Guest post written by Amir and the Jinn Princess author M.T. Khan
M.T. Khan is a speculative fiction author with a penchant for all things myth, science, and philosophy. She focuses on stories that combine all three, dreaming of evocative worlds and dark possibilities. When she’s not writing, M.T. Khan can be found travelling the world or cracking physics equations as she graduated with a degree in Mechanical Engineering. Born in Lahore, Pakistan, she currently resides in Toronto, Canada, with a hyperactive cat and an ever-increasing selection of tea.
About Amir and the Jinn Princess: This enchanting tale follows a wealthy young human boy, Amir, and a fiery jinn princess as they search for Amir’s missing mother and enter a tournament of heirs, set in the same mesmerizing world from Nura and the Immortal Palace.
In Charlotte’s Web, when E.B. White wrote, “After all, what’s a life, anyway? We’re born, we live a little while, we die”, he managed to gently introduce young readers to themes of life and death in a tale as classic as time. Children are not exempt from the world’s barbarity, more often than not, they are the ones most vulnerable and victim to it. It is a delicate duty, as a wordweaver for these growing minds, to depict their misery and horror, but cradle them in the embrace of the pages as well.
The blessing and curse of children’s fiction is its limitations. But every great invention was born from a list of constraints written during its design process. An iPhone must be handheld size, must consist of relatively cheap materials to cut down cost, and must not exceed a certain number of GB storage. Without these limits, we might have phones that struggle to fit in our backpockets or make our budget go up in flames. In engineering, these design constraints inform the decision-making process, prevent time wastage, and provide a challenge that only stokes creativity higher. The same can be said of children’s fiction. To think broadly is to think vaguely, to include everything is to exclude focus, and to have a giant toolshed is to forget which tools are necessary.
This challenge is the condescending aunty who looks you up and down, it is the academic rival who never believes you’ll make it, it is your own tired reflection asking why you even tried. But there is so much magic here, I tell you, in this narrow crevice between infancy and adulthood. We must simply learn to get cozy.
I have faced this conundrum twice now, itching on a third. My debut novel, Nura and the Immortal Palace, was acclaimed for its commentary on child labor, and my contentment for it stems from the fact that I chose to centre it on the victims of this horror, on the children themselves. So often we see adults acting upon these situations, never allowing the child’s voice to be heard. What are their hopes? Their challenges? Their inner desires? The things they wish could be different? There is such a fine vastness to the mind of a child, to the complex simplicity one can draw out of them. Children are brilliant megaphones of conciseness—where we adults wander, they jab like an arrow.
There is a trifecta of purpose to writing difficult subject matter for children. One is to be their guiding hand, to be the Gandalf who keeps them company on their overwhelming journey, to be the protective talisman that shields them from the creeping darkness. Children’s literature is more than just entertainment; it is a tool for education and emotional growth. Through stories, children are introduced to diverse experiences and perspectives, allowing them to navigate emotions and situations that they might not yet fully comprehend in reality. Books act as a mirror, reflecting and validating children’s own experiences, and as a window, offering glimpses into the lives of others. This dual function helps children develop a deeper understanding of the world around them, refining abstract or difficult concepts into tangible and relatable ideas. Literature provides a safe space for exploration and discussion, enabling children to engage with challenging topics in a controlled and supportive environment.
Another purpose is to build empathy and resilience. I remember watching the movie UP at ten years old, witnessing this young bright couple cycle through so many stages of life, all the happy and ugly. I was not an adult, I did not have a partner, I barely understood what love was, but the storytelling stoked such sympathy within me, and I learned to never be quick to judge what another has gone through. When children encounter characters who face adversity, loss, or injustice, they learn to recognize and understand these emotions and situations. Furthermore, witnessing characters overcoming difficulties can inspire resilience in young readers. They learn that challenges can be faced and overcome, and that it is possible to find hope and strength even in difficult times. We can equip children with the emotional tools they need to navigate their own challenges in life.
The final purpose is impact. Difficult topics in children’s literature mirror real-world situations, making them highly relevant and poignant. While I brushed upon the child labour crisis in my debut, its companion novel, Amir and the Jinn Princess, turns the tale of poverty on its head, following two wealthy, potential heirs of greatness. I wanted to comment on the extreme gap between the affluent upper echelon and the impoverished toiling labour class that exists within Pakistan. I touch upon exploitative corporations, greenwashing, and the fine line between social justice and purchasing people’s support. These concepts sound nebulous, they sound like thanksgiving arguments, they sound like ideas you’d find flipping through a textbook. But all of these subjects and more can be discussed within stories of fae or jinn, dragons or monsters, middle school or summer camp.
The trick is what I call the veil. In Patrick Ness’ A Monster Calls, the monster that tells Connor stories late at night, who becomes increasingly violent as the story progresses, is a representation of Connor’s own denial about his mother’s illness. In this case, the monster is a veil to the difficult subject matter of grief and loss. Veils can take many forms—characters, magic systems, settings. Veils are translucent or opaque to children, while transparent to adults. We understand the darker intonations of what is being portrayed, while a child sees an embellished, refined version of it that resides within the safety of the veil. It is in this allegory, that great stories take shape, that creativity blossoms, that books defy genre and age and become timeless pieces of literature.
There is a common misconception about children’s fiction. That it is easy to write. But to write children’s fiction is to balance an elephant on needlepoint, to align the world’s countries into a neat jigsaw puzzle, to attempt searching for a four-leaf clover on an inky night with nothing more than a melting candle. It is a challenge. A delicious, mind-altering challenge. And I urge you to attempt it.
