Hurrah — I get to share the delightful news that the illustrator for one of my upcoming picture books —  THINK BIG  — is the very talented Vanessa Newton.

I love her work and feel so honored that she said yes to this project.

THINK BIG will be published by Bloomsbury in Spring 2012, under the loving and watchful eye of editor Michelle Nagler. 
Lucky me…

So the other day, my Small One says, "French didn’t really click for me. I think I’m ready to take on Latin."

This was very, very funny for a multitude of reasons, including the minor technicalities that she hasn’t taken French, and Latin’s not offered ’til middle school.

But the more I thought about it, the more I loved it for it’s presumption.
She’s pretty sure that if she finds the language that’s right for her, she will know and speak it.
She’s pretty sure she has the capacity to learn, um, anything. 
She’s pretty sure that anything she imagines can be her’s.

Where does that go, all that fabulous, dreamy, determined, confident presumption?
Where does it go??

Forgotten Language
By Shel Silverstein

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly in my bed.

(Listen the rest here….)

My Tall One, who is entering middle school in the fall, has her first annotation assignment this summer.

I don’t know if I knew how to properly annotate a book when I entered college, much less middle school, but I guess that’s human evolution for you.

Anyway. She is a good student and is plugging through the assignment (which happens to be Walter Dean Myers’ Bad Boy) but she’s not loving the process. The annotation is interrupting the flow of her reading. Her notes are thoughtful and critical and insightful, and I’ll bet the discussion in those first few Language Arts classes will really be something. But the actual reading? Bumpy.

And here’s when I start worrying that the pleasure of books is going to be undercut by the next 7 to 13 years of school. I’m pretty sure that’s not the ex- or implicit point of these assignments, but we all know it happens. So, my current hope? That she finishes this in the next few days so she has time for a few good beach reads before school starts. I might try to fit in a couple myself.

I have to admit that I hesitated to read the newest novel by Francisco X. Stork. 
I’ve had it on or near the top of my pile for awhile, but I hesitated.
Because, really, I thought, there’s no way it’s gonna live up to Marcelo.

And that, my friends, is where I was wrong. 

This is not to say that my loyalty to Marcelo has wavered. 
I have pressed that book into more hands than you can imagine. 
But now I’m going to add The Last Summer of the Death Warriors and make it a two-fer.

I do not want to give anything away about this book — either book, really — so instead I’ll just say that the thing I admire most about Stork’s writing is that he is not afraid to allow young adults to be wise. Thoughtful, spiritual, complex and really pretty wise. I love that. I think it’s really respectful and really hopeful. Don’t you?

Just a quick note to share the happy news that my next book, Noodle & Lou, has a release date of March 8th, 2011.

My agent shared the cover image last week on Facebook, but for those of you who aren’t Facebookians, here it is:

I’m completely biased, but I think it’s pretty darn cute.
(And I’ve got all the proofs here on my dining room table — it’s not just the cover!
The other pages hold up pretty well, too. 🙂

I think illustrator Arthur Howard (of Cynthia Rylant’s Mr. Putter and Tabby series) is a master at combining whimsy with heart. I’m so grateful for what he’s done with this funny little tale…

If I were to try to categorize the poems I love, I’d say that my favorites are about how we live, in spite of it all. How we wake up; how we push through and feel love, joy and gratitude; how we struggle to stay here — breathing, and in it.

I mean, I have nothing against poetry about hummingbirds or politics or Grecian urns, but the ones that hit me in the center of my breast bone, the ones that leave me aching and relieved at the same time, are the ones that lay out that fundamental dance between living and dying, struggle and desire, pain and pleasure.

My friend Carrie Fountain writes a lot of those, even when they’re not overtly so. They are historical revelation or contemporary narrative, snapshot or reflection, but almost always with those biggest of curiosities underneath the stories, holding the words on the page.

Carrie’s new book, Burn Lake, was a winner of this year’s National Poetry Prize and it’s no wonder. There is so much there — truth and humor and fight and surrender — to take comfort in, even as we’re put on uncomfortable edges. I read the whole thing fast and furiously, like a beach book, a potboiler, and then went back to take it in more carefully. And not for the last time, either. I’m keeping it on my bedside table.

