Give me a second and I’ll tell you, as soon as I figure it out.
I suppose I spend most of my time writing children’s fiction. So, when people who want the short answer ask what I do, I say that. (Actually, I say Middle-Grade Humor for Boys, although that’s not entirely true. My current WIP has a female protagonist). But I also send off an essay every, well, um, every week or so, to a literary journal/magazine/contest/anthology. Yeah, I know. That’s a lot of essays. And a whole bunch of them have seen print. So I’m an essayist?
Of course, I also have three (count ’em!) puppet plays coming out in an anthology in January, and four children’s short stories that will go public sometime in 2010. So there’s that children’s fiction thing again… but the one title I never presumed to give myself is the one I’m wrestling with today: poet.
Gulp. That’s a tricky word. First, it sounds really pretentious to use it to describe yourself, and unreal. Like a joke you would write on your application for unemployment. Also, I don’t write THAT kind of poetry. You know, those poems that seem to be everywhere right now, that remind me a tangled balls of yarn made out of words. They’re just a mess, to me. Of course, that could be because I’m too thick to untangle their meanings. Very possible.
Anyway, what I’m trying to say is this: I have had another poem accepted by a literary journal: Front Range. I am delighted, and humbled, and confused. Poets, to me, are rare creatures. Special, in a “not at all like me” sense.
I’m not sure real poets read vampire romances and books of fart jokes and drink strawberry margaritas.
My agent-sister, Lisa DesRochers, nominated this blog for an award, the Scrap Heap Award. No, wait. Was it the Honest Crap Award? Something like that. As you may be aware, I refuse to post anything on this blog other than text. In my opinion, I’m one cut and paste away from putting pictures of my six-year-old’s birthday parties or revealing photos of Taylor Lautner in here. (Nobody wants to see those, right? So… you didn’t just click through that link to Mr. Werewolf Hotness? Thought so.) Since the only people who read this thing with any regularity are my parents, husband, and Google strangers, I decided a few months back that discretion is the better part of valor. So, words are it for me.
Still, in the spirit of the thing, to earn my Honest Scrap Award, I will now provide you, Avid Readers, with ten true facts about me. My Meme, as it were.
1. I type with five fingers. Three on one hand, two on the other. This would be heroic if I had lost the others putting out a raging fire in an orphanage or something, but no. I just never learned to type. Thanks, Mom. You were right. I’ll never have to be a secretary now. Great advice, that.
2. One of my first jobs (when I was 11) was to read to a blind woman. She had me read Albert Schweitzer, and she taught me how to pronounce the word pirogue. I thought she was extremely cool, and I had fantasies about being a competent, funny, blind octogenarian myself someday.
3. But I went mostly blind at 13 instead. I wore Coke-bottle glasses for two years, until I was old enough to babysit and earn money for contacs.
4. I was a huge nerd in middle school. My winter coat in eighth grade earned me the nickname: The Fonz.
5. I was NOT a nerd in high school. Armed with my new contacs, some nice clothes, a new set of decent-sized boobs, and a deep, overriding desire to hide my intelligence from everyone, I embarked on my career as a dance team girl. Three years of smiling inanely, and doing the splits every single day.
6. In college, I dated a guy who was, among other things, a pool hustler. Once I had to rescue him from the pool sharks at the UT Student Union, who were offering to break his fingers in exchange for the (nonexistent) money he had bet on a game. This was the first time I ever used an ATM. Probably why I hate ATMs so much: bad memories.
7. I am (sometimes) cheap. I clip coupons, buy my clothes at thrift stores, and send my kids to school in hand-me-downs. But I don’t cheap out on vacations. June? Disneyworld, people. The Polynesian Hotel, concierge level. I’ll be the one with the pina colada, who doesn’t know or care where her kids are.
8. I am a registered Scuba diver (advanced level). Fave dive: Cayman Islands, North Trench. I have no fear of sharks.
9. I was scouted for singing talent in fifth grade (I was Annie in the school musical). I ended up cutting some demos, making hundreds of dollars (which made me feel like Richie Rich for a few weeks), and I can still sing the lyrics of the songs. (You know you like to eat and drink the sweetest things around. You’ve earned a reputation, for the sweetest tooth in town… Yeah. Classic, mega hits.)
