In Newbery Medalist Laura Amy Schlitz’s latest middle grade novel, The Winter of the Dollhouse (Candlewick, Sept. 2), the story’s main character befriends an elderly neighbor who is restoring her childhood dollhouse. Here Schlitz recalls her own dollhouse from childhood, and recounts her own efforts at restoration.

Stories are flotsam. They float with the tide, sometimes washing up on shore, sometimes sinking without a trace. Often by the time a story becomes a book, the writer has forgotten how it all began. People ask, “Where did you get the idea—?” Since “I don’t remember” is a boring answer, we rack our brains to come up with something better.

I suppose The Winter of the Dollhouse began one Christmas morning, when I received a dollhouse from my parents. I played with it for many years. Afterward, it lived in a musty corner of my basement.

When my parents sold their house in 2012, I felt bereft. My father built that house himself. By that time I had a house of my own, but I mourned for my childhood home. Suddenly, I recalled the dollhouse in my basement. I made up my mind to restore it.

Years passed. I put off doing the work. If I saw a miniature object that enchanted me, I bought it and stashed it away. The dollhouse remained a relic, choked with dust. I wired a small room-box to see if I wanted to install electricity. The process was finicky and grueling. I thought, to hell with that.

The idea for the dollhouse book surfaced a little before Amber and Clay. I wrote a few chapters and set them aside. Amber and Clay was determined to be written, and I had to grapple with it. After finishing a large-canvas work, I hankered after something miniature. I returned to The Winter of the Dollhouse.

Originally, I wrote Winter as a tête bêche book—two interwoven stories, one that is read from the front, and a second that’s printed upside, beginning from the back cover—Aliki’s lovely Marianthe’s Story is a tête bêche book. I was captivated by the form. One story would be the story of old lady Szilvia and Tiph, who work together to restore a vintage dollhouse; the other story would be about the dolls who live in it. The reader would read first one book, then the other.

But my reader friends liked the story better as I wrote it, zigzagging from chapter to chapter. So did my editor, Liz Bicknell. Somewhat testily, I told her if she wanted a single story, she’d have to show me how to write it.

Bless her, she did.

After the book was completed, I rolled up my sleeves. The time had come. I took my X-acto knife, wallpaper, rags, gesso, and three kinds of glue. I learned to use a miter box. I had hoped to complete the renovations in a week or two, but it took me three months. I kept making mistakes and having to fix them. A lot of the time, I really didn’t know what I was doing, but luckily, I’m a writer. I’m used to working in the dark.

My cat was no help.


My cat, Catherine, on top of the printed manuscript. Moonshadow, the white cat in the story, existed before Catherine came into my life. Except for the antique Piroska, all the dolls in the story were created by Connie Sauve, a fellow of the International Guild of Miniature Artisans.


This is Piroska, a German-made doll from around 1900. She lies on top of the first draft of the manuscript. I wanted a doll that looked like she’d been through things. This one fit the bill.


This was the dollhouse earlier this year, before renovation.


My uncle and my father made the dollhouse. They were both talented woodworkers—the house has withstood both boisterous play and adult neglect.


One of many moments of frustration during the restoration. The wallpaper wrinkled and shriveled on the wall. I had to fight to get it off. I wanted to scream.


The wallpaper has been patched in many places, but good, strong wallpaper is forgiving, and the patches are almost invisible. The closet door in this room was stuck shut, which became an important element in the story. After I succeeded in wrenching it open, I dreamed there should be a skeleton inside. So, I found a small plastic skeleton and set it cross-legged in the closet. It’s not part of the story, but it’s part of the house.


Young Roxie doesn’t come into the story very much, but I am feminist to the core. I wanted her to have toy trains as well as dolls.


Nanny Hestia is potting up geraniums for the windows. Doll children don’t need to be diapered or fed, so the nanny’s domestic work leaves time for her hobbies: embroidery, gardening, music, and reading. There’s a copy of Jane Austen’s Emma on the nanny’s bed. Should problems arrive, she has a toolbox full of good tools.


The Gretel doll is the heroine of “Hansel and Gretel.” The doll-maker in the story mused over the fairy tale as he created her, endowing Gretel with the sense that the world is a hungry and dangerous place. For Gretel’s sake, I made sure that the dollhouse pantry was well-stocked.


Once again, the wallpaper has been patched in many places. The embroidered bedspread belongs to Piroska, who loves stuffed animals—the more, the better.


The dollhouse contains portraits of Queen Victoria, Sarah Bernhardt, and Charlotte Brontë. I think the desk is Gretel’s—she can write stories or paint pictures.


As a child, I dreamed of a cupboard bed—and I couldn’t resist the miniature puppet theatre. I was determined to have a tiny dollhouse for the dollhouse, because beyond that you can imagine a still smaller dollhouse, and inside that…. Musing over scale gives us a glimpse of infinity.


The music room. Nanny Hestia plays the Irish harp beautifully, and Little Red bangs away at the harpsichord with surprising accuracy. Gretel is still learning the violin, making doleful and atonal music. The book in the chair is a tiny copy of Splendors and Glooms.


A scene of contentment. Like me, Gretel enjoys the caresses of a white cat. Behind her is tea and cake. A bust of my favorite composer, Mozart, adorns the mantelpiece.


The completed restoration.

The Winter of the Dollhouse by Laura Amy Schlitz. Candlewick, $18.99 Sept. 2 ISBN 978-1-5362-3608-8