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.)

When you’re parenting little ones, there are some dark days in terms of glamour and dignity. 

The times when you drop to your knees and crawl out of your baby’s room so as not to disturb the milky stupor you just nursed her into, even though the baby books told you not to…

The times when you sing Tender Shepard all the way from Atlanta to Chicago even though the flight attendants start meeting your gaze with a glare…

The times when so many little arms and legs end up in your bed that you flee into your child’s upper bunk to try to get a little sleep yourself.

(And do me a favor, if by some miracle or superhuman self-restraint you haven’t had these moments as a mom or dad, could you not mention that? ‘Cause the rest of us are trying to keep our morale up around here.)

So call it desperate justification if you will, but I’ve been thinking lately that these moments are valuable if you’re a children’s writer. Because WORSE than any of them would be not knowing what it is to crawl across hardwood on your hands and knees, not remembering how to sing Tender Shepard just because you’re in your 30’s, not experiencing a night’s sleep in a top bunk wedged between a stuffed dog and a sippy cup.

I think the whole idea behind writing books with heart is that we’ve got to have perspective — their perspective — on what is comforting or painful, frightening or funny, easy or hard. And maybe being able to put ourselves there with them (on the floor, in the bunk, in the moment) every so often, even though we’re The Parents (capital T, capital P), is the way to go. 

Maybe sometimes it oughta be at least as much about their dignity as it is about ours.

My kids aren’t crawling or sipping from sippy cups anymore, and they’d prefer that I learn the songs to High School Musical these days. But I’m finding a little bit of comfort in thinking we came out of that sleep-deprived and blurry time with a pretty good sense of ourselves and of each other.  

And now I think I’d better get to work…

School in our district was out of session today — with the official excuse being parent-teacher conferences — but both of our teachers offered to meet afterschool last week, so we were totally free-n-easy today! 
(I love teachers who believe in life outside the ivory tower, or beige box, as the case may be).

Here’s what we made of the day:

Sleep: Both girls slept right up ’til the time school would’ve started this morning.

Organization: Elder daughter sorted out her fabric bin, younger daughter found and rescued all the treasures from underneath her bed, and I put away a whole weekend’s worth of laundry.

Costume creation: Um, Halloween is like, this month. Right. So, off to Goodwill where we acquired a few missing components of the little lamb costume and the Dio de los Muertos skeleton witch costume. Oh, how I heart Goodwill and her assorted thrify cousins.

Lunch: Our favorite free-day lunch is at this peaceful little macrobiotic place where my girls ask for seconds and we clear our own plates. Even if we skipped supper tonight, I’d feel good about what went in today.

Play: One friend per daughter arrived after lunch and within two hours I’d witnessed card games, tag games, face painting, reading aloud and a friendship ceremony.

Work: Not the kind of day to plumb my creative depths, so instead I updated the books and bio pages of my Web site — one of those things I’ve been meaning to get to but it never seems to make the cut. I’m so glad it finally has.

Sigh.
I don’t know about you, but I think 3-day weekends oughta be the norm…

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…)