I have neglected this blog for far too long. Time to check in. Maybe I should call it quits until my life simmers down. Anyhow, here's what's been going on.
1. A librarian in our district retired at the end of November. Instead of hiring a replacement for her, as we all expected they would, the district decided to make the rest of us cover all her classes. Result: I'm now working in 3 libraries and have been saddled with 17 new classes in the middle of the year. Aaaarghhhh!
2. I've been working hard on cleaning up a library that's been neglected for the last 5 years - perhaps even longer. Lots of junk has accumulated and I'm trying to declutter it. I came across 4 tape recorders (only 1 worked), a broken book-binding machine, 8 free mugs from a library supply company (two of which had the skeletal remains of spider crickets in them - ugh), boxes and boxes of spiral book binders, a complete set of childhood biographies of famous Americans that nobody has read in ages, a set of Biography Now (most of them published in the 60s and 70s) and all sorts of useless racks, cd holders, cassette tapes and things that I can only describe as worthless crap. The collection is pretty solid, although many of the books need to be replaced due to wear. I am also reconfiguring the layout of the library and replacing the dusty, uninspiring pictures with more kid friendly artwork and posters. The administration is trying to get us a nice bright area rug and I'm hoping we can get the library a fresh coat of paint sometime over the next few months. It's a challenge but it's gratifying to see how much better the library is already looking. I'll take a picture and post it soon.
3. After weeks of mild fall weather, winter descended on us in a furious blast of arctic air. After enjoying temperatures in the 50s, we're now shivering! Brrrrrr!
4. Speaking of shivering, I'm currently reading Maggie Stiefvater's YA novel, Shiver. What a beautifully written and intriguing love story. Hat's off to Maggie!
5. Anybody know what to get a husband who claims he has everything he needs? I wish I could knit.I'd make him a scarf and gloves. I used to knit and crochet but it's been years and I've forgotten how, sigh.
Enjoy the weekend, everybody!
Friday, December 11, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Joni Mitchell - Both Sides Now (Live, 1970)
One of my favorite songs by one of my favorite songbirds.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Random Thoughts
It's been far too long since I've updated this blog. Here are a few random thoughts.
1. The last few weeks have been stressful. One of the librarians in our district is retiring November 20th and the administration isn't replacing her, putting a lot of stress (and work) on the rest of us. Now we'll have lots and lots of classes, but no time to attend to our libraries and their collections. So frustrating! I'll be working in three different schools with many new students. This is one of the worst educational decisions I've ever witnessed.
2. It's fall, my favorite season, and this year, fall lingers in all its radiant, glowing colors. It's been a pleasure driving home along the parkways and going for walks and runs with the leaves floating down around me.
3. My niece, Holly, will be celebrating her Sweet 16th birthday. How did she get this old?
4. I immerse myself in my novel for weeks or even months at a time, but find it refreshing to come up for air and a taste of poetry from time to time. I just finished writing a poem I really like, for a change.
5. Monday was my mother's birthday. She would have been 81. I still miss her.
1. The last few weeks have been stressful. One of the librarians in our district is retiring November 20th and the administration isn't replacing her, putting a lot of stress (and work) on the rest of us. Now we'll have lots and lots of classes, but no time to attend to our libraries and their collections. So frustrating! I'll be working in three different schools with many new students. This is one of the worst educational decisions I've ever witnessed.
2. It's fall, my favorite season, and this year, fall lingers in all its radiant, glowing colors. It's been a pleasure driving home along the parkways and going for walks and runs with the leaves floating down around me.
3. My niece, Holly, will be celebrating her Sweet 16th birthday. How did she get this old?
4. I immerse myself in my novel for weeks or even months at a time, but find it refreshing to come up for air and a taste of poetry from time to time. I just finished writing a poem I really like, for a change.
5. Monday was my mother's birthday. She would have been 81. I still miss her.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
An Autumn Windfall
I've been informed that the PTA is concerned about the state of our library. All I can say is, hooray! I've been concerned for a long time now. When I first started working in my present library, I told our principal it was the most stripped down collection I'd ever seen. And it was. I couldn't believe it!
I pleaded with the administration for more funding. And they did increase our funding, but only by $1,000. which brings us about even with the level of funding we received for books in 1992. Very sad.
Anyhow, the PTA wants to help and is going to donate about $1,600 for new books. I was under the impression that I'd have to purchase all the books from Scholastic but today they told me no, that I could order the books from a library book company (such as Follett or BTSB). So, now I'm really excited! Since my wish lists always far exceed my funding, I have plenty of ideas on how to spend this little windfall. Three cheers for the PTA!!!
Our annual pumpkin decorating contest is underway and this year's entries are the best ever! I'll post some pictures later this week, if I can figure out my new camera.
