Writing It Down

And now, for something completely different...

2010-10-31T12:55:00.003-04:00

(Apologies to the Monty Python troupe for borrowing their line.)

It's been a while again since I've written anything here, due to some circumstances beyond my control and others that were certainly within that realm but I just didn't do it. So, to quote the old song, I'll just pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again. And today's post isn't going to have anything to do with my life, or my writing--it's something written by somebody else, something I think is worth reading.

I didn't make it down to Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert's Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear yesterday, but I did see it live on TV. I got a laugh from Sam Waterston's recitation of a Colbert poem, and from the "Peace Train"/"Crazy Train"/"Love Train" sing-off. But for me the best part was Stewart's closing speech. A transcript of it follows. Enjoy. Ponder.

Things here will get back to normal (whatever that is) next time.

Jon Stewart's Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear Closing Remarks:

“I can’t control what people think this was. I can only tell you my intentions. This was not a rally to ridicule people of faith or people of activism or to look down our noses at the heartland or passionate argument or to suggest that times are not difficult and that we have nothing to fear. They are and we do. But we live now in hard times, not end times. And we can have animus and not be enemies.

But unfortunately one of our main tools in delineating the two broke. The country’s 24 hour political pundit perpetual panic conflictinator did not cause our problems but its existence makes solving them that much harder. The press can hold its magnifying up to our problems bringing them into focus, illuminating issues heretofore unseen or they can use that magnifying glass to light ants on fire and then perhaps host a week of shows on the sudden, unexpected dangerous flaming ant epidemic.

If we amplify everything we hear nothing. There are terrorists and racists and Stalinists and theocrats but those are titles that must be earned. You must have the resume. Not being able to distinguish between real racists and Tea Partiers or real bigots and Juan Williams and Rick Sanchez is an insult, not only to those people but to the racists themselves who have put in the exhausting effort it takes to hate--just as the inability to distinguish terrorists from Muslims makes us less safe not more. The press is our immune system. If we overreact to everything we actually get sicker--and perhaps eczema.

And yet, with that being said, I feel good—strangely, calmly good. Because the image of Americans that is reflected back to us by our political and media process is false. It is us through a fun house mirror, and not the good kind that makes you look slim in the waist and maybe taller, but the kind where you have a giant forehead and an ass shaped like a month old pumpkin and one eyeball.

So, why would we work together? Why would you reach across the aisle to a pumpkin assed forehead eyeball monster? If the picture of us were true, of course, our inability to solve problems would actually be quite sane and reasonable. Why would you work with Marxists actively subverting our Constitution or racists and homophobes who see no one’s humanity but their own? We hear every damn day about how fragile our country is—on the brink of catastrophe—torn by polarizing hate and how it’s a shame that we can’t work together to get things done, but the truth is we do. We work together to get things done every damn day!

The only place we don’t is here (gestures to the Capitol building behind him) or on cable TV. But Americans don’t live here or on cable TV. Where we live our values and principles form the foundations that sustains us while we get things done, not the barriers that prevent us from getting things done. Most Americans don’t live their lives solely as Democrats, Republicans, liberals or conservatives. Americans live their lives more as people that are just a little bit late for something they have to do—often something that they do not want to do—but they do it--impossible things every day that are only made possible by the little reasonable compromises that we all make.

Look on the screen. This is where we are. This is who we are. (points to the Jumbotron screen which shows New York City traffic merging into a tunnel). These cars—that’s a schoolteacher who probably thinks his taxes are too high. He’s going to work. There’s another car-a woman with two small kids who can’t really think about anything else right now. There’s another car, swinging, I don’t even know if you can see it—the lady’s in the NRA and she loves Oprah. There’s another car—an investment banker, gay, also likes Oprah. Another car’s a Latino carpenter. Another car a fundamentalist vacuum salesman. Atheist obstetrician. Mormon Jay-Z fan. But this is us. Every one of the cars that you see is filled with individuals of strong belief and principles they hold dear—often principles and beliefs in direct opposition to their fellow travelers.

And yet these millions of cars must somehow find a way to squeeze one by one into a mile long 30 foot wide tunnel carved underneath a mighty river. Carved, by the way, by people who I’m sure had their differences. And they do it. Concession by concession. You go. Then I’ll go. You go. Then I’ll go. You go then I’ll go. Oh my God, is that an NRA sticker on your car? Is that an Obama sticker on your car? Well, that’s okay—you go and then I’ll go.

