Way back in the day, I was lucky enough to be member of an amazingly talented, prolific and supportive poetry group. We met weekly to exchange work for a good long time, and then monthly for even longer. I finally emigrated to children’s writing circles, but The Brass Tacks stayed together. Every so often I bump into one or another of these old friends and, inevitably, get a little nostalgic for the times I spent writing poetry. I mean, poetry for the more mature audience.

Well, now my nostalgia’s gotten me into something deep. I’ve accepted an invitation by the Tacks to contribute to the Crown of Sonnets they’ve been working on. A Crown of Sonnets is 7 complete sonnets strung together — thematically and through the repetition of certain lines. (Each sonnet begins with the last line of the preceding sonnet.) 

I’ve agreed to do the final sonnet, which means I begin with the last line of the preceding sonnet and I close with the very first line of the very first sonnet. And by the way, the other sonnets are… well… very good. I feel like I may need to be hypnotized to access this part of me. Presuming it’s in there.

So, apparently there’s such thing as A Heroic Crown of Sonnets, too. That’s 15 linked sonnets, which admittedly does sound tough, but I have a feeling I’m gonna feel heroic even if I pull off the garden variety Crown.

But in studying up on this form, I’ve discovered — believe it or not — a children’s book written as a Heroic Crown. I remember hearing a lot about A Wreath for Emmett Till a couple of years back, but the Crown Sonnet wasn’t on my radar then. Now it is, and Marilyn Nelson’s poem is masterful. And sad. And full of love.

Here’s a short excerpt from the fourth stanza:

From A Wreath for Emmett Till

Emmett Till’s name still catches in my throat,
like syllables waylaid in a stutterer’s mouth.
A fourteen-year-old stutterer, in the South
to visit relatives and to be taught
the family’s ways. His mother had finally bought
that White Sox cap; she’d made him swear an oath
to be careful around white folks. She’d told him the truth…

What I’d love for you to do is go to this NPR page and click on the Listen button. Marilyn Nelson reads the poem in whole. It’s heroic, all right. And I’m humbled.

I’m a bit of a glutton for fun.
Actually, also for beauty, joy, excitement, comfort, love, friendship, humor, smarts and goodness.
I’m kind of famous for the line, “I only want to do fun stuff.” 
And I wish I could say I was nine when I coined that beauty, but I was actually 22. 

You know how kids wish their birthday rolled around weekly? I’m like that. 
When I say to my daughters, “Yes, but then your birthday wouldn’t be special,” I have to chew on my cheek and uncross my fingers with effort. 

I know that some people would spell this syndrome h-e-d-o-n-ism, but really, I just understand the impulse of wanting specialness more often. Like, daily.

So, one way to make this happen is through ritual. Setting a lovely table. Lighting candles at breakfast. Filling the bath with really lush bubbles. Sitting outside as the sun sets. I’m a junkie for that sort of thing. 

But  also, we just need to cultivate the taste — and the patience — for the rare, the unique, the truly exceptional. So that when we find the finest wine or fall in love or stumble upon a really great idea, we notice it with appropriate awe. 

Do you remember awhile back when I posted about reading Aldo Leopold’s Sand County Almanac?
Well, let me tell you. This guy knew a thing or two about awe. And here’s our lesson for today (humor me; I like to think I’m not the only unreformed immediate gratificationist on the planet):

“There is a peculiar virtue in the music of elusive birds. Songsters that sing from top-most boughs are easily seen and as easily forgotten; they have the mediocrity of the obvious. What one remembers is the invisible hermit thrush pouring silver chords from impenetrable shadows; the soaring crane trumpeting from behind a cloud; the prairie chicken booming from the mists of nowhere; the quail’s Ave Maria in the hush of dawn…. The hope of hearing quail is worth half a dozen risings-in-the-dark.”

Isn’t all the really good stuff worth at least that?

So Jules (who has obviously been allotted more than the average 24-hours-in-a-day since she seems to have time to organize grand philanthropic events, interview literary starlets, review books with pithy panache and toss thought-provoking queries out into the universe) wants to know what we writerly folk think about “Process”. (At a recent conference, Rosemary Wells apparently said there is no such thing as process. Hmm. Makes one want to scratch one’s noggin.)

Here’s what I think.

Process is a verb and it’s something I do every single day. (Just ask my husband.)