10. The first poem I wrote that was published (in the local paper) was about the Trojan war. I was 9, and had just read the Odyssey and Edith Hamilton’s Mythology. In honor of my next published poem (coming in December), I will post my first one here. Keep your eyes open, folks.
Hey! That was fun, and cheaper than therapy. And you’re still reading! Thanks, honey.(I’m thinking only my husband got this far, right?)
BTW, I sold another puppet play last week. So, yay!
Okay, children’s book writers out there, I’m giving you fair warning: If you’re planning to write about a stuffed toy that learns to love a child, you’re going to need to make it a bear, or an otter, or a hedgehog or something. My husband has declared a permanent moratorium on stuffed bunny books in our house. And, after wiping the tears last night from the faces of my children, myself, and (almost) one or two from Dave, I have agreed. No more bunnies.
The Velveteen Rabbit has long been known as the go-to book for sick, evil kids who want to watch their parents cry. (You know what I’m talking about. You’ve seen their eyes when you get to those last chapters. They’re watching you try to hold it together, not paying a bit of attention to the story. Little sadists.) Anyway, last night I read the last seven chapters of Kate DiCamillo’s book, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane (the rabbit in question), to my kids. We’ve been reading a couple of chapters a night, a very Norman Rockwell-ish thing to do, if I say so myself. It was all going very well until the formerly beloved authoress, Ms. DiCamillo, who gave us that lovely little mouse Despereaux, and her new, gloriously magical The Magician’s Elephant — Winn Dixie for crying out loud! — turned on us… and killed off a precious little four-year old character, a wonderful, flaxen-haired girl (there’s illustrations, yanno) who loved the rabbit, and her brother, and Jesus, and apple pie, and ponies (you get the picture) so much. The little girl we all fell in love with, just a little. Until she died. Gone. Kaput. Dead as a wedge. Buried. Worm food.
The tears started then. I kept reading, thinking surely this must have a happier ending. Surely, Kate wouldn’t do this to us! My children kept sobbing, my six-year old asking “Why, Mommy” Why did she die? Can’t she come back alive?” — and I never wanted more than to race down to my computer and revise a book — and I kept reading to find the happy ending, realizing as the pages left to read grew fewer and fewer, down to three, two, one… that it was not coming.
And then — no I’m not going to tell you what happened — a small, joyful burst of “happy tears”at the end, but too little. Too late.
An hour and a half of crying, four lullabies, and a couple of stiff drinks later, we were all able to move past it. (Um, don’t worry, The drinks were for the grown-ups.)
Do I recommend this one? Sure. If you want to weep yourself senseless. Just don’t make it your bedtime read-aloud. The writing was, as usual, glorious, so beautiful that at times I wanted to re-read it just to hear the words again. (Sound of Nikki tamping down jealousy here.)
So, Kate is a master at her craft, but she’s really, really mean, too.
I hope someday I can be just as mean. Now, it’s back to my own manuscript,where no one dies (well, not yet), and my MC has just performed inadvertent CPR on a dying man who was choking on a fishing lure.
A perfect weekend. Yesterday we celebrated Dave’s birthday with a dinner at Eddie V’s and a night in the Hyatt Regency on Lady Bird Lake in Austin — free babysitting courtesy of Aunt Lari. Yay Lari! Yay free babysitting! (Of course, we took a side trip to the Alpha & Omega gallery to see Dave’s and my mom’s photos in their current exhibition. Gorgeous.) Today began with a walk on the Hike and Bike Trail, brunch, a trip to the bookstore, a movie at the Alamo Village and then… contributor’s copies in the mailbox. A short anecdote/essay I wrote about my awesome grandma is in the December issue of Presbyterians Today. A nice surprise!
(What movie, you ask? Um, that would have been New Moon. I have two words for you people: Team Jacob. I have never felt more like a nasty old cougar in my life, and I don’t care. Middle-aged women gasped out loud in the theatre when he took his shirt off the first time, and giggled every time after that. Really, a pretty horribly acted movie, if you were thinking about the acting. Which I wasn’t. I was thinking about the abdominals. Yummy.)
