Just before the holidays, I took my girls to a great big National Geographic warehouse sale.
Maps… backpacks… gorgeous, lusty coffeetable books… all at a zillion percent off.
It was sort of a globetrotter’s dream.

And it was their day to find something special, for their cousins and their grandparents and each other.

It was crowded, but not in an overwhelming or offensive way, and it was in a convention hall so the ceilings were like 80 feet high. There was breathing room.

Still. There’s always someone. Y’know?

So we’re at the last few tables, upon which there are very small things — compasses and such — so people are clustering around and squeezing in a bit. The prices are hanging on the table skirts — right where people are standing — which is ill-designed but it’s a warehouse sale so whaddya want?

My Small and Tall Ones are pressed up against the table discussing the differences between thermometers and barometers when a sort of huffing woman trying to look over and past them says, "Girls, I’d like you to please step back from the table about 2 feet so everyone can see."

I hear her say it.
I absorb it.
I look around to see if my kids are really doing anything different or less socially cooperative than other shoppers.
And then I take a deep breath and I speak up.

"Please don’t scold them, ma’am," I say. "They’re actually just looking, happily and patiently, like everybody else here."
(Well, like most everybody else here, if you know what I mean.)

And then Angry Woman says, "I didn’t scold them, I merely……."

It got all blurry in my brain at that point and I didn’t want to have a throw-down at the National Geographic sale.
Plus, I’d already stuck up for my kids, which is all I’d wanted to do, so I was done.

I stepped away, with Tall One at my side.
Unbeknownest to me, Small One hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to hear Angry Woman say, "If she was a good mother, she’d have told them to step back herself!"

This was repeated to me by my aghast little seven-year-old a few minutes later.
"She is very, very lucky I didn’t hear her," I said, pretty aghast myself.

And, really, I’m glad I didn’t.
Because I would’ve felt compelled to respond and instead, the girls and I played with some What If scenarios and then spent the rest of the day joking about what I’d do if I were a Good Mother.

It has stuck in my craw though, and here’s why:

There is no one such thing as a Good Mother.

Some good mothers hover and some give space… some discuss everything and some make executive decisions… some insist on frequent baths and some have a high tolerance for dirt… some are solemn and some are silly… some cook and some order in… some help and some ask for help…

And that, as you know, ain’t the half of it.

And pretty much none of this is going to be apparent at the small gift table at a National Geographic warehouse sale.
We don’t know the stories and inner lives of the people we pass on the streets and bump into at shops and airports.
But it seems to me that we’d do well to give most of them the benefit of the doubt, you know?

‘Cause really, the thing that matters is that Good Mothers love their children.
Right?
 

My more-than-a-decade-old, pre-kid bookclub recently dissolved.
To our credit, we tried resuscitation more than once but it was terminal.

I’ve grieved, but done pretty much nothing to assuage the pain or fill the void.
Until last week.

I arrived home from a really amazing vacation and all my books were:

1. sandy
2. read

The new year gaped.
What’s a girl to do?

Well. I’ll tell you.
I whipped off an email to a smattering of readerly friends and asked them what they’d loved recently. And here I am, less than a week later, with a handy-dandy list to take to the library, and a renewed sense of community around books.

It’s a funny, diverse little list and I thought I’d share it with you.
Y’know, just in case…
 

Middle-grade or Young Adult

Twilight, Stephanie Meyer

Paper Towns, John Green

Need, Carrie Jones

The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing I and II, MT Anderson

The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins

The Eragaon series, Christopher Paolini

The Inkheart series, Cornelia Funke

The Graveyard Book, Neil Gaiman

Lament, Maggie Stiefvater

The Wee Free Men, Terry Pratchett

The Adoration of Jenna Fox, Mary E. Pearson

Novels or Short Stories

The Other, David Guterson

Unaccustomed Earth, Jhumpa Lahiri

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows

The Hakawati, Rabih Alameddine

The Post-Birthday World, Lionel Shriver

Me and Kaminsky, Daniel Kehlmann

A Spot of Bother, Mark Haddon

Mister Pip, Lloyd Jones

Slam, Nick Hornby

Nonfiction

The Most Famous Man in America, by Debbie Applegate

The Ascent of Money, Niall Ferguson

Dreams from My Father, Barack Obama

The Audacity of Hope, Barack Obama

3 Cups of Tea, Greg Mortenson

Brother, I’m Dying, Edwidge Danticat

The Complete Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi

Well.
It is 2009.
Or, as my good friend Barbara likes to say, two-thousand fine.