And sure, at some point there will be a selfish jerk who zips up the shoulder and cuts in at the last minute, but that individual is rare and he is scorned and not hired as an analyst.

Because we know instinctively as a people that if we are to get through the darkness and back into the light we have to work together. And the truth is, there will always be darkness. And sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t the promised land. Sometimes it’s just New Jersey. But we do it anyway, together.

If you want to know why I’m here and want I want from you, I can only assure you this: you have already given it to me. Your presence was what I wanted.

Sanity will always be and has always been in the eye of the beholder. To see you here today and the kind of people that you are has restored mine. Thank you."

Old Home Week

2010-07-22T21:25:00.002-04:00

Over the past ten or so years, I've been finding more and more inspiration in the area where I grew up, and where my family has been since the mid-19th Century--on the banks of the Erie Canal, in Western New York State. There's so much history there, so many stories just waiting to be discovered and told.

From Saturday, 7/24 through Friday 7/30, my hometown of Lockport will be celebrating Old Home Week. The last time this was done was in 1910. To quote the event's official website (http://www.lockportoldhomeweek.com/index.html -- there are some fascinating articles under the heading of "news"): "The first Old Home Week took place in Lockport, NY, in 1910. In celebration of the 100 year anniversary of that celebration, we are pleased to bring it back in 2010. During the week of July 24-30, there will be countless events and festivities to celebrate Old Home Week. This week will be a great opportunity to come together and show our pride in the City and Town we call home."

From the looks of things, it's going to be quite a party, and I'm proud to say that I'm going to be part of it. On Tuesday, 7/27, from 2-4 p.m., I'll be signing books at the Market Street Art Center.If any readers out there are in the area, I hope you'll stop by.

Brava, Deborah Wiles!

2010-06-20T19:58:00.002-04:00

It's been a week since I finished reading Deborah Wiles' most recent book, Countdown, and I'm still thinking about it. That doesn't happen often to me.

To quote a bit of the flap copy: Franny Chapman just wants some peace. But that's hard to get when her best friend is feuding with her, her sister has disappeared, and her uncle is fighting an old war in his head. Her saintly younger brother is no help, and the cute boy across the street only complicates things. Worst of all, everyone is walking around just waiting for a bomb to fall.

The book takes place in October,1962. I was in 6th grade then. JFK was president. The civil rights movement was underway. And the Cold War was in full swing--schools held "duck and cover" drills (I remember at least one "go home" drill--really smart thinking on the part of the school administrators...), you heard talk about bomb shelters, and the sign of a black circle with yellow triangles, that designated a shelter, was a familiar one. And for thirteen days that October, during the Cuban missile crisis, people wondered if those shelters were going to be necessary.

To be honest, I can't remember today the atmosphere of fear of those days. But this book brought back so much to me. Strewn throughout the book are ads and photographs from then, and bits of news reports, and even song lyrics. I don't think I've ever seen a book constructed like this. It grabbed me and pulled me right in--or, perhaps I should say, right back.

I think that one of the parts that moved me the most told about folk singer Pete Seeger--about his growing up and his discovery of folk music--the songs of the people; why he joined the Communist party as a young man and what happened when he was called before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Having begun a lifelong love affair with folk music myself in junior high school, I knew much of what Deborah writes here. But what I didn't know until I read it here, late at night by the glow of my itty-bitty book light--was what he wrote on his banjo after the courts acquitted him: "This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender." I read those words, and thought of all the songs this man has sung, all the causes he's sung and spoken for, all the people he's sung with and inspired to sing--and I wept.

Emotion. This is what happens with Countdown. You don't just read a good story (and it is a wonderful story). If you're old enough to remember those days, memories come flooding back. If you aren't, you'll come away with a feeling in your gut--an understanding of how it felt to live through them.

Countdown is the first book in a trilogy. I'm already impatient for the second (hurry up and write, Deb!).

(I purchased my copy of Countdown from Amazon, but I am not an Amazon Affiliate. And the fact that the author has been a friend of mine for approximately fourteen years (!!) has in no way influenced my opinion of this book.)

Put on your thinking caps!

2010-06-17T20:26:00.003-04:00

Do you know who Katie Davis is? You should. She's a funny, smart author/illustrator, and her books are terrific.

