Novel Foods & Brave Goals


Another strange graffiti in the city; this is right next to the bizarre hummingbird/oil barrel thing. Someone uses photographs to create stencils to great effect. It’s neat, but there’s still a part of me — the part they usually ban from art galleries — which is mumbling under my breath, “Okay, but what does it MEAN!?!?!” I may soon find out; the building into which we are moving is on the other end of the street from this one. Perhaps I’ll skulk around and catch the artist en flagrante. Or, perhaps I’ll keep working on my revision and actually finish it before my editor asks what I’m doing with all of my copious free time.

“Ah, choices,” she says sardonically.


I’m so proud that my friend Mitali is being featured in the School Library Journal this month talking about children’s books and race. The article brings up some really challenging ideas that I’ve always enjoyed discussing on Mitali’s blog, and I hope you get a chance to read the article.

Preparing herself for the commentary — because these things always create the need for dialogue, some positive, some we wish we could ignore — Mitali is asking the question of how young is too young to ask questions about racism with kids, either during storytime or in a classroom setting? My mother is the director of an early childhood education center, so my opinion is that as soon as a child realizes that there are some kids who are different from them, it should be discussed. It only seems logical. But then, I don’t have any kids, so…


Novel Food is a culinary/literary event in the foodie blogosphere that has been going on since 2007. Chefs, cooks and amateur foodies create dishes from published literary works (novelss, novella, short stories, memoirs, bios, poems), and post them to their food blogs. Then the chefs at Bricole do a round-up type of thing, and everyone gets to read and enjoy. It’s not something I’d ever heard of before, since I’m only a minor foodie, but doesn’t it sound fun? And guess what? Chef Paz wrote up Saint Julia’s “Perfectly Hard-Boiled” Egg Salad from A La Carte!

Color me proud and pleased!

Of the adults I’ve heard from who have read this book, many of them have cautiously tried out the recipes — figuring that if the teen narrator can do it, certainly they can. That’s the idea! No one should be intimidated by their kitchens! Comfort food for all!


Unlike many writers and children’s lit bloggers, I haven’t managed to make any of the meet-and-greet Kidlitosphere Conferences, and in some ways I feel like I’m out of the loop (in other ways, my introverted soul rejoices and goes back to happily haunting the edges of the world, well contented to just observe). I’ve never met Laini Taylor in person, but much of her musings on the topics of writing really speak to me. I will leave you with this comment of hers today, and encourage you to go and read the whole post:

“The story must come out somehow — sometimes coaxing works, sweet gentle coaxing. But other times it must be forced, dragged, inelegantly, unwillingly, its heels making skid marks on the wood floor.

This is the job: figuring out what works, day after day, and doing it.”

My quote for this week, which has slammed me over the head and has left me blinking is by child development specialist Joe Chilton Pearce who writes, “To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.”

It’s one of the biggest things that blocks us from writing — fear of getting it wrong, fear of having to start over and revise, fear of pushing our work into the public eye, and having it scrutinized and scorned.

It takes a lot of courage to drag the words out, day by day, and set them spinning. It’s not always successful, but the courage comes with continuing to try.

Write Bravely. And though the steps change daily, keep dancing.

I Hate Moving


…It means all of your books are out of reach.

It means all of your CD’s are taped up, and that you can’t really justify flopping down in the middle of everything and reading the old Boyds Mills Press catalog you just found, wondering if there’s anything in there you absolutely need (and wondering if anyone has read/reviewed Miss Crandall’s School for Young Ladies & Little Misses of Color and if anyone has ever heard of such an amusing and cute title). It means there’s either sitting at your computer and working, or taping boxes together and wrapping your collection of pseudo-antique teacups (all mismatched, all $.25 at a pseudo-antique shop) and working that way. No in-between. You have a week and a half and who cares if you’re not motivated to do either job and really want to play Lexulous on Facebook and do your nails?

Moving means you have to work. With a deadline.

You’d think a writer would be used to that.

Weekend Edition: First Lines

He — for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it — was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which swung from the rafters.

Ach, Ginny, Ginny. You slay me with your first lines.

(For your edification, that was from Orlando, by Virginia Woolf. I’m meant to be putting books AWAY, not reading them, but you know how that goes. Frankly, it’s why there are books beached on the reefs of every small table, stair and window sill of my house; the tide never stops.

Ah, books. Make. Me. So. Happy. Never mind the tide, may I never stop wading in the sea.

Pax to you.


The coast near St. Andrews, Scotland, taken one fine evening from a train as we crossed a looong bridge. Lovely light, no?