I pleaded with the administration for more funding. And they did increase our funding, but only by $1,000. which brings us about even with the level of funding we received for books in 1992. Very sad.
Anyhow, the PTA wants to help and is going to donate about $1,600 for new books. I was under the impression that I'd have to purchase all the books from Scholastic but today they told me no, that I could order the books from a library book company (such as Follett or BTSB). So, now I'm really excited! Since my wish lists always far exceed my funding, I have plenty of ideas on how to spend this little windfall. Three cheers for the PTA!!!
Our annual pumpkin decorating contest is underway and this year's entries are the best ever! I'll post some pictures later this week, if I can figure out my new camera.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Barking Dog
A dog has been barking all afternoon, disturbing our normally quiet neighborhood. I put on some music and shut the windows, but I could still hear him. It made me think of this poem by Billy Collins.
Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,
and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.
When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton
while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.
Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,
and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.
When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton
while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.
Friday, October 9, 2009
When the Music Died
For ten years or more my library was situated next door to the music room. When Barbara moved into the former science room, I have to admit, I was not happy. Having music as a next door neighbor seemed a bad marriage. A library was suppose to be a haven of quiet, a place where children could come to read and think and make connections with books. A music room, on the other hand, was a place where boisterous children burst into song accompanied by piano music, where kindergartners danced the freeze dance and the bunny hop, 5th and 6th graders rehearsed for chorus week after week, banged on drums and tambourines and belted out songs the whole day through.
At first it drove me batty. Sometimes I had to go next door and kindly ask Barbara to close her doors (which she always did) or to tone it down a notch or two. Sometimes, while I was reading to the kids, they'd sit on the floor doing hand gestures to the accompaniment of the songs. It was a major distraction. Eventually Barbara learned to close her doors and turn down the volume and I learned to love the music that drifted beneath the door and seeped through the walls of my little library.
I learned to like "The Cat Came Back" and "It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing" and the theme from "Beauty and the Beast", developed an appreciation for "The Monster Mash" and the bubble gum song (which I don't know the title of). Around the holidays, it was "The Jingle Bell Rock" and "Over the River and Through the Woods" and as spring burst into bloom and the rains came whipping across the parking lot, I learned to love "Button Up Your Overcoat" and the classic "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". Most of the songs were old, but some were new, gleaned from recent movies and hit lists. What swept beneath the door and through the walls with all these songs was a lovely poignancy, a kind of poetry that I learned to adore. Often the songs seemed to reflect the mood of the book I happened to be reading or to mirror my own personal feelings.
Four years ago I was yanked out of my library and plopped down into somebody else's. No music room next door. Instead, I'm now next door to the gym. The air is punctuated by the thud of basketballs, the occasionally screech of a whistle, the scream of children playing tag or some other fun game.
I never thought I'd be saying this, but I miss the music.
At first it drove me batty. Sometimes I had to go next door and kindly ask Barbara to close her doors (which she always did) or to tone it down a notch or two. Sometimes, while I was reading to the kids, they'd sit on the floor doing hand gestures to the accompaniment of the songs. It was a major distraction. Eventually Barbara learned to close her doors and turn down the volume and I learned to love the music that drifted beneath the door and seeped through the walls of my little library.
I learned to like "The Cat Came Back" and "It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing" and the theme from "Beauty and the Beast", developed an appreciation for "The Monster Mash" and the bubble gum song (which I don't know the title of). Around the holidays, it was "The Jingle Bell Rock" and "Over the River and Through the Woods" and as spring burst into bloom and the rains came whipping across the parking lot, I learned to love "Button Up Your Overcoat" and the classic "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". Most of the songs were old, but some were new, gleaned from recent movies and hit lists. What swept beneath the door and through the walls with all these songs was a lovely poignancy, a kind of poetry that I learned to adore. Often the songs seemed to reflect the mood of the book I happened to be reading or to mirror my own personal feelings.
Four years ago I was yanked out of my library and plopped down into somebody else's. No music room next door. Instead, I'm now next door to the gym. The air is punctuated by the thud of basketballs, the occasionally screech of a whistle, the scream of children playing tag or some other fun game.
I never thought I'd be saying this, but I miss the music.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
What Makes Me Stop Reading?
Like most librarians and writers, I love to read - novels, poetry, picture books, biographies. You name it. BUT, when it comes to critiquing somebody's manuscript, it's hard to read everything. Here are a few of my pet peeves in writing, sins that make me yawn or lose interest immediately and put a story down.
1. Stories that begin with a long, unpopulated description of a place. Unless you're writing a segment of The World Without Us, who cares? Put a living being in there, for god's sake, then perhaps I'll have a reason to keep reading.
2. Cliches. A work of fiction that begins with a character waking from a dream, starting at a new school, etc. or that opens with a cliche phrase, such as the infamous, "It was a dark and stormy night."
