25 Years

candlewick coverIt’s hard to believe Candlewick Press is 25 years old. Not because that seems old, but because it’s one of those happy things that seems to have been around forever.

Just look at the cover of their spring catalog, a tiny sampling of the stellar books they’ve provided our children for a quarter century and counting: Owl Babies (how I love this book), Because of Wynn Dixie (this one too), Feed (chills), Where’s Waldo (how many hours did my kids pore over these?) Voice of Freedom, Jazz Day (sing it!). Almost Astronauts,  the Judy Moody and Maisy books–a minuscule sampling of the wonders this small, mighty house has published. Lots with shiny gold stickers. Lots that quietly, indelibly worked their way into children’s heart and memories.

I guess you can tell how grateful I feel to have worked with editors and art directors in that cozy, playful office in Boston. Turn to page 50 of this landmark catalog and…

rules of life catalogThank you, dear bear with candle burning bright all these years, from me and readers past, present, future!

 

Stuff of Dreams

Dreamer

Last night I dreamed I was writing/struggling with an entirely different book. It featured a boy as the main character (this alone would be  dreamy, since I’ve never managed to pull that off) and maybe a dog (ditto). In the dream, I woke up in the middle of the night knowing the perfect solution to a knotty plot problem. In the dream, I found a pen and clean sheet of paper miraculously close at hand (in real life how often have I scribbled illegibly on the cover of a New Yorker lying on the nightstand?) and effortlessly wrote notes.

When I woke up–for real–I knew at once it was a dream, yet it was so vivid I had to check the nightstand to be sure. No paper, no note.  A wishful dream, for sure.

And yet…An hour later, as I was working/struggling with the book I actually am writing, good things began to happen. I figured some big stuff out. Or, it figured itself out–that’s always how it feels. As if the book is revealing itself. As if the story finally trusts me to know it.

Did my subconscious know what was coming? Or did the dream give me the boost of faith I needed to keep going?

I don’t know. But thank you, dream.

Let there be…

candle

This is a post I wrote this week for the wonderful blog From the Mixed Up Files.  Sharing it here with love and hope:

This shortest day of a too-dark year seems like a good time to share a story I sometimes tell on school visits. I can’t remember where I first heard or read it, and I change it a bit every time.

Once there was a king who was growing old. Soon it would be time to leave his kingdom to one of his three daughters, so he called them to him. Which of them could fill the throne room, wall to wall and ceiling to floor with something precious? She would inherit the crown.

The first daughter ran to the royal coffers and had the servants drag in bag upon bag of gold coins and spill them out. Yet they did not fill the room.

The second daughter ran to the royal wardrobe and had the maids carry in piles of gowns and jewels and dancing shoes. They did not fill the room either.

The third daughter stood before her father and quietly smiled. She reached into her pocket, making her big sisters laugh and sneer. As if a person could fill this grand room with something small enough to fit into her hand.

But they stopped laughing when their sister drew out …a candle. For when she lit it, its yellow glow grew and grew till it reached every corner of the room, spreading its golden warmth everywhere.

A book, I tell the kids, is like that candle. Stories and poems glow and spark and warm the world with their shining light. They show us the way. They make us less afraid. They fit in our pockets, yet their light fills hearts. A book, a great poet once said, “should be a ball of light in one’s hands.”

So on this longest night of the year, let’s light candles, let’s warm ourselves by fires, let’s write and read and share stories. Let’s remember again some of the wisest words ever spoken. “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that,” wrote Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

****

Warmest, brightest holidays to you and those you love

 

Some Things I Was Thinking About As I Lay Awake at 3AM or…

…a look into a disordered mind:

***Whether my two daughters who are applying to grad schools will get their applications done in time

***If I will ever give up the delusion I have any control over my children’s lives

***What the fate of Hanne, a character in my new novel, should be

***How much I admire women who wear lipstick while they work out

***The election (again and yet again)

***Names for the fictional country in my new novel. Discarded: Amitria and Skylland

***If we should get a big or small Christmas tree this year

***How much more I would love the holidays if they only came every other year

***If I really needed to get up to pee or could make it till morning

***this face

linnea-in-karstins-clothes

…and so, at last, to sleep.

