October was my paternal grandmother’s favorite month. 
It was the month she was born. 
It was the month she was a newlywed.
It was the month the leaves turned from green to gold.

Plus, Mame was a witch — or so she said. 
She hung rustic-looking brooms on her kitchen walls and, for a midwestern of the protestant persuasion, she had a keen sense of the mystical. I’m recalling a certain seance at one of the old family lake cottages… there was the bat house in her yard… and Halloween was more than mere chocolate and child’s play. She elevated it to something mysterious and dramatic — from the decor to her accounts of midnight rides. 

Oh, coincidentally, Mame was also an actress. I remember her rehearsing for repertory performances of On Golden Pond and Love Letters, the latter of which shocked my granddad with its risque language. She devoted big chunks of time and money to helping restore the grand old theater in her hometown, and no family summer was ever complete without a bust-up party talent show, each generation trying desperately to out-shine the others.

Last fall, at 89, my grandmother slipped away.
No surprise, it was in October.
No surprise, too, that we played charades that first night we all gathered at her house without her.

Today, I’m in Texas. It will be 90 degrees by noon and there’s not a gold leaf in sight. 
I think when you say goodbye to someone you really love, there are always a few things in life that just don’t fit quite right.

Still, heat and landscape be damned, it’s October. 
Here and everywhere. 
My dramatic, bewitching grandmother’s favorite month. 
This charm is in her honor…

Song of the Witches

Last year I spent a good bit of time working on my first novel — a middle-grade historical piece. I researched and timelined and researched and wrote and read and researched and timelined and wrote and read and…

…my picture book brain stepped in. 

My scope narrowed. 
I started looking at minute words and phrases again. With tenderness. 
I read everything I wrote out loud. Some of it I even sang.

I left my novel in a heap upon the bathroom floor like a dress that didn’t fit quite right. 

Now, here I am. 
I have two new picture books tucked in snugly with my editor. They are in her care now. 
I can breathe again.
My scope is stretching wide.
I’m wondering if maybe that dress does do me right after all.

Can I do this? 
Can I pick up where I left off?
Am I too fickle to be trusted? 
Will my main character reveal herself to me again?
Do I really, truly want her to?
Are picture books going to come to me like needy little mice in the middle of the night?
If I put on the dress and go to the party, do I have to stay for the whole dance?
Will my coach turn into a pumpkin?

You know how good friends and neighbors make dinner for your family 
when you give birth or have your appendix out?

Well, here’s a little secret. 

Good friends and neighbors are making our dinner every Monday and Wednesday night for the forseeable future. And there’s been no birth, death or hospitalization.

Say what?

Today was the launch of the Fall 2007 save-my-soul-and-sanity dinner co-op.
The feed-my-kids-and-make-me-look-like-a-supah-mama dinner co-op.
The don’t-tell-me-they-want-dinner-again dinner co-op.
The you-can-call-me-anything-you-want-but-don’t-call-me-late-for-dinner dinner co-op.

So, okay. 
It doesn’t actually have a proper name, this gig, but it oughta. 
Anything this good deserves a little respect.

Here’s the deal. 
For the fourth season, our family is partnering with two others to get good, hot meals on our tables without blood, sweat or tears. Each family is assigned one day a week, during which they cook a mess of food — one family-sized serving for their house and two others to be doled out. 

The math works out like this: you cook just one nice meal a week but enjoy serving and eating three! 
I know… it almost sounds too good to be true. But believe me, it’s fair and square.

For example, our friend El made eggplant parmesan this afternoon. 
We picked it up after school. A beautiful 9×11 pan of garlicky goodness. It just needs heating. 
On Wednesday, Jeana will deliver something equally delicious and on Thursday I plan on cooking big pots of carrot ginger soup. 

We agreed to mostly vegetarian meals, no raw cashews or apples, kid-friendly spice levels and the willingness to try new things. We get cheaper grocery bills, fewer hours cooking, smaller piles of dishes and more time in the afternoon to work or read or play. Plus, goodbye mac & cheese and frozen veggie burgers… hello mediterranean lasagna, black bean enchiladas and sweet potato curry.

The meals we make aren’t supposed to be fancy — remember, the whole idea is to take the pressure off — but I have to admit to being a bit more inspired to crack open the old cookbooks than I usually am. It is a joy to cook for others — the sense of intimacy is so concrete and the knowledge that they are breathing easy over at their house is gratifying. And the nights we’re off? Besides being yummy, it is remarkably moving to sit down to a meal that has been lovingly prepared just for us. 

