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.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Brava, Deborah Wiles!
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.)
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.)
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Put on your thinking caps!
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Pen Names
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.
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.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Vampire Ponies
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...
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...
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Taking Flight
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.
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.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Going Home
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.
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.
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