Because I’ve leapt into my previously-avoided revisions (and have thus ceased having original thoughts), and because my refrigerator is now in my dining room (or what would be my dining room if we actually still had walls and rooms at our house), and because my girls have been on spring break this week (which means I’ve had to devote a good portion of my days to, um, frivolous fun), coming up with something thoughtful for Poetry Friday was going to be a stretch.

But lucky for me, Jama “Like a Rolling Stone” Rattigan offered up a writing prompt for today’s Poetry roundup! 
She wants some Bob Dylan lyrics, because afterall, Dylan considers himself a poet first and a musician second.

Bob Dylan lyrics. 
Poetry for everyman.
That I can do. 

I went through the requisite Bob Dylan obsession in college like the rest of ya’ll (in between takes of The Police and Fleetwood Mac and Journey and REM and The Grateful Dead. What a weird decade the 80s was.) I was particularly fascinated by his Joan Baez years. (I read that section of her memoir twice.) The idea of that much creative energy in one relationship is really compelling, even though they didn’t live happily ever after together forever (or even for very long).

I’m pretty sure I don’t have a favorite Dylan song; there are too many. But Boots of Spanish Leather is right up there. Here’s a little sampling:

Oh, I’m sailin’ away my own true love,
I’m sailin’ away in the morning.
Is there something I can send you from across the sea,
From the place that I’ll be landing?

No, there’s nothin’ you can send me, my own true love,
There’s nothin’ I wish to be ownin’.
Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled,
From across that lonesome ocean.

Predictably, things do not go well from here. The speaker keeps offering up gifts, even as she (or he) wanders ever deeper into the great beyond. The lover always answers, No, nothing, thank you. Just you, please. Only he (or she) says it more poetically, of course. Like this:

Oh, how can, how can you ask me again,
It only brings me sorrow.
The same thing I want from you today,
I would want again tomorrow.

And then, in the end, when realizing that the wanderer is not coming home soon — or at all — he asks for a pair of boots. 

Spanish boots. 
Of Spanish leather. 

There is something so just and, at the same time, so heartbreaking about those boots. 

Dang, I love that song.

A lot of folk have covered it, including Baez.
Here’s Nanci Griffith’s cover of it. (She put it on her Other Voices, Other Rooms album).

And if you go here, you can watch a slideshow of Dylan snaps set to the song. (Joan Baez makes the cut.)
So, I’m happy. Nostalgic. Satisfied. And itching for a long trip across the deepest ocean.
How about you?

So I’m supposed to be revising a picture book text.

It is short — the shortest piece I’ve ever written and turned in — so what’s the big deal, right?

I’ve had the first batch of editorial notes for nearly three weeks and plenty of opportunities to tweak.

But noooo.

It has apparently been more crucial that I wipe down the outside of my washer and drier (?!?!!) — during a remodel no less.
And switch out the containers for the cat and dog food.
And make spring rolls from scratch. 

I mean, the spring rolls were yummy but give me a break.
What should I do tomorrow — make puppets out of all the bachelorette socks in my drawer???

Sometimes it occurs to me — when I realize that I’m the boss who’s got to keep myself accountable —
that I’m not cut out for managerial positions. 

Somebody tell me to sit down, shut up and kick it into gear!!!

(Well, maybe not shut up since I have to read aloud. But you know what I mean…)

It’s funny.
Last week after I posted about art and envy, I second guessed myself. 

I thought, nobody’s going to relate to this and I will have exposed myself as a singular
and pathetic yearner-for-more.

I thought, maybe I oughta go back to my gratitude posts and stay there.

I thought, maybe I oughta choose a pseudonym.

But then ya’ll stopped by. 

And it turns out every last one of us thinks about how we receive news of our own successes and each other’s. 
It turns out we all have various spiritual and psychological veins we tap when times are tough.
It turns out that we’ve all compared ourselves to others, gotten antsy, or rolled our eyes at overnight success.
It turns out there have been an awful lot of “why not me” moments in our humble pasts.

But it turns out that very few of those “why not me” moments translate into “why her (or him)” moments.

It turns out we relish and wallow in and cheer and welcome the success of our compatriots.
It turns out we believe there is space enough for all of our books on the bookshelves.
It turns out we are pretty good at going back into ourselves and our own work with compassion and determination.
It turns out we’re mostly patient (on the days we’re not impatient) and mostly industrious and dedicated (on the days we’re not flailing about) and mostly open to inspiration — in the world and from each other.

I am comforted, no end, by this affirmation of community.
My desk is not an isolated island. Neither is yours.
There are bridges and boats and messages in bottles between us.

