I’ve been thinking lately that one of my purposes, in writing for children, is to honor their perspectives — 
wild, varied, inscrutable, sweet.

To empower through recognition.
To notice, to listen, to see.

That’s what I remember wanting as a kid.

Recently I was plowing through piles of my own poems and I found this one, written when my first baby was wee. 
I think this is when this whole idea must’ve started to coalesce for me. 

Don’t you love tracing your own paths backwards sometimes, to find out how you got where you are today?

Perspective

It is nearly impossible  — impossible —

to recognize the difference

between dog and bear

in the transmuting dark

and the long croony whistle of a train

sounds so much like moo

as to be four-legged and lonesome

A sock looks like a hat

but doesn’t fit and isn’t

a pear looks like an apple

apple sounds like happy

and is

Blowing on breakfast

cools it off, blowing

in the bath makes bubbles

and the wind blows

arms into fingered wings

Every man is Daddy

— the Wicked Witch

is Mama and so is the moon

in this afternoon’s sky

milky as the breast

at bedtime when who

will stay to keep things straight

who will name the sounds

that come in the night?

— Liz Garton Scanlon, 1999

This morning, The 2007 Cybils awards were announced and hot dang, you judges did a fine job!
I haven’t read every winner, but I can assure you that I will. 
I can see the rush at the circulation desk now.

As for those I’ve read, a quick little hoo-rah to a few:

Linda Urban’s A Crooked Kind of Perfect took the honors for best middle-grade novel, which, to my mind, is kinda perfect.
Congratulations, Linda!

Back in January, I predicted the winner of the picture book category — The Chicken Chasing Queen of Lamar County — so woot! to Janice Harrington and Shelley Jackson and woot! to me!!!

And finally, the winner of the poetry award: This is Just to Say: Poems of Apology and Forgiveness.
Sigh, swoon, sigh. 
I love this book. 
And (I know, I’m gonna hurt my wrist patting myself on the back this morning) I just so happen to be the reader who nominated it! 
Joyce Sidman, you wrote a book of lovely, honest and meaningful poems and I’m awfully glad they’re being celebrated.

OK, now go on you guys. 
Go check out The Cybils for yourself…

My writing class for the 12-week short semester starts tomorrow night.

Which, in case you live under a rock or never enter a Target store, is Valentine’s Day.

I’m going to be so popular, dontcha think?

Students love missing dreamy interpersonal holidays to sit in drafty old college classrooms for three-and-a-half hours. (That’s right — did I mention that part? Three-and-a-half hours. Again with the popularity…). 

And y’know, since it’s the first night, let’s spend a goodly portion of the evening talking about administrative nuts and bolts — syllabi and attendance policies, stuff like that.

Oh, they are going to be rolling in the aisles.

Do you think I should bring cookies or conversation hearts?

Today, my wee one turns seven. My baby.
And I hate to be all maudlin and cliched, but wha?!?!?

I am shattered not because I want to rewind, to back her away from who she has become.
I am shattered just that we have her, she is partly ours and has been now for seven years.
Seven years.
It’s a blessing almost too big to bear…
 

I am smart to be raising daughters around women who devote more of their time to hiking than hairspray, art than eyeliner, politics than pills. 

I am lucky to have an abundance of fresh and healthy and delicious food in my fridge and on my table.

I am blessed to have two girls who are tall and strong and, so far, relish the bodies they’ve been given.

But. 

But, I am still mindful of the fact that I hardly know a woman (and that includes the hiking-artist-activist type) who wouldn’t say she’s had body image issues in her life. I hardly know a woman who can’t reflect on stages of awful awkwardness and self-loathing. I hardly know a woman who hasn’t envied another her hips or abs or thighs. 

Objectively, there is so much to love and revere, isn’t there? 
The way we can climb mountains and move futons and pull weeds and have babies?
The way we can heal our own colds and strengthen our own weaknesses and survive stress and loss and trauma?
The way we can age well with just a little good sleep, good food and brisk movement?

But subjectively, we are a people with harsh and critical eyes. 
We are riddled with flaws and if you give us the opportunity, we’ll tell you about them.
We find it hard, most of us, to love our bodies without condition… to relish them the way my daughters still do theirs.

Which saddens me. 
Honestly, I’d like for my girls to sit around with your girls in their college dorms someday and talk about something else.
Y’know — their majors, their favorite candidates, their plans to travel to Argentina or Alaska in the spring.
Instead of what size jeans they hope to fit into by Christmas or whether the girl down the hall has bulimia.
Right?