On Our Feet

 

delia-runs

Whenever I visit schools, a question I’m sure to be asked is: Which is your favorite book you ever wrote?  (What’s your favorite book you ever read? is also a big one). I can try to weasel out of it by saying what a wishy-washy person I am, and how I can never pick a favorite anything. Or sometimes I turn the tables and say, What’s your favorite book? 

But most often I give the tried-and-true, official writer answer: Parents can’t ever choose a favorite child, and a writers are the same with their books. Sometimes I add that I don’t want to pick one and make all the other books jealous.

It’s a true answer. As writers we love this book because it’s our first-born, that one because it came so hard but we never gave up on it, yet another because it’s got the character who’s the most like us.

I’m thinking of this analogy now because I’m birthing a new book, one unlike any that has gone before. Writing it has been even slower than my usual sloth-like pace. This book has balked, then gone racing off in the wrong direction, then fallen into a sleep so deep I could barely rouse it. But now, at last, I’m pretty sure it’s found its feet. It’s on its way.

I’m thinking of it, too, because this last weekend we watched our youngest daughter run the New York City marathon. This was Nov. 6, a purely golden day in the city. In case you don’t know, a marathon is 26.2 miles. Repeat: 26.2 miles. This was the daughter who walked late. She was a plump, placid baby, third of three, surrounded by family and friends all too willing to pick her up and carry her about. She was slow to creep, slow to crawl, and for quite a long time saw no good reason to figure out walking, let alone running.

Yet here she was! And there she went, racing by, waving and blowing us kisses. (That’s her in the white t-shirt, and, in the left hand corner of the photo, that’s me, going batty for her.) Who’d have guessed she’d do this one day? How thrilling to think of the surprises locked up inside each of us. How wonderful the things we can do and places we can go, just putting one foot before the other, over and over again.

 

 

 

Booking

Just back from a few days on my favorite island. The real Kelleys Island is so closely tied to my fictional Moonpenny Island that as I saunter around, I nearly expect to see Flor zip by on her bike, or Joe pitch a stone at the school clock tower, or Cele slip down into the abandoned quarry on her way to her secret life, or Flossie the Thug Cat slink out of the brush with a doomed field mouse in her jaws. The writer’s loony double life!

harbor_springs_mi

I didn’t put my suitcase away, because tomorrow I leave for the Harbor Springs Festival of the Book http://www.hsfotb.org/  Another great lake! I get to see my dear friend Alison DeCamp, and meet some other writers I’ve long admired, including Lynn Rae Perkins (squeals a fangirl squeal), and some I’ve just discovered, including Dan Gemeinhart. I have a very nifty presentation on Moonpenny that I look forward to sharing with some middle school classes.

Autumn’s closing in. Once winter gets us in its bony clutches, I hate leaving my house, let alone my city. Then my travels will once again be mostly imaginary. But for now…

 

Blank Canvas

We just spent a little more than a week in New York, near the sea and  our two daughters, and my heart is still singing.  On the rug there’s a little pile of sand that spilled from my shoe just after we got home, and I refuse to sweep it up.

We went into The City one afternoon to check out the new Met Breuer, where we saw a heart-stopping exhibit of Diane Arbus’s early photos (I’ll write more on that for sure) and “Unfinished: Thoughts Left Visible”, a fascinating exhibit of art never completed, for one reason or another.

By now I should know better, but I still tend to torment myself with the idea that turning an idea into a work of art comes easy for other people. At least for geniuses. But here were unfinished canvases by Cezanne, Picasso, El Greco, Klimt, some scrapped after many tries to get them right, some interrupted by illness or sorrow or even death, some abandoned for unknown reasons. It was a chance to see the way a painting takes shape layer by layer, how outlines are filled in, sketches given dimension and texture. To remind myself that creating something where there was nothing is not supposed to be easy.

Some of the art, like a group of glorious canvases by Turner, was perfect in its imperfection. In a NY Times article on the show, one viewer said, “An artist is never finished, so their art is never finished. When you finish it, you kill it. Leaving it unfinished, you keep it alive.”