Just another hash mark in the It Takes a Village column. And I’m all full-up…
 

This week I asked my students to bring in a collection of poetry that they’d commit to reading numerous times over the next month or so. At the end of all that, they’ll write short papers about the poetry and the impact it’s had on them as writers. So, to launch this, they each did readings from their selected books. John Ashbery and Neruda, Marge Piercy and Li Young-Lee. I was delighted. 

And here’s the best part. 
Every single student asked if they could read “just one more” because my request for three didn’t satisfy. 
Every. Single. Student. 
Begging for the opportunity to read more poetry aloud. 
Guess what my answer was?

So, one of these budding poets chose Lucille Clifton’s book, Quilting. She said she’d had to narrow down her read-aloud choices from 19 favorites to a paltry five. And I kind of know what she means. Lucille Clifton is eminently readable. Both spare and profound. Both conversational and exquisite. 

A few years back, when I sold my first picture book, I used the advance to go to the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival (I mean, mortgage shmortgage, right?). And while I was there I was nearly silent. I did not shmooze or mingle or chat. I did not network. I really just took long walks on the side of New Jersey’s country roads and I read and wrote and listened to poetry. I was pregnant — with both baby and book, and feeling almost entirely internal.

On the last morning of the festival, Lucille Clifton read in the chapel. I remember it well because it really was like a prayer. Or, more accurately, a blessing.

blessing the boats

may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear

(Read the rest of the poem here…)

 Yesterday afternoon we had the usual gaggle of girls at our house to play. 

My role’s usually quite limited during these dates, to something like Keeper of the Snacks and Band-aids.

But I observe and overhear. 
A lot. 

Here’s yesterday’s snapshot:

Our first-grader and her chums spent more than an hour on the back deck, messing with a bunch of markers and tape and recycled materials. Making something for their art teacher at school. They thought she might be able to use the final, spectacular creation to hold her paints. 

Remember, this is the supposed ‘Generation Consumption’, always needing more and new and now. 
And rumour has it that they’re spoiled and a tad on the selfish side.
Also, according to the researchers, they don’t have the attention spans to stick with anything for more than five nano seconds.

Hmm. I don’t think so.

Maybe they all just need a little space, a little downtime and a pile of tape and old styrofoam.
I’m just sayin’.

Meanwhile, down the hall, elder daughter and her… well… her colleague, have opened The Office of Cultural Experiences in the United States. They are answering phones and taking notes. They are, apparently, tasked with assisting folks who’ve moved here and are struggling in one way or another. What a concept. 

When I walk into the room, my daughter’s helping an imaginary someone with ‘friendship troubles’. 

Oh, also, they inform me, “We have another company that does global experiences.”

Which means, I’m pretty sure, that not only do they care about the whole entire world but they’re willing to help out where they can.

Umm, can you think of any reason other than the fact that they’re not old enough to have driver’s licenses, that these gals shouldn’t be in charge of, well, the planet? 

Do ya’ll know Jules and Eisha, over at 7 Impossible Things Before Breakfast?

If you don’t, you should.

Their’s is a blog pretty much everyone has crush on. 

Why?
Because it’s really, really good.

To note:

They do really smart, conversational reviews of (mostly) kids’ books. 
(I’m biased because we seem to have the same taste. But take my word. It’s just a pleasure listening to them chat.)

They do really smart, funny interviews with children’s author’s and bloggers. 
(Do they have an awesome dating record, or what???)

They do really smart, lovely Poetry Friday posts.
(And ditto what I said earlier about having the same taste. Although maybe it’s not actually a bias — it’s just stellar taste.)

And they do really smart, good, generous things to spread love and save the world.

See what I mean?
They’re just really smart and good. 

Well, guess what? 

A few weeks ago, they asked me to the prom. And I said yes! 
Blush, blush, titter, swoon!

And today I’m in my best turquoise taffeta, dancing over at Seven Imp.
(I mean, being interviewed. But that sounds so dry and staid. Which it wasn’t.)
Thanks, Jules and Eisha. You guys rock…

Check it out!

I was thinking about speed, time, diligence, patience, inertia and momentum 
after writing my post the other night. 

And, really, I don’t recommend this line of thought. 
It’s daunting and you’re liable to get all mucked up in it. 
Your work, your calendar, your birthday — all will loom.

