Since this year’s National Book Award announcement is right around the corner, I thought it’d be a good time to revisit last year’s winner in the Young People’s Literature category.

Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian is full of bits I’d like to quote or read aloud, but I’ll limit myself to my favorites here, and you can read the rest yourself…

From a conversation between Junior and Gordy about books and libraries:

 "The world, even the smallest parts of it, is filled with things you don’t know….Okay, so it’s like each of these books is a mystery. Every book is a mystery. And if you read all the books ever written, it’s like you’ve read one giant mystery. And no matter how much you learn, you just keep on learning there is so much more you need to learn."

And here’s Junior, on losing his grandmother:

We all lived and died together."

See what he means by "Absolutely True"??

Last week I announced that I was training for my first marathon.

And really, I only announced it because once you say something out loud, it becomes too embarrassing to back out of.

So, in keeping with that line of thinking, my Monday posts for the next 16 weeks will be little blurbs on my training or my goals or my misery or my shoes or the songs on my ipod.

Starting with the basics:

Marathon?
The Austin Marathon

Training program?
Hal Higdon’s Marathon Training Guide for Novices

Shoes? 
One pair New Balance, one pair Nike

Training Partners? 
My sister (long distance so we’re keeping up via FitnessJournal)
My buddy Kathie (providing her IT band snaps back into shape)
Two as-of-yet uncommitted pals whom I hope to guilt into joining us

Favorite run?
Town Lake Trail

Goal?
To finish.
Uninjured.
And happy.
Not necessarily smiling. Just happy. Deep down.

Miles last week?
16

As Michael Jordan once said, "You have to expect things of yourself before you can do them."

So that’s what I’m up to this week.
Expecting something of myself…

My writing life this week has been full of tumult.

Half the writers I know struggled this week, with words like knots of hair
made worse by the addition of chewing gum.

Who’s to say why, or where the joy went, or the ease, or when — pray tell — either will return.

Sometimes you just have to sit in front of the mirror with a good comb and go at it,
until you have gotten to something glossy and fine.
Sometimes you just have to take the whole mess and cut it out.
Sometimes you just have to apply peanut butter.

So I was reminded of this wild ride of a poem by Edwin Morgan that a friend sent me awhile back.
It’s based on a quote by John Cage that reads, "I have nothing to say and I am saying it and that is poetry."

Morgan takes those fourteen words and wrings an entire sonnet out of them.
I’m not kidding you.

Here’s a bit:

Opening the Cage
14 variations on 14 words
— Edwin Morgan

I have to say poetry and is that nothing and I am saying it
I am and I have poetry to say and is that nothing saying it
I am nothing and I have poetry to say and that is saying it


And here’s the last line:
Saying poetry is nothing and to that I say I am and have it

When I read this piece, I feel comforted, utterly mad and quite ridiculous — all in good measure.
Do you know what I mean?

And then, to add to the mad and ridiculous, I started Googling, determined to follow this poem down its rabbit hole, and I got here, the apparent vault for all things related to the number 14. Because, of course such things need to be organized somewhere. Right?

Here, you can read the whole Morgan poem  (scroll down to number 72) and you can also look at bits of Chapter 14 from the Koran and Chapter 14 of the Bhagavad Gita and Shakespeare’s 14th sonnet and the 14th letter in the Greek, English and Arabic alphabets.

And you can discover that a lavendar pink peony has 14 petals, to be picked by the 14 phalanges of the human hand.

Saying poetry is nothing and to that I say I am and have it…

Olympian Ian Crocker visited with my daughters’ swim team yesterday.

At eight-years-old, Crocker didn’t even know what the Olympics were.
By 18 he was on the winner’s podium.

Now, he has three Olympic golds, and a couple of others.
And he’s world-record holder in the 100m. butterfly.
Still.
Even after that other swimmer took all those golds.
So.
He’s pretty good.

And you know what he attributes it all to?

Not muscles, or luck, or getting up early, or fancy coaches, or grit, though all those things no doubt helped.

He says it’s all about goal setting.

Kinda simple, huh?

He asked the kids to set goals — not just in swimming, but in school and in life.

He talked about short term goals, long term goals and dream goals.

And then he signed their swim caps, got ’em in the pool and put ’em through their paces…

For a number of years, I’ve taken advantage of Austin’s cool months by training for a half marathon.

13.1 miles is, to my mind, the perfect distance.

Long enough to feel rather rad at the finish, reasonable enough so as to walk away uninjured and with some non-running free-time still on my hands.

That said, the specter of the marathon has only gotten more insistent as I’ve aged.
And this year, it seems, the fear of regret has driven me to the brink.
I’ve committed to running a marathon.
In February.
With my sister and, we hope, at least one other lunatic.
Um.
I mean, runner.

Now my goal is to turn that ‘fear of regret’ into something a bit more… inspiring.
I mean, I doubt that ‘fear of regret’ would feature prominently on a motivational poster.
You think?

So.
Joy of running?
Pleasure in distance?
Tangible madness?

Maybe I just ought to appreciate the fact that this kind of marathon takes just a few months to prepare for and then 26 miles to complete.
Whereas the book publishing variety is rather more excruciatingly long.

At least I’ll have lots of time on the trails to think through these profound topics thoroughly and well…

You’ll remember a few days back when my daughters were discussing the possibilities for marriage in California.

Well, part of their awareness comes from the fact that we have two dear female friends tying the knot there this morning.

Our friends aren’t alone in scheduling pre-election day nuptials — in case California voters decide to make null and void the option of gay marriage. Which means that even on this day of love and tenderness, ritual and celebration, there has to be an awareness of and commitment to the political context.

They are willing — and even proud — to work within that context.
And so am I. This is a civil rights issue that we oughta tend to so our children learn about it as history rather than having to grapple with it painfully, personally and politically themselves.

Today, though, I simply lift my glass (well, okay, my coffee cup) westward and wish continued happiness and abundant love to N & A on their wedding day.

(The following is an original poem I wrote for another happy California wedding about 7 years ago…)

Invitation

Here we are:

gathered, good as a flock,

breathing so that it sounds

like a chant

putting together promises

strange and miraculous

as quills braided into

a bird’s back.

And still, we do not know —

any of us — what is to come.

Whether life will switch back

and forth tightly and parched

toward some steep peak

or tumble forward like water,

like honey or fury

gaining speed.

We gather in bodies

present and singular as trees.

Will they grow strong, tired,

lush, tender, unrecognizably old?

We do not know.

We do not know

which moments we’ll rejoice, regret,

endure or battle —

which seasons will offer

nearly impossible plenty.

All that is certain is this:

longing is like a birdcall,

prettiest and most complete

when it is answered.

This is a wild sky

and our hearts reach wide,

hinges loose

and locks undone.

There is nothing out here

we need protection from.

 — LGS, 2001

Don’t you just love good news?

It makes me cry.

In a heart-swelling-hope-incited-life-ain’t-all-off-afterall kind of way.

Well, the National Book Award nominations are in and it’s a tear-jerker, folks.

First of all, the poetry?
I adore Mark Doty and Reginald Gibbons. For very different reasons.
Also, I’m really curious about the Patricia Smith book and I think I might just see if I have a little National Book Award cash stash hidden in my wallet somewhere. In a secret pocket in my wallet. In a secret invisible pocket? Or maybe it looks an awful lot like a MasterCard?

But moving on — the Young People’s Literature category.
Bestill my heart. 
Honestly. 

Look, if you’re ready for a good cry, check out the following:

This little blurb from Emily Lockhart’s blog.

Laurie Halse Anderson’s original post and her follow up.

Cynthia Leitich Smith’s interview with Kathi Appelt.

This gush over Kathi at Through the Tollbooth.

All is not lost people, no matter what the polls say.
All is not lost…

Lately…

I’ve been chiming in on the bio development for All the World…

Nervously dipping back into revisions of Wind…

Knockin’ off Draft 361 of a new little nibble called Noodle and Lou…

Beginning the transformation of one of my picture book manuscripts into a middle grade novel..

Critiquing stacks of student work…

And, y’know, parenting and what not.

Great time to step into the murky time-suck of a swamp that is Facebook, don’t you think?

Over lunch, my girls were discussing our latest read-aloud, Dealing with Dragons.

Of particular interest was whether Cimorene (the girl) might someday marry Kazul (the dragon).

"I don’t think so," Tall One said. "They’re both girls."

(Um, nevermind that they’re different species?!?!?!?!?)

"Right, but maybe they can go to California," reasoned Small One.

"Oh, that would be nice," agreed her sister, "except I don’t think California existed in their time."

The monarchs are here, on their way to Mexico for the winter.

My friend Bernadette, who tends to keep her eye on the sky, sent an email yesterday reminding us of this bi-annual event.

I find butterfly migration rather staggering. I mean, if I were that fragile I’d be hunkered down in my hometown rather than risking life and limb… er, wing… by traveling thousands of miles through cities and over freeways and past bats and birds of prey.

It is a lovely and inspiring thing to see courage and intuition move through town in deep orange blooms of butterflies. In honor of them, this poem…

Caterpillar
— Christina Rossetti