Fine as in "very, very sweet." 
Which I, for one, am ready for.

I’ll admit I’ve been home from vacation for a few days but I have, thus far, avoided blogland for fear of being swallowed up by virtual intrigue when the concrete intrigue of my fridge-moldy tofu has been more than enough to keep me hopping.

Tomorrow, though, the kids go back to school, the fridge will meet health department standards, and it’ll be me and my blank page, duking it out again for another year.

Never is the page blanker than at the new year, I think.
When we’re asked not just about this or that manuscript, but about the year ahead.
What do we hope to write, revise, submit, sell, publish?
How do we plan to write, revise, submit, sell and publish? 
When do we plan to start?

This year, though, I’m stepping into January thinking about my writing life rather than my writing.
I’m choosing to believe that if I attend to the life, the writing will come.

The truth is, I’m constantly making specific goals and then subverting them when a new idea grabs me by the tail and drags me off. So this year I’m not setting myself up for that sort of trickery. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to be working on in mid-January or early September, but I do know that I’d like it to look and feel like this:

In 2009, I plan to love writing more than I hate it.
I know this isn’t exactly a glowingly optimistic goal, but a tough day at the desk can suck the lifeblood out of a gal.
I’m going for more moments of groove and exhilaration this year.

In 2009, I plan to enjoy a balance between discipline and openness.
And, as counter-intuitive as this may seem, I’m going to schedule some time for the openness.
Taking the dog to the greenbelt in the middle of the dang day sometimes.
That sorta thing.

In 2009, I plan to be more confident and less needy.
I, um, haven’t worked out the details of this one yet.

In 2009, I plan to read as much as I write and learn as much as I teach.

In 2009, I plan to spend more time with my audience of children.

In 2009, I plan to celebrate little things, like losing myself in a day’s work or sending work to my agent.
And I plan to celebrate big things, like the release of my next book.

In 2009, I plan to stay connected with my community, for support and edification and fun.

In 2009, I plan to go with my gut.

In 2009, I plan to breathe regularly and smile often.

You?

Hello, Friends,

Just a note to wish you happy holidays and a bright new year.
I am taking a break from all things computer-y until then and, in the meantime, plan to enjoy lots of…

Picture Books in Winter
— Robert Louis Stevenson

So, don’t you think it’s kinda funny that I started this little series about two weeks ago — with an explicit promise to discuss how I manage my own process — but since then my process has been so unmanageable that I’ve never been able to make that post?

I’m hoping that most of you are thinking, "Yep. I feel your pain, sister."

But those of you who aren’t? 
Who have tidy little tick marks all over your to-do lists and bedtimes that are within the realm of reason?
Could you do me a favor and not mention it?

‘Cause part of how I manage my process is to reassure myself that I am not alone, that I have many companions on the bumpy, root-ridden, overgrown trails I’m trying to negotiate. A stubbed toe’s not so bad if a friend is there to laugh when I kick the tree that caused it. And if I can recognize that the utter sense of order and consistent clarity I think I see in other people’s work and lives is illusory — that we all step, step, step and sometimes misstep — it becomes evermore feasible for me to move forward myself, without crazy expectations but with a sense of hope.

So.
Number one on my list of "things I do to survive manage my process" is to sustain a sense of community.
Writing’s a lonely affair — solitary and mostly quiet, though some days I can listen to some kinds of music while I work.
It’s exceedingly comforting to know that I have my best gals, my husband and my sis, my writer chums and the voices in the blogosphere, to serve as soundingboards and stepping stones along the way.

Number two, I diversify.
While I understand the call to "write full time," I’ve always needed to sprawl and range a little bit.

So first-off, I had kids.
Well, okay, that had a little something to do with love, optimism and body clocks — I didn’t really give birth just to broaden my daily portfolio. But I do relish the work at their school and the planning of slumber parties and the reading aloud at bedtime. Partly because it’s all such luscious pleasure, for and with these amazing little people who happen to be my daughters, but also because of the perspective it offers me.

I cannot lose myself in the one tight room of my work.
Even if I sometimes want to.

And when I am in that room, I have my teaching and my blogging and my poetry and, always, more than one children’s book project going at all times. I do not want to know what would happen to my sanity or social standing if I woke up one day with nothing to do.