I need to tease and sort stuff out because one big lumpy undifferentiated world is far too much to swallow whole.

To process is to name a thing, break it down into its smallest possible components, look at those pieces from every possible angle and through a variety of lenses, and then put it back together by articulating what’s been discovered. Preferably right at bedtime. (Just ask my husband.)

But really, it’s not unlike what we do as writers – especially during revision. We sit down and think, “What in sam hill was I trying to do here? Which bits work and which bits don’t? And why? Is it the point-of-view or the voice or the pacing or the narrative flow? And then, I’ve got an idea! I’m going to move this here because of a, and cut this because of b, and tweak this because of c.” 

And then we heat up our chai, which has gotten all curdley at this point, and start over. 
I mean, right?

That other kind of process, that Rosemary Wells says doesn’t exist? I call that practice rather than process. My personal practice includes writing something new every single day – sometimes a complete and rushy draft of a new story, sometimes a comma – and always, always, always reading my own work aloud. Yep. Just sittin’ in my chair writin’ and readin’. Oh, and also, waiting very hopefully for the lightening strike.

I’ll bet that’s not much different from what the rest of ya’ll are doing. Is it?

When I woke up early this morning it was cold and rainy.

Seriously, seriously chilly.

And I’ve been getting just a tad bit tired of 90-degree days so I put the kettle on and didn’t give my running shoes another thought. 

Instead I came to my desk and began transforming my latest manuscript from a 3rd-person story into a 1st-person story.

I realized last week that this had to happen but I didn’t make the time to tackle it. Probably because I was a little disgruntled. Because I had just finished it. Sigh. 

Couldn’t I have realized this rather critical detail a few weeks back? 
Y’know, so this all could’ve happened in a more orderly and efficient fashion.
Are there people out there who really lead linear lives??? 
Nevermind. Don’t tell me. I’d rather not know.

Anyway, I walked my way into it this morning and I was right! This is what it needed!

I’m not done, but I’m so happy. 
And the weather doesn’t hurt, either.

Sometimes all you need is a little change of perspective…

Was looking at last week’s highlighted snowflakes fun, or what? I mean, I’m sort of wishing I were independently wealthy so I could go absolutely bid-crazy on these little masterpieces! But since I’m not, a bunch of you folks are going to get the chance to pick up a flake or two. So, without further ado, here’s the schedule for Week 2 (with great big ol’ thanks to Jen Robinson, the html queen). Because the posts aren’t up yet, this list links to the participating blogs, instead of to the individual posts. You can find links to the posts themselves, and any last-minute updates, each morning at 7-Imp. Jules and Eisha have also set up a special page at 7-Imp containing a comprehensive list of links to the profiles posted so far. Also not to be missed is Kris Bordessa’s post summarizing snowflake-related contests to date over at Paradise Found.

Monday, October 22

• Mark Teague at The Miss Rumphius Effect
• Sharon Vargo at Finding Wonderland
• Christopher Demarest at Writing and Ruminating
• Rose Mary Berlin at Charlotte’s Library
• David Macaulay at Here in the Bonny Glen

Tuesday, October 23

• Carin Berger at Chasing Ray
• Marion Eldridge at Chicken Spaghetti
• Sophie Blackall at not your mother’s bookclub
• Erik Brooks at Bildungsroman
• Brian Lies at Greetings from Nowhere

Wednesday, October 24

• Elisa Kleven at Rozzie Land
• Consie Powell at Becky’s Book Reviews
• Jimmy Pickering at Shaken & Stirred
• Frank Dormer at What Adrienne Thinks About That
• Sheila Bailey at Lizjonesbooks

Thursday, October 25

• Julia Denos at Interactive Reader
• Rebecca Doughty at A Chair, A Fireplace & A Tea Cozy
• Brian Floca at A Fuse #8 Production
• Margaret Chodos-Irvine at readergirlz

Friday, October 26

• David Ezra Stein at HipWriterMama
• Juli Kangas at Sam Riddleburger’s blog
• Ginger Nielson at Miss O’s School Library
• Margot Apple at Jo’s Journal

Saturday, October 27

• Julie Fromme Fortenberry at Your Neighborhood Librarian
• Sarah Dillard at The Silver Lining
• John Hassett at cynthialord’s Journal
• Abigail Marble at Please Come Flying

Sunday, October 28

• Ashley Wolff at A Chair, A Fireplace & A Tea Cozy
• Barbara Garrison at Brooklyn Arden
• Kelly Murphy at ChatRabbit

Don’t see the one you’re ready to mortgage the house for yet — or worried the competition’ll be too stiff? This is only the 2nd of many weeks of snowy wonder coming your way. Plus — NOT ALL SNOWFLAKES WILL BE FEATURED ON A BLOG, so be sure to check out the whole lot of them when you go to bid! (Here’s a note on this very point from Elaine Magliaro at Wild Rose Reader).