Here’s what I think we should meditate on instead:

It’s never too late. 
It’s never too late to write your first words.
It’s never too late to throw your first pot.
It’s never too late to sing your first aria or paint your first portrait or speak your first soliloquy.
It’s never too late.
It’s never too late to thread your first needle.
It’s never too late to cook your first souffle. 
It’s never too late to strum your first chord or kiss your first love or make your first million.
It’s never too late.
It’s never too late to publish your first book.
It’s never too late to win your first award.
It’s never too late to stand at your easel or open up your laptop or stretch out in your hammock and start something new.
It’s never too late.

And for those naysayers who wonder where I’m going with this and would like me to remember that I committed to a poetry post, how’s this? 

Virginia Hamilton Adair was 83-years-old when she published her first collection of poetry. 
That’s Eight Three. 
See what I mean?

Here’s a tiny little verse of hers. You should look for others. Really.

THRESHOLDS
I stand at evening at the open door,
And see the wind I never saw before.

Read the rest here…

Remember back in July when I was doing backflips off the roof because I’d sold my next book to Harcourt?
 
Well, now I’m doing full gainers.
‘Cause the editor I’ve been looking for all my life has said yes to another manuscript.
 And it’s giving me a bit of a lift.

This one we’ll call World (in case the title evolves) and like Wind, it will be illustrated by Marla Frazee. 
(I’m doing an extra triple twist over that fact…)

Actually, World is cutting in line and will come out before Wind (which is the book I announced in July).
Which means this has to be a very short post because I am in the middle of revisions as we speak.

Not that I’m complaining. 

Recently I’ve written about not sleeping and about feeling like a freight train and this is what I mean. 

There is something about the momentum created when things start falling into place that is almost scary until you start saying, “wheeee!” I think it’s that there are all those days in our lives that feel like a push or a slog or struggle or a drag, and when we find ourselves on a fast float to joy — thanks to luck, perservance, good timing or all the stars being lined up where they should be — it’s surprising. And overwhelming. 

In a good way, but still. 

As a friend said to me the other day, “What did you think was going to happen if you kept working and putting the work out there?”

Oh.
Right. 
This, I guess.

So, bring on the all-night single-minded freight train of the muse. 
I’m at the ready. With my bags of gratitude well packed.

Wheee….

Last night, getting food on the table, I thought, “How many of our common conversational phrases do we pull from books?” 

And it wasn’t a non-sequiter, either. I had just called out, “Wash up for supper, Ernst” when the query crossed my mind. 

But here’s the thing. We don’t have an Ernst. We’ve got two daughters who usually call supper dinner. But  Wash up for supper, Ernst is our daily and understood verb — thanks to Elisa Klevin. 

It’s not unlike my personal favorite, “Think, Oliver, think,” — always a good reminder, and for which credit is due to Laurel Molk.

And hello, Jarrett J. Krosoczka — the pen behind “A very big idea. A very brown idea. A very big, brown, bag idea.”  I mean, come on, tell me that you don’t need that phrase at least once a week.

I think this has got to be the highest form of authorial flattery — adopting bits of books into our own daily vernacular. The very idea that what we read resonates so contagiously — wow. Those are the books I wish I’d written or hope to write.

In the meantime, cheers to Elfrida Vipont (“But he never once said please!”) and Wayne Harris (“Mrs. Be-the-best-you-can”) and Ian Falconer (“I love you anyway, too.”)

Things would be a little less sweet and round and articulate around here without you all, and your books.

Lately I’ve been going through a really productive time, writing-wise. Lots of ideas, lots of getting it down on paper, lots of revisiting and revisioning and revisiting and revisioning. This, as you might imagine, feels good. 

So, what’s the rub? That when I go through these crazy muse-driven stages, I don’t sleep. I don’t know if my synapses get lodged in the on position or what, but I lie in bed, night after night, wide awake. 

Wide. 
Awake. 

Sometimes I get up and read. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I cry. One time recently I got all confused and got dressed for my morning run before realizing it was 4 a.m. Which, in my opinion, is not necessarily when you want to clock a few miles.

Before this little phase (let’s not use the word episode since that sounds diagnosable), I rode the vivid dream express for about six weeks. I slept, but boy-oh-man were those dreams something. I mean, I lived with them for hours after waking. Whether I wanted to or not. Frankly, it was a little distracting.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’d trade all this for writer’s block, but I am curious about how the rest of you wild minds strike a balance. I mean, can you schedule this stuff? And what about, y’know, the rest of life? Like putting gas in the car or making breakfast or occasionally sweeping the floor. I’m not talking about perfect here, folks, I’m just talking about avoiding the authorities and keeping the family free of any dirt-borne diseases. Sigh.

OK, I’m signing off now. I think I’ll go to bed early. 
‘Cause you never know. Tonight might be the night…