Tricia Springstubb's Blog, page 14

March 6 is World Read Aloud Day.  Could there be a happier, more thrilling prospect than adults and kids across the globe making a hubbub as they share their favorite stories? So far I’ll be Skyping and reading with schools in Illinois and  Texas. If you’d like to have me, or another author, read with your favorite kids, contact me through this site or go to www.litworld.org/worldreadaloudday/

From time time to time I publish an essay, and the most recent one, about what it’s like to sit behind the desk in the children’s room of the public library, is in the February issue of Cleveland magazine–the issue with the giant beer mugs on the cover. Here’s that link: http://clevelandmagazine.com/ME2/dirmod.asp?sid=E73ABD6180B44874871A91F6BA5C249C&nm=Article+Archives&type=Publishing&mod=Publications%3A%3AArticle&mid=1578600D80804596A222593669321019&tier=4&id=82757586E4864C57AF901924C6A63D98 (wow, I hope that really works)

A blog you’ve heard me mention before–From the Mixed Up Files– has a post I wrote up now. It’s about literary islands, home to baby dragons, wild ponies, red-haired orphans, notorious convicts and, of course pirates. You can read it at www.fromthemixedupfiles.com 

 And lastly, if you haven’t yet entered the giveaway for an ARC of my new picture book, it’s not too late. See the post below. There will be a giveaway for hardcover copies coming up soon on Goodreads.

Stay warm!

I’ve never done this before, but hear it’s fun, so…

Here on my desk sit two lovely ARCS (also known as lithos) of my new picture book PHOEBE AND DIGGER, which publishes March 26. For a chance to win one,  please leave a comment below by March 1. What would make this especially fun is if you shared some memory of your favorite, beloved toy.  Mind if I go first?

Saucy Walker!  I adored that doll, from her bouncy curls to her white plastic shoes. My grandmother sewed her a complete and exquisite wardrobe–I especially remember the turquoise corduroy overalls and silky print blouse to match. If any bully had tried to take her away from me, like the mean girl who snatches Digger, what would I have done? Cried my head off, probably. I was nowhere near as plucky as Phoebe.

I’ll personalize the giveaway copy for you or the child in your life. Thanks in advance for taking part! 

I just did an interview for a blog called Creative Spaces–I’ll post when it’s up–and it got me thinking about all the writing places I’ve had over the years.

In the beginning and for years to come, it all happened on my  kitchen table, where each night after dinner I’d sweep away the crumbs, haul out the manual typewriter, and get to work.  We bought the table at a  tag sale, like pretty much everything else we owned (except for our bed, $35 at a country auction).  Every time we moved to a new rental, the table came along, and it didn’t always wind up in the kitchen.  I remember writing on it on a back porch, by a fireplace, in a bedroom we painted green, in the basement of a hundred and fifty year old house surrounded by dairy farms. 

I can remember, too, the view, or lack of one, in each of th0se rooms. From that back porch, I once saw a kingfisher. From that bedroom, I watched a blizzard of bees swarm out of the house–it turned out they had a hive in the walls. A beekeeper came and collected the queen, but the bees returned next year anyway. I became convinced I could smell honey while I worked.

Once our first daughter was born, the hunt for a place where all children would be left behind began. Here in Cleveland, I acquired a new desk, a door laid across two stacks of drawers. As the three girls grew up, the main requirement of any work place was another door–one I could close. I taught them that the words ”Mama’s work place” were to be spoken with only the utmost reverance.

But now, behold! I work out in the open, beside three glorious windows that let me distract myself with the  neighborhood kids and dogs and bike riders, and for three seasons of the year, my blooming perennial garden. I have a real official desk, happily so beat up that spilled coffee doesn’t matter, book shelves, the full deal! These days the intruders have four legs instead of two.

I’m not a laptop person. Ideas happen anywhere, but there’s something about having a spot, one spot, that beckons my sustained imagination from its burrow.  I love thinking of all the places I’ve sat, staring and waiting, mumbling and scratching, and where, eventually, a story has emerged. We gave that kitchen table away to a friend, and have long since lost track both of him and it. One of these days, I may write a story about it.    

I love Verlyn Klinkenborg. His very name, of course, but also the little essays he posts in the NY Times on his life in the country, which allow me to feel as if I, too, have crunched across the snow beneath a full moon, carrying an armload of wood, noting the tracks of the red fox and the screech of the owl, all while sitting on my suburban couch with my Ikea aghan and  glass of red wine.

And I adored his one novel, “Timothy, or Notes of an Abject Reptile”, again for that name but more for the voice of the tortoise, a far-from-abject fellow whose powers of observation and patience I can only envy.

Now Klinkenborg has a new book, “Several Short Sentences About Writing”. So far I’ve only dipped into it, which I don’t think he’d mind. It seems meant to fall open anywhere to a koan-like nugget of advice or wisdom. The book takes up for sentences. For each one standing bravely on its own, no matter what comes before or after it. From that, he seems to be telling us, springs all the vitality and meaning a piece possesses.