Next, I ensure a little immediate gratification.
No need to recount here the glacial pace that is publishing, particularly picture book publishing.
The amount of time that one might wait for a submission to be responded to or a contract to arrive or a manuscript to become a book.
Suffice it to say, longer than you might think.

I need, sometimes, to put stuff out there immediately, to declare something finished and even, on a good day, to realize connection that way.
To be received.

There are lots of ways to do this.
Writing letters to my grandparents used to do the trick.
Blogging is pretty darn satisfying, too…

Fourth, I continue to develop, explore and expand.
Honestly, if my process grew stagnant I would never sell a thing and, plus, I’d pull all my hair out.
Which would hurt, since it’s already so curly and tangly anyway.

In order to grow my craft I read. A lot.
And I go to conferences and retreats when I get the chance.
I absorb all that I can from other writers.
I practice new things.
I dare to suck.
And I teach.
Which, ironically or not, is what keeps me on my tippy-toes more than anything else.
Trying to answer questions honestly and with depth is a very good way to begin to embody those answers myself.

And finally, I have faith.
Bearing in mind that that word makes some folks a little nervous.

But honestly, it is my faith that there are more ideas where that one came from…
that I will find the right words in this deep, dark forest of choices…
that there are editors and librarians and teachers and parents and children waiting for those words…

It is my faith in all of those things that keeps me coming back to my desk again and again and again.

To write.
Which is really, if you shave all this other stuff away, the heart of the process.

This week I was supposed to run less than last week, which is a scary and unintuitive thing to do when you’re trying to build up mileage.

Tapering is about bolstering leg muscle power and blood content and otherwise revitalizing yourself for next week’s big run. The two weeks before the marathon, in fact, the longest recommended runs are 12 and 8 miles.
Yikes.

But taper I did.
And the upshot is realizing that 7 and 10 mile jaunts no longer freak me out.
Seven, dare I say, has become a walk in the park.

It’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?
Not unlike the moon that looked so momentuous to us just a couple of days ago
and is now dwindling in our eyes and judgement.

Mileage for the week: 24 miles
Longest run: 10
Grand total since I started training: 169

Quote for the week:
As far as the Moon is concerned, he is always full. — Nathaniel LeTonnerre

The other morning as I set out for an early morning run, I suddenly felt the glow of daylight on my shoulders.
I turned to face the moon, hugely swollen and sinking into the west like a well-lit ship.
Rocking ever so slightly on it’s bright bow.

Turns out it wasn’t even full yet.
Tonight it is, and closer to earth than its been in about 15 years.

It looks something like this, but don’t take my word for it.

Step outside and check it out.

In the meantime, or when you get back in, here’s what Ms. Dickinson has to say on the subject:

The moon was but a chin of gold
A night or two ago,
And now she turns her perfect face
Upon the world below.

Her forehead is of amplest blond;
Her cheek like beryl stone;
Her eye unto the summer dew
The likest I have known.

Her lips of amber never part;
But what must be the smile
Upon her friend she could bestow
Were such her silver will!

And what a privilege to be
But the remotest star!
For certainly her way might pass
Beside your twinkling door.

Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,
The stars the trinkets at her belt,
Her dimities of blue.

— Emily Dickinson

The universe her shoe.
Don’t you just love that line? 
So little and large, all at the same time.

Go wallow in the luster, friends.
Happy Friday…

The thing about a half marathon when you’re training for a marathon is that it becomes just another training run. And kind of a skimpy one at that, when you consider the 16, 18, 20 milers coming up in the next few weeks.

Still, up until this year, 13.1 was my ultimate goal, and the race I ran each January was a sign of success, in terms of intent and endurance.

So yesterday, as I was finishing the Decker Challenge (a halfer that just so handily fit into my training schedule), I consciously recalibrated my perspective for a minute or two and ramped it up to celebration mode.

Yes, I got to tick off another required workout.
Yes, this means I’ve finished 7 of 18 weeks of training.
Yes, I need new shoes and I need more hill training and I need to keep this up over the holidays.

Yes yes yes.
And … I ran a half marathon.

And this is where Marathon Monday and Process and Product meet.

Celebrating milestones and small successes is one of the best ways to sustain the energy of process.
The occasional splash of champagne in the midst of a long slog is a good idea

I celebrate when I finish a manuscript.
I celebrate when I send it to my agent.
I celebrate when she sends it out.

