A couple of weeks ago, I shared some of the books I wish I’d written, 
which is my idea of a favorites list. 
And one that I can keep adding onto. Forever.
Satisfying, hunh?

So, as the second in an occasional series, here are a few more.

I wish I’d written last year’s middle grade and young adult award winners, and in that group I’ll include:

The Higher Power of Lucky by Susan Patron — winner of the 2006 Newbery Medal, thanks to a well-spun tale and a really fine set of details (the knots, the backpack, the red dress) that serve as cairns throughout the whole book. A good thing when you’re in a windstorm in the desert. I wrote about Lucky way back in June but it can’t hurt to say it again…

Rules by Cynthia Lord — a 2006 Newbery Honor Book, and mighty touching without the sap. That’s the take-away lesson on this one. If Lucky’s got the details, Rules has got straight-forward heart. Just the way I like it. I wrote about Rules back aways, too…

Hattie Big Sky by Kirby Larson — another 2006 Newbery Honor Book, and today’s Little House. Right? I mean, really, I felt all cold and in the need of biscuits just reading it. I’ve no doubt that the book’s bred a whole new group of girls who want to step straight out of their suburban bedrooms into big sky land, and that’s a desire I think is worth conjuring up. So, I wish I’d written it, and I also wish I’d gotten to take a train to Montana the way Kirby Larson got to.

Looking for Alaska by John Green — the winner of the 2006 Michael L. Printz award and boy oh man did this one make me weep. Read it pretty much cover to cover on an airplane and, well, hello Holden Caulfield. The humor, the angst, the heartbreaking beauty of the great perhaps. I have to admit to loving the first half more than the second — I hope that’s not sacrilegious to say — but the whole dang book captures what it feels like to be sitting inside your own head at 18. Captures and still makes it palatable. Which is saying something.

This list is admittedly incomplete since I’ve somehow failed to read Penny from Heaven by Jennifer Holm, but I am now hanging my head in shame, moving it to the top of my pile and I’ll betcha anything I’m gonna wish I’d written that one, too.

Our kids went back to school this morning. Did yours?

Sheesh, that is a rude awakening after a summer full of sleeping in — the alarm at 6:45 (even if it is set to sing like little birds) — the sandwich making and cereal bowls — the backpacks and sneakers.  

But suddenly there we are, standing in front of school as fresh as daisies, with a 1st grader and a 3rd grader at the ready. Which makes me want to check the dates on their birth certificates since I swear they were just born. 

I get all knotted up over days like this. I mean, I really really really-to-the-power-of-ten want my writing routine back. And it is rather nice to have wiped the kitchen counter and realize nobody’s mucking it up all day. Plus, I go back to teaching on Wednesday and my syllabi aren’t finished and I need this time to get a grip. 

But the thing is, I really like my kids. To hang out with. And I really like summer. Swimmin’ and road trips and big ol’ stacks of books from the library. 

You know how dads of yore used to warn their progeny to prepare for the hard, cold reality of life? Well, I’m not that keen on hard, cold realities. I like warm and lazy. Slow and dreamy. Fun and funny. 

But not to worry. It’s still about 100 degrees here so I’m in no danger of catching a chill. And I’m working on a picture book revision with my dog at my feet and a couple of mini-Tootsie Rolls at my elbow. And tonight, no doubt, the girls will buzz like fireflies with the news of the day. That is sure to be fun and funny.

Chin up. Onward through the fog…

We’re piling into the car again (I know, gluttons for punishment) and heading to the beach for our last summer hurrah. School starts Monday and we like to eeeeek every last bit of vacation out of the calendar. We’re headed toward:

One house, eight adults, ten kids and a whole pile o’ boogie boards. 
No doubt I’ll have some adventures to relate upon our return on Sunday.

Be well….

Yesterday my husband and I celebrated our anniversary — a decade-plus-three — and can I tell you? It’s better than just a plain decade, even though those round numbers pack a lot of punch. There’s something satisfying about having been together for so many years (I know, those of you who’ve been married for 30 are laughing at my naivete) that we can start to recognize the arc of our relationship. We can see where we’ve been and what we’ve created and it ain’t half bad.  We looked at our wedding snaps last night and, okay, so we look a little different but honestly, we still have that much fun.

When we got married, I was writing and Kirk was playing music and we had enough time to read the entire New York Times over brunch-’til-two on Sundays. Since then, we’ve absorbed a couple of advanced degrees, several careers and, well, kids. Which, in case they haven’t told you, changes everything. But the smartest thing we ever did was promise to be the safekeepers of each other’s creative life. The theory was that we were less likely to fight about needing our own time or space to create, and less likely to abandon our own creations if we weren’t our own managers. When we concocted this idea, we were still pre-kids and we didn’t have a clue what we were talking about. But, y’know, it turns out to hold water.