Poetry Friday: Another Smart Cat

I have written before about the amazing wow-I-do-get-this feeling I got when I discovered a kindred spirit in Christopher Smart, the slightly insane 18th century poem who was a public pray-er, and who also wrote the Psalmesque My Cat, Jeoffrey, in praise of his only friend in confinement, his cat. I discovered Smart in graduate school, and I liked him very much, as he made the intense and overwhelming world of graduate school, brilliant professors and 18th century literature something human and doable for me.

I also discovered Charles Bukowski in graduate school. Him, I liked not so much (fictionwise, anyway), but his poetry continues to touch a very real place for me. He writes of all kinds of things, sometimes in rantings, other times in clever, funny diatribes. His best poems to me are his quiet, reflective stanzas. This one reminds me a bit of Christopher Smart.

startled into life like fire

in grievous deity my cat

walks around

he walks around and around

with

electric tail and

push-button

eyes

he is

alive and

plush and

final as a plum tree

neither of us understands

cathedrals or

the man outside

watering his

lawn

if I were all the man

that he is

cat–

if there were men

like this

the world could

begin

he leaps up on the couch

and walks through

porticoes of my

admiration.

– by Charles Bukowski, from Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame © Black Sparrow Press, 1974.

I think the best thing about pets — or babies or small children — is that they are what they are, entirely. If we kept that, what could we accomplish?


The kitty stalking through the porticoes of our admiration today is the Dunkeld Cathedral cat; I think her name is Mimi. What I remember about her most is that she refused to be photographed face forward. I have a bunch of pictures of her rump. I don’t know how she managed that. Anyway! She actually belongs to one of the women who rings bells there of a Sunday; she has the run of the place the rest of the week as well.

Poetry Friday today is at the poet Julie Larios’ site, The Drift Record. Julie’s poetry is always astounding; her post for today is something she made with refrigerator magnets, that managed to sound, with that severe syntax, like something ethereal and planned and gorgeous. Color me impressed. Happy weekend.

Just a Brief Note

I like this picture because it’s a moment in between. In between buildings. In between showers — believe it or not, it was a rainy day — and in between Winter and Spring. Who knows, it might have also been taken on a Wednesday — right in the in-between of the beginning of the week, and the end…

This morning was sunny and breezy, and by nine a.m., hail was spattering against the window. It is downright freezing, and tomorrow’s forecast is for wind and snow! Aren’t you glad you live in a place of such loveliness as your own hometown? I can’t believe I’m going out to a castle next Friday, and I’m going to be MOVING in two and a half weeks, and the weather is still so hard to predict. I wonder where I’ll get soaked/frozen/blown the worst?!

When I first came to Scotland, I laughed that people talked about the weather so much. Now I know why.

Yesterday I posted at Finding Wonderland — check me out as I out myself as a full on geek yet again, this time over the books of Belfast-born writer, James White. Colleen at Chasing Ray has the full line-up of all the “neighbors” in the kidlitosphere who shared books.

Sara Lewis Holmes has a great heart, and is quick at putting to use great ideas. Today Saturday– until midnight EST, if you go and comment on her blog at THIS POST, in response to the Library Loving challenge given her by a friend, she will donate a dollar to the Flying Horse Farms library wishlist, to buy a horse book for the kids with serious illnesses who enjoy time at the farm! Of course, it can’t be any old comment — you need to say something to the kids. Say something positive about reading, about horses, about your wishes and hopes for their camp experience. It doesn’t have to be long. Go on, now. I’ll wait.

You’re back? Great.

Everybody and his little dog too has pointed out the trailer for Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak, screenwritten by the entertaining Dave Eggers. Now, there’s a t-shirt at Threadless that I love which says, Movies: Ruining the Book Since 1920, and by and large I TOTALLY subscribe to that point of view, especially with books for children and young adults. But so many people are so excited about this new film, and so I will zip closed my mouth and suspend judgment until… Dave Eggers’ totally overwrought screenplay totally ruins the book for everyone forever. Or, um, something like that.

You know I’m kidding, right?

Oh, all right, ALL RIGHT. I’ll close with something nice: Every year the Chicago Tribune has a MOST entertaining competition to make Peep dioramas. Check out the top ten. The winners will be announced right around Easter. There’s been so much bad, sad news about newspapers this week that I’m really grateful that the Tribune has kept the tradition alive.

Gothica, Lucky Meetings, Forks & Other Extemporanea

Happy Tuesday, chickens!

Isn’t this the greatest spooky Gothic picture ever? This is actually three pictures of the University (Glasgow) combined into one — one focused on the sky, the other focused on the building foreground and the other, background. Really — this is what it looks like when a storm is coming in, and you need to literally run to get under cover because it draws toward you like drapes across a rod — interminably, inexorably, driven by winds and often accompanied by get-moving-faster chunks of hail to sting you upside the head. The weather in Scotland is very dramatic, very moody, and a lot like me at thirteen. What’s not to love?

