Critters

I'm fond of critters and subscribe to two blogs that satisfy my critter-picture-needs: The Daily Coyote and itty bitty kitty committee. On the Daily Coyote, there's a picture of a coyote, a dog and a cat all curled up together. Awwww, too sweeet.


I'm still waiting for my kitties to feel the love for the new pup. Today, I rested with the pup beside me and the cat on top of me. It took quite a while for the pup and kitty to settle down but it did happen. And then the kids came home and mayhem ensued ...

Here's a picture of the kitty tolerating the pup. How I wish I could capture the moments right before, with the pup sitting, watching the cat, tail thumping wildly, and the cat saying, "Don't you dare come any closer."

The pup is four and half months old now ... and how she's growing!

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Letters of Merit

My critique group rocks!

Allyson Schrier and Molly Blaisdell both got Letters of Merit for the Barbara Karlin grant (for picture book) and SCBWI WIP grant (YA contemporary) respectively!!!! Woo-hoooo!!!

I know, too many exclamations!!! But I can't help it. I'm so proud of these ladies for sticking to it and submitting their work and getting this recognition. Way to go!

See, I controlled myself (but I'm grinning ear to ear).
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Do It for Love

I just came across this advice from Walt Disney: "find a job that you like so much that you'd do it without compensation; then do it so well that people will pay you to continue."

Gosh, how this resonates with my life -- scientist, mother, and now writer.

I needed to hear Disney's words as I revise.
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A No Good, Horrible Weekend

I'm trying to get into the writing groove and finding it sooooo hard to do the revisions on my novel. Where's the love? I am not getting the same satisfaction from polishing a chapter as I get from polishing a short poem or article. When I work on a short piece, I can say that I'm finished. I don't see the end in sight for my novel.

The first half of the book is in decent shape. The second half, not. So I've decided to borrow a trick from my singing days ... start working on a piece backwards. Yes, I've sung Mozart and Verdi and Brahms and the only way to finish with a bang is to make each and every cell of your body knows the material. And you do this by working backwards. Because you practice, practice, practice getting to the end, you can finally not just sing the notes, but feel the music in your bones. That's what I want to accomplish with my words. As Dr. Green would say, "Once more, with feeling!"

I'm good at beginnings. I love writing when the characters are literally telling me the story and all I'm doing is transcribing. But characters are fickle. They stop talking (perhaps I'm not listening) or do something I'd rather they not do. Sustaining a story for fifty-sixty thousand words is hard. Making it sing (with feeling) is even harder. So, I'm going backwards, and I must admit that working on the ending has put me in a better mood. I'm leaving these characters in a better place ...

So what does this have to do with a no good, horrible weekend? Nothing, except, when the worst thing that can happen is twisting your ankle so you have to keep off your feet, ice it and rest, life's actually pretty good.

So, tell me, how do you fall in love again so that you can make your stories sing?
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Fall

The first week of school went surprisingly well. I feel grateful that not all the extracurricular activities started this week. I only had to deal with soccer and football. Dance and piano will be added next week. I've been a lazy mother in the past. I mean, I didn't even take my son to preschool because it was so much nicer to hang out at home, throw rocks in the pond, weed the garden, and read books.

Then they got old enough for school. Kindergarten was a blast. And just for two-and-half hours. But when my son started Grade 1, my daughter missed him terribly. He was gone six long hours. I missed him too. I looked around for other kids, but they were ALL busy -- in preschool and other activities. There were mothers who tried to fit in a playdate between gymnastics and kindermusik. I said, No thank you. So I enrolled my daughter in preschool. I think it was good for her. She seemed to enjoy it. But she was happiest at home.

I tried avoiding organized activities for as long as possible, but two years ago, my son wanted to play baseball. He was seven, and I felt it was too early for team sports, but gave in. Well, I was right. These kids were happiest when each of them had a ball to toss. What a difference a year makes. Last year, the kids were awesome. Not only did they learn the rules of the game, but they worked together as a team.