Someday I’ll have a book published and, right inside the cover, I’ll have an acknowledgments page — a crisp white sheet where I can list the names of the people who have helped me on my writing journey.
Of course, I don’t have that page yet, so this post will have to serve as a practice run. Let me know if I left anything (You? I hope not!) out.
Forever thanks to Dave, Cameron and Drew, who scrape the burned edges off the casseroles at dinnertime when the voices of my narrators speak louder than the timer on the oven. Thanks to my beta readers: John, Rae, Lindsay, Shelli, the Write Girls, ForthWriteSky,Lari, Laura… and the reader-readers, who just read it for fun and because I need to think others can’t wait to see my work: Tom, Katherine, Taryn, Josh, Sam.
Thanks to the agents who said “Almost,” and kept me trying, revising, writing more, better. And thanks to those agents who said no… so I was free to say yes when the right one came along. Thanks to Suzie for believing in Raymond, and in me.
Thanks to my friends, the ones who walk around in the world and the ones who walk around on pages, inside books that I love.
Thank you to the other writers out there, who spend their lives writing, teaching, and sharing what they know. Thanks to the readers who buy books, read them, pass them along to friends, and support their libraries and independent bookstores.
Thanks to everyone who helped me gather my courage and start living my “one wild and precious life” doing precisely what it is I feel called to do.
Happy Thanksgiving. Here’s a little gift: a link to some peoms by Mary Oliver, who wrote the words I taped up inside my computer desk, the ones I read out loud most days, especially on those days when thankfulness is harder to come by. Enjoy.
I took French in high school, a “useless language” for a Texan girl. Anyone could see that I should have taken Spanish, right? I mean, here we are on the border with Mexico, etc. (I spent summers as a child playing on the streets of San Miguel d’Allende while my grandfather took art classes. I actually remember speaking Spanish then… but it faded. Sigh.) No matter what anyone said, I insisted on signing up for French classes. Why? Simple: I loved the sound of the language. (Not a bad thing for a writer to admit, hey?) I ended up taking a number of placement tests for college, and earning enough hours of credit in French and other subjects to begin college with over 30 hours under my belt — a college Sophomore at 17. I felt very clever.
But not clever at all when I found myself sitting in that first French class, fifth semester college French actually, facing a very frightening, native French professor who had the expectation that I could speak, write, and even read much more fluently than I actually could. I panicked, mentally running through every French curse I knew. Then I hit the books. I rose to the occasion, but it was like learning to swim in the ocean. Scary.
Writing children’s fiction feels that way for me sometimes, and part of this is due to the fact that I haven’t read quite enough in the genre for my comfort. Sure, I got a Master’s in Fiction Writing — but it was very much literary fiction, so that’s what I read. No regrets there! I fell in love with Dante, Cervantes, Homer, Annie Dillard, and Virginia Woolf. Of course, I also earned the real-world equivalent of a PhD in Genre Fiction. I cannot count the number of books I’ve read with heaving bosoms, spaceships, or studly wizards on their covers. I still think my husband married me because he found out on our first date that I, too, had adored the Hitchhiker’s Guide series… and read them all. (Um, multiple times. Gotta love those spaceships.)
But now I find myself writing Middle Grade fiction — and so I have immersed myself in that world. I love it. This week, I’m reading: Barbara O’Connor’s How to Steal a Dog, and The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo (finished her lovely Magician’s Elephant last week, having flashbacks to Gabriel Garcia Marquez on every other page). I can’t help but think that every book I read makes me a stronger writer. In fact, I can feel it, see it happening in my own work.
So, writer friends, is it necessary to read in your genre? Maybe not. Maybe you can get by with reading adult fiction while writing YA or picture books. But I want to swim, not just dog paddle. I’m going to educate myself.
Now, off to powder my hair and bake lovely things for my first Literary Salon meeting today chez moi. I’m tempted to wear silk pajamas and serve the guests their repast in my opulent bedroom (see? I did pay attention in those French lit classes!), but my friends might have taken those practical Spanish courses instead of French, and they wouldn’t understand the long and illustrious literary tradition I would be mocking, I mean, emulating.
