Tricia Springstubb's Blog, page 9

One enormous pile of research notes and failed drafts…

Plus scads of notes to self, scribbled while out on walks, in the middle of the night, and sometimes even at my desk…

 

Plus innumerable exchanges with a brilliant editor who refused to accept anything murky, hackeneyed, or too hot-messy… 

Equals…

A book! I just finished copyediting the manuscript. There’s a cover sketch. Amnesia has already set in. That wasn’t so bad! I think I’ll do it again!

John Updike once praised winter weather for how it brings us together–we huddle, we cuddle. At this point in a winter that just refuses to give up, it’s mostly bringing people I know together to moan, complain, and spew epithets.

But on Saturday my husband and I decided to fight back. We hitched up the sled dogs and mushed our way down to the Botanical Gardens in University Circle–reason #48 to come to Cleveland, oh those of you who never have. It’s the annual Orchid Mania Show, and the colors and perfumes of those crazy, surreal flowers were never more welcome.

For Sale! This side of the window: Eden. The other side: Siberia.

The ribbon winners! This is serious business, apparently.

The house of the orchid fairies!

I have an order in f0r a dress to match this one.

We also visited the glass house, home to plants, birds and butterflies of the cloud forest. Here’s a butterfly protesting that her picture is not on the educational sign.

And last but not least—

The gleeful turtle baby, long one of my very favorite sculptures. Even the February sun can’t resist shining on her.

There, don’t you feel a little bit better now? Good.

First, the obligatory feet shot!

So, I got to commune with my toes for three days! (For too many weeks now, my toes and I have met only in the brief interval between tugging off my socks and sticking them under the covers).  Those are some blissed-out feet you’re looking at.

My head was happy, too. I was in Orlando, at a retreat with fellow Greenhouse Literary writers. Our first morning together, my agent Sarah Davies described how, when she told a friend who agents adult work how she was bringing all her clients together, he regarded her with what could only be described as a mask of horror.  Apparently assembling his authors together in one room would result in vicious comparing of advances and marketing plans, howling and bloodshed, etc.  We kids’ writers seem to be a different breed. Not that we’re immune to doubt or envy (more on that in a second), but the over-riding ethos was camararderie and support and wow, aren’t we insanely lucky to  get to do this thing we do?

(see the bumblebee?)

Sarah likes to pepper her talks with quotes, and one that made my heart beat faster was about how memories decompose, and how then, as writers, we recompose them into stories. (Maybe it was Graham Greene?)  That got me scribbling ideas for my new work. She also urged us to know what we’re saying, to consider the take-away–this needs to go above my computer in big block letters. But lest we get too pragmatic: she wished us big thoughts,  inspiration in big ideas. Respiration, inspiration–breathe into that work.

John Cusick, Sarah’s fellow agent and a writer himself, dispensed tips on how to stay (relatively, or at least ostensibly) sane doing our solitary, inherently risky work.  In this society, isolation is more or less synonomous with unhappiness, yet it’s necessary to a writer. One thing he said particularly struck me: envy is your brain telling you what you really want. Listen, and work toward it.  John also reminded us (and himself) not to be too goal directed/anal retentive, but to remember to sometimes write just for fun.  Ahh.

 

(Speaking of fun: the Loch Ness monster made of Legos at the Disney Marketplace across the street from our hotel. That’s the Rainforest Cafe in the background–a volcano that erupts. There’s not exactly a lot of segue in the Magical Kingdom).

It’s rare that advice is simultaneously pragmatic and emotionally helpful, yet that’s what the weekend consisted of. Also lots of laughs with fellow writers whom I’ve long admired but never met; a talent show that included knife throwing and black belt karate (who says kids’ writers are a docile bunch?) ; a reading of first pages, new books  about everything from serial killers to ABC’s; and yes–sunshine and toe wiggling.

A two hour flight had me back here,  in the  White Northern Kingdom. Too fast, too dizzying. But waiting for me: the copyedited manuscript of “Moonpenny Island”. And so, off to my solitary, my risky, my insanely privileged vocation.

I’ve  been to Florida once in my life, and that was in summer with a six month old baby, so my main memory is trying to keep her from getting fried to a little crisplet.  Now I’m getting to go again, and I’m really hoping it looks like that picture (insert my boneless body in the hammock).

You may need to also add a few people running around with mouse ears on their heads, since I’ll be in Orlando. Not for Cinderella’s castle, but for a retreat sponsored by The Greenhouse, my literary agency. Sarah G. Davies (the G is for genius) has masterminded a get-together of as many clients, from both here and the U.K., as can make it. I’m really looking forward to actually meeting my comrades, many of whose books I’ve read and loved. Being a writer is a mostly solitary business, and this is kind of the equivalent of an office taking a cruise together, so I expect some high times. Also, I’ve lately gotten some nice book news (TBA!) so I anticipate clinking a glass (or even two) with Sarah. In the sunshine!