I often tell my students that even rejection letters are worthy of celebration, in that they indicate the manuscript is yours again — to burn, revise or send back out into the world, sealed with a kiss.

I celebrate it all, and I celebrate half marathons.

I think that you should, too.
Jump for joy…

Mileage for the week: 25 miles

Longest run: 13.1

Grand total since I started training: 145

Quote for the week:
When you jump for joy, beware that no one moves the ground from beneath your feet. — Stanislaw J. Lec

I’m lurching along in my exploration of process.
Have faith; it’s coalescing.

But today I don’t even have to be articulate about it because it’s Poetry Friday and I’ll let Alice Walker speak.

This poem hearkens back to my post on Tuesday when I talked about appreciating process, in part because every step of process is in the final product. The two are inextricable. What we make is what we’ve been through. The path is apparent in the place we reach.

How Poems are Made
— Alice Walker

Letting go
In order to hold one
I gradually understand
How poems are made.  

There is a place the fear must go.
There is a place the choice must go.
There is a place the loss must go.
The leftover love.
The love that spills out
Of the too full cup
And runs and hides
Its too full self
In shame. 

I gradually comprehend
How poems are made.
To the upbeat flight of memories.
The flagged beats of the running
Heart. 

I understand how poems are made.
They are the tears
That season the smile.
The stiff-neck laughter
That crowds the throat.
The leftover love.
I know how poems are made. 

There is a place the loss must go.
There is a place the gain must go.
The leftover love.

"What do you do?" is sort of the quintessential American identity question.

The poser of the question is asking about your job, or career, with the presumption being that the answer will say a lot about you.
About your interests and passions and skills and values.
About who you really are.
Or at least about where you fall in the socioeconomic pecking order of our capitalist society.

What the person is not asking is "What do you do? Really. What is the practice and process of your daily life?"

Nope. That’d be way too much information.
Either way too perplexing or way too boring or way too scary.

I mean, let’s admit it right here and now.
Many of us don’t know what some of our best friends really do everyday.
Some of us are a little foggy on what our spouses do everyday.

Which is kinda too bad. Because to me, that’s really the interesting question.
I mean, yes, we may be able to capture a certain sort of biographical snapshot when someone says, "I’m a lawyer (or engineer or rock musician or rock climber or waitress or gumshoe or pharmacist or curator or crook)," but the really revealing question is, "How?"
 
How do you fulfill those roles? 
How do you feel fulfilling those roles? 
How do you manage the tasks associated with filling those roles? 
How do you think you’re doing in the scope of those roles?
How does that role fit with your life and your heart and who you really are?

It’s really that stuff — the practice and process of one’s daily life — that starts to tell us something real, I think.

For example, "I’m a writer" is an appropriate and expected answer to the quintessential American identity question.
But, I mean, big whoop.
Right?

Does that mean I’m good with words? 
Or that someone once told me I’m good with words? 
Or that I just believe myself to be good with words?

Does it mean I write newspaper articles or ad copy or computer manuals or pulp fiction?

Does it mean I like to be alone?

Does it mean I drink a lot of bourbon?

Does it mean I’m happy?
Or unhappy?

See what I’m getting at here?

So, really, I’m more interested in the process.
The ups and downs. The thrills. The doldrums.
The doubts and fears. The celebrations.
The pride. The shame.
The what you actually do everyday.

Me? My process has a terrifying amount to do with a wing and a prayer.
I am not a novelist (or rather I don’t think I’m a novelist) (or rather I’m not a novelist yet) so there are no 1,000-words-a-day parameters to keep me honest. 1,000 words might be two or three picture books, for godssake. In a day. I’m getting kind of faint just thinking about it.

Instead I have some secret Indiana Jonesish-type equation — some mysterious alchemy — of planned time, goals and deadlines combined with utter flexibility, receptiveness and riskiness. This is what makes my writing life work and, at the same time, is what nearly sends me to apply for jobs as a bank teller numerous times a year.

It’s all about working to manage that process so that I survive and my work thrives or vice versa or, sometimes, on the very best days, both together at the same time. Thriving, that is.

And I know I said I was going to talk about managing process today and instead this is just a long and wandery introduction, but that’s the way it works when you build utter flexibility into a system. So. Managing process tomorrow. I promise…