Katie made a little video while at BEA. To see it, click the TV link on the left side of her blog (http://katiedavisblog.com). She asked her favorite question of many editors, writers, book bloggers and booksellers: “If you could go to the yard sale of any character in the history of kidlit, whose would you go to, and…what would you buy?” She got some great answers from amazing people, so now she's trying to think up her next fabulously funny question for another movie to be shot next week at ALA, here in Washington, DC.

She's thought of some questions but (according to her) they're mostly pretty lame, so she's having a contest (her first!). Anyone who sends her a great, funny question that ends up being used in her next video, will win a personalized and signed book plus another secret special surprise!

So, what are you waiting for? Get your curiosity on and send her your questions via the comment section at katiedavisblog.com.

Pen Names

2010-03-09T20:05:00.003-05:00

Every now and then, I'm asked if I publish my work under my own name. My response is always 'yes'--I've always figured that if I'm going to put in all that work, I want people to know it was me who wrote it. The only exception to that would be if I decided to write something I wouldn't want young readers Googling my name to find--alien erotica, or satanic dog training methods, for example. But since I have no intention of going down any such roads in the foreseeable future, any of my published work is going to show up under the name of Cynthia Cotten.

A few weeks ago, during the last big snow here in the DC metroplex, my son sent me a link to a column in the online version of the Washington Post. The author, Jo-Ann Armao, began by apologizing for her part in bringing on that snow. It seems that she'd remarked that the snowstorm before that (dubbed "Snowmageddon") didn't really qualify as a blizzard, so--either to prove her right or shame her into silence, as she put it, Mother Nature unleashed the fury that is blizzardness on the Washington region. I got more than a couple of chuckles out of the piece, since I--like Ms. Armao--am a transplanted Buffalonian and, even though I've been living in Northern Virginia for almost six years, I still shake my head sometimes over this area's reaction to the word "snow".

After reading Ms. Armao's column, I made the mistake of reading the comments posted afterwards. Chuckling did not ensue. Many of the commenters were mean--rude, even--calling her condescending and smug. One referred to Buffalo as a cowtown. While I told myself that people were probably so sick of snow that any humor about the white stuff was lost on them, these comments were an example of something that's been bothering me for some time, now.

When one wants to write a letter to be published in an ink-and-paper newspaper, one has to give one's name and (usually) address when submitting it. But when writing comments to something online, this isn't the case. Everyone gets a pen name--or, rather, a screen name. Under this blanket of anonymity, one can say anything--nice or not, complimentary or vitriolic--and nobody knows who's really doing the writing.

Sometimes I wonder if some of those things would be said if a commenter had to take true ownership of his or her words.

Vampire Ponies

2010-01-29T14:40:00.004-05:00

I've been neglecting this blog since my last entry in early November.

No. I'm going to put a positive spin on that. "Writing It Down" has been on hiatus. Now it's back for its second season.

During much of 2009, I was in kind of a funk. The new year has gotten off to a good start. I'm working on two projects concurrently: a novel (target age range probably 9-13) and what I envision as an illustrated collection of poems for elementary-aged kids. Both are in early stages, but look good. At least to me.

Right now, I'm in New York City, at the annual mid-winter conference of the Society of Children's Bookwriters and Illustrators. Things get fully underway tomorrow, but I came in a couple of days early to meet with my agent and an editor. Yesterday, I saw a friend I haven't seen in a while. It was good to catch up. Towards the end of our time together, I joked that if I could write a series about a bitchy clique of vampires at a school for wizards, my husband could retire (and I could have that house on the shore of Canandaigua Lake I've been pining for). His response was, well, why don't you write it? I said that's really not my kind of writing. "You know," I said. "I write about ponies. Things like that." He got a gleam in his eye and with a devilish grin uttered two words: "Vampire ponies."

Brilliant.

While I think I'll leave the story of the vampire ponies to someone else, those two words are going to go someplace prominent on my desk when I get home, as a reminder not to be afraid to look at an idea from a different angle. The novel I'm working on started out quite differently in its first incarnation, but as I progressed I could see I was headed for some real problems. So I put it aside. Then I started thinking about the characters in a different light, and that story--the new one--has just taken off.

So, here's to fresh starts, new ideas, and vampire ponies. We may only be a month in, but 2010's looking promising. Stay tuned and see what develops...

