[fiction, instead of lies]

Good grief, these soldiers! Always sassy, that 6888th.

I thought I’d posted this about a year ago, but found that I never did! So – enjoy. And imagine Mare…

For these guys, it started with Weeatabix.

Well, not really. Weeatabix is some kind of British cereal [and why is it that so many of the cereals from the olden days sound like some kind of mechanical invention or cleaning product? I mean, Weeatabix? Shreddies? Ruskets? I somehow imagine robots. But I digress. Badly.] that looks like hay bales, and as every company in the world seems to do, they had a contest — in this case, it was a straw (hay) bale contest, in support of British farming. £5000 went to the winning farm, and basically all they had to do was create art.

These mammoths are the winning design by farm folk Nikki and Paul Grant and David Sharpe, and were a big hit for obvious reasons. They won the money, and celebrated, I’m sure, and that will probably be a great story they can dine out on for years.

People frequently ask me how I come up with ideas for stories. Truthfully, it’s a question that gets posed to every author, and I will join the chorus in saying that I don’t really know. A lot of stuff churns through the subconscious and leaks out in dreams, but few of those ideas ever hold up to the rigorous light of day and the process of writing and revising (okay, that worked for Stephanie Meyers, but I’d have to ask what she’d been eating before going to bed). I have a suspicion that everyday life is what gives writers most of their fodder. Like Nikki Grant’s mother, who found the whole Weetabix art contest inspiring. She’s now written a children’s book about Mambo the Mammoth. (For obvious reasons he can’t be Manny, though he looks a lot like the Ice Age cartoon character.)

Mambo has a Facebook page, even.

Sometimes just being on the sidelines while something happens is enough to fan a creative spark. Wonder what that spark will be for you?

Some of the titles of the books just now on my coffee table/trunk: The Rebellious Century, 1830-1930, by Charles Tilly, The Arsenic Century: How Victorian Britain was poisoned at home, work, and play, by James C. Whorton, Healers and Healing in Early Modern Italy, by David Gentilcore, and on reserve Poison, detection, and the Victorian imagination, by Ian Blumney,

Oh, but this is way too much fun. If you can get your hands on a copy of The Arsenic Century, do. It’s one of the most engaging nonfiction reads I’ve dug into in awhile. Fun, fun, fun, and all in the name of work! Woot!

I love my job.

Happy August! I’m looking up from the world of juggling writing projects and trying to convince myself that researching in dull academic volumes for historical fiction definitely means myriad cups of tea under fleece blankets — but not necessarily myriad cookies. I see I need to pack up a box and visit the neighbors, quickly.

Other than the recipe for these pretty little faux Oreos (yummy, but Oreos aren’t quite this sweet. Shall cut the sugar down again for the next batch), you know what makes me happy about the picture below? The fact that the plate and the cup almost match. One is melamine, and was cheaply and recently purchased, the other was (also cheaply — c’mon, people, you know me) purchased when we first moved here, and is by a well-known designer… and yet, they go together. Serendipity!

For everyone who says that YA bloggers are categorically unable to write incisive, intelligent, negative reviews, please think again, and check out The Book Smugglers. Intelligent bloggers – with strong opinions they’re not afraid to share, eliciting lively conversation. And their blog header is just adorable. Go, Smugglers.

When I was a kid, we had chickens. I had no idea they could swim, but it’s so hot in parts of China this week that some of them have decided that’s a great idea. And should it surprise me that in the UK — home of Very Bizarre Festivals and things like cheese rolling — that there are hen races? No, it should not. And yet: I remain somewhat baffled and amused.

All righty, then. Back to my tea and cookies. Oh, and my “research.”

Revision. Because it means I’ve sold another book, and I’m working, being a writer. Which is just exceptionally cool.

The countdown of “almost done” for Kelly’s Jane poems, and knowing that yet another of my dearest friends will soon be in print.

New story ideas and fun historical research. And poison.

The light at the end of the tunnel for Tech Boy’s PhD.

Actually, the endless rain. Because I’d rather be dreary than too hot, at this point. (This may change.)

Other happiness will surface, but those are the thoughts as of this moment. Also: that Tales of Mere Existence is somewhat addictive, and very depressingly funny.

I’m a little bummed this hour, since finding out my agent isn’t coming with me to this grand ALA celebration. His Dad has fallen ill, and I wish him very well, but I am sad that he’s not going to be there to rightfully bask in the glory of one of his writers receiving an award. Also: I don’t get to hide behind him. He’s not a big man, but he schmoozes much better than I do, I know. (Having never met him in person I cannot be sure of this, but then, the man does schmoozing for a living.)

Poor S.A.M. I’ll miss him.

This means that one coffee meeting has been knocked off the itinerary, giving me more time to wander through the Exhibit Hall and pick up BOOKS. I really hope we manage to keep under the weight limit on our luggage, or I’ll be at the post office before we pack up to go.

The weather forecast for D.C. states that it’ll be 95°F the day I arrive, dropping to 84° and rising again to 87° before I leave. The forecast says nothing about humidity, but I’m happy there’s nothing over a hundred, at least. And the U.S. is a country that is fond of its iced drinks. I will survive.

I saw that Sarah, Duchess of York is going to be at the ALA this year. And John Grisham. And Natalie Merchant. And AMY SEDARIS?! I keep forgetting that it’s not just for children’s lit… also, there will be comedians. SO WEIRD!