3. Too much backstory. I lack the patience to read through a lot of meandering background information. A little here and there is okay, but the opening chapter of a novel needs to pull the reader forward, not muddle around in the past. I want a story that begins with action and by that, I don't mean a violent or shocking scene that practically makes me wretch or one so bizarre I can only laugh, but one that makes me care enough about the characters that I want to read more.
4. Stock Characters. You know them -the jolly fat man or lady, the mad scientist, the wicked stepmother, the blond haired, blue-eyed hero or heroine, the world-weary reporter, etc. I don't want to read about the same old same old.
5. Too much description. Here's one sin I'm often guilty of. Sometimes the story gets buried under heaps of adjectives and adverbs and it's hard to know what's going on. The advice to use strong verbs instead of using adverbs to prop up your weak verb choices is a good one. And take it easy on the adjectives. Let the story speak for itself, when you can.
6. Poor grammar and punctuation. If you're not sure how something is spelled or punctuated, then look it up. Easy enough. A manuscript littered with errors is a big turn-off and no editor is going to wade through it to see if there's a story worth salvaging from the wreckage.
7. Talking heads. It's hard to follow a story when you don't know who's speaking. Use dialog tags (a simple "he said" is enough) or add another sentence that lets the reader know who's speaking.
8. Nothing happens. I've read lovely settings and been introduced to some interesting characters, but sometimes absolutely nothing happens in a first chapter, leaving me to wonder if it's a story at all. To keep me reading, you need to introduce a dilemma or conflict otherwise why bother?
These are a few of my biggest writing pet peeves. What are yours?
1. Stories that begin with a long, unpopulated description of a place. Unless you're writing a segment of The World Without Us, who cares? Put a living being in there, for god's sake, then perhaps I'll have a reason to keep reading.
2. Cliches. A work of fiction that begins with a character waking from a dream, starting at a new school, etc. or that opens with a cliche phrase, such as the infamous, "It was a dark and stormy night."
3. Too much backstory. I lack the patience to read through a lot of meandering background information. A little here and there is okay, but the opening chapter of a novel needs to pull the reader forward, not muddle around in the past. I want a story that begins with action and by that, I don't mean a violent or shocking scene that practically makes me wretch or one so bizarre I can only laugh, but one that makes me care enough about the characters that I want to read more.
4. Stock Characters. You know them -the jolly fat man or lady, the mad scientist, the wicked stepmother, the blond haired, blue-eyed hero or heroine, the world-weary reporter, etc. I don't want to read about the same old same old.
5. Too much description. Here's one sin I'm often guilty of. Sometimes the story gets buried under heaps of adjectives and adverbs and it's hard to know what's going on. The advice to use strong verbs instead of using adverbs to prop up your weak verb choices is a good one. And take it easy on the adjectives. Let the story speak for itself, when you can.
6. Poor grammar and punctuation. If you're not sure how something is spelled or punctuated, then look it up. Easy enough. A manuscript littered with errors is a big turn-off and no editor is going to wade through it to see if there's a story worth salvaging from the wreckage.
7. Talking heads. It's hard to follow a story when you don't know who's speaking. Use dialog tags (a simple "he said" is enough) or add another sentence that lets the reader know who's speaking.
8. Nothing happens. I've read lovely settings and been introduced to some interesting characters, but sometimes absolutely nothing happens in a first chapter, leaving me to wonder if it's a story at all. To keep me reading, you need to introduce a dilemma or conflict otherwise why bother?
These are a few of my biggest writing pet peeves. What are yours?
Friday, September 18, 2009
What's the Point?
Lately the administrators I work for - the superintendents and principals - have acquired a taste for picture books that tout a message. Not a subtle theme, mind you, but a heavy-handed "message" we're all suppose to swoon over or something. One recent picture book our superintendent drooled over was The Invisible String. I don't remember the author's name, but clearly this was one of those message driven books that teachers and administrators like and kids clearly don't. The book was about our interconnectedness. Certainly a good theme - a great one even - but kids don't want a book that's all about a message.
Kids want stories that pull them along head first, head over heels - characters they can empathize with and laugh with, cry with, worry over. After 20 years of reading many books to thousands of kids, I know kids love good stories with believable characters, not books whose primary purpose is to send a message, to moralize, to edify. Nothing will make a child's eyes glaze over more than a heavy-handed message meant to educate them. As Samuel Goldwyn said, "If you want to send a message, call Western Union." Not that children's books shouldn't have a theme - they should - but the theme should emerge organically, subtlety from the story, the story where we worry about the characters and only later realize we also learned a little something in the process.