Bring on the old-school Chuck Woolery music, Maggie Stiefvater is playing Love Connection. (I haven’t watched the Game Show Network in awhile, so all I’m stuck with is the theme to The Love Boat. And now you are too. Hee!)! Maggie’s Love Connection is a fabulous idea to assist other writers in finding that perfect critique partner. Maggie has invited her blog readers to post a single sentence description of their book or their book’s genre, and a tiny bit of information designed to narrow down the field of people searching desperately for someone to work with. Go. Check it out, and good luck.

Susan Patron is on the Powell’s blog today, talking about Lucky Breaks, her sequel to the awesome Higher Power of Lucky. I have to say that Lucky is one character I really enjoyed, so I look forward to catching up on what else is going on in her life, dog scrotums and all…

Meanwhile, you knew she’d get there eventually: Justina goes geocaching in FORKS. Yes. That Forks. The Cullens were in Florida, however, so she got back with all of her vital liquids…

Revise, Rewrite, Repeat. It’s where I’m at today, and just to remind myself of a few pertinent facts, I shall invoke The Pullman:

“I don’t believe in writer’s block.
All writing is difficult. The most you can hope for is a day when it goes reasonably easily. Plumbers don’t get plumber’s block and doctors don’t get doctor’s block; why should writers be the only profession that gives a special name to the difficulty of working, and then expects sympathy for it?”

~ Philip Pullman

Off to pace and read my manuscript aloud, in hopes that I can continue to crack open its carapace, and suck out its marrow. Or something in the mixed metaphor category.

Oooh. Pretty.

Shiny stickers make me happy.


Well, last week I saw S.A.M. off to the Bologna Children’s Book Faire, and hope he has a lovely time working hard on my behalf in the sunny climes of Italy – and I wish he and his sweetie a lovely time in Lisbon afterward. And I won’t cry if they don’t send me a little sunshine. Not very hard, anyway.

Fingers crossed that the Book Faire this year will have much buying and selling, and we’ll see some really neat books from other places introduced into the American market. We’ve had nibbles from various countries for both A LA CARTE and MARE’S WAR, so perhaps there will someday be a Swedish, Finnish, Japanese, Egyptian, Chinese, Korean version of either of the above…

High on the list of Things Which Make Me Ridiculously Pleased, right after hairless cats, gouache, and the Junior Library Guild Lapel Pin, (I don’t even wear blazers, but now that’s suddenly a MUST. I mean, everyone knows writers mostly wear sweats, but now I have an EXCUSE to get dressed!) — right after these fine things is poetry, and National Poetry Month is coming up quickly. Next month, you *MUST* check out the hullaballoo at Miss Rumphius’ Place! It’s Poetry Maker, where thirty-six poets for children, will be interviewed, and we’ll find out a little more about who they are and how they create. Meanwhile, over at GottaBook, Greg’s posting Thirty Poets in 30 Days, and each poem is going to be a previously unpublished one. The generosity of the poets involved is really amazing. It’s going to be an all-day, every day poetry celebration, beginning April first.

Poetry Friday: I Still Am In Sore Doubt Concerning Spring

For some of us, it’s pretty hard to believe in the whole Spring Thing just now — at least it hasn’t snowed here in… what, two weeks now? And it hasn’t rained in two whole days. The sky is a bit of blue, behind the gauzy veil of high clouds and fog… it might be coming, but…

I’ve believed before, I have. And have been shocked by cold fronts that knocked the blossoms of the trees. And speaking of blossoms, where are they? Where are even the leaves!? I swear, fruit trees don’t bloom in this place until the end of May. It’s enough to drive a California girl crazy. Berrying season seems to be in September. What, then, is the point of spring at all?

A high of 56°F makes me ridiculously happy. I can hear birds. And eventually… at some point… more than just the hardiest of crocuses (crocusi?) and daffodils will burst forth. When the city is in bloom, it really tries hard to make up for the months and months of gray, mucky, ugly, yuck.

I’m in some doubt about when it’s coming, but… I’m willing to believe.

“The First Spring Day,” by Christina Rossetti.

I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,

If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,

If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun

And crocus fires are kindling one by one:

Sing, robin, sing;

I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.

I wonder if the springtide of this year

Will bring another Spring both lost and dear;

If heart and spirit will find out their Spring,

Or if the world alone will bud and sing:

Sing, hope, to me;

Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.

The sap will surely quicken soon or late,

The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate;

So Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom,

Or in this world, or in the world to come:

Sing, voice of Spring,

Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.


Many poems are turned into classical songs. I’m kind of hoping this is one — I can imagine a gorgeous arrangement. The poetry Friday round-up is over at Elaine’s, at Wild Rose Reader. Enjoy this doubtful Spring day, wherever you are…