Now, if by some cosmic time/space disconnect you have missed out on learning about the Robert’s Snow auction, check out the Robert’s Snow auction official site. In a nutshell, it’s a really powerful way to help fight cancer and bring some gorgeous, touching, whimsical art into your home at the same time.

We’re just trying to keep our wits about us over here, my six-year-old and I. 
Last night she battled the fiercest ear infection. 
Actually, we battled it but she took the harshest wounds.

Our weapons?
Warm olive oil.
Old videotapes.
A hot water bottle.
A snack.
An attempt at sleep, sitting up.

Things seem a little brighter by the light of day, but I’m so tired I’m drooling. So, here’s Shel Silverstein’s Sick. Maybe it’ll make you guys laugh. That’s beyond me now, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I descend into the giggles later. In that crazy kinda way.

Sick
by Shel Silverstein

"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more--that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?

Read the rest here…

On Thursdays, I help with the literacy centers in my 1st grade daughter’s classroom. 
I’ve become pretty chummy with the kids and I really look forward to our time together — 
there is always some perfect bit of theater unfolding. 

I don’t know how teachers absorb all the narratives in their classrooms. I think I would pop.

Today, the kids were tasked with turning the word OCTOBER into a Halloweenyish bit of art — making Os into pumpkins, for example, or the stem of an R into a witch’s broom. (OK, so mine wouldn’t have been the most imaginative version ever…) 

I liked this little exercise — it’s sort of preparatory concrete poetry — and it made the kids want to wooooo and booooo while they worked.

But first, each student was asked to write OCTOBER in big ol’ letters — roomie enough to decorate. No problem, right? Wrong. My little buddy N was struggling. He wrote a teeny tiny version of october and then just a slightly less teeny version of october and I could tell that only teeny tiny letters were in our future. 

So I said, “Hey, N. How about this. What if I give you dot-to-dots to follow? Think you could make a great, big O?” 

He was skeptical, I could tell, but I did my part and he did his. That was one lovely O.

And then we repeated the process for the C. 

“What do you think?” I asked. “Can you take it from here?”

I stepped over to the other table to remind a chatty little group of artists to put their names on their papers and when I checked back with N, he’d done it! And guess how? Using my pencil, he’d dot-to-dotted one letter at time and then, using his pencil, he’d re-traced the letter. All the way through the final R.

Don’ t you just find that fascinating, the desire to have something to follow ? It starts so early — toddlers who can’t walk yet suddenly go truckin’ across the room carrying a toy because holding onto something allows them to feel supported. I can think of lots of ways I trick myself into feeling brave or safe enough to move forward. Can you?

Yesterday I finished a picture book text 
(supposedly the 1st draft, but I’ve saved it as Version 6 so my math is obviously wonky).

I started this piece last April and I really love the idea and the main character’s name and her sister’s name and on and on and on. 

But.

But.

I started it six months ago and I’m on Version 6 of the 1st draft.
It has been just the teensiest bit like squeezing blood from a stone.
Sigh.

Here’s the thing. 
The three picture books I’ve sold so far all came to me like thunder — in the middle of the night or out of a daydream.
They all moved in and took over and I had no choice but to ride out the storm.

Not to say that they didn’t require work. 
All three begged for painstaking and obsessive attention — somehow frenzied and careful at the same time. 
All three rest atop a teetering mountain of earlier versions and drafts.
All three drove me to well-deserved naps and pedicures as the final revisions wrapped up.

But the work, honestly, was kind of fun. 
It was work that was intuitive and impulse-based. 
It was work that followed some woo-woo pre-ordained path.
It was work that I was driven to do.

