by L. A. Mitchell
I worry about many things as a writer. Will characters land in my reader’s imagination the way I intended? Have I successfully suspended disbelief? Have I been sensitive to issues and identities explored in my pages? Was my story worth the investment of the reader’s money and time?
Lately, I’ve been preoccupied with a new concern. At first, it might seem distant and nuanced, but it’s deeply connected to the nature of books. Their legacy, lasting years beyond their creation, raises valid and thought-provoking questions about their long-term impact on audiences.
Will this story be relevant as society continues to evolve?
I’ve been thinking about one of my favorite childhood books, The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein.
For those who never read or don’t remember, the story follows the relationship between a boy and a tree (she/her) that starts playfully innocent and evolves as the boy ages. Each time, the boy stays away for longer periods of time, living his life, and each time he returns, as a young man, then middle-aged, then as an older man, he asks something of the tree. The tree offers what she can (leaves, apples, wood) and says it makes her happy. In the end, when she has nothing left to give, she offers his tired old body a stump to sit and rest.
For some reason, I had two copies of The Giving Tree.
One contained a handwritten note from my godmother: Laura, may you forever be like the tree. As a young elementary school teacher, that same book occupied my classroom library. I’d look at it with a fondness of familiarity and share it with my students occasionally.
As a woman who has raised her adult daughter to go out into the world and set boundaries that she often could not, I am rethinking my entire relationship with this story.
My Thoughts on The Giving Tree Today
Nearly forty-five years exist between the girl who wanted so very much to be like that tree and the woman who, many days, feels like the stump at the end who has nothing left to give.
Certainly, it is a lesson in servitude, generosity, and selflessness as a form of unconditional love. But it’s also a sad little problematic story that portrays a deeply unhealthy relationship with no boundaries or reciprocity.
The realization that my godmother wished me to be forever like the tree adds a layer of complexity to my relationship with the story.
Is this fair? Probably not. It’s akin to looking at history through a modern lens and passing judgment on all we did not know or believe in our less-enlightened form. But it gives me pause to consider how the stories I’ve put into the world will fare with future readers.
- Have I tackled the content as evergreen portrayals of deeply human conflict?
- Have I leaned into my conditioning, biases, and belief system that may be perceived as unhealthy someday?
- Have the ideals and attitudes I injected into my characters doomed them to antiquity, incapable of connecting with ideal readers forty-five years from now?
Is our writing today meant to be a snapshot or timeless?
Let’s examine some stories.
In the early 20th century…
The Great Gatsby was very much a product of its time. Yet, the idea of challenging class, wealth, and the emptiness of materialism are concepts that resonate with today’s readers. Only eleven years apart, Gone With the Wind leaned heavily into romanticizing an era without much objectivity or sensitivity.
In the mid-20th century…
In the era of The Catcher in the Rye and Lolita, J.D. Salinger’s work tapped into an angst-ridden teenager and the trials of youth with a strong message for mental health. Four years apart, Vladimir Nabokov’s critique on obsession and perversion does not always find sympathetic readers in the modern age.
More recently…
Andy Weir’s The Martian ages well with themes of optimism and ingenuity. As humankind overcomes challenges with space exploration, the setup and context may seem old-fashioned, but science and survival narratives will always transcend any specific moment in society. Six years apart, modern readers are increasingly critical of the wildly popular Twilight books.
Should Stephenie Meyer’s massive hit series be appreciated as a snapshot of society’s attitudes toward feminism and healthy relationships, or does it merit a stronger look at how the narrative could still be problematic to modern readers?
Modern Thoughts on The Giving Tree
If I were to rewrite The Giving Tree today, it would likely be a parable about balance and mutual respect over self-sacrifice and martyrdom. But those themes betray the lessons Shel Silverstein intended.
Perhaps I should shift my perception to one of celebration—to recognize how far the dialogue regarding mental health and evolving societal roles has come—instead of remaining sad about the brokenness I feel toward a once cherished story.
Shel Silverstein never fancied himself a children’s writer.
The Giving Tree, ranked 85th in the School Library Journal’s Top 100 picture books of all time, wasn’t even his favorite. To the day of his death, the author insisted there was no greater meaning, no weightier interpretation.
“It’s just a relationship between two people. One gives, and the other takes.”
Even at its simplest, the way the author intended it, the fact that it was aimed at children is the most problematic.
Over the years, many have injected their interpretations into the 600-word story, calling it:
- a study of the ego and the self
- a metaphor for a capitalist society
- a parable about technology taking advantage of the tree’s labor to create inferior products that never quench the boy’s needs
- a cautionary environmental tale
Religious, psychological, sociological, satirical—nearly all facets of thought have weighed in since the book’s publication in 1964.
Final Thought
Art will always beg for alternative thoughts. Is the provocation of societal narratives, the spark of conversation to decide where we collectively wish to be, the greatest legacy our writing can have? Or is it more desirable to aim for touchpoints of our collective humanity so that future generations will look upon our books with favor?
What are your thoughts? As writers, do we carry the burden for the present and future audiences? Should legacy be considered at any point in a project’s creation? We'd love to hear your thoughts down in the comments!
About Laura

L.A. (Laura) Mitchell is a seasoned ghostwriter with 39 published works behind her. Her expertise spans genres, from heartwarming romances to thought-provoking non-fiction. Her YA fantasy, Farthermost, originally a ghostwritten novel for which she purchased the rights back, was an April 2023 feature of Amazon's Kindle Vella program. Beyond writing, Laura is a coach, editor, and publishing assistant, helping authors refine their craft and achieve a successful book launch. In her downtime, she’s also learning Korean to move away from subtitles while binging the latest Kdramas. She loves meeting writers at all stages, so reach out to her through her socials or website and subscribe to her biweekly newsletter for writers.
Farthermost on Vella: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BLY3CQB7/
Website: https://www.la-mitchell.com
Also: https://buymeacoffee.com/lamitchell
Top Image purchased from Depositphotos.