If I’m losing my freakin’ mind because I’m half-way through a piece and can’t find a way to finish (this is hypothetical, mind you), Kirk turns me toward the desk and takes the kids away for the day. Which is nicer than calling the folks with the white coats, don’t you think? And when we share calendars, I ask if he’s got a night in there to pick with friends. When we hike (or pull weeds or clean), we let a little distance grow between us so we can properly daydream. Our date nights often consist of funny, out-of-the-way gigs or poetry readings or plays. Our TV is usually off. We never question each other’s bookstore bills or the need for new guitar strings. (I did, admittedly, have to gulp a few big gulps over a recent guitar purchase (and I don’t mean strings, I mean the whole instrument) ’cause it was a little bit more than a stack of books but I’m over it and the guitar is home here, where it belongs.)

This is not to say it’s been all milk and honey. We’ve had some doozies over the years, about chores and money and whether or not to adopt another cat. But not about whether the time spent following that funny little inkling in our guts is necessary. Or valuable. Or right. That’s understood.

It’s a good idea to have a champion. Or a super hero, as the case may be. I recommend it.

Happy Anniversary, honey. Remember this, from our wedding ceremony?

It is our inward journey that leads us through time — forward or back, seldom in a straight line, most often spiraling. Each of us moving, changing, with respect to others. As we discover , we remember; remembering, we discover; and most intensely do we experience this when our separate journeys converge. — Eudora Welty

“There are many miracles in the world to be celebrated and, for me, garlic is among the most deserving.” — Leo Buscaglia

Dinner will be delicious and our house smells just right …

So today my girls were busy assessing their personalities using the sophisticated and highly scientific “quiz” format, to find out if they’re Sassy Scholars or Awesome Adventurers, Hermione or Harry, Mint Chocolate Chip or Vanilla .  

And daughter #2 comes flying into the bathroom (I’m in the shower, and I can write an entire post about that particular pet peeve some other time) squealing, “Mama! Y’know how I used to be a white daisy??? Well, now I’m a red rose!”

Only my little flower doesn’t exactly have a handle on her r’s yet so what she really said was “… now I’m a wed wose!”

First, I kind of giggled — I love it when she says things like wed wose and I may be just the littlest bit bereft when she gets all proper on me.

Then I had to stop giggling because I had water up my nose. Which reminded me that I oughta be ticked off because she’d just come flying into the bathroom while I was trying to take a shower.

But I wasn’t because I was too walloped by the notion of how easy it is for kids to transform themselves. One week a daisy, the next a red rose. One week a soccer player, the next a horseback rider. One week a reader, the next a math whiz. Just like that. 

Envision something new, rename yourself and go.

Wanna call yourself brave or sexy or whip-smart?
Wanna call yourself intuitive or funny or visionary? 
Wanna call yourself a writer?

Go ahead, do.

I don’t know about you, but it’s almost impossible for me to create a manageable list of favorite books. 
There are just way too many to choose from.

So sometimes I break them into bite-sized categories:
 — poetic picture books
 — beach books
 — middle-grade novels that are good teaching examples
 — books I read to my kids when they were 3 (or 4 or 6-and-a-half)
 — YA novels that make me cry
 — rainy day books for when I’m tired and a little grumpy (best with chocolate)

But my bottom-line category is Books I Wish I’d Written, ’cause that subsumes all the other groups and it’s the best way I can think of to bow down in adoration and gratitude. Well, okay, and some envy, too, but y’know — the good, butt-kicking kind.

So here’s the first little sampling from that list which, admittedly, exists only in my head. And it’s not in any sort of order because really, every book on there is one I wish I’d written. Except that I’d be really big-headed and braggy if I had.

All of Beverly Cleary’s Ramona books 
Was Cleary born with that perfect alchemy of empathy and humour and an intuitive understanding of the cowlicks of life? Lucky duck.

All of Kevin Henkes mouse books
And I’m not saying this just ’cause he’s from Madison — that would be like nepotism. Really, it’s just that Owen and Lilly and Sheila Rae and the rest are so vivid, sympathetic and familiar — id, ego and super-ego all rolled up in rodent-hood. And although I adore nasty adults in children’s books, Henkes’ grown-up champions (Ms. Twinkle, Mr. Slinger, Owen’s creative mom) are really true blue. 

Cynthia Rylant’s Mr. Putter and Tabby books
Who says all main characters have to be 10 and under. Right?

Louise Fitzhugh’s Harriet the Spy
I’m pretty sure I’m not exaggerating here. Harriet saves lives, even if she is in a foul mood. I mean, so were we when we met her. Oh, and she also says it’s okay to be a writer. It may even be a really, really good idea. A powerful idea. That’s something. 

The list goes on. Stay tuned…

Today I drove through Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri and Arkansas.
I’m not kidding.
With my kids in the back seat, my iPod on shuffle and my nose turned toward home.
We’re currently ensconced in a Holiday Inn in West Memphis which, oddly enough, isn’t in Tennessee.

But needless to say, our dinner time conversation centered on Elvis and his Graceland, the weddings, impersonators and bejeweled jumpsuits, and the difference between Elvis and Buddy Holly. 

Mind you, my little gals are Texans so they knew all about Holly but not a hoot about Presley. What a funny story he is to conjure up and tell with any sort of credibility. It all sounds a bit, I don’t know, kookie. But to add to the drama and verisimilitude, I ended up singing and doing a little hip demo. In the restaurant. They were duly impressed. The kids, I mean, not the waitstaff.