Taking Flight

2009-11-05T19:18:00.006-05:00

As I write this, my son--the younger of my two kids, who works in the International Services Department of the American Red Cross, in DC--is embarking on his first job-related trip. A week in Kathmandu, a couple of days in Bangkok, a week in Hanoi, then home. Over the weekend, I joked with him that I was alternating between being excited for him and wondering if I'd have any fingernails left by the time he gets home. We laughed. But there was a little part of me that meant it about the fingernails.

When I first started sending out manuscripts in the late 1980s, I used to think it was kind of like sending a child off into the world. Each time, I did my Children's Writers and Illustrators Market homework, so I'd be sending my baby to a publisher that looked like a good match. I proofread carefully. I made sure that manuscript was as ready to go as possible. Still, when I handed over the envelope and my money to the post office clerk, there was always the wondering in the back of my mind: Would it be loved? Would it be treated well? Appreciated? Abused? Would anyone even notice it was there?

Even though my son has been living on his own for just about a year now, tonight I have that old feeling. I'm sending one of my most precious creations off into the wide, wide world. I've done my homework--I've printed out his flight itinerary (and written on it the time zone differences). My two-time-zone watch has new batteries. I've located Qatar, where he'll have a 12-hr layover on his way to Kathmandu. I've read a little about each of the places he's going to. He's done his homework, too, and is as ready to go as possible. I know that, because in the past couple of days I've been enough of a loving mom to ask if he had this or that, reminded him to unfold his lanky 6'6" self out of his economy-class seat and walk around now and then, and probably seemed a bit of a noodge. And he's been enough of a loving son not to say so.

When he was just a toddler, we sat together looking at National Geographic magazine and books about far-away places and watching the adventures of television travelers--Rick Steves, and the travelers on Lonely Planet, now called Globe Trekker. He'll be having his own adventures now, and blogging about his trip on the Red Cross' website. If his posts are anything like the blog he kept during the semester he spent in Switzerland his junior year in college, they should be really good reading.

As for me, I'll be having my own, smaller, adventures--finishing up a picture book, and seeing what kind of trouble the main character of my novel-in-progress can get into. And quietly counting the days until what I'm sending out tonight comes back.

Going Home

2009-10-08T13:25:00.006-04:00

Almost two weeks ago, I was up in my hometown of Lockport, NY, for my (gulp!) forty-year high school reunion. The Class of 1969 of Lockport Senior High generally has a good time at these things, and this time around was no exception. Over the course of two evenings there was a lot of talking, laughing, hugging and reminiscing. I saw a few people I’ve stayed in touch with, and others whom I hadn’t seen in at least ten years (and probably more). My husband took a great photo of five of us who all lived in the same neighborhood until my family moved just before fifth grade (and four of the five of us had started together in nursery school!). And for the first time in twenty years, my best-friend-from 7th-grade-through-senior-year, Ginny Cook McEldowney, and I were in the same place at the same time. That alone made the ten-hour drive from Northern VA to Lockport worth it.

We did other “going home” things while in Lockport. Doug Farley, director of the Erie Canal Discovery Center, had arranged a signing for me at the Center, of my picture book Abbie In Stitches. For my birthday, my mother took us up the the gorgeous Shea’s Theater in Buffalo to see the touring company of Chicago. I spent some time antiquing with my aunt. And we had some lovely quiet, “just there” time, first in Lockport, then for a couple of days with my mother-in-law on the farm in Savannah, NY (halfway between Rochester and Syracuse). As usual, I was not ready to come back to the hecticness of Northern Virginia.

Just as it was so good to spend time with friends of my childhood, it’s also been good recently to spend some time with the books of my childhood. All summer, in among trying to keep up with all the recent books on my to-read list, I re-read many of the books I loved as a kid. Many of these had been my mother’s before they were mine, and so are even more old-fashioned today then they were never mind how many years ago. Still, they were some of the books that instilled in me the passion for reading, the love of story—books whose characters became as alive for me this summer the minute I started reading as they did the first time I encountered them. Here are some of the titles—do you know any of them?

The Oz books. We had all of them—most had been my mother’s, two had been her mother’s. Frank Baum, Ruth Plumley Thompson, John R. Neill and a couple of others (forgive my memory, please, and forgive me, too, for not running down to the bookshelves to check those last names) created a world I’ll gladly fall into anytime.