My other manuscripts (and I’m not gonna say how many there are because I’m worried someone may tell me to get a life) have been harder. From start to finish. 
They’ve all started with some sort of constructed G.I. (Great Idea).
Then I’ve applied what I know of the craft to said G.I. 
Then I’ve revised this or that version of the G.I.
Over and over and over again. 
Character, setting, dilemma. Character, setting, dilemma.
It’s been, quite frankly, more like sausage making. 
 
And apparently not all the editors out there are sausage eaters, because these are the stories that haven’t sold. 
Even though I’ll stand by the G.I.s they sprung from. Truly, each one of them.

Which begs the questions: what am I supposed to do when I’m not being put upon by thunder? should I take up knitting? should I drop all the ideas that seem to take too much effort from the outset? should I keep a tape recorder by my bed and throw out my computer? should I keep working away when the work that is being most adored is that which feels less like work and more like love?

Huh?
Should I?

Remember back a few weeks when I was talking about cancer and kickin’ it and the extra-special fundraiser called Robert’s Snow? Well, starting this week, the illustrators who’ve donated art to the auction are being featured on a wide variety of children’s literature blogs. You can get to know the artists up-close-and-personal and check out their snowflakes before the auction begins. Win-win. Plus, a bid on one of these unique pieces of art represents your own little part in the big, bad fight against cancer. Check it out… and chip in.

Monday, October 15

• Randy Cecil at ChatRabbit
• Michelle Chang at The Longstockings
• Kevin Hawkes at Cynthia Lord’s Journal
• Barbara Lehman at The Excelsior File
• Grace Lin at In the Pages

Tuesday, October 16

• Selina Alko at Brooklyn Arden
• Scott Bakal at Wild Rose Reader
• Alexandra Boiger at Paradise Found
• Paige Keiser at Your Neighborhood Librarian
• Janet Stevens at The Miss Rumphius Effect

Wednesday, October 17

• Rick Chrustowski at laurasalas
• Diane DeGroat at Jama Rattigan’s Alphabet Soup
• Ilene Richard at Something Different Every Day
• Brie Spangler at Lectitans
• Don Tate at The Silver Lining

Thursday, October 18

• Brooke Dyer at Bookshelves of Doom
• D.B. Johnson at Lessons from the Tortoise
• Erin Eitter Kono at Sam Riddleburger
• Sherry Rogers at A Life in Books
• Jennifer Thermes at Through the Studio Door

Friday, October 19

• Graeme Base at Just One More Book
• Denise Fleming at MotherReader
• Jeff Mack at AmoXcalli
• Jeff Newman at A Year of Reading
• Ruth Sanderson at Book Moot

Saturday, October 20

• Linas Alsenas at A Wrung Sponge
• Theresa Brandon at The Shady Glade
• Karen Katz at Whimsy Books
• Judy Schachner at Kate’s Book Blog
• Sally Vitsky at Shelf Elf: read, write, rave

Sunday, October 21

• Matthew Cordell at Just Like the Nut
• Maxwell Eaton III at Books and Other Thoughts
• Roz Fulcher at Goading the Pen
• Susie Jin at sruble’s world
• Susan Mitchell at Check It Out

This morning, pulling the tent and tin cups out of our shed, I was thinking about William Stafford. 
He’s the kind of guy you think about when you’re going camping. 

Stafford wrote many, many books — about family and friends and peace and politics, but the stuff that really gets me between the ribs and shoulder blades is his poetry of place, his intimate reflections on landscape and wilderness and the natural universe. 

His Methow River Poems were actually published on Forest Service signs in the 1990s; they are that organic. 
His way of noticing and revering trees, birds, water and rock is somehow both simple and sacred.

I’m really happy about Al Gore and all the attention on climate change, but I sort of think lines like these can serve the same purpose — reminding us that we are one with the world and that there’s eversomuch to love:

Trees are afraid of storms. (Real People)

This weekend we’re camping with 14 adults, 15 children and 2 dogs. 
We won’t be in motorhomes, but it’s not exactly a total wilderness adventure, either. 
Still, I’m thinking about waking up outside tomorrow morning, bubbling a pot of cowboy coffee right in the middle of last night’s coals, the kids’ faces dirty and rosy and well. 

I’m thinking I should read some of these aloud then. 

Maybe this one. 

Or this…

When I Met My Muse

I glanced at her and took my glasses
off—they were still singing. They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased.

(Read the rest of the poem here.)