Earlier this fall, I got a note from the good folk at Teachingbooks.net.
They have this web site of about 20 zillion cool and important resources.
One of them is a Name Pronunciation hub, so teachers and librarians and students can get to know an author or illustrator just a little bit better (and without fear of faux pas and a badly-mangled surname.)
Anyway, they requested that I call in and give a little blurb on my name, which is not inordinately tricky but what the heck?
So here’s mine, if you’d like to give it a listen.
The thing I find most remarkable about this morning’s announcement of the Nobel Peace Prize going to President Obama is that the committee recognized him not so much for what he’s already done but, rather, for demonstrating a deep sense of committment to peace and restoring a deep sense of hope in the hearts of people around the world.
They’re saying that offering people hope is an heroic act, and I think that’s pretty rad. We tend to be a concrete and literal people, so to step out this way, to recognize the value of empowered and inspired possibility, is quite a leap. And not that far from our mission as children’s writers, don’t you think?
Anyway, here’s the poem all this brought to mind this morning… Enjoy…
I’m wondering if you writerly and artsy folks will have a conversation with me?
I’ve been thinking about the solitary nature of this work, and how hard it is to remember (or even know, sometimes) that what I’m doing serves anyone (besides me).
I mean, in my heart I care about children’s literacy, I care about children’s perspectives, I care about children’s families. And, in a big picture sort of way, I carry those concerns into my studio space when I go to work. But the microcosm that is my daily grind can feel sort of … myopic, wrapped up in minutae and egocentric. I mean, honestly. Who but me is going to care about the one word I swapped for another in the fourth couplet of a manuscript that’s done and gone to the illustrator and still I can’t stop with the tweaking?
One solution, obviously, is to have some of my service life feel more concrete — whether it’s at the school or the foodbank or somewhere else. But I also feel the need to understand more fully why I do what I do, and what it is I’m offering up. And to whom. Because really, I’m not big or important enough for it to be all about me.
So here’s where you guys come in.
I’m curious about how you stay connected to what is truly purposeful about what you do?
Do you dedicate your work to someone?
Do you wait for letters from the kids who read your books?
Do you just figure it’ll all shake out on judgement day or at library storytime, whichever comes first?
I missed posting on Friday proper this week. Now it’s Saturday, not Friday, but the house is quiet and I feel compelled to make my poetry post anyway…
This week I was doing yoga with my daughter’s 3rd grade class (those of you who’ve been reading for awhile know that this is one of my very most favorite things to do — weekly yoga with both girls’ classes).
It was a cool, blue morning. We were on a flat spot of grassy lawn outside, stepping into warrior postures and the kids were all sort of shining.
Then, abruptly, there was screaming — a child — coming from behind a nearby portable. A couple of teachers and aids rushed by. My daughter’s teacher stepped away to see if help was needed and came back telling our kids they could help by staying focused on their yoga. The screaming continued. I asked the class to look up at me, to take a deep breath, to step into Warrior I on the other side.
And so they did. We all did.
The child who was struggling was helped into his classroom where he apparently felt safe and calm.
And the other children on the grass in the cool blue held him in their breathing.
Good stuff just keeps coming at All the World and I am full-up with gratitude…
1. Scholastic bought a whole heap of copies for their book fairs and book clubs. Seriously, you guys — Scholastic! My daughters were so impressed; Scholastic is just flat-out famous with the school-age set.
2. We are the focus of this month’s Big Picture Review in The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books. And it is a lovely review that says things like All the World is "… a moving and accessible celebration of the poetry of ordinary human life." Sigh…
3. The amazing and generous folk at Simon & Schuster totally blew my mind this week by debuting a book trailer for All the World! Who knew? It’s pretty swell, too…
4. And unrelated to book news, my Small One seems to have kicked the flu and is back at it. In her big and inimitable way. Seriously thankful for that…
The first couple of days duking it out with this flu, I almost forgot that there were sweet things about a sick kid. My Small One lay in her dark room with a wet bandana over her eyes and whimpered when I touched her. Not sweet, just sad.