Kids want stories that pull them along head first, head over heels - characters they can empathize with and laugh with, cry with, worry over. After 20 years of reading many books to thousands of kids, I know kids love good stories with believable characters, not books whose primary purpose is to send a message, to moralize, to edify. Nothing will make a child's eyes glaze over more than a heavy-handed message meant to educate them. As Samuel Goldwyn said, "If you want to send a message, call Western Union." Not that children's books shouldn't have a theme - they should - but the theme should emerge organically, subtlety from the story, the story where we worry about the characters and only later realize we also learned a little something in the process.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
A Deft Touch
The photo above is once again by my friend, Joan C. Jones and the flowers you see are bluebells. She took this photo on a recent visit to England. In clumps, even the humblest flower radiates a certain beauty. For me, this forest looks magical, like a setting for a fairy tale.
Friday, August 28, 2009
5 Things On a Friday
Photo by my talented friend and former colleague, Joan C. Jones.
Friday already! During the summer, the days melt into each other in endless succession. I lose track of time, forget about the calendar, sleep in 'til 8:00 or even 9:00 am (gasp). Lately I've had to pay closer attention to the quickening pulse of life, though.
1. My son, Derek, left for Utah today to attend The Violin Making School of America. Last night he packed the little U-Haul with nearly all his worldly possessions and drove it to our house. Alas, when my husband opened the back door of the trailer, things slid out onto the road. They spent all morning repacking the trailer to distribute the weight evenly. Early this afternoon, he left, feeling a little nervous and anxious about the future. I cried. I know I won't see him again for months.
2. I got my late August letter from my superintendent, welcoming me back to work on the 3rd. The first day is always a series of long, boring meetings. I went in earlier this week to order the magazines, since I missed the last few days of work in June due to illness. The new books still hadn't come in. The arrival of the new books is something I always look forward to, like Christmas. Each of those plain, solid brown boxes is a gift. I have some great titles coming in that I can't wait to open -- House In the Night, January Sparrow, The Magician's Elephant, Knucklehead, Chains, Lucy Long Ago, Beware of the Frog to name a few. There's never enough money for all the books I want to order.
3. The temperature has taken a steep dip into the 60s. I wore a jacket to the gym today. It's been a weird summer - perhaps the weirdest yet.
4. My WIP is coming along, but much more slowly than I'd anticipated. What starts off as one chapter, often becomes two. When I start revisions, I'm sure I'll need to do much cutting and tightening.
5. I recently discovered that my youngest - the one who was too ADD to crack a book, for the most part -- has a growing appreciation for poetry. For his birthday, I bought him a book of Billy Collin's poems and he loved it. I think he likes language and wordplay much more than he realizes. Maybe all those years of reading to him when he was little have paid off in more way than one. Maybe some of the poetry of the English language seeped into the recesses of his gray matter. I hope so!
And I want to add one more thing: If you visit this blog, couldya, wouldya please leave a comment (or something)? Lately I've felt a little like one of those strange old ladies who talks to herself in the grocery store. It's getting lonely, sigh.
Monday, August 24, 2009
On Edge
It's almost the end of August and I'm feeling twitchy because a few big things are looming on the horizon. For one, the beginning of a new school year is approaching and I'm nervous about it. This year the geniuses in charge of scheduling have decided to place another librarian and I in three different libraries! I told them it was pure madness, which it is. Fragmenting the program like this will make it a managerial nightmare. There's also the issue of collection development, learning student names (always a challenge for me) and trying to keep the automated systems up to date. Every year the company we use (Companion) updates and changes the rules for setting up the system and I spend an inordinate amount of time on the phone with them trying to figure it all out. It is not intuitive. Anyhow, when I protested, one of the principals told me I should try to approach it with a more positive attitude. Of course being a former gym teacher, she has no idea of what it takes to run a library. Okay, I'm a little pissed off. When the kids still aren't able to take out books after a month, maybe they'll give their brilliant plan a second thought.
My eldest son, Derek, is also leaving for Salt Lake City this Thursday to attend a violin making school - The Violin Making School of America. Right now the job situation out here is abysmal. He lost his job several months ago and hasn't been able to find anything else. Living on unemployment isn't exactly what he had in mind. It's like being in limbo. He also doesn't relish the idea of working at a desk in a cubicle. He wants to do something with his hands. Several people have suggested different graduate programs, but most of them lead to a job behind a desk. Blah.
I've discovered that many people have a kind of snooty attitude toward people who work with their hands, as if they suffer from some sort of mental impairment. I can only think that our public schools are partly to blame for this. In New York at least, most students are suppose to be on an academic track, as if all students are college material. Consequently, many of the high schools have done away with their tech programs (formally known as "shop"). Too bad, really, because as we know, many kids aren't college bound and those auto body, woodworking and robotic programs gave the nonacademic students some practical skills they could put to use in the real world as well as a place where they could shine. As my youngest has said many times before, there are different ways of being smart. Some people are good at tackling academics and others have a different sort of gift that schools seem to turn a blind eye to and that almost always means a gift for using one's hands.