Meanwhile, here at the desk, I’m at the stage in a new piece where I’m still telling myself I’m just fooling around. Not really writing, uh uh. No way. I love this time. It’s a  bit like riding in a glass bottomed boat, watching bright schools of fish, and maybe something unexpected, like a manta ray, glide by beneath you. No responsibilites, just watching…

I’m writing this on the day before the biggest awards in children’s lit–the Newbery and Caldecott medals, the Coretta Scott King Award, and the honor books that go with each of them–are announced. And I offer huge pre-congratulations and warmest wishes to all the winners. So many terrific books published this year–don’t know how the judges will ever be able to decide.

For every book that wins, there are hundreds (all right, thousands!) of books that don’t, and more than a few disappointed, let-down authors.  So it’s an excellent time to reread this poem written a few years ago by the wonderful, ever-generous writer and teacher Kate Messner, and to remember the real reason  we write. Here’s an excerpt:

What Happened to Your Book Today

Somewhere, a child laughed

on that page where you made a joke.

Somewhere, she wiped away a tear,

Just when you thought she might.

Somewhere, your book was passed

from one hand to another in a hallway

busy with clanging lockers,

with whispered words,

“You have got to read this.”

And a scribbled note:

O.M.G. SO good.

Give it back when ur done.

Thank you, Kate!  To read the whole poem, go to her wonderful  site: 

http://www.katemessner.com/what-happened-to-your-book-today/

Sending  love to writers and young readers everywhere.

I’m writing this on the day before the biggest awards in children’s lit–the Newbery and Caldecott medals, the Coretta Scott King Award, and the honor books that go with each of them–are announced. And I offer huge pre-congratulations and warmest wishes to all the winners. So many terrific books published this year–don’t know how the judges will ever be able to decide.

For every book that wins, there are hundreds (all right, thousands!) of books that don’t, and more than a few disappointed, let-down authors.  So it’s an excellent time to reprint this poem written a few years ago by the wonderful, ever-generous writer and teacher Kate Messner, and to remember the real reason  we write.

What Happened to Your Book Today

Somewhere, a child laughed

on that page where you made a joke.

Somewhere, she wiped away a tear,

Just when you thought she might.

Somewhere, your book was passed

from one hand to another in a hallway

busy with clanging lockers,

with whispered words,

“You have got to read this.”

And a scribbled note:

O.M.G. SO good.

Give it back when ur done.

It’s looking a little more love-worn lately,

rougher around the edges than it did on release day.

There are dog eared pages and Gatorade stains.

Someone smeared maple syrup on the cover

because she read all through breakfast.

Pages 125 and 126 are stuck fast with peanut butter

Because Chapter 10 was even more delicious

than lunch.

Somewhere, tiny hands held up your book

And a little voice begged, “Again!”

Somewhere, the answer came,

A grown-up sigh…and a smile…

And the fourteenth read-aloud of the morning.

That same book. Again.

Your book.

Somewhere, a kid who has never read a whole book on his own

(Really. Not even one.)

picked up yours and turned a page.

And then another.

And then one more.

And it was pretty cool, turns out.

He brought it back – huge smile on his face –

(and I mean huge)

And asked for another one.

And he read that, too.

Somewhere, a teenager who thought she was alone

Opened your pages and discovered she’s not.

And somewhere, somebody who thought about giving up

will keep on trying,

keep on hoping.

Because of that book you wrote.

Somewhere tonight – listen closely and you’ll hear–

A child will turn the last page of that book,

That book you wrote,

and sigh.

Can you hear it?

It’s the sound of a story being held close

Right before a young voice says,

“It feels like this was written just for me.”

And it was.

Thank you, Kate! And love to writers and young readers everywhere.

On Saturday, when I moderated an SCBWI critique session, I brought two bulging folders of notes and discarded drafts as Exhibit A of My Process. This hot mess would make a good example of exactly how not to proceed in writing a novel, except, as we all know, there’s no such thing as How To or How Not To. Even after all these years, I need to write at least one (and usually two of three) complete drafts before I find the right narrative arc. That’s just how it is. With “Moonpenny Island”, pretty much the only thing that stayed constant was the island itself, a little lump of limestone modeled on a real place. My love for that setting kept me going, as my main character’s age and sex changed, as a who-done-it mystery became instead a story about the mysteries of the heart.

So why did I risk throwing out my back by lugging that pile of papers to the critique? Because a picture’s worth a thousand words, and a good laugh is worth even more, and because I really do believe in butt-in-chair persistence. If nothing else,  showing up every day will teach you what’s wrong with your story, and then it’s up to you to decide whether to toss it in the drawer and start something all new, or pull it apart and revise once more. Both of which I’ve done.

