Hilary Thompson's Blog, page 4

They (or they used to) say not to judge a book by its cover. And I mostly agree with this sentiment.

Unless the cover is a fiercely beautiful and magical rendition of the essence of the book. Like mine happens to be.

Not to brag or anything, but just LOOK AT IT!


My cover designer is Najla Qamber, of Najla Qamber Designs and she is talented, professional, and apparently psychic. She used a combo of live model/photographer/stock photos/mad skillz to create this bite of perfection.

For those interested, I've read up a bit on cover design, and a cover should hopefully evoke genre (young adult fantasy in my case) and should be symbolic and beautiful, rather than a plot summary.

My main character does indeed have fiery orange-red hair, and that lovely constellation in the sky is her astrological sign of Aries - as well as a bit of a problem for her throughout the book.

So, what do you think? *preening* *waiting expectantly*

If you've never seen the website Dear Teen Me, you should take a look. It has letters written by authors to their teen selves. Some are funny, some are full of great advice, and some are downright heart-breaking. I see myself and my students in many of the letters.

I haven't (yet) written one of those telling letters, but on my 33rd birthday, it's crossed my mind that I used to be quite a different person, while still being essentially the same, if that makes any sense.

I thought I'd share a poem I wrote almost exactly half my life ago, after I returned from a summer program in France. I thought it was pretty cool. I might still think that, and I still don't care if you agree. And I still lie about that sometimes.

"Partial Observations" (written 1998)

Paris is a city and like all cities it is a study in excess.
Yet, it is an excess different from the one I know.
The streets smell of piss and flowers
And the people all smoke their cigarettes all the way down.
Everyone tries to hide themselves but things hang out between the cracks of ancient buildings.
I watch them because I know they are different from me.
They watch me back,
Perhaps for the same reason.
I spend ten minutes on the metro being convinced that I'm not American.
Then my passport proves us wrong,
And the man walks away in disappointment
As a stream of softly-southern English escapes from its prison behind my lips.
Now, an American speaks to me in broken, faltering French.
Ou sont une toilette? she smiles.
Then I point, allowing French to flow easily from my open mouth.
I'm sorry, I whisper as she scurries away.
Suddenly, my obsession has become tiresome and heavy.
I'm sad.
But again, I'm not alone,
As there are many sad people here.
Somehow, the thousands of lights
Have only made obvious the confusion and loneliness
Present in the largest of crowds.


So, to teen me, I would say:

It will all be okay. The world is both beautiful and tragic, because they have to go together. You are partially observing this now, and someday you will begin to understand it.

Don't be too hard on yourself. But don't be too hard on others either. You'll always struggle with the desire for perfection, and you'll never get there. Learn to let go and have a little more fun.

Keep writing, because even if this poem is overly emotional and harshly critical, you have an eye for humanity, and a passion for words. Marry this to your ambitious streak and you will be successful. Even if your definition of success changes.

And you, dear reader, what would you say to your teen self?

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The one about grammar and rodents...

In our part of the country, middle school students are taught the trick for identifying prepositions: anywhere a mouse can go. For example: 

a mouse can go inside your closet and induce your wrath by leaving his mousey mark on stacks of folded blankets and clothinga mouse can go around the live trap you bought in the hope that you wouldn't have to explain death to your children just yeta mouse can go  atop  the dog food bowl, enabling a veritable feast for his entire mousey familya mouse can go across the glue trap you laid out while thinking that at least he wouldn't die in front of the childrena mouse can go into the live trap finally, resulting in much celebrating and a short walk to a nearby open field for release into the wilda mouse can go behind your back and create more mice before you even walk back into the houseIn our part of the country, mice are as common as prepositions. However, finding either one in a definite manner can be challenging.
As one student pointed out: a mouse can go in a cat's mouth - does that mean "cat's mouth" is a preposition?
And as another student pointed out: why don't I just get a cat?
As every teacher and parent can attest, young people teach us as much as we teach them, as long as we are willing to listen.

Source: Cheri3380346 (among others)
This ecard pretty much sums it up, doesn't it?

But I still wanna write about it. So here goes.

Sometimes I wish I were back in the 50s. No, not really, but I would be a lot less busy. Women today juggle full-time jobs outside or inside of the home, plus we tend to take on a majority share of children and household responsibilities, even when we have a full-time partner. 

(If this doesn't sound like your life, don't tell me. Please.)

I wouldn't give any of it up, either. In fact, I usually just add more: write a book? Sure! I can fit that in my schedule.

But all of this leads to a big time-crunch and a lot of stress. Sometimes I look around and wonder just how or why I opened all of those tabs. But they're all important to me - I've already cut out the stuff that isn't.

My husband is fond of telling me that I can do anything I want, but I can't do everything.

I prefer the more optimistic yet manic version: I can do everything I want, just not on the same day.

In real life, this means that I don't talk to friends or to my mom some days. I don't spend every Saturday and Sunday doing creative and educational activities with the kids. I don't always grade my students' papers in a timely manner. And I sure as heck don't always fold the laundry before it gets worn.

But when I do these things, I do each of them with heart and care and gusto. This is what it means to me, to be a woman today. (Men can hop on this too; I don't mind.) 

Do what you want, in as many variations and categories as you can handle. Know when to say no, but give yourself room to say yes.

And how about you? How do you handle your tabs?

So there I was, sitting at an open-call meeting of a local writing group. The man beside me had a strangely large, square volume with him that he claimed was for sale from the trunk of his car, on Amazon, and perhaps Barnes and Noble's website. Although he hadn't bothered to check yet. He's already sold about two dozen copies. Not bad for a year or so - his words, not mine.
That, my friends. That. Is why I had always been so put off by the idea of self publishing. 
Now, I've always been a researcher, and a by-the-books kinda gal (everything is about books, really). So over the past year I've gone a few rounds with the agents. Racked up rejection letters, helpful comments, and thicker skin. Grew impatient, talked myself down, then got serious.
I regularly research authors I admire, to see how their careers built from nothing to something to spectacular. Over the summer I stumbled across (in the linky way of the interweb) Susan Kaye Quinn's website, and my perspective suddenly shifted - just like finding that sweet spot on a pair of binoculars, everything was clear. 
I felt like a veil to the other side had been lifted, and they were having a party over there.
Susan (and many others I've found since) treats self publishing like a small business. These authors have business plans, short and long term goals, marketing budgets, and more.
They even have a new name: indie publishing. Now, this I can do. 
If "self-publishing" makes us cringe and think of a trunk full of books that you had to purchase by mortgaging your house, then perhaps "indie" can change writers' prejudices and readers' perceptions.
Doesn't "indie publishing" sound exotic and buck-the-system and all other things I imagine myself to be when I'm not potty-training a two-year-old? Sure it does.
No more am I trapped in the idea that IF ONLY my book sells to a stranger in New York City. I'm a doer, and I always have been. I've been independent since I was conceived, according to my mom. (I come by it honestly: see previous post.)
Knowing the power is mine is, well, powerful.
If you write for publication, what fears or prejudices do you have about self publishing? 
If you don't write for publication, do you know the difference, or care either way? (Most of my non-writer friends didn't, on either question.)

I remember being around eight, which means my sister was just past two. Our house was on the long edge of a racetrack-shaped subdivision: the loop. Man-O-War, to be exact, just like the racehorse. And every morning my mother would run this loop a dozen times or more.
My sister and I would sit in the bay window seat overlooking the shadeless street and wave as Mom passed - around, around, around.
Before my own children came along, I used to wonder how she justified the risk. Surely she had as many fears as beads of sweat:
What if they aren't at the window this time?What if they burn the house down?What if they need me?
Now that I'm a mother racing on my own loops of daily life, I understand that there is another fear. The one that pushed her to run faster than those simple thoughts:
What might happen to me if I don't claim this small time?
All of us have constraints on our time and energy, and children are some of the most precious yet also most demanding of these. But Mom's actions taught me that she was (and still is) more than a mom - she's a runner. Her running time was important to her, just as the greater amounts of time she spent with us later.
Like many writers, I have a "day job." I love it - I teach writing and literature to high school students. I also have a "night job" that I love even more - wife to one and mother to two. My students, colleagues, friends, and family are my life. Writing is how I make sense of it all.
If my children grow up anything like me, they will have dreams. Big, complicated, demanding dreams that come alive and grow over anything not moving fast enough. I hope to show them how to balance what they have and what they want, the way my mother showed me.
So I take time to listen to them, play with them, snuggle their small soft bodies, and read them plenty of magical stories. But then I tell them to go play. To use their own imagination and each other's company. And to let Momma write.