Of course this is not to say that somebody can't be both good with his hands as well as academically bright. And why is it that schools hold athletes and musicians in higher regard than mechanics and woodworkers? We want good craftsmen, people who know what they're doing when they work on our car or build our furniture, but we do little to nurture those talents in our public schools.
Anyhow, all I know is that I will miss Derek but we'll be cheering him on wherever the road leads him. We have to put aside our yearning to help and let our kids find their own way in the world.
My eldest son, Derek, is also leaving for Salt Lake City this Thursday to attend a violin making school - The Violin Making School of America. Right now the job situation out here is abysmal. He lost his job several months ago and hasn't been able to find anything else. Living on unemployment isn't exactly what he had in mind. It's like being in limbo. He also doesn't relish the idea of working at a desk in a cubicle. He wants to do something with his hands. Several people have suggested different graduate programs, but most of them lead to a job behind a desk. Blah.
I've discovered that many people have a kind of snooty attitude toward people who work with their hands, as if they suffer from some sort of mental impairment. I can only think that our public schools are partly to blame for this. In New York at least, most students are suppose to be on an academic track, as if all students are college material. Consequently, many of the high schools have done away with their tech programs (formally known as "shop"). Too bad, really, because as we know, many kids aren't college bound and those auto body, woodworking and robotic programs gave the nonacademic students some practical skills they could put to use in the real world as well as a place where they could shine. As my youngest has said many times before, there are different ways of being smart. Some people are good at tackling academics and others have a different sort of gift that schools seem to turn a blind eye to and that almost always means a gift for using one's hands.
Of course this is not to say that somebody can't be both good with his hands as well as academically bright. And why is it that schools hold athletes and musicians in higher regard than mechanics and woodworkers? We want good craftsmen, people who know what they're doing when they work on our car or build our furniture, but we do little to nurture those talents in our public schools.
Anyhow, all I know is that I will miss Derek but we'll be cheering him on wherever the road leads him. We have to put aside our yearning to help and let our kids find their own way in the world.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Out With Outlines
I've always told my students that when you open a book, you embark on a journey. Sometimes it's a brief jaunt of only 32 pages, but often the trip stretches out across 100, 200 or even as many as 700 pages. But the fun part isn't "The End". When you take a vacation, you look forward to adventure and fresh scenery. You're not thinking "When will this be over?" For me, writing fiction is like going on a journey, but without a well defined road map or a GPS or even reservations at some motel or bed & breakfast inn along the way.
I've heard the arguments for outlining a book before writing it and they make a lot of sense. An outline will keep you on track. An outline will help you cover everything important. An outline will ensure you make it through to those two big words, "The End". And granted, those are strong arguments when you're trying to complete a WIP, especially if it's your first. Perhaps I should have outlined my novel before I started working on it. Then I might have finished it by now.
But alas, when it comes to writing a work of fiction, I prefer to see where my story leads me. I know my ultimate destination - that's important. But if I stick to the outline, a character waiting in the wings may never have an opportunity to make his debut and it's possible he or she may have something very important or fascinating to say or some pivotal task to accomplish to add depth or an element of mystery to the plot. It's also possible that an important sub theme - one that I was totally unaware of - may never come to fruition. I enjoy the surprising twists in the road, the steep rises and sudden dips, the startling bumps and unexpected side trips. Without a well defined map, sometimes the journey to "The End" takes a little longer than expected. But man, what a trip!
I've heard the arguments for outlining a book before writing it and they make a lot of sense. An outline will keep you on track. An outline will help you cover everything important. An outline will ensure you make it through to those two big words, "The End". And granted, those are strong arguments when you're trying to complete a WIP, especially if it's your first. Perhaps I should have outlined my novel before I started working on it. Then I might have finished it by now.
But alas, when it comes to writing a work of fiction, I prefer to see where my story leads me. I know my ultimate destination - that's important. But if I stick to the outline, a character waiting in the wings may never have an opportunity to make his debut and it's possible he or she may have something very important or fascinating to say or some pivotal task to accomplish to add depth or an element of mystery to the plot. It's also possible that an important sub theme - one that I was totally unaware of - may never come to fruition. I enjoy the surprising twists in the road, the steep rises and sudden dips, the startling bumps and unexpected side trips. Without a well defined map, sometimes the journey to "The End" takes a little longer than expected. But man, what a trip!
Friday, August 7, 2009
The Magic Thief, Lost, by Sarah Prineas
In Sarah Prineas's fast-paced debut book, The Magic Thief, a crafty street urchin named Conn filches Nevery the Wizard’s magic tool – his locus magicalicus – yet manages to do the unheard of-survive. Intrigued, Nevery takes Conn in as his apprentice and ultimately Conn solves the mystery of the city of Wellmet’s weakening magic.