The Secret Garden
Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle
The Secret Garden
The Little Bookroom (wonderful stories by Eleanor Farjean)
Little House on Wheels (Marjorie Hayes)
Mary Poppins
Understood Betsy (Dorothy Canfield)
Jack and Jill (my favorite Louisa May Alcott book)
Thornton Burgess’ animal stories
The Five Children trilogy (E. Nesbit)
The Cammie books by Jane McIlvaine. (The books I thought of when I learned, five years ago, that we were moving to Virginia. Alas, I fear that most of Cammie’s Virginia has now been paved over…)
National Velvet (rivaling The Black Stallion and Black Beauty as the ultimate horse book)

I re-read all of these this summer. And it was good to go home.

Turning Out The Light

2009-09-18T14:38:00.004-04:00

Those who know me well know that, for a long time, two of my primary vices have been really good dark chocolate and the daytime drama, Guiding Light.

As an all-knowing teenager and an oh-so-wise twenty-something, I looked wa-a-ay down my nose at soaps, and swore I would never get involved with one. Then, in 1978, on route to another program, I stumbled upon the last five minutes of GL. Hmm, thought I--intriguing. I stopped by the next day--and the next, and the next. Gradually, the tv got turned on a little earlier and a little earlier. By the end of two weeks, I had to admit that I was hooked. And so began my 31-year through-the-tube relationship with the citizens of Springfield--a relationship that came to an end today, as the longest-running drama in broadcasting history (72 years, between radio and television) finished today's episode with "The End" written across the screen.

Why am I discussing a soap opera in this blog which is supposed to be about writing? Because I learned a lot about writing from Guiding Light. I learned about story, about pacing, character development, and how to end a chapter with a good hook. Unfortunately, in the past couple of years, much of the show's writing gave some lessons in how not to write, as long-time characters acted out of character, history and backstory were often ignored, and plot threads--sometimes complete story lines--did U-turns or were dropped altogether, leaving characters (and viewers) hanging. This past week, though, the writing redeemed itself. Characters were true, emotion was real, nods to show history were made, and--at least for me--the ending was satisfying, especially since the final shot was of Reva and Josh, the show's longtime on-again-off-again couple, together. (Yeah, I'm a sentimental softie...)

So. Thank you to Guiding Light writers from whom I learned. And thank you, too, to the actors who brought those words, those stories, alive--Kim Zimmer, Robert Newman, Grant Aleksander, Tina Sloan, Ron Raines,and all the others, past and present, who made Springfield the place to be for so many years. I'll miss you.

Doing The Blogger Grovel

2009-09-17T22:52:00.003-04:00

I knew this would happen. I got going great guns with this blog. Then came a week's vacation, followed by a week-long virus, followed by doing a lot of groundwork for a new novel. Then the dog ate my homework. And I had to visit my relatives. And I fell asleep--couldn'tr find my pen--left my blog in the back of the cab. You get the picture.

So. As the lyrics to the old song say, I'm going to pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again.

For tonight, here are a few of the books I've read recently:

Shiver (Maggie Stiefvater) I don't usually gravitate towards werewolf stories, but this tale of Grace and yellow-eyed Sam grabbed me and didn't let go. YA

The Boy On The Lion Throne: The Childhood of the 14th Dalai Lama (Elizabeth Cody Kimmel) I've always admired this man--even more now that I know what his young years were like. Fascinating, dramatic, couldn't put it down. YA

Jumping Off Swings (Jo Knowles) One incident, one girl's decision, five points of view. These characters stayed with me long after I finished reading. YA

Charles and Emma: The Darwins' Leap Of Faith (Deborah Heiligman) He was a scientist, she was deeply religious. A well-researched, engaging portrait of Darwin's work and the effect his marriage and family life had on it. YA

The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane (Katherine Howe) Two stories going on in this historical thriller: that of Deliverance Dane, accused of being a witch in 17th century Salem, and that of Connie Goodwin, a grad student in 1991, solving the mystery of a book written by Deliverance. I've read reviews that point out flaws in this book, but--quite honestly--I got too caught up in the story to notice them. Adult

Edible Revision

2009-08-03T14:55:00.002-04:00

Revision has crept out of my writing and into my kitchen.

Corn season comes much earlier in Virginia than in upstate New York, the place I still think of as ‘home’. Up there, corn comes on sometime in July; here in Virginia we started seeing corn at the local farmers’ market in late June.