My daughter is seven and plays soccer. She's improved tremendously. But I have a feeling that all these kids will play not just for themselves, but for the team, in another year.

I have turned into a suburban carpooling mom, schlepping kids to this, that and the other thing. I wouldn't have believed this about myself even three years ago. I miss our evenings together. I miss not having to hurry supper. I miss my kids.

We do have some downtime. We walk together with our pup. We take long baths. And when one is busy with sports, we have time to spend with the other. I cherish this one-on-one time.

And the bright side of school is that I have time alone to be with my own thoughts. Granted, this week I have been getting the house in order. I let a lot of things slide this summer, especially after getting the new pup, but I cannot think in such chaos, let alone write. I am terribly envious of people who can tune it all out and just write.

My mind is finally quieting down, and my story people whisper a few things now and then. If I don't pay attention, they whisper a bit louder. They're not yet clamoring to be heard but it's their time now. It's fall. And I want to fall into my stories again. Wish me luck.

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Reading

Some more wonderful books I've read over the summer:

Climbing the Stairs by Padma Venkatraman
Wow! A book that promised a glimpse into 1940s British India and so much more. The central character, Vidya, is forced to question the customs by which they live by, the very beliefs they have after her father is brutally clubbed by the British police. Although the title is aimed at Vidya *climbing the stairs* to gain knowledge, I found her brother's story much more riveting. At times Vidya appeared too naive for her age (she is 15) though this probably reflects our own reality now with children growing up too fast.

A Curse Dark as Gold by Elizabeth C. Bunce
This book was clearly crafted with a great deal of love. The author chooses her words with extreme care. This retelling of Rumplestilskin was fresh and different. I confess that despite the gorgeous writing (and cover) I didn't identify with Charlotte Miller. Perhaps because Charlotte is business-minded, the older sister ... and I am neither. I felt much more connected to her impetuous younger sister.

The Humming of Numbers by Joni Sensel
Not many books are set in tenth century Ireland. I didn't realize that Vikings were raiding this area so often. Another beautifully rendered historical fantasy. And the romance between Aidan and Lana crackled just perfectly. Gorgeous cover.


Head Case by Sarah Aronson

This was one gritty book and reminded me of the time I spent working in the spinal-cord injury ward at the Veteran’s Hospital. I’d play chess or rummy, read books to the patients who practically lived at the hospital because they had so many other medical problems. They had few visitors and loved a good game. And these brave men reminded me daily how lucky I was to walk out of there. Ms. Aronson doesn’t spare us on what it could be like to live with quadriplegia. Frank Marder narrates his grim story, with humor, without sentimentality: Two people are dead. I have to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the neck down. And you read ahead and find out how a nice boy like Frank ends up like this.

The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
This book reminded me of To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee because the narrator is looking back after many years. From the inside cover: It is the story of eleven-year-old Pecola Breedlove -- a black girl in an America whose love for its blond, blue-eyed children can devastate all others -- who prays for her eyes to turn blue: so that she will be beautiful, so that people will look at her, so that her world will be different. This is the story of the nightmare at the heart of her yearning, and the tragedy of its fulfillment.

I've also been reading a lot of how-to-raise-dog books and my favorite so far is Bill Tarrant's Retriever Pups: the Formative First Year. Beautifully written and full of practical advice on living with your dog.

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I hope your summer's been full of good books, rest and relaxation and good times with your family.

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The Underneath

I haven't been writing much, but reading tons. And even though I read The Underneath by Kathi Appelt a short while back, her voice and characters are in my head, and I wonder whether Ranger sings the blues again, whether the kittens, Sabine and Puck, have kittens of their own and what new stories the trees harbor.

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I have mixed feelings about this book. It's luminous. The author is clearly a poet -- every word has been chosen with care. But I wondered whether this is a book for children, whether children would enjoy it. My nine-year-old, who is a voracious reader and mature for his age, put this one down. This is a boy who read Where the Red Fern Grows when he was seven, who couldn't put it down, even though he could barely read through the tears. We were all reading it together, but being the way he is, he read ahead and discovered tragedy for himself, alone. Later he told his then five-year-old sister what happened (to more tears). But I digress.