Prineas’s equally exciting sequel, Lost, picks up a few months later. Here we once more meet up with Conn and Nevery the Wizard, as well as Benet, Nevery’s muscle man (and perhaps Prineas’s most unique character). We also become reacquainted with the duchess’s daughter, Lady Rowan, and the sinister Shadowmen that turn people into stone.
Again, Wellmet’s magic is waning and the Shadowmen have returned in increasing numbers. Having lost his own locus magicalicus, Conn must resort to pyrotechnics, or fireworks, to speak with the magic that has always protected Wellmet. Nevery warns Conn that pyrotechnics are dangerous and forbidden. After all, they damaged his home, Heartstease. Undaunted and desperate to communicate with the magic the only way he can, Conn perseveres until his hopes are literally blown to pieces and disaster ensues, injuring somebody near and dear to him.
As expected, the magisters of Wellmet banish Conn from the city so he sets off for the city of Desh in search of the source of Wellmet’s weakening magic and the mystery of the Shadowmen. He is not disappointed.
Lost is as fast-paced and exciting as Prineas's first book, The Magic Thief, albeit slightly darker. As a streetwise, rough-edged character with a big heart, Conn makes an intriguing hero with a distinctive voice. Although gray bearded Nevery the Wizard is something of a stock character, he makes an apt mentor for Conn, and Lady Rowan, the duchess's daughter, serves as a strong-willed, sword-wielding foil for Conn.
The setting is as dark, intriguing and fully realized as the story line and the characters.
Antonio Javier Caparo's small black and white illustrations complement and enhance the story's mysterious atmosphere. In addition, Prineas includes some of Benet's favorite recipes, some notes on sword craft and a key to the runic alphabet used occasionally throughout the story.
Lost is a well-conceived story and artfully designed book for middle grade kids that leaves some room for the final book in the trilogy. If it's anything like the first two, it's certain to be a bumpy and enthralling journey.
Prineas’s equally exciting sequel, Lost, picks up a few months later. Here we once more meet up with Conn and Nevery the Wizard, as well as Benet, Nevery’s muscle man (and perhaps Prineas’s most unique character). We also become reacquainted with the duchess’s daughter, Lady Rowan, and the sinister Shadowmen that turn people into stone.
Again, Wellmet’s magic is waning and the Shadowmen have returned in increasing numbers. Having lost his own locus magicalicus, Conn must resort to pyrotechnics, or fireworks, to speak with the magic that has always protected Wellmet. Nevery warns Conn that pyrotechnics are dangerous and forbidden. After all, they damaged his home, Heartstease. Undaunted and desperate to communicate with the magic the only way he can, Conn perseveres until his hopes are literally blown to pieces and disaster ensues, injuring somebody near and dear to him.
As expected, the magisters of Wellmet banish Conn from the city so he sets off for the city of Desh in search of the source of Wellmet’s weakening magic and the mystery of the Shadowmen. He is not disappointed.
Lost is as fast-paced and exciting as Prineas's first book, The Magic Thief, albeit slightly darker. As a streetwise, rough-edged character with a big heart, Conn makes an intriguing hero with a distinctive voice. Although gray bearded Nevery the Wizard is something of a stock character, he makes an apt mentor for Conn, and Lady Rowan, the duchess's daughter, serves as a strong-willed, sword-wielding foil for Conn.
The setting is as dark, intriguing and fully realized as the story line and the characters.
Antonio Javier Caparo's small black and white illustrations complement and enhance the story's mysterious atmosphere. In addition, Prineas includes some of Benet's favorite recipes, some notes on sword craft and a key to the runic alphabet used occasionally throughout the story.
Lost is a well-conceived story and artfully designed book for middle grade kids that leaves some room for the final book in the trilogy. If it's anything like the first two, it's certain to be a bumpy and enthralling journey.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
A Poem From the Past
I've been sorting through my files lately and coming across lots of interesting, half-forgotten stuff - some that I found stashed inside boxes as we were cleaning out my mom's house a few years ago. Lately I've been trying to pull together some poetry for a critique. I believe this is one of the first poems I ever wrote. I was 12 at the time.
Life From A Lion's Point of View
Trapped in a world that's hardly all my own,
People look at me and I groan.
Through metal bars and over stone walls,
I get some very uninvited calls.
People gape and stare and look
At what they could see in an animal book.
I'm bombed with peanuts, which I hate,
And I got stuck with some dumpy, ugly mate.
I've never snored, for I've never slept.
You wouldn't either if you lived where I'm kept.
The water is scummy and filled with bacteria
And the apes next door drive me into hysteria.
Every night at twelve o'clock
The laughing hyena gives every beast a shock!