Right now, I face a blank page. Off and on while working on “Moonpenny”, I scribbled notes for a new novel. I know I have my two (or maybe three) main characters. For sure I have the setting (I take a walk there at least once a week, and every time it whispers, Ready). But I don’t have the full arc, and I’m trying to resist starting until that becomes clearer to me. Trying to resist generating another hot mess (or two or three) by figuring out ahead of time where the story starts, and what form best suits it. Trying to stay cool, planning.  Trying…

*****

School Library Journal has announced the contenders facing off in this year’s “Battle of the Books” http://blogs.slj.com/battleofthebooks/2014/01/15/and-the-2104-contenders-are/

Even though I wish they’d included a few more under-the-radar books–novels like “The Center of Everything” by Linda Urban, “A Girl Called Problem” by Katie Quirk, or “Written in Stone” by Rosanne Parry–instead of sticking to the books everyone is talking about for the Newbery, I’ll  follow this year’s battle with my usual interest and glee.  It’s a booky version of that other March madness, with fellow writers deciding who wins each bracket and goes on to the final round.  The decisions themselves are usually little writerly gems, laced with insite and wit and sometimes a bit of snarkiness. As a writer and a reviewer, I always get a big take-away.

This week, within the span of a few days, the temperature in Cleveland swung from minus 11 to plus 50. One day I was behind the wheel of my car, steering through deserted, windswept streets–I swear the asphalt felt brittle beneath the tires–and then people were jogging in shorts. Time lapse of the most extreme variety. For us humans it was disorienting and made for conversation, but I wonder how the animals took it. Were they alarmed? Confused? Did they just accept  it with the ancient dignity that is theirs? One morning I went to the window for a closer look at the bird feeder and gazed down into the eyes of a six-point buck. We exchanged a long, astonished gape before he dashed away.

Life has been confusing ever since Christmas, really. My daughters gave me all kinds of amazing beauty products. They do this every year, and I’m immensely grateful for their efforts to rescue me from perpetual self neglect.   But a shower now presents challenges. First I shampoo and condition with tea tree, wildly stimulating my scalp and brow,  and then I moisturize with lavendar and comfrey, which aim to  sooth and relax.  Which is it? begs my addled body.

And speaking of daughters, our oldest called us from a holiday cross country ski trip with her boyfriend to tell us they are engaged. We love this fellow, so happiness abounds, and yet. My girl, married? Please don’t play “Sunrise, Sunset” anywhere in my vicinity.

And then…Then there came the wonderful confirmation of this fact: I will have two books published in 2015–my novel for younger readers, “Not Even Cody”, with Candlewick, and my new middle grade, “Moonpenny Island”, with Balzer & Bray. Two books in one year is a first for me. It’s a wish-upon-a-star kind of event.  When exactly each will pub is a bit of a marketing conundrum, for now. Though I have complete faith in both publishers, I get a bit nervous, thinking about it, to tell the truth.  But this is yet another good problem, right? A happy confusion. An oxymoron of the sweetest sort.

Whenever I had a few spare moments over the holidays, I grabbed my trusty box cutter and opened a new carton of PHOEBE and DIGGER. Mostly I signed them at the dining room table, but I also did some during “Parenthood” commercials. “Springstubb” is a long-ish name, it turns out, but the “p” and  “g” punctuate it with pleasant loopiness.  I wasn’t very efficient. I kept imagining every book in someone’s hands, spread across a lap, held up at story hour–and I tried to invest each signature with friendly cheer and welcome.  Come on in! Have some fun with me!

It was strange to see so many of my books at once. Even at signings, I usually only see a couple dozen at the same time. But here were herds of books, flocks and swarms and packs and coveys of books, mobbing my table, brooding in my hallway. At first I feared that seeing so many of them at once would make them feel more like objects, less like mine, and that did happen, in a way.  A mostly good way. Because of course once you send a book out into the world, it’s no longer yours. It belongs to the reader now, who will love it or toss it aside, make it her own or not. This is something a writer knows, but can stand to be reminded of.

Not that I didn’t still feel protective of the books. Not that each box, which I sealed up with my very professional and lethal-looking tape dispenser, didn’t get a small, farewell-and-good-luck pat from me before I set it in the done pile.

Today I got an e-mail from a reader who lives in a small village outside Munich. She is doing a report on the German version of FOX STREET and had some very thoughtful questions to ask.  I have never been to Germany, but Mo and Dottie and Mercedes have.  The world is so big. The world is so small. And I am daydreaming about that particular book, lying on a table beneath a window that opens out onto a deep, snow-capped forest.

As this year fades and a new one takes form, please forgive me for altering the very last line of this old and beloved poem. Happy new year.

Bleak Weather, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Dear love, where the red lillies blossomed and grew,


The white snows are falling;
And all through the wood, where I wandered with you,
The loud winds are calling;
And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune,
Neath the elm—you remember,
Over tree-top and mountain has followed the June,
And left us—December.
Has left, like a friend that is true in the sun,
And false in the shadows.
He has found new delights, in the land where he’s gone,
Greener woodlands and meadows.
What care we? let him go! let the snow shroud the lea,
Let it drift on the heather!
We can sing through it all; I have you—you have me,
And we’ll laugh at the weather.
The old year may die, and a new one be born
That is bleaker and colder;
But it cannot dismay us; we dare it—we scorn,
For love makes us bolder.
Ah Robin! sing loud on the far-distant lea,
Thou friend in fair weather;
But here is a song sung, that’s fuller of glee,
By all hearts joined together.