was seen as having value in and of itself.

But not anymore.  Now, most of the shows that are made for preschoolers are just advertisements for nascent licensing programs.  And it doesn’t matter if these are US-style educational shows or British-style entertainment shows.  It doesn’t matter if you are working with a public broadcaster or a commercial broadcaster.  Because even if your public broadcaster is not openly in the licensing business, you can be quite certain that whoever is fronting the show’s budget is.  And no toy sales means no new money for new episodes.  That’s the sad bottom line of preschool TV.

I don’t know anybody who decided to get into preschool television because they had a driving passion to sell plastic to preschoolers.  Most of the people I know in preschool TV are educators or artists who wanted to make something new and different for children, something that would delight and inspire them.  This was as true for the show makers as the executives running the shows.  We were all charged with making great programs and then it was someone else’s job to figure out how to sell quality products based on the show and its cuddly characters.

But now the preschool TV world is largely driven by licensing people, many of whom will openly admit that they don’t care about the quality of the show.  I recently had one colleague say to me without hesitation, “But, Josh, isn’t it the crappy stuff that makes the most money?”

The answer is “no.”  A few of the crappy shows do make money but overall the big hits of the past decade have been creator-driven shows with a strong sense of design, good writing and usually some kind of real formative research.

It makes me very sad indeed that the pivotal decisions in our industry are now made by people charged only with showing quick financial returns.  Call me old fashioned but I still believe there is something sacred about making programs for children who are so young that they still believe in Santa Claus.  And I believe that using all of our talents and resources solely to sell plastic products to these impressionable minds is downright sinister.

So, given the overwhelmingly commercial environment that we find ourselves in, how do we continue to make programs where quality is key?  How do we show character when everyone around us just wants us to show them the money?

I think there are a lot of ways.  Just look at Cate McQuillen who has her deals written so that no product related to her series “dirtgirlworld” can harm the environment in any way.  Cate protects every aspect of her extraordinary series like a she-wolf protecting her cubs from a roaming predator.  Cate’s approach has also proven to be good business as “dirtgirlworld” has now sold into virtually every territory on the planet at a time when parents are looking to make more responsible choices.

Or look at J.J. Johnson and his commitment to making live-action shows that feature real kids who actually look and sound like real kids.  From “This Is Daniel Cook,” to “Are We There Yet,” to “Dino Dan,” J.J. has consistently made honest shows about childhood in a world that pushes us all to cast kids that look and sound like airbrushed androids.

Or look at Little Airplane’s Musical Director, Jeffrey Lesser.  Before coming to Little Airplane, Jeffrey produced artists like Barbra Streisand, Lou Reed and the Chieftains.  Jeffrey now brings his sensibility and attention to detail to creating all the sounds for “3rd & Bird” and “Small Potatoes.”  To me, Jeffrey’s passion for music is a deep expression of character that uplifts our entire industry.

I can already hear some of you saying, “Oh, well, quality depends on having a big budget.”  That’s simply not true.  Blaming your budget is a convenient and over-used excuse in preschool TV.  We have all seen what is possible on a limited budget, from the Japan Prize-winning “Tsehai Loves Learning,” to Nickelodeon’s “Stick Stickley” to our own “Oobi!” which was made for less than most shows spend on their catering.  Quality has never been contingent on money.  Quality depends on resourcefulness and creativity.

Tsehai Loves Learning from Whiz Kids Workshop

There are so few people anymore showing any real passion for the quality of the actual show.  There is so little character left in my beloved preschool industry.  As David Kleeman so brilliantly showed in his presentation at Prix Jeunesse, so many of the new crop of kids’ shows, “Are all made out of ticky-tacky and they all look just the same.”

I met so many of you at Prix Jeunesse and elsewhere who are doing such brave and brilliant work under some very tough circumstances.  How do you show character inside and outside of your shows?  I’d be interested to hear your thoughts on this.  And, as always, I wish you all strength and courage to keep making preschool programs that are rooted in something deeper than simple commercial gain.