Oh how I wish I could be released
And then maybe - just maybe- I could get some peace.
Life From A Lion's Point of View
Trapped in a world that's hardly all my own,
People look at me and I groan.
Through metal bars and over stone walls,
I get some very uninvited calls.
People gape and stare and look
At what they could see in an animal book.
I'm bombed with peanuts, which I hate,
And I got stuck with some dumpy, ugly mate.
I've never snored, for I've never slept.
You wouldn't either if you lived where I'm kept.
The water is scummy and filled with bacteria
And the apes next door drive me into hysteria.
Every night at twelve o'clock
The laughing hyena gives every beast a shock!
Oh how I wish I could be released
And then maybe - just maybe- I could get some peace.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Easier Things Than Writing?
I have neglected this poor blog for far too long now. For a while - longer than I expected - I had a miserable case of the flu. It was going around the school and I managed to come down with a nasty, gut wrenching case that wiped me out for nearly 3 weeks. Aargh!
Anyhow, I'm better now and back to working on my WIP which I'm determined to finish this summer. Some days, though, writing is sooo hard. I can think of lots of things that are easier. Here are a few:
1. Weeding the garden. Over the past few days, I've pulled up buckets of weeds. While my garden looks much neater, my novel is still here, waiting for me. The weeds will grow without me, but my novel? Nope.
2. Watering the plants. All my houseplants are well-watered and fertilized. In addition, I've deadheaded my planters full of petunias out on the deck.
3. Doing the New York Times crossword puzzle. I love the puzzle, but when I'm trying to finish a novel, I really should ignore it.
4. Playing online Scrabble. I've beaten the maven three times over the past 4 days at the second highest level. Yippee! This does nothing for my novel.
5. Going to the gym and lifting weights. Something about torturing myself makes me feel a little less guilty.
6. Paying all my bills. What am I,crazy? I mean, I always pay my bills, but who ever heard of paying them weeks in advance?
So, now I MUST get back to work on my WIP. It will not write itself. As Jane Yolen says, you must practice BIC (butt in chair).
Anyhow, I'm better now and back to working on my WIP which I'm determined to finish this summer. Some days, though, writing is sooo hard. I can think of lots of things that are easier. Here are a few:
1. Weeding the garden. Over the past few days, I've pulled up buckets of weeds. While my garden looks much neater, my novel is still here, waiting for me. The weeds will grow without me, but my novel? Nope.
2. Watering the plants. All my houseplants are well-watered and fertilized. In addition, I've deadheaded my planters full of petunias out on the deck.
3. Doing the New York Times crossword puzzle. I love the puzzle, but when I'm trying to finish a novel, I really should ignore it.
4. Playing online Scrabble. I've beaten the maven three times over the past 4 days at the second highest level. Yippee! This does nothing for my novel.
5. Going to the gym and lifting weights. Something about torturing myself makes me feel a little less guilty.
6. Paying all my bills. What am I,crazy? I mean, I always pay my bills, but who ever heard of paying them weeks in advance?
So, now I MUST get back to work on my WIP. It will not write itself. As Jane Yolen says, you must practice BIC (butt in chair).
Friday, June 26, 2009
Michael Jackson Best Dance Moves
You can say what you want about Michael Jackson, but there was never any question about his raw talent. As a kid, he was a kind of child prodigy. I still have one of his record albums - Off the Wall - which I played over and over again. It always managed to get me motivated, no matter how tired I was feeling. His music was energetic and toe tapping, but I was always more impressed by his incredible, innovative dance moves. Nobody could dance quite like Michael. I hope his poor tortured soul has finally found some peace.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Publishing Date
I and the members of my critique group, The Poet's Garage, will be having an anthology of our poems published by Marshall Cavendish on July 15, 2010. That's next year! The title is officially, "An Eyeball in My Garden: and Other Spine-Tingling Poems. Marshall Cavendish is still negotiating for an illustrator but will let us know who it is just as soon as everything is finalized.
This is a dream come true for most of us. Never did I think that the first book I had published would be a group project. How fun! Perhaps this project will open a few doors for us, although I won't be holding my breath on that.
In the meantime, I plan to push through to the end of my novel this summer. Psychologically, I need to get it finished. It's been weighing on me. So, I have my summer plans cut out for me. Onward ho!
This is a dream come true for most of us. Never did I think that the first book I had published would be a group project. How fun! Perhaps this project will open a few doors for us, although I won't be holding my breath on that.
In the meantime, I plan to push through to the end of my novel this summer. Psychologically, I need to get it finished. It's been weighing on me. So, I have my summer plans cut out for me. Onward ho!