I would really like for you to have and to read this book.
In the meantime, though, here’s a little taste:

(Please note: It’s called Burn Lake 2 here, but in the book it’s Burn Lake 3)

Burn Lake 2
by Carrie Fountain

We found a duck, a mallard, dead
on the shore, head split, eyes loose,

For a while I’d had a vague idea
I could kill myself by holding my breath.

Yet when I locked myself in my room
and tried it, I fainted, fell face-first

I’d done it…

(Read the rest here…)

(And on an only slightly off-topic tangent, Carrie’s recently become a new mum, which makes that "pressing harder into life" ever keener. Wishing some docile days to them as they wake up to this new world…)

Oh, the things a gal will do when her kids are out of town,
to keep from missing them crazy-fierce.

1. Get a haircut
2. Practice yoga
3. Have coffee with friends
4. Wash the curtains
5. Write letters
6. Practice yoga
7. Try Stand-Up Paddling
8. Finish a picture book manuscript
9. Submit a picture book manuscript
10. Practice yoga

And in between all this, blend food for and take walks with my husband,
who’s getting a little bit well-er and a little bit stronger everyday. 

So. 
There you go. 
Things could be a lot worse…

Namaste.

I’ve just recently started writing in earnest again, after spending much of the last few months being caregiver to my husband.

So now here I am, three different documents open on my desktop, notebook open by my bed, and I’m struck by the word "earnest," aren’t you? 

After stepping away from this work, it can feel really daunting and really, really serious to step back in.
Do I remember what I’m doing?
Do I need to prove it to myself or to my agent/editors/parents/neighbors/friends?
Do I belong in this world?
Does this work matter?

Hello, paging Kierkegaard.
It makes my head hurt.

Last night I went down to our favorite, big, beautiful, spring-fed pool for a swim at about 9 o’clock. It’s free then, for an hour, before they close up, and people pour in and loll around and bring down the day’s body temperatures and stress levels by sitting in 68-degree water and looking at the moon. And last night, there was a full brass band playing, just for kicks. Half of the musicians were standing in the water, including the tuba player. I had a hard time swimming because I was smiling so hard.

At about that same time, my friend Shannon sent me this video clip of The Morning Benders and friends, making music in San Francisco. Which also makes me smile. And I’m left thinking that the common denominator here is the lack of earnestness, right? 

Passion? Sure.
Experimentation? Yep.
Community? For sure.
Utter joy? Absolutely.
Earnestness? Not so much.

Have fun today.
Namaste.
 

 Is it just me or does it seem like the Gulf Coast gets more than its fair share of trouble? 

What must it be like to sit there knowing that hurricanes are coming or, now, balls of crude oil washing up onto the beach? 

What must it be like for the birds and the animals, not knowing?

Thank goodness for the volunteers who rebuild houses and wash oiled birds.

And thank goodness, too, for artists who reveal truths, take stances, crack open possibilities, depict hope.

Dave Eggers’ Zeitoun does all of this — read it. Really.

And now here’s poet Natasha Trethaway adding her part, too.
Look, and listen.
And to this one, too.

Who knows who is writing what today….

It is officially summer vacation here. 

Tall One is off at her first sleep-away camp and I’m here to say that I did not cry
and cling to her ankles when we said goodbye. 

Well, okay, I got a little lumpy in the throat, but all-in-all you would’ve been proud of me.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Small One’s been a bit under the weather again. 
Which does not a jolly vacationer make. 

We have been reading books, snuggling, reading books, watching the Kenneth Branagh-directed Twelfth Night, snuggling, and reading books. Yesterday, in the midst of all this, she declared me "time consuming." Which apparently is a good thing because she appreciates my time-consumptive techniques. Especially the reading books. 

I’m ever-so-grateful to those of you who write really amazing books for Small Ones like mine. 
(In particular, at the moment, Laura Resau, Ruth McNally Barshaw and Rick Riordan.)