Oh, yes. I did end up taking Spanish courses, too. Nothing wrong with being a little bit practical, and knowing how to talk to your neighbors.
I’ll admit: I have a problem. It’s not one of those fashionable ones you can talk about at parties either, or that goes away with diet, exercise, or Botox. I have a book problem.
When I was a little girl, my parents tried just about every punishment in the world (because I was a very naughty little girl, of course), but their fallback was grounding me from books. You see, I didn’t really care all that much about losing TV or telephone. Oh yeah, and this was way before computers, because I’m dinosaur-old. I always swore I would never ground my kids from books, because I think it’s inherently evil, and far too effective. I have a kid who has a bit of a reading problem, too, so I know how tempting it can be.
But I may have to ground MYSELF from books this week. I have so many good books… and the one I need to concentrate on is the one that’s half-delivered, its head on my computer screen, the rest of its little self still lodged in my mind.
Ah, birth analogies. Did I ever tell you about my 23 hours of back labor? Hey, where are you going?
Okay, I’ll stop. I have one piece of very good news today, though, so hang around until you read this: I sold three short stories to a new enterprise. Remember those books your aunts and uncles gave you at Christmastime that had your name typed in them as one of the characters? I had Snow White, the Seven Dwarves, and Nikki Loftin. It was totally one of my favorites ever, and my kids still think it’s awesome. Well, a new business called storysomething is going to do this online — with personalized books you can download to your phone or computer. I can’t wait. But I’ll have to; they’re still in Beta testing.
Still, very cool. Of course, I used my own kid’s name in the drafts I sent them!
Now, I’m off to sign that work-for-hire contract… and then to finish giving birth to another snarky, very naughty MC. If I can stay away from my TBR pile…
I just got back from NYC, from attending the wonderful Backspace conference, meeting my (darling, smart, funny, ambitious) agent, Suzie Townsend, and painting the town my own particular shade of red. (It’s more a fuchsia, really.) The whole experience was so fairy-tale-ish, I couldn’t believe it was me living my life there. It was like being Cinderella for a long weekend. Honestly, all I needed was a glass slipper, and a really nice dress. Come to think of it, maybe I should hit the mall… back to the story.
On Wednesday night, we had drinks, conversation, and amazing steaks at Angelo and Maxie’s with Anuj Singh, a friend from high school. (Thanks, Anuj!) Then Dave disappeared for two days to take pictures of NYC (got the ticker-tape parade for the Yankees World Series win!) while I went to the Backspace Ball. (Um, did I mention I booked the family vacation to Walt Disney World today? I’ll stop with the Cinderella references now. I’m more an Ariel or Mulan type, anyway.)
So… I got to wear my name tag that said Scholarship Winner, and feel all special and fancy and feted (not fetid), and hang out with the fun and funny Lori Walker and Lisa Iriarte (who got more fun/relaxed after she was asked to sign by Colleen Lindsay of Fineprint — yay, Lisa!). We read our queries on Thursday morning, whereupon I learned that one simply does not choose a title for one’s middle-grade humorous novel that evokes the Holocaust for the reader… yeah, I’m changing the title. LOL
I read a different query in the afternoon, for a WIP I had set down for a while, and got a huge response (The Holy Toast, for those of you playing at home). Makes me want to finish it! One novel at a time, grasshopper…. Most of the other MG queries were for MG fantasies, which did not make me want to run home and dust off that finished draft of Perfect Mischief (Boy/Fairy Story) and show it to anyone. The field is just TOO thick for my taste. I’ll wait a while.
The “pages day” was super fun. I LOVE hearing authors read their own work, and I had the chance to hear a dozen or so take their (nervous, trembling) turns in front of four agents. My heart got big and proud of all of them for having so much courage! Yay Writers! You are brave, and strong, and worthy! Long Live Writers! Now let’s get something to drink!
Of course, I missed a couple of hours of the conference having lunch with Suzie at a great Thai restaurant – YUM! — and checking out the Fineprint offices. You know that scene in Willy Wonka where the contest winners go into the factory? The office is like that, but with books. Suzie smuggled me out two for the airplane ride home that I have (of course) finished — and they are fabulous! If you like Charlaine Harris’ Sookie Stackhouse series, or anything Katie MacAlister writes, RUN to a bookstore to check out Molly Harper‘s new “Nice Girls” series. Seriously, Nice Girls Don’t Have Fangs had me laughing so hard on the plane, I woke up the guy in front of me at least twice.