Today, I put cell phone numbers in my phone that belong to poets and writers. THAT was exciting. Yes, I’ve known these people online, but I have their phone numbers now. Yeah, yeah, I know I hate talking on the phone. It was the PRINCIPLE of the thing, all right?

Yes, I suffer from Extreme Geekdom. Deal with it.

Today’s emoticon: Getting the realization that I should really pack.

(Today’s my Dad’s birthday. Happy birthday, Dad!)

I subscribe to the Smithsonian Institute’s photostream on Flickr, and let me tell you, they have archived some of the COOLEST things. This week, it’s the artwork of William H. Johnson. Born in South Carolina in 1901, he started out dirt poor, and moved to New York to pursue work at the age of seventeen. That’s a familiar enough story — country boy heads to the big city to find work, right?

But this man found work, saved money, and went to art school.

There are so many stories that we don’t know. So many dreams that people had, that they quietly strove for, while the wheels of history rolled on. William H. Johnson died unlauded, despite critics hailing his artwork as being as good as Van Gogh’s. I’m really glad that the Smithsonian has preserved some of his artwork, and that we can know a few of this man’s dreams.

Like many artists, he never achieved financial security. Tragedy and disease caused him grief, and ended his career. Like many, he lived with the concerns of making ends meet, and never knew his own greatness in his lifetime. But he never stopped trying.

Hold on to your dreams.

William H. Johnson

1901-1971

Congratulations, Fellow Bloomers!

The 2010 Amelia Bloomer List has been up since Tuesday! The Amelia Bloomer Project, as I blogged in September when I was nominated, is part of the Feminist Task Force of the Social Responsibilities Round Table of the American Library Association, and being on their annual list is an honor MARE’S WAR shares with some awesome people. This honor has a special place of pride for me, as an MFA alum of Mills College, which is the oldest women’s college west of the Rockies.

I’d like to especially congratulate Laurie Halse Anderson for WINTERGIRLS, Marilyn Nelson for SWEETHEARTS OF RHYTHM, John Scalzi for ZOE’S TALE and Sherri L. Smith for FLYGIRL. (Big WOOT for my friend Sherri!)

We’re hoping to interview Gentleman Scalzi for our next series of Blog Blast Tours, and you don’t want to miss Wonderland’s interview with our Sherri. FLYGIRL, by Sherri L. Smith is a truly intense, insightful book about the American struggle with race and identity as wrapped up in the story of a fair-skinned African American girl who was light enough to “pass,” and joined the Women’s Airforce Service Pilots (WASPs). The book simply deserves to be read and honored by thoughtful people, so pick it up.

Amelia Bloomer, Mare and all the other girls who brave the bloomers salute you!

They DID try and call me.

I don’t know what phone number the Coretta Scott King jury used, but it now connects to an office. Sometimes it’s just a bit awkward to be out of the country when these things occur, but they DID try and phone me, they DO call ALL winners, and they LOVE IT. Ms. Smith said so. (And how sweet was she to care enough to send a note to clear that up for me?)

Which is its own particular joy. Can you imagine being one of the callers at 6:30 a.m. Eastern time, waiting for that fuzzy-voiced “Hello?”

What a feeling.

POEM: You See, I Want A Lot from Rilke’s Book of Hours (as translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)

You see, I want a lot.
Maybe I want it all:
the darkness of each endless fall,
the shimmering light of each ascent.

So many are alive who don’t seem to care.
Casual, easy, they move in the world
as though untouched.

But you take pleasure in the faces
of those who know they thirst.
You cherish those
who grip you for survival.

You are not dead yet, it’s not too late
to open your depths by plunging into them
and drink in the life
that reveals itself quietly there.

Rainer Maria Rilke wrote his Book of Hours (Das Stundenbuch) between 1899, when he was 23 years old, and 1903. The stunning beauty and poise of his words always quiets me, and I take slow, reflective time to read and re-read each one of them. He kind of hits me like Rumi, in some ways.

Here’s another, just to get your year started out right.

How Surely Gravity’s Law

How surely gravity’s law,
strong as an ocean current,
takes hold of the smallest thing
and pulls it toward the heart of the world.

Each thing—
each stone, blossom, child—
is held in place.
Only we, in our arrogance,
push out beyond what we each belong to
for some empty freedom.

If we surrendered
to earth’s intelligence
we could rise up rooted, like trees.

Instead we entangle ourselves
in knots of our own making
and struggle, lonely and confused.

So like children, we begin again
to learn from the things,
because they are in God’s heart;
they have never left him.

This is what the things can teach us:
to fall,
patiently to trust our heaviness.
Even a bird has to do that
before he can fly.

Poetry Friday bounds gracefully into 2010, hosted by my faux cousin Mary Lee at A Year of Reading. You’ll find a reliable schedule for PF posted there as well. More gorgeous Rilke can be enjoyed here with music and photographs. Happy Poetry Friday.

Not dreaming of a white Christmas — not when it was sunny and blue this week in Northern California. It is, however, foggy and snowy and in the twenties in Glasgow, Scotland, where I am some of the time. It pleases me not to be there now!!

Thank you for joining me this year on my blog (which I really should think about naming something clever), and I wish you and yours a time of happiness and grateful togetherness, and a great Christmas, if you celebrate it.