I am here, working, but I don’t mind a little distraction now and then.
So, when you get a chance, send good news…

This week, the trees popped green one day and suffered hail the next.

The cats dragged muddy paws through the house and across the bed.

The laundry’s overflowed upon the floor.

This week, our eldest had to take her first big whopper of a standardized test.

We had to go to lost-and-found three times.

The plumber’s bid came in too high.

This week, I tossed and turned and woke up too early four mornings out of five.

Including today. 
But a couple of hours later, walking up the sidewalk into school, I saw that the sign out front had been changed, to this: 

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year. 

Which is Frost. Just waiting for us on this chilly, tired Friday of a day.
I read it aloud to the girls and, honestly, I nearly cried with relief. 
They smiled and took my hands and pulled me toward the front doors. 
I think they were finding me a little unstable.

But I assure you I’m not. 
How could I be, in the springing of the year?

A Prayer in Spring
— By Robert Frost

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

(Read the rest here…)

Here is the conundrum of the writer.

We need each other.

We need each other’s careful critiques, but we also need shared rejection letter humor, encouragement when we’re blocked, and the whispered exchange of agents’ and editors’ names. 

We need each other.

And yet.  
And yet, it is another writer’s success that can most swiftly and surely send us to the darkest little hole in our heart.

Actually, this is probably the conundrum of the artist, not the writer exclusively. That it is our own community — the community that inspires us and lifts us up — that can also drive us ugly-green with envy.

I’m here to admit right now that I’ve been on both sides of this thorny fence. 

I have many friends who have garnered significant acclaim and/or monetary recognition for their work, and boy-oh-man do they deserve it. But if their award ceremony or book signing or big-money advance coincided with my zillionth consecutive week of editorial slap-down, I wasn’t always graceful. Well, I mean, I think I usually was graceful on the surface, but there were days I suffered self-imposed lock-jaw rather than own up to what I was really feeling, which was, “Why not me???”

The flip side? My own good times that I eagerly share with my support network — my writer’s groups and blogger pals and such — knowing that they might be locking their own jaws, even as they hug and cheer me.

Often — usually — I’m at my own desk, working on my own words and the world outside is (don’t take this the wrong way) immaterial. But other times I sit stewing in the midst of these questions and think, “What ‘s a gal to do?”

This week I was newly inspired to mull it over after the wise and talented Sara Lewis Holmes announced her awesome two-book deal with Arthur A. Levine Books. The very next day, Sara posted about her own fear of success (or failure) and acknowledged that other people might want what she got. 

“I… know (because I’ve been there myself),” she said, “that there is no hearing about another person’s good fortune without a tinge of ‘But what about me?’ “ 

Sound familiar?

I am relieved to say that for me, this time, Sara’s good news was pure — partly because I adore her (and her writing) soooo much and partly, probably, because I’ve had such a good year myself. (I can sometimes be a little self-centered that way.)

Still, her comments made me think we should out this issue. 
Let’s admit what’s hard and what helps. 
Better to lay bare than to bury. 

Here’s what I’ve tried, for years. 
It doesn’t always work, which I think may just prove that I’m unelightened. You all may have much greater success than I. 

Remove the ego. Writing is like yoga this way (going back to my own tried and true metaphor). The practice is the point. Judging oneself on the mat (or on the page) is just gonna make you lose your balance. It isn’t about what you’re doing compared to what anyone else is doing. It is about your own best work — centered, soulful and true.

Here’s something else I try. This one’s a little Pollyanna but it really does help.

Allow yourself to really celebrate your friend or critique partner or colleague or competitor. Really and truly. Acknowledge how dang hard they’ve worked, and how nimble and vivid their art is, and even how luck was on their side. Send them flowers or a new pen or 13 emails. Really celebrate. The joy can be contagious and inspiring and better on the digestion than jealousy or greed.

And then there are the lessons to be learned. 

We can either choose paralysis or proactivity. We can freeze in the face of each other’s successes or be inspired to kick it up a notch. We can ask ourselves, like my friend Lindsey does when the green-eyed monster threatens, “Am I ready? Am I in shape? Have I gotten all my proverbial ducks in a row? Is my office cleaned? Are the mss polished? Are they out in the world?” Lindsey reminds herself that on one hand, she’s exactly where she needs to be today, and that on the other hand, dissatisfaction can inspire her to keep her eye on the prize. If we want the things other people have, Lindsey says, “we should put those things on the list to shoot for.” Right?