There’s so much more to tell, but this post is getting long. I’ll try to post some pics tomorrow, if Dave doesn’t beat me to it.
Thanks to all who made Cinderella’s Ball possible: Dad, Katherine, Mom and John (The Babysitters Back Home). You rock!
Okay, I know. I suffer from that affliction so many Texans (and even transplanted Californians who’ve lived here long enough) share in common: I love me some Texas. And this weekend, at the Texas Book Festival, I was feeling the love. I alternated between feeling extremely proud of my hometown (y’all, Austin is gorgeous this time of year), excited at the line-up of authors who came to speak and sign books, and amazed that a world-class festival like this was FREE! (I love me some free stuff, too.)
I attended panels with authors like Libba Bray (who is so funny she SHOULD charge admission), Sara Zarr, Jessica Lee Anderson, and Varian Johnson (The Mod). Their personalities alone made you want to rush out and buy their books! Going Bovine is next on the list… Fave moment: Listening to Sara and Libba break spontaneously into Whitney Houston’s The Greatest Love of All and, when they turned the song over to Jessica, instread of singing, she muttered dead-pan — “Tequila.”
I sat in on the “Heroes” middle-grade talk with K.A. Holt, Rene Saldana, Jr., and debut author Aaron Starmer. I did my part to halt the Decline of the Novel by buying 2 of their books. One was Starmer’s new MG Dweeb. All you had to do was hear him read a chapter, and it was a done deal. I’m planning to read it, and steal as much of his magic as I can.
At mother-daughter writing team Kristin and P.C. Cast‘s panel, I would stop between bouts of laughter to look around, wondering if everyone else thought they were as hilarious, charming, bawdy, and gloriously real as I did. Their most interesting piece of advice for writers? Make all the changes your editor wants. Then, after you’re in copy-edits, go back in and take them out if you feel strongly about it. The editor never reads it again at that point, according to these gals. Hmmmm. Sneaky. I like it. Not that I would EVER think of doing such a thing….Big congrats to the Casts for getting their books banned in some Texas school districts. That should drive your sales up!
My oldest son attended the talk by Rick Riordan and Peter Lerangis — authors of many of his favorite books — and Cam even got called on by Mr. Riordan to ask a question. Cam kept winking at me and pointing to the stage, whispering “That’s you someday, Mom.” Now wouldn’t THAT be a dream come true.
Lunch with the Blueboarders was fun, and I bought far too many books afterward. Oh, well. Better than a drug habit, and ever-so-slightly cheaper.
I’m off to New York in two days for the Backspace Conference where I will meet my agent, Suzie Townsend, for the first time, and discover if she is the type of agent who would like a Snuggie or a bottle of Dom Perignon for Christmas. Me? I’m kind of a “glass-of-Dom-in-my-Snuggie” gal.
Not that I have a Snuggie, of course. Ridiculous things. Can’t believe anyone would ever buy such a thing.
Let me check… yep, yep. I recognize this feeling. It’s the exact same way I felt when I got asked to go to the prom my sophomore year of high school. Butterflies in the stomach, stupid grin on my face, wondering if I could be dreaming.
But this time it’s not the captain of the gymnastics team who’s got me all aflutter. It’s my new literary agent, Suzie Townsend, of Fineprint Literary. (All the writers reading this just went “Squeeee!” All the others went “So?”) The contracts are on their way to New York — a few days ahead of me, coincidentally, as I am still attending the Backspace Conference next week. I’ll just be way more relaxed. Except I get to meet Suzie in person, and that makes me all “Does this manuscript make my butt look big?” and “What do possibly-successful-looking writers wear in NYC?” I guess I am as neurotic as all the other writers out there.
I am so hoping the prom analogy dies here, because I have pictures of that dress I wore. It was hideous, even for the 80s. I’m praying my manuscript won’t be. Must… revise… even… more….