I have a lot of thoughts on what may help turn the mirror on its side, but I’m no expert.
There are smart folk who have devoted their entire professional careers to researching how women perceive their physical selves and how those perceptions can change; how women are influenced by the images we are shown in the media; how women feel about other women.

It’d be a good idea if we all read up on this stuff and left Cosmo and Glamour to others.

It’d be a good idea if we just started loving up our own selves as examples.

And it’d be a good idea if we checked out this book.
(Click on the book itself to preview the gorgeousness that is inside. And then, if I may be so bold, order it…)

Our within-a-whisper-of seven year old celebrated her birthday last night.

Scavenger hunt… sparklers… ice-cream sundaes. A big time.

One of her little buds gave her The Invention of Hugo Cabret.

It is now 5 o’clock PM here in Austin, Texas, and she is reading on the couch.

She is still in her jammies from this morning.
I kid you not… 

This morning, the school nurse called me to come collect my daughter-with-pinkeye.
It was 8 am and she caught me on my cell phone.
I hadn't even made it back home from dropping the kids off.

It's been one of those weeks.
One little thing after another after another…
That kind of week.

Some of you might've recommended against hosting a slumber party for seven-year-olds during a remodel.
And the other stuff I've taken on is beyond the pale, too. 

I don't know if I should laugh or rage some days…

This morning, I'd like to take a book of poetry into the bath. 
Instead, we're on our way to the doctor for eye drops.
And then I have to tidy up the war zone house for the slumber party.
(That's a good one, isn't it? Cleaning up for a slumber party…)

Have you read Anne Sexton's fury poems? I love them. And they seem sorely apt for today.
Here's one of my favorites:

The Fury of Overshoes

(Read the rest here…)

Tomorrow is another day, tomorrow is another day, tomorrow is another day…
 

Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and
some have greatness thrust upon ’em. — Twelfth Night

When our 3rd grader stumbled into the kitchen this morning, Shakespeare spilled from her lips.

Truly. 

One of the dads at her school helps run a Shakespeare program at the University of Texas and — lucky us — brings his passions to our kids. Our daughter’s studying The Comedy of Errors with her class and Twelfth Night in the afterschool masterclass. 

When I was in 3rd grade, I’m not even sure I’d heard of Romeo and Juliet and I fear there are plenty of people who still think that’s a Dire Straits song. The idea that she is memorizing Toby Belch’s funniest lines makes me weak in the knees.

So, unsurprisingly, discussion of old William is frequent ’round our house these days.
Here’s some of the recent fodder:

Shakespeare was wild about ship wrecks.

If it was up to the kids, Midsummer Night’s Dream would get picked every time.

This last one was followed by a demo of Shakespeare sung, Shakespeare rapped and Shakespeare in a Texas twang.
Swoon.

Off to school now, Sweet. 
Go have greatness thrust upon you…

Results from today’s primaries are rolling in. 
Most of you have already voted. 
Some of us don’t get the chance for weeks to come. 

In the meantime, we can all take a minute to get inspired.

Yes, we can…

Some of you may know that I’ve got a couple more picture books coming out soon (although “soon” in publishing is a very relative term).

I’ve referred to the manuscripts here as Wind and World, in case of title changes. They both sold to Allyn Johnston of Harcourt (and really, I should do a whole long and flowery post about her awesomeness) and they’ll both be illustrated by the totally tremendous Marla Frazee (again, a dedicated post is necessary).  For now, suffice it to say that I am a really, really, really lucky gal.

I made kind of a fuss over these books when they sold, and in the last ten days, I’ve been on a similiar hopped-up vibe.

Because…. 
I. HAVE. MARLA’S. SKETCHES. FOR. THE. FIRST. BOOK!!!!!!!

Right here.
On my desk.
I can touch them whenever I want to.
The word ‘sketch’ does not do them justice.
Seriously you guys.

!!!!!!!!!

So, now’s the time to tell you that the book formerly known as World is actually titled All the World and it is due out next year. (That is, if I don’t just xerox a whole bunch of copies of this dummy and start handing ’em out to all my friends and neighbors.)

The journey of a book being born is long one. 
There’s a whole lot of work and a whole lot of waiting.
Most of my work on this baby is done — I devoted a good portion of the fall to tweaking the manuscript, under the visionary tutelage of my editor — and now I’ll wait. And work on other stuff. And wait. 

But can I just say that the waiting got a whole lot easier and more pleasureable the day these sketches arrived, wrapped in a wide pink ribbon, on my front stoop. I’m so excited to share this book with you all… someday soon.