But yesterday, she re-discovered the joys of being read to. All.day.long. My mom was here for part of it, so we split the duties (if you can call them that). I got a little hoarse and my eyes burned, but boy-oh-man, is there anything nicer than having your wee one snuggle up to you and sit in the space created by a good book?
And today, she re-discovered the joys of old toys. As my kids grow up and get busy, things like Lincoln Logs get relegated to top shelves and backs of closets. But on sick days they come back out. And there is nothing I love more than a whole compound of Lincoln Log homes populated with PlayMobil people.
This Saturday, the creative and passionate folk at BookPeople helped me launch All the World with true Texas verve.
Piles of people came — including lots and lots of little ones, which is the whole point!
We had yummy food, a drawing for prizes, and incredibly beautiful prayer flags for people to decorate (thanks to my best gals Kath and Bern at Future Craft Collective).
(Most of the cookies were already gone by the time we snapped a picture!)
(See those pretty flags — they say hope, peace, love and trust — big words in the book — and they’re large versions of the little ones people decorated. Swoon….)
I read the book — storytime style — and my lovely (and computer savvy) husband sat behind me and projected the book onto a big screen so nobody would miss the exquisite Marla Frazee art:
And then lots of very, very patient readers got in a signing line that just moved me beyond measure.
Today is mostly a pictorial post because there are no words for how grateful I am that my book was given such a vigorous and delightful birthday party. Thank you, friends!
This morning I’ll be a chaperone for an art museum field trip.
Our fifth graders do this amazing program that takes them to the museum 4 times over the course of a number of months, and they study the full museum lifecycle — from artist to curator to docent, and everything in between. My tall one went off this morning sort of vibrating with excitement.
The museum is The Blanton Museum of Art on the campus of UT-Austin. It is lovely and I cannot wait to spend time there with a bunch of 10- and 11-year-olds.
My personal connection to the Blanton was an inspring ekphrastic poetry project I participated in a couple of years ago. Many of of us were invited to choose a piece from the permanent collection and write in response. The results were pretty dynamite.
From that show, there’s this from Austin poet, letterpresser and friend Judy Jensen.
Chloris and Zephyrus, Revisited
After Sebastiano Ricci’s Flora By Judy Jensen
She seduced me. Just look at her – flanked by admirers, she glows as if lit from within. A lily among reeds. I can barely lift my gaze, shamed, even as I recall her scent.
(Go here to read the rest and see the original art…)
(Go here to explore other poems and their inspiration…)
I have to head to the museum now. Happy Friday, friends…
I usually run in the dark. In part because it’s bloody hot where I live and so it’s best to exercise before the sun comes up. Also, it’s when I can fit it in.
And I’m not the only one, you guys, so stop with that rolling-of-the-eyes, what-a-nutbag business.
Most mornings, I meet one or two or sometimes three of my best running buddies down there and we pass (or, let’s get real here, are passed by) numerous other dark runners as we move along the trail.
Except that some of them aren’t reallly dark runners. Some of them wear headlights.
If they’re coming at you, you just sort of have to squint and then carry on. If they’re coming from behind, you get this monster-mash-at-the-roller-rink strobe light effect. It’s kind of disconcerting. One of my running partners gets a little seasick.
This morning I was down there alone so I really had time to think about those lights.
Why do they bug me so?
The squinting is a minor inconvenience at best and I don’t actually get seasick from them, even though I actually am so susceptible that I got seasick while snorkling once.
So.
It turns out that for me, it’s not the physical upset but the mental and emotional intrusion of those bobbley little lamps. Because the other great thing about running in the dark — besides the fact that it’s not 200 degrees and it doesn’t cut into the workday — is that there is some sort of suspension of time and space. You can lose yourself down there — in intimate conversation or in deep thought, in hard work or in effortless meditation. I swear, there are days I’m not aware I’m running ’til I’m halfway done because I’ve transcended the bodily movement and am in some swirly-whirly headspace that feels an awful lot like a really good day with words.
Intuitive. Self-propelled. Revealing.
And I really don’t want anyone to bust in on that with battery power.
‘Specially when the sun is on its way up, all on its own…