Finally, there is the little itty bitty reminder that, um, it’s not all about us. It’s about our work. It’s about what we are bringing to the table and to the world. Our contribution. Our gifts — not as something to laud, but as something to be received by those to whom we’re giving. It is, for me, about the kids I’d like to connect with through my books. Awards and big-dollar advances notwithstanding. Honest to pete…

(Note: A follow-up to this post is here.)
 

The illustrious Cynthia Lord wants to know what middle graders think about books. She is speaking at a Washington State SCBWI conference in April and she’s gone straight to the mouth of babes for her material.

My nine-year-old agreed to answer a few of her queries, and you can just color me enlightened right now.

I didn’t know she wished Pacy (from Grace Lin’s Year of the Dog) were real so they could be best friends.

I didn’t know she wouldn’t choose a book if the cover were messy.

And I didn’t know that she thought this:

One thing I see in books that isn’t really true about kids is that all kids hate there siblings.

That warms the cockles of a mama’s heart.

(Thanks for the great questions, Cindy…)

On Thursday, I went to hear Barack Obama at a Town Hall meeting.

On Friday, I tried to early vote but the lines were too long and I had somewhere to be.

On Saturday, I received 6 (6 I tell you!) recorded phone calls from various local, state and national campaigns.

In case you’ve missed it, Texas and Ohio are holding primaries on Tuesday, which may (or may not) determine the democratic nominee for president of the United States. These are days charged with import and I tell you, I’ve been feeling the weight of choice hanging heavy over me. (At least it’s a decent excuse for not sleeping well…)

So needless to say, I totally embraced the comic relief of my younger daughter’s classroom last week.

When I went in to help out on Friday morning, they were awash with all things patriotic.
Because, not only is the presidential race electrifying everyone, but just barely in our rearview mirrors (objects may be closer than they appear to be) are President’s Day and Martin Luther King’s birthday. 
So, on that last, extra day of February, the teacher asked her first graders to make lists of the things they knew about the United States of America — facts they’ve absorbed these last few weeks of winter.

Here are just a few of my favorites. 
I prefer many of the them to the clips we’re hearing replayed again and again on NPR…

Washington was the 1 president of United States of Texas and all.

(Public service announcement: 
The USA will be even nicer if we all exercise the right to vote. See you ’round the ballot box on Tuesday…)

One of the unsung benefits of being a lowly adjunct professor at a community college is getting to meet the visiting writers, up close and personal. The ones you’d ordinarily have to admire from afar? You get to go out to dinner with them. And their guide dogs.

This week I had the distinct pleasure of breaking bread (well, corn bread) with the poet and memoirist Steven Kuusisto, visiting Austin from his digs in Iowa. Steven is one of those guys who makes you feel a little like a dullard. Not on purpose, but he’s just so dang smart, peppering his conversation with quotes from Shakespeare and Jimmy Carter and Frank Zappa and the like. All the while, loving up the beautiful lab at his feet…

Steven’s been blind since birth — a topic of profound sensuality in his poems and memoir, Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening. There is no lack of vision here, I assure you. There is a sense of adventure in his blindness, really. The traveling around the world by ear, the training to work with a dog, the purchase of a very, very fine 12-string guitar because he was never going to buy a car. His is a contagious clarity and passion that I recommend.

Let’s start with this:

Elegy for a Guide Dog

(Read the rest here…)

My 1st grader came home yesterday obsessed with Vincent Van Gogh. 
Not surprising, since she is a passionate kid and Vincent was nothing if not passionate.

As the rest of us listened, she ran through all the big and little details of his life:

He painted with such thick globs of oil paint that his paintings were almost, like, 3-D.

And that last one? That’s the one that really got her.
Paint instead of food. 
The one painting he did sell, she said, allowed him to buy a wheel of cheese. 
But on many other dark days, paint instead of food. 

We talked a lot about how he tried other careers but they didn’t work out.
Vincent Van Gogh couldn’t not paint.
Even at the price of paint instead of food.

It gets you to thinking, doesn’t it, about your own calling, your own drive, your own passions?
What would you trade?
What would you give up?
What have you given up?
Has it all been worth it?
Does it matter?

The thing is, it’s my daughters.

They’ve been writing up a storm. 

I’ve been, ummm… revising. 
Muddling about. 
Stop-n-starting.

But they’ve been writing up a storm.

For example:

Creepy The Weird Named Seal

That day she changed her name to Emily and no one ever teased her again!!!

This one’s by my 7-year-old and one of her best chums. 
There are a bunch of a baby harp seal illustrations that go with it.

I do love this story, but I’m thinking we’ve got a little work to do on self realization and empowerment.
18 years later!??!?!?!