Friday, June 5, 2009
Goodbye Runaway Bay
Recently, Sayville's indie bookstore, Runaway Bay Books, closed it doors after nearly 20 years. It was a sad day, to be sure. Runaway Bay's owner, Marianne Bastion, was the quintessential bookstore owner - sweet, bookish and knowledgeable - and her store was cozy and always welcoming. She provided chairs for browsers and a few friendly bookstore cats to warm their laps (actually, they were strays that she'd taken in and had neutered). On Christmas eve, she hosted a reading of A Christmas Carol and anybody who felt like it could volunteer to read a few pages. She hosted a Harry Potter release party, supported local authors and poets and even helped my son when he was building a library at Stony Brook Hospital for his Eagle Scout badge. If you didn't see what you wanted, Marianne would order it for you and call you at home when it came in.
We knew Marianne well. We remembered when she was pregnant with her daughter, Rose, and when she gave birth to her. We watched Rose grow up before our eyes. Marianne Bastion was a local - our friend and neighbor.
Runaway Bay closed for a couple of different reasons -- too much competition from Borders on Sunrise Highway, too much competition from Amazon and other online book retailers and greedy landlords bent on raising the rent during one of the worst economic downturns in American history. So, we lost a pillar of our charming community. As residents of the village of Sayville, most of us try to patronize the local businesses whenever possible. Personally, I'd rather deal with a privately owned business where the owners know my name than a huge impersonal franchise like the current day Borders.
Of course, the original Border's in Ann Arbor was much different from the chainstores now in existence. I grew up in Michigan and whenever we drove into Ann Arbor (about 20 miles from home) I had to go to Border's. It was the most wonderful bookstore with 2 or 3 floors crammed chock full of nothing but books, books and more books. No toys, dolls and other junk. Just lots and lots of great books. At one time, Border's was also an indie bookstore - one that got too big and, in my humble opinion, somehow lost its way.
Please, patronize your local indie bookstore!
We knew Marianne well. We remembered when she was pregnant with her daughter, Rose, and when she gave birth to her. We watched Rose grow up before our eyes. Marianne Bastion was a local - our friend and neighbor.
Runaway Bay closed for a couple of different reasons -- too much competition from Borders on Sunrise Highway, too much competition from Amazon and other online book retailers and greedy landlords bent on raising the rent during one of the worst economic downturns in American history. So, we lost a pillar of our charming community. As residents of the village of Sayville, most of us try to patronize the local businesses whenever possible. Personally, I'd rather deal with a privately owned business where the owners know my name than a huge impersonal franchise like the current day Borders.
Of course, the original Border's in Ann Arbor was much different from the chainstores now in existence. I grew up in Michigan and whenever we drove into Ann Arbor (about 20 miles from home) I had to go to Border's. It was the most wonderful bookstore with 2 or 3 floors crammed chock full of nothing but books, books and more books. No toys, dolls and other junk. Just lots and lots of great books. At one time, Border's was also an indie bookstore - one that got too big and, in my humble opinion, somehow lost its way.
Please, patronize your local indie bookstore!
Friday, May 29, 2009
Winding Down
As the school year winds down, I always seem to get madly busy and this year is no exception. Besides preparing next year's book order (a job I honestly relish but find frustrating because my wants always exceed my budget), preparing my supply order, chasing down overdue books from kids and trying to conduct some kind of an inventory while maintaining a full schedule of classes (because they won't give us time for inventory anymore), one thing we all must do now is to write about our end of the reflections. Ugh!
It used to be we simply jotted down a few highlights from the past school year and that was that. Alas, that was in the good old days! Our end of the year reflections have since taken on a life of their own. In fact, it's now synonymous with the worst kind of essay exam - you know, the kind with the questions that make you squirm in your seat as you stare out the window and wrack your brain in an effort to find something semi intelligent to say. This was the first year I actually had to look up some things in a reference source. The more we get paid, it seems, the more they ask us to justify our worth. I understand, truly I do.
One thing we were asked to so this year was explain how we made a difference in the life of one student in particular. It was a tough, but good question, and I had to pause a while to ponder it. When you're a teacher, sometimes it's not always evident if you've reached your goals. You hope so, but you can't always be sure. When a carpenter builds a bookcase or a gardener plants a garden, he can step back and marvel over what he's accomplished by the sweat of his own brow. Even after a morning or an hour of writing, we have something we can see, something tangible to hold in our hands. But when you teach, you often walk away wondering if anything you said penetrated their gray matter.
When you work in a library, it's even harder. I see all the students in our building as well as about half the students in another building. My goal has always been to make readers of my students. I feel that a love for reading is the best recipe for success in school - perhaps even life.
So, here's the story I shared.
I had a student, a bright but rather neglected boy who often came to school a little grubby and tired. He often seemed sad, sometimes angry. Perhaps he had good reason to be. At any rate, this boy wasn’t reading and it seemed I couldn’t reach him,no matter how many great books I placed before him. One day, I put some new sports biographies on display. Those caught