Maybe this is what happens when you go on the road for five weeks. You end up happy and a bit untethered. We started in Colorado and wound our way to Wisconsin and then Michigan. My L.A. jaunt got tucked in the middle there, and now we’re making the long slog toward home. Don’t even start calculating the miles. It’ll make you queasy.

Our girls were born to road trip. They’ll curl up in the back with their string cheese and bowl of cherries, a ream of construction paper and a book of MadLibs, and lose themselves in dreamland until one of them notices the truly prehistoric insectoid sprinklers crawling across the fields of soybeans and corn. Then it’s back to recording all the license plates they see, sipping on a root beer and listening to one of the Herdman’s books on tape.

My husband and I are always itchin’ for the road so it’s no surprise, I guess. Still, I’m gratified that they’ve acquired the taste for adventure, and the patience to roll along through the middle of middle America when the air’s hot and still and there’s not much to see. 

Travel’s like reading, I think. You get a good view of the world out there, and a good view of yourself, too. 
Wholly worthwhile. Don’t you think?

Here’s one of my favorite Wallace Stevens poems, in honor of all that:

The Poem that Took the Place of a Mountain

There it was, word for word,
The poem that took the place of a mountain.

He breathed its oxygen,
Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.

It reminded him how he had needed
A place to go to in his own direction…

(Read the rest of the poem here)

I’m posting this from my gate at LAX, which means the conference is over — at least for me. There are a fair number of lucky ducks who are still getting one last afternoon of edifying fun, but I’m back in the land of tray tables and flight attendandants who are there primarily for my safety.

Sigh. 
Really, the dream went * poof * the instant I pulled away by taxi cab, which was more like a pumpkin than I’d have liked. A really, really hot pumpkin with a broken credit card machine.

But the last little bits of the conference were flawless, so let me re-direct.

Allyn Johnston and Marla Frazee gave a talk about their many years of working intimately together to create gem-like books. I mean, if gems could breathe.

It was a picture-perfect presentation — quite literally — with gorgeous slides of everything from early thumbnail sketches to various cover art samples to funny notes that’ve passed between the two. There were a lot of rather revealing antecdotes about the pressures of the marketplace, like this one:

“Books have to shout out what they are these days. Subtlety is not the name of the game,” said Marla.

But, said Allyn, “Titles, colors and trim widths can change; if our intentions change, that’s dangerous.”

I mean really, half the stuff we learned this weekend about the marketplace would be disheartening if it weren’t for all these incredibly gifted, careful and conscious caretakers working to stay focused on creating great books for children — on top of, along with and in spite of the bottom line. 

Allyn tries to “remain as mindful as possible of the actual experience an adult and child will have reading a book,” and that seems like a surefire way to get things right, don’t you think?

It pretty much made me want to get writing so that I can work with her for a long, long time.
Which I think is how you’re supposed to feel on your way home from a conference like this. 

Ready.
Eager.
Fired Up.

Report respectfully submitted…
Signing off.

So, John Green not only writes books that win the presitigious-beyond-measure Printz award, but he also gives speeches that are touching and funny, and he’s cute to boot. I’d say that it’s not fair except I hate to complain when we’re all enjoying him so dang much. Y’know?

This morning he talked about freeing himself  “from the shackles of the facts” in order to write something emotionally and intellectually true. I really, really like discerning between facts and truth, and I know from countless discussions with writing students that just because “it really happened” doesn’t mean it really works.

He also said that “great books don’t happen by accident.”

“I don’t think literature just comes to you,” said Green. “I think its something you work very hard on.”

I like that, too.

Later, I went to hear Mary Hershey talk about writing better humor. It was thicker and better than I expected because she wanted us to dig into our childhoods and obsessions and stuff. This was no banana-peel-on-floor-Tom-trickery. Hershey was talking about the real deal. 

“The art of humor is in the way that you look at the world,” she said.

And then a pretty good chunk of the day was devoted to the Golden Kite Awards and luncheon. Those are the book awards given by SCBWI members to books by SCBWI members. Kind of Golden Globey. Tony Abbott, author of Firegirl, gave a particularly thoughtful and funny acceptance speech. Plus, the dessert was chocolately.

And then this afternoon, Linda Sue Park and her editor Dinah Stevenson did a little tag-team talk on the author/editor relationship. Here are my favorite bits:

Linda Sue Park said, “Most people who want to be published writers do not read enough.” And she asked the audience to read 1,000 picture books before writing their own. I think she should win some sort of award for that. Or get a bronze book on the sidewalk in front of New York Public Library. Or something like that.

And then Dinah Stevenson said, “Focus your energy on your craft.” 
I mean, it sounds so simple but don’t we all get wrapped up in wanting to be published, rich and famous when really we should be reading and crafting and revising and crafting and reading and revising? 

So now I think it’s my responsibility to crawl into these very fine sheets at the Hyatt Regency Century Plaza and read one of the many new books I’ve picked up in the last coupla days. Don’t you?