To be truthful, I’m almost afraid to read the book. Much as I admire him, I’m worried he’ll reinforce my habit of honing and revising as I write. I’ve been working to be more the kind of writer who forges full steam ahead, getting that first draft done no matter how leaky and messy.  I’m too whatever to ever be a true  by-the-seat-of-my-panster, but I’d like more of that in my drafting process, which tends, too often, to favor the words themselves over the story.  

And yet, Verlyn and me, we both have faith in the words.  I just never know what a fortuitous phrase might unlock, where a well-made sentence might lead. While I can’t always follow my imagination, which just this morning tried to weasel a totally new character, an unemployed dolphin trainer, into a story where she most definitely does not belong, I do trust my inner voice.

I’m pretty sure, though, that he’d find most of the sentences in this post way too long.

Writing advice for the week, from Elliott Holt in Poets and Writers:

“I love big cities for the energy, the people-watching, the access to art and culture, the ability to feel anonymous. But I also need a daily ‘forest bath,’ as the Japanese call it. I take a long walk in the woods almost every day to clear my head…There is something about being on the trails, in the silence, under all those trees that does wonders for my brain. (A couple of years ago, The New York Times noted the health benefits of ‘forest bathing’:  apparently time spent among trees and plants reduces stress and boosts immune function.) I take my dog with me and sometimes I sort out character and plot problems on my walks. But more often than not, the walk is just a way to let go—of anxiety, of ego—and recharge my creative batteries. I always work better after I’ve been in the woods.”

Happy February!

PHOEBE’s first review is in. “Emotive and playful”, “nuanced and humorous”–thank  you, Kirkus!

Review Date: February 1, 2013 

Publisher:Candlewick

Pages: 32

Price ( Hardcover ): $16.99

Publication Date: March 26, 2013

ISBN ( Hardcover ): 978-0-7636-5281-4

Category: Picture Books

Phoebe overcomes new-sibling qualms and fear of a playground bully in this emotive and playful story.

“When Mama got a new baby…Phoebe got a new digger.” Comical illustrations and text play this dynamic out as the baby cries, eats and poops; Digger (a toy backhoe), controlled by Phoebe, is equal in attention-seeking behavior, knocking over trash, chasing the cat and pulling tablecloths down. An outing to the park becomes the perfect distraction, as Digger enjoys real dirt and Phoebe her imagination. Parental misinterpretation of behavior lands Phoebe in timeout—a perfect representation of Phoebe’s feelings regarding the injustice of the family’s latest change. When play resumes, a bully snatches Digger. Phoebe tries to get him back, but to no avail. When she’s on the brink of tears, Mama reassuringly steps in. With Digger back in Phoebe’s arms, and Phoebe back in Mama’s arms, the heroine once again feels safe and loved. With a new connection to her sibling made, a frozen treat shared and her world restored, all ends happily. Newman’s expressive drawings, done in a loose and economical style, serve the story well. His artwork, from the way he considers perspective to the interesting and emotionally truthful portrayals of the characters, allows readers (and parents!) to identify with this feisty yet sensitive heroine. 

Nuanced and humorous, this is a worthy addition to the new-sibling shelf. (Picture book. 3-6)

I’m working on another draft of my new middle grade novel. Yes, that one. Since Charles Darwin plays a role, you’d think I’d be fine with it taking eons to evolve, right? With all its random mutations, directional selections,  and internal combustions (wait, maybe that’s cars, not creatures).  By now I have two folders full, enough paper that, if it were bank notes instead of book notes, I’d be off to my villa in Tuscany. 

But the truth is that, the longer I’m a writer, the more patient I become.  The idea, after all, is not just to make something, but to make something that lasts.

Just today I had a school in California contact me about doing a Skype visit. I was flabbergasted to hear that the book that lead them to me was “Pet Sitters Plus Five”, a Little Apple paperback that Scholastic published in 1993 which, gulp, yes, is two decades ago. The fact that a copy of the book is still intact in a library is miracle enough, but that it still intrigues kids is an enormous gift. It’s like a very old friend, one whose face and voice you haven’t thought of in years, suddenly calling you up or appearing at your door.  Kind of shocking, then immensely gratifying. Art is long!  (And they must have made books far sturdier 20 years ago).

Writing quote of the day:   “It is an intriguing fact that in order to make readers care about a character, however bad, however depraved, it is only necessary to make him love someone or even something. A dog will do, even a hamster will do.” –Ruth Rendell (“What to Pack in Your Fiction Tool Kit,” Writer’s Digest, December 2010)

The written word

should be clean as bone,

clear as light,

firm as bone.

Two words are not

as good as one.

My friend, Susan Grimm, is writing a poem a day for a month.  Susan gets up much earlier than I do, which means that somedays I am  lucky enough to find, first thing, the newest poem in my mailbox (not just me–our other writing sisters, too). Today she sent  one called “Things So Small They Don’t Need a Sentence”, and here are a couple of my favorite lines:

Reading five pages, writing one. (The pens I like that don’t have 

skippy ink.) 

Pockets. 

My earrings from the poetry auction–green danglers, half-fingernails of leafy light–found.

This poem makes me happy for many reasons, not least of all that Susan is my friend. It also reminds me of a writing exercise I love to do with kids, which is to spread out big sheets of newsprint, set out a   basket of markers, then scrawl across the top something like, “Cures for Sadness” or “Things to Do When You Cannot Fall Asleep” or “Places to Hide a Secret Message”  and let the kids have way. Afterwards, it’s fun to make a group list poem and try to think, all together, of a good last line.

Here in Cleveland, January is cold and hard, silver and slippery. Out my window I can see the snowman the girl next door made. She had the brilliant idea to spray it with colored water, so he’s a blue man, alien and inscrutable. Whenever I pass by, I give him a nod, but he has yet to acknowledge me.

My friend, Susan Grimm, is writing a poem a day for a month.  Susan gets up much earlier than I do, which means that somedays I am  lucky enough to find, first thing, the newest poem in my mailbox (not just me–our other writing sisters, too). Today she sent  one called “Things So Small They Don’t Need a Sentence”, and here are a couple of my favorite lines:

Reading five pages, writing one. (The pens I like that don’t have 

skippy ink.) 

Pockets. 

My earrings from the poetry auction–green danglers, half-fingernails of leafy light–found.

This poem makes me happy for many reasons, not least of all that Susan is my friend. It also reminds me of a writing exercise I love to do with kids, which is to spread out big sheets of newsprint, set out a   basket of markers, then scrawl across the top something like, “Cures for Sadness” or “Things to Do When You Cannot Fall Asleep” or “Places to Hide a Secret Message”  and let the kids have way. Afterwards, it’s fun to make a group list poem and try to think, all together, of a good last line.

Here in Cleveland, January is cold and hard, silver and slippery. Out my window I can see the snowman the girl next door made. She had the brilliant idea to spray it with colored water, so he’s a blue man, alien and inscrutable. Whenever I pass by, I give him a nod, but he has yet to acknowledge me.

“Yes, the newspapers were right:  snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves…His soul swooned softly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.” 

While the daughters were here we watched two films, both of a certain mood and seeming, now, like crazy choices for the holidays. First,  ”The Remains of the Day”,  a film that bowled Paul and me over when it first played in the theaters but which now, a decade later, felt impossibly heavy-handed compared to the ruminative, exquisitely balanced Ishiguro novel. And yet, when that bus drives away into the rainy night, taking with it  gentle, steadfast Mr. Steven’s last chance at happiness! Ai-eee! Merry Christmas! 

And then, two nights before Christmas, we watched John Huston’s last film, “The Dead”, the final scene of which turns me inside out every time.  Falling faintly and faintly falling…As the credits rolled one incredulous daughter said, “Why did they make that into a movie?”  A good question, actually.

“It can be a cruel world for the gentle creatures.” That’s from the Polly Horvath novel I’ve been reading this snowy afternoon. When my girls go back to their own brimming lives, I live, for a while, in two worlds–the one where I miss the hell out of them and the one where my neglected writing beckons. What I like to do during that time is write something that uses my brain but lets me  hold back  a  piece of my heart.  This time it’s a review of five middle grade books I enjoyed this year, and an hour or so ago I finished  Horvath’s “One Year in Coal Harbor”. How do I love this writer?  Too many ways to count, but especially her steadfast refusal to ever rush a plot or jump to a conclusion or make events follow a cohesive path or, for that matter, to always make  herself clear. Some things, I’m sure she’d be the first to assert, will never be clear and that is how it should be.

So, this passage is unusual. A mother is explaining to her daughter about life not being fair. The mother, who’s done some irrational things in her own life and for that reason is all the more trustworthy, lost her own mother to cancer when she was just a teen.  I’m sure this section moved me at least in part because of the unspeakable tragedy in Connecticut. But I think at any time I’d have found it worth quoting:

“Well, when she was dying I kept saying it wasn’t fair. She was such a wonderful person, everyone loved my mother. Well, most people did. She was such a beautiful poet and there was always a kind of awareness of the intrinsic sadness in everything when you were with her…And she said that she had come round to see that everyone’s fates were beautiful. Even the ones that seemed most horrifying. That you had to be careful who you said this to because most people didn’t understand and if you said you thought some child dying had a beautiful fate, well, they thought you were crazy or some kind of monster. But she said she could see it now. even her fate had a kind of luminous beauty to it. Peculiarly and absolutely her own. That what we give back to life is our own unique experience of it. ”  

Happy New Year.