Yes. No book I’ve ever written was as good as I meant it to be. Nowhere near as good as my racing heart  hoped to make it. And this is another reason I’m so grateful to readers, who take an imperfect thing and find their own beauty in it.

 

On finishing a first draft…

Almost there! The ending is in my heart and, at this point more important, in my head. I’m pushing aside all the things I know I will have to go back and fix, cut, add, just keeping that ending within my sights.

Well, that’s what I wish I was doing. In fact I’m still having too many moments when I make characters walk in and out of rooms, slump into chairs or bolt to their feet, tap their chins and furrow their brows: in other words, stall.

A quote I came across this morning in Poets and Writers (procrastinating? me?):

“When I am stuck in the perfection cog—as in, I am rewriting a sentence a million times over even though I’m in a first draft or, I am freaking out and can’t move forward because I am not sure how everything is going to fit together—I find it helpful to tell myself: You will fail. I have this written on a Post-it note. It might sound discouraging, but I find it very liberating. The idea is that no matter what I do, the draft is going to be flawed, so I might as well just have at it. I also like to look at pictures I’ve taken of all the many drafts that go into my books as they become books, which helps me remember that so much of what I am writing now will later change. When I am aware that my work is not as brave or true as it needs to be, I like to look at a particular photograph of myself as a child. I am about eight, sitting on a daybed in cut-off shorts, with a book next to me. I’m looking at the camera with great confidence, and an utter lack of self-consciousness. This photograph reminds me of who I am at my essence, and frees me up to write more like her.”
—Anna Solomon, author of Leaving Lucy Pear (Viking, 2016) http://www.pw.org/content/anna_solomon_0

Thank you, Anna. And now back to work…

song of the cicadas

 

IMG_8387

Last summer I was knocked for a loop when Kate DiCamillo, that is, THE Kate DiCamillo, wrote about enjoying “Cody and the Fountain of Happiness”.  She especially liked the “whim whams”,  an expression Cody uses to describe the feeling that her world is crumbling into an unrecognizable heap.  Kate said she knew that feeling, and was glad to have a word for it.

Fast forward to the end of the summer when she came to the Cuyahoga County library and I waited in a long, long line of fans to say hello. In the photo, I’ve just told her I’m the whim-wham writer.  Oh my goodness. She was so nice.

This summer, I heard Kate speak again, this time at Nerd Camp. She read a speech, a small perfect essay really, that began with the story of her being 8 years old and obsessed with digging. A Florida summer, the sun relentless, and every morning she got her shovel and dug. She didn’t know what she was looking for, just knew the urge to dig. One day she found a small smooth bone with a hollow just right for a young girl’s thumb. It was magic, she was sure. Or wanted to be sure.

I won’t even try to tell the whole story, because so much of it depends on her always startling and perfect choices of words, on her details (not just a dishtowel but a green and white checked dishtowel) and on her trademark rhythms, but the climax comes when she wishes for a pony and, moments later, one comes walking up the street.

Kate’s essay was about writing, and the pony became a metaphor for conjuring, creating, for calling something into being by sheer force of imagination and will. “Where there was nothing, now there was something.”

It was an amazing, stirring talk, a gift to all of us who heard it. I’ve thought of it often since. I thought of it just yesterday, when I was walking across the baking, dry-as-dust schoolyard down the street, on my way to the library. I could see the determined, lonesome little girl, digging in the hot sun, and I was back in my own childhood summers, all those endless, hot afternoons when there was nothing to do. We didn’t go to camp or art classes. We played ball in the street, swam in Nancy Wells’s above ground pool, swished our Barbies around in the backyard shade, but lots of the time, most of the time, there was nothing to do.

We never said we were bored, because our mother would immediately assign us chores. And now when I think about it, I’m not sure bored was the right word, anyway. I remember more a feeling of longing. For something to happen. To be the one who made it happen. To be the hero of a story still unknown. It was a diffuse kind of longing with no clear object, and that made it all the more powerful.

Trying to pin down that feeling might scare it away. Instead: the hot sun. The tar truck slowly coming down the street. The cicadas buzzing in the trees. A girl in red PF Flyers, standing in the shade, squinting into the light, waiting and wishing.