I’ve always cooked corn the way my mother did, in boiling water, and it’s always been good. This year, after reading about grilled corn someplace (probably in the summer edition of Menu, the wonderful magazine put out by the Wegmans’ grocery chain), we’ve been cooking it out on the grill. It’s easy—pull back the husks and remove the silk, replace the husks, soak the ears in cold water for about 20 minutes, then put them on the grill for about 20 minutes (ten on one side, ten on the other). And it tastes so much better—fresher, sweeter. Impossible to resist.

When I talk to kids about writing, I always ask, “How many of you like to rewrite?” And always, hardly a hand goes up. When I ask why, they tell me that rewriting’s boring, not fun, too much work. I tell them that I used to feel that way, too, but that I discovered a secret: I stopped calling it “rewriting” and started calling it “revision.” That usually gets a few raised eyebrows, and at least one ‘huh?” So I ask, “Who knows what ‘re-‘ means?” They all know it means ‘do it again.’ Then, “Who knows what vision is?” That gets more than raised eyebrows—it gets a “what kind of idiot are you?’ look, and someone says “Seeing.” “Great,” I say. “Now put them together. Re-vision: seeing again.”

Re-vision. Seeing again. Looking at my writing again, from a different angle. It’s kind of like grilling corn: pull back the layers, remove what’s not needed, let it soak for a while, then put some heat under it. Unlike the corn grilling, it’s not always easy. But it always results in finding a way to make the work fresher, sweeter. And—with any luck—impossible to resist.

A Bit of Bright Light

2009-07-27T15:53:00.005-04:00

More often than not, my husband is the one who sees things first. A hawk in a tree, deer in a field—he’s just faster to see them.

Last night, we went out to a nearby spot where there was a good view of the sky, watching for a swiftly-moving bright light--the Interational Space Station, with the shuttle Endeavour docked to it. A tiny article in the paper had said it was due to pass overhead both Saturday and Sunday, and it had rained Saturday night. So there we stood, with fingers crossed.

We knew it would be a long shot. First of all, we weren’t quite sure where to look The paper had said it would rise in the north-northwest, travel the southwestern sky near the new moon, and head south. The window of opportunity would be brief—approximately five minutes, from 9:26 to 9:31. And the sky was clouding up.

My amazingly resourceful husband had brought his compass, so after he got us oriented, we had a pretty good idea of where to look. There were still large areas of clear sky,since the clouds were patchy, and while there were moments when the moon was obscured, we knew where it was, and I—equally resourceful—had brought my binoculars and focused them on it. So we waited and, however childish it might seem, deep inside, I wanted to see it first.

9:26 came. Nothing but a few stars. 9:27. A few more stars, nothing else. Wait—is that it, I asked, pointing to a bright light moving beneath the moon. No—it was going in the wrong direction, and it was blinking. Just an airplane. We watched the plane disappear. Wait—look. I pointed up. Husband wasn’t sure. I looked through my binoculars. That had to be it, I said, handing them to him: it was big, at least as bright as Venus, non- blinking, and moving fast. After a moment, he agreed (and the little kid inside me shot her fist in the air, yelling “yes!!!”). We watched it pass the stationary stars, until it disappeared in the clouds.

Sometimes I think my mind is like that sky, studded with ideas rather than stars, each shining with its own level of brightness. Every now and then, though, something special streaks by, brighter than the rest. Its window of opportunity is brief, and it can vanish before I even see it. But if I’m alert and look carefully for it, I just might see it—and it will be worth remembering.

A Sudden Shower

2009-07-23T16:44:00.006-04:00

When I went into Target this afternoon, the sun was shining. When I came out, fifteen minutes later, the skies had opened and rain was pouring down. It was one of those sharp, sudden showers with huge drops that bounce up off the pavement. I had parked some distance from the store, thinking I’d get a few more steps into my day’s total, and it was obvious that, whether I walked or ran back to the car, I was in for a good soaking.

Usually, I would have taken a deep breath and sprinted. Today, though, something in me shifted, and I decided to walk—and I didn’t hurry. I took my time, and let those big ol’ drops land all over me. When I slid in behind the wheel, I was indeed soaked. And it felt good.

As I drove home, there were moments where the drops came down so hard and fast that I could hardly see. But by the time I pulled into the garage, the splattering had changed to plipping and the sun was breaking through the clouds.