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We aren't strangers to Ms. Appelt's books. My kids loved her Bubba and Beau series of picture books. And I discovered her memoir -- My Father's Summers. What a lot of memories that book churned up for me. But The Underneath is Ms. Appelt's best book. I'll say this inspite of all the kvetching I'm going to do, which isn't much.

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The book starts off beautifully: There is nothing lonelier than a cat who has been loved, at least for a while, and then abandoned on the side of the road. Immediately I have this intense longing to pick up this calico cat. How her life and those of her kittens unfolds is the central thread. But Ms. Appelt interrupts the thread with several others -- the trees, the snake, the alligator, and many more. They all eventually come together, and I sighed a huge sigh of satisfaction at the end. Because like a Victor Hugo novel, everything is accounted for, explained. There are no loose threads. And I thoroughly enjoyed the magic realism, reminiscent in the stories of South American authors Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Isabel Allende.

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I could hear Ms. Appelt's voice (and I do not know her), her Texas accent, telling me this story. She is a master. From the first sentence you can trust her, inspite of the maddening interludes (which aren't really interludes at all). I will read this book aloud to my children when they are older. And I know my son will read ahead ... and discover pain and anguish for himself. And love too. It's power.

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I'm thinking Newbery :) What about you?

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Brewing, Composting, Percolating

I've been doing a fair bit of scribbling in my notebook. Nothing earth-shattering. Just processing ideas, writing about the pup, the kids, about me not writing productively (that is, no deadlines). A couple of days ago, a voice emerged. "This is my purpose," she said. And my hand is aching as this girl tells her purpose, or what she assumes is her purpose. It's a story that explores duty and freedom. I have been thinking of this for years and years and years. And finally, there's the voice, the perfect characters to explore this idea with.
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Almost all my stories, both short and long, have an extremely long gestation period. We're talking years here, not months. My historical YA has been percolating for a good twenty years. The novel I wrote last fall had been composting for a couple more decades. And this one -- I don't know what it is yet -- but I've been thinking about this in some way for close to thirty years. I'm in my 40s, so yes, I was a kid when I was first thinking about this. To finally have words to express these ideas is exhilarating. This is what I love about writing.
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So tell me, how long do your stories brew in your head before you actually start writing?
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Do the Right Thing

Just by chance, I saw one of my pictures on someone else's blog, unacknowledged, without my permission. Folks, this is not right. In the words of Kevan Atteberry, "What would your mother say? Hmmm?"

As I am fond of saying to my own children, "Do the right thing, even when I'm not watching." This is good advice for adults as well.

Fair use means taking without permission. But it doesn't mean not to acknowledge the source. Please folks, always, always acknowledge your source. As a writer of nonfiction, I am highly aware of this. The source of every quote and fact I choose to include in my article is meticulously recorded should I need to refer to it. Plus, it allows my readers to go further with their own reading, should they choose to.

I enjoy taking pictures. I'm not a professional but I've been complimented many times on the pictures I've taken. It makes me feel good to share a few images from my life. Why would anybody want to take them without acknowledging the source? And it's all the more distressing that it's another person in the business.

Do the right thing. It's easy.
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Feed Me!

We spied four eggs, and three have hatched. Mama and Papa Junco feed their babies countless times a day. These babies aren't cute per se, but we sure love their cheeping.

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I'm loving this summer. Writing is on the backburner. Now that my children go to school full-time, I don't even try to carve in productive writing time when they're home. It's enough to just scribble in my notebook. Time is going so fast ... before we know it, the baby birds will fledge and my kiddos will be heading out of the house. I also believe in the power of the subconscious to keep working in the background. Or perhaps it's my excuse for being lazy ...

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Tell me, do you ever use your kids as an excuse?

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