By: Elowen Gray

When co-authors Siyona and Viyaan Karan first began writing Stick Figure, they believed they were simply crafting a playful and imaginative story—a lighthearted tale about a girl, a magical doodle, and the kind of everyday school chaos that children everywhere could recognize. But as the characters took shape and the narrative deepened, it became evident that Stick Figure was reaching for something more profound. Beneath the whimsy and laughter, the story quietly revealed itself to be about empathy. About perception. And about how imagination, when used with the heart, can offer a deeper understanding of the world around us.

At the heart of the story is Rose, a spirited, sharp-witted student who accidentally brings a doodled stick figure named Fred to life. Fred is everything one might expect from a hastily drawn character: unpredictable, eccentric, and hilariously unfiltered. He hides in cereal boxes, eats canned beans without apology, and offers unsolicited commentary on everything from cafeteria meatloaf to social faux pas. Initially, he seems to serve as comic relief. But gradually, Fred becomes something far more significant—a mirror to Rose and, in many ways, to everyone she encounters.

Fred’s magic doesn’t lie solely in his animation—it lies in what he notices. He picks up on Rose’s anxiety before she does. He speaks up not just when she forgets her homework, but when she forgets how to be kind to herself. And when the plot takes a surprising emotional turn—when the seemingly cold and rigid Ms. Strict suddenly quits her job—Fred doesn’t respond with celebration. He responds with concern. He wonders, out loud, what might be hidden behind her stern exterior. Her silence. Her decision to leave.

That moment marks a tonal shift in the story—and a turning point for the authors, too.

Originally, Ms. Strict had been written as a classic antagonist: the no-nonsense teacher who stood in the way of fun. But as the story evolved, so did she. The authors began to ask different questions. What if her strictness was just a mask? What if she, too, was quietly struggling—and no one had ever stopped to ask why?

With that realization, Fred’s role transformed. His decision at the end of the book—to leave Rose and accompany Ms. Strict—became not just a plot twist, but a natural and emotional resolution. Fred doesn’t leave because he’s fading, or because Rose no longer needs him. He leaves because someone else does.

That moment still resonates with the writers. Fred isn’t a traditional hero. He doesn’t conquer villains or deliver grand speeches. His superpower is subtler: presence. Quiet, consistent, and profoundly compassionate. In that way, he offers a model of care rarely seen in children’s literature, especially from characters drawn in just five lines.

Near the end of the story, Fred says Rose’s name for the first time. Not a nickname. Not a joke. Just “Rose.” It’s a small but significant moment. For the authors, it marked a quiet transformation: Fred no longer saw her as a child needing protection, but as someone who had grown. Someone who could carry what she’d learned into the world—on her own.

Then, Fred leaves.

There is no grand farewell, no dramatic resolution. Instead, the next scene introduces a new teacher who quickly resigns, followed by the quiet return of Ms. Strict. Something about her has shifted. Whether due to Fred’s influence, time away, or her own inner reckoning, she is not the same. And Rose notices. She doesn’t roll her eyes or complain. She simply smiles. That was the kind of conclusion the authors had hoped to write—not a perfect ending, but a truthful one. A reminder that growth is often quiet. That empathy, even when unseen, can be transformative.

Writing Stick Figure became more than a creative exercise. For Siyona and Viyaan, it became a reflection. A chance to explore the subtle ways people show up for one another—and the courage it takes to step back when someone else needs the spotlight. The book began as a shared idea about doodles coming to life, but it ended as a meditation on care, compassion, and the strange, small magic of noticing.

Fred may be just a stick figure on the page, but what he represents is anything but simple. He embodies the instinct to protect, the desire to understand, and the gentle nudge that helps us remember who we are—even when we forget. His voice is bizarre, his logic chaotic, and his methods questionable. But his heart? Unmistakably real.

The authors hope that when readers close the book, they carry more than just laughter with them. They carry a lens—a way of seeing others with curiosity and kindness. And maybe, just maybe, the next time they find themselves doodling in the margins of a notebook, they’ll pause. They’ll wonder if that little figure staring back at them has something to say. Something funny. Or kind. Or brave.

And perhaps that stick figure is reminding them not just to listen to the world, but to themselves.