I remarked to someone a while back that, for the first time since I started writing 23 years ago, I‘ve been feeling discouraged. I’d gone from a six-year period where I’d sold a book a year—a couple of times, two—to no new book contracts in the last five years. I’d completed a project I’d worked on (off and on) over the course of ten years, and learned that I’d essentially shot myself in not one, but both feet—not only was the book historical fiction, but a sequence of short stories for middle graders. Editors told me short stories won’t sell. Even my agent told me he couldn’t sell them. I've kept writing, but I've felt lost, as if I’ve been working in a void. It’s been harder and harder to put my butt in the chair, let alone keep it there. I’ve felt my creativity drying up, and my internal editor—what I’ve always seen as a big black bird perched on my shoulder, croaking insulting remarks about my writing—has taken up a more insidious method, whispering , “perhaps you’ve peaked—perhaps you’re finished.”

I was starting to believe him. Then something changed. Earlier this week, I went through an experience that caused a definite emotional and mental shift. It was as sudden and sharp as this afternoon’s shower. And in the past few days, I’ve had a downpour of ideas, more than I’ve had in the past year or two. The sun’s breaking through. It feels good. And I’m nowhere near finished.

Remembering Frank McCourt

2009-07-20T15:58:00.006-04:00

Just a year ago, as a participant in the annual Southampton Writers Conference, I was at sitting in a classroom with thirteen other people, waiting for our teacher to join us. When he did, he took a few moments to organize himself, then looked at us and asked, “Who do you think you are?”

That teacher was Frank McCourt.

Frank’s pre-conference assignment gave an inkling of what was in store. He gave us a list of four names--Moses, Mohammed, Buddha, and Jesus—and asked us to write a short commentary on some aspect of contemporary society (it didn’t have to be negative) from the point of view of the person we chose. I chose Moses, commenting on today’s ease of travel. (Imagine if he’d had a GPS…) And when I got my paper back and saw that he’d written on it that he’d enjoyed it, that I had “an intriguing way of looking at things”, I practically danced across the campus.

In our morning sessions with him over the ten days of the conference Frank challenged us, pushed and prodded us. He didn’t stand there and give step-by-step instructions on how to write a memoir. Instead, he told us his stories, and asked for ours. He asked us questions, and had us ask questions of each other and of ourselves. When one of us read an assignment aloud, he listened intently, sometimes pouncing on a detail he liked, saying, “There’s your story.” He had the ability to draw from you more than you thought you’d tell—sometimes more than you wanted to tell—and it was all right.

The writing community has lost one of its own—our Teacher Man with the quizzical blue eyes, wry wit and perceptive observations on life and the world around him, who led so many people to discover that they have a story worth telling. We mourn our loss, and say a prayer for him and his family. And when the tears have dried, we can raise a glass in celebration of the time he was with us, saying, “Slainte, Frank—and thanks.”

Vote for me!!!!

2009-07-16T13:41:00.005-04:00

Two days ago, I received a lovely e-mail, informing me that my picture book, Rain Play (Henry Holt, 2008; illustrated by Javaka Steptoe) is a finalist for the Library of Virginia's Whitney and Scott Cardozo Award for Children's Literature. The e-mail went on to say that the Cardozo Award recognizes excellence in Children's Literature for ages 3-8, and will be given out at the 12th annual Library of Virginia Literary Awards Celebration on October 17th, 2009 in Richmond.

I love this book. (I know, I say that about all my books.) It was fun to write, bringing to mind all the different kinds of things a kid can do in the rain, and it's the shortest book I've ever written--I think the word count comes in somewhere around 125. Javaka Steptoe's illustrations are amazing. Every time I look at them, I smile.

The voting for the Cardozo award is going on now, through August 7. I would appreciate it so very much if anyone reading this would go to the voting site: www.lva.virginia.gov/vote and cast a vote for Rain Play.

Getting Started

2009-07-15T19:00:00.000-04:00

Sometimes it seems as if I spend an inordinate amount of time writing things down. Stories, poems, lists, reminders to myself, a gratitude journal, a "bitch" notebook. So why would I want to take on another writing chore?

I guess because it's not a chore.

For a long time, I've had piece of paper taped over my computer. On it is a quote from one of my early writer friends/supporters, Robert Cormier. It says, "...what would I do if I couldn't write? Where would my thoughts go?" I think if I didn't write, my head would fill to the point of exploding, and then the question would be, "Who's going to clean up this mess?"

Most of my writing here will be about writing--both in general, and my own. I know other things will creep in, too. But sooner or later, it will come back to the words. One after another.