I’m five weeks into teaching this semester, which means next week’s the half-way point already.
That sort of makes me sad.
Time flies.
These first 6 weeks are always a little dry. We deconstruct and discuss the elements of fiction (conflict, characterization, point of view, setting, etc.). Sexy, hunh? So I try to humanize it a bit by reading from Art & Fear, sharing stacks of library books, and offering up writing prompts.
Here are the prompts so far this semester. Help yourselves…
When I sold the texts of my next two picture books– first Wind, then World — I presumed they’d come out in that order. But instead, it was decided that World would leapfrog Wind.
It was the right decision for a zillion and two reasons, but I have to admit to feeling just the teensiest bit worried about Wind. I didn’t want it to get lost or forgotten or shown up by its younger sibling.
Well. Never fear. I’m resting easy over here.
Now that All the World (its real, full, honest-to-goodness name) has been wrapped up and put to bed (for a long winter’s nap before springing to its feet next summer), my beloved illustrator has started work on Wind, and I suddenly have utter faith that it’ll become its own beautiful book.
But the only way that’s gonna happen is if I go back to work on it, too. We hadn’t finished revisions of this text when our focus shifted to All the World almost exactly a year ago. So, poor Wind was left sort of one-legged and limping in mid-draft limbo all these many months. Now that’s changed.
About a week ago I started re-reading old versions (and you’d be horrified to know how many were available to me to read). I highlighted old phrases I liked and I highlighted new phrases I didn’t like. I re-read again.
Then, yesterday, I went at it in earnest.
I replaced every article and preposition with other articles and prepositions… I hand-counted the words in two other picture books… I added a bunch of stuff… I cut a bunch of stuff — different stuff than I’d added… I read it aloud again and again…
In the middle of it all, I took a 1/2 hour nap out of either exhaustion or despair or exhilaration — it’s rather surreal how similarly those emotions play out in your body.
And in the end, what had been a picture book of 309 words was a picture book of 308 words.
You guys — seriously.
One freakin’ word.
Again with the exhaustion/despair/exhilaration.
I was almost afraid to look at it this morning, but now I have. And I think it really is a different beast in the same size sweater. I really do. The hours were not wasted, I’m pretty sure.
I won’t go so far as to call it "done", though. I revised the 194 words of All the World for three months. Can you believe that? I’m sure there are men in white coats who’d come to get me if that got out, so don’t repeat it.
But, in keeping true to myself, I think I’d better admit that Wind will be whipped around a bit more before it’s quite right. In the meantime, though, at least it’s moving. Which is, dare I say it, exhilarating.
And when I said stormy I meant hurricanes. And Wall Street. And the war. And the upcoming election.
The whole shootin’ match.
I’ve been talking with my husband and my sister and my chums lately about how to be engaged in the world but not caught up in the storm. How to feel positive and proactive instead of angry and inert. How to hold hope instead of doubt.
I think helping to register voters fits the bill. So does making Hope Flags.
On Sunday, both of these things happened at a big ol’ Austin-style family picnic.
My best gals Kathie and Bernadette (of Future Craft Collective) set up a table with flag materials, writing prompts and plenty of space for free-wheelin’ inspiration. Eighty-some artists later, we had a string of flags that even the Tibetans would have been impressed by.
"Prayer flags are simple devices that, coupled with the natural energy of the wind, quietly harmonize the environment, impartially increasing happiness and good fortune among all living beings…" — The Prayer Flag Tradition, Timothy Clark Makes a gal think things aren’t so bad afterall…
I’ve got a lot on my plate this morning, so I thought I’d just kick off the week with a quote from The Book of Qualities. Hope it speaks to you…
Inspiration
Inspiration is disturbing. She does not believe in guarantees or insurance or strict schedules. She is not interested in how well you write your grant proposal or what you do for a living or why you are too busy to see her. She will be there when you need her but you have to take it on trust. Surrender. She knows when you need her better than you do.
Remember when we were doing a remodel at our house? And then we finished it?
Well, because we don’t like inertia ’round here, we promptly started an addition.
Which is akin to hitting your thumb with a hammer so your head doesn’t ache so bad…
But honestly.
This project’s not as full of impact so far, what with the working stove, sink and washing machine. Mostly we just have to remember that if we step out the back door we’ll plunge into a bottomless pit. No biggie.
But this weekend is full of tasks that include emptying our current bedroom so it can be carved up into smaller, more efficient pieces.
I wasn’t going to post today because:
1. It’s a Saturday 2. I have all these tasks that include emptying our current bedroom so it can be carved up into smaller, more efficient pieces.
But then I decided that I was going to post today because:
1. I have all these tasks that include emptying our current bedroom so it can be carved up into smaller, more efficient pieces. 2. And I need something to procrastinate with.
So, here are a few random bits of life to share with ya’ll on this bright and lovely Saturday:
1. I am honored and psyched to be a member of this year’s Cybils’ Poetry Panel! (Not to be confused with Sybil, the movie with Sally Field about living with multiple personalities, I assure you.) THIS Cybils is the Children’s & Young Adult Bloggers’ Literary Awards, and I’m among very illustrious colleagues on the judging committee. Giddy, giddy — and that’s before I even have a stack of books in hand! Stay tuned… and thanks for the invite, Cybils Team!
2. Last night we walked to a dark and open spot in our neighborhood and watched as the International Space Station rushed by. You guys? The Space Station travels faster than 17,000 miles per hour. Seriously. That is crazy fast. It moves like an airplane but is high as a star and looks like one. Our youngest was last night’s spotter, and we’re going for it again tonight. Check out this page to find out when & where it’ll be in your sky.
3. I make my own kombucha now. Here’s the deal. When I quit caffeine, I felt justified in buying very delicious and expensive bottles of GT Kombucha, but I started thinking it would be a shame if my kids couldn’t go to college someday because I’d spent all our extra pennies on fruity-vinegary probiotics. So, I was given a live culture (it works sort of like sourdough starter in this way) and started brewing. Visitors think we’ve got our own organ donation program going — it ain’t pretty — but my first batch (dolled up with ginger and fresh raspberry juice) was mighty cheap and mighty fine.
4. If you live in Texas, these are the important dates to remember in regards to the upcoming election:
October 6—-last day to register to vote October 20—first day of early voting October 28—last day to apply for a ballot by mail October 31–last day of early voting November 4–Election Day
If you live elsewhere, double check your own deadlines so you can line up and cast your ballot in 44 days. Don’t disenfranchise yourself!
That’s all folks. I’m going to pack up our shoes and bedding… Happy weekend…
Weekly hurricanes, and the market takes a terrible crash.
Political emails fall and pile up like a blizzard of snow.
The news sounds like one long weather report of natural and unnatural disaster.
And still, somehow, we’re supposed to carry on, reading and writing and eating. Sending our children to school. Brushing the dog.
We pay a bill and write a thank you note and unload the dishwasher.
It is amazing what we people will do in the face of it all.
The word ‘survive’ doesn’t begin to do it justice, do you think? It’s really more like thriving. Most days, most people will laugh at a joke or help someone move a heavy piece of furniture or give or receive a kiss.
It is amazing to me what we people will do in the face of it all.
Of Politics & Art By Norman Dubie
Here, on the farthest point of the peninsula The winter storm Off the Atlantic shook the schoolhouse. Mrs. Whitimore, dying Of tuberculosis, said it would be after dark Before the snowplow and bus would reach us.
She read to us from Melville.
(Read the rest right here. Really. Do. It’s very good.)
I mean, I have a dean at the community college and I have editors at publishing houses and I’ve been a hired gun, um, pen for more outfits and ideas than I care to remember.
But really, I’m in charge around here. I decide how introverted or extroverted I want to be. I decide which projects to pursue and how to divvy up my days. I decide, when I wake up on an ordinary Wednesday, what to do.
Here’s an example. Today.
Wake up early for a run in crisp, cool air.
Make oatmeal for girls, and pack lunches, and participate in long passionate discussion about mangos vs. peaches.
Bike with girls to school and hear long elaborate description of a tag game called Dragon Tails.
Come home to make beds, tend to breakfast dishes, feed dog.
Sit and breathe. For 15 minutes. Bloody near kills me but I feel sort of happy when I’m done. And not just ’cause I’m done, I don’t think.
Open emails, one of which tells me about the launch & sales meeting for my next book. This afternoon. Fret about that for a bit.
Have a glass of juice and some trail mix.
Finish transcribing the beginning of a story from longhand to Word doc.
Read it aloud. Read it again. Tweak.
Read it again.
Break to blog, eat more trail mix and choose stack of books to take to class tonight.
Re-read notes for class tonight.
Tweak assignment for class tonight.
Re-print.
Go back to story. Tweak. Type more. Tweak. Read again.
Still today is a stop at the bank, the post office and the office supply store. An Arts in Education meeting at the girls’ school. Their swim team practice. My class.
And throughout, I’m tweaking or thinking about tweaking. I’m writing. I’m breathing…
When I ask her what she loves about Dahl’s writing, she says, "He is hilarious!"
And then she launches into a story about Grandpa Joe leaping out of bed when Charlie finds the golden ticket, and this somehow segues into an antecdote about the absurd trickery of Mr. and Mrs. Twit and then she starts listing the books she’s reading next.
She has to stop to take a breath. Her whole face is gleaming.
This is a child who is sometimes a tad bit blasé about school.
Discussing the relative merits of Dahl’s illustrators — Quentin Blake as compared to Lane Smith or Patrick Benson.
Discussing whether it’s sad — even a bit sad — that kids disappeared from Willa Wonka’s factory faster than you could eat a Hersey’s kiss.
And she would keep discussing various, interesting aspects if she wasn’t so desperate to get back to her book.
And I would keep talking about how delicious and compelling a fixation this is if I weren’t so worried about what’s going to happen when she runs out of Roald Dahl books?
It’s going to be worse than a three-year-old giving up her pacifier, I’m afraid…
For some people, it’s being sorely unprepared for a final exam.
For others, showing up naked (or otherwise shamefully vunlnerable) in public.
For many, there’s nothing worse or more frequent than a work-stress dream — endless piles of paper, dissatisfied customers, botched projects.
I’ve had some of all of those.
In one memorable college exam scenario, I was handed a buebook with an F on the front. And inside? I had apparently drawn countless woodland animals. Nevermind that it was political science exam.
That was a bad dream.
So were the ones from my waitressing days where dozens of customers waited, but the kitchen didn’t turn out any food.
But my only real recurring nightmare involves an intruder and total disempowerment. My limbs hang heavy so that I can’t run or wave or kick. My voice grows either garbled or silent so that I can’t shout "No!" or "Help!" Sometimes I can’t even control my eyelids.
The real horror of the dream is that. Worse than the intruder (though that’s definately creepy) is the sense that I’m completely disabled by fear. The sense that I have no body, no voice and no free will.
I’ve had this dream since adolescence, and I had a version of it last night. This morning, feeling more lucid than I did at 3 a.m., I think about what I can do to shake this puppy once and for all.
On a practical level, in real life, I move and act and write. I have body, voice and free will. In spades.
On the Jungian level, not so much. The cure? I don’t have the foggiest.
Maybe I oughta see if I can go back to waiting tables, or drawing woodland animals in my bluebooks…
We live in Austin, which is well inland. We are apt to get some wind. And some rain. And thousands of evacuees.
Storms have ripple effects, to be sure.
For example, our kids will get out of school at noon on Friday because the roads into and around our city are likely to become impassable with traffic from the coast.
Traffic. Meaning: tired, hungry, worried people — looking for hotel rooms that are sure to be all booked up. Their dogs & cats mewling from carriers in the backseat, their photo albums safe in the trunks of their cars…
Today I’m posting rain poems, mostly because that’s where my head’s at. But also in the hopes that if we feed the beast he’ll turn it down a notch.
Take it easy on us, ol’ Ike…
(Like Rain it sounded till it curved) — Emily Dickinson
Like Rain it sounded till it curved And then I new ’twas Wind — It walked as wet as any Wave But swept as dry as sand — When it had pushed itself away To some remotest Plain A coming as of Hosts was heard It filled the Wells, it pleased the Pools It warbled in the Road — It pulled the spigot from the Hills And let the Floods abroad — It loosened acres, lifted seas The sites of Centres stirred Then like Elijah rode away Upon a Wheel of Cloud.
Poem(In the morning, when it was raining) — Delmore Schwartz
In the morning, when it was raining, Then the birds were hectic and loudy; Through all the reign is fall’s entertaining; Their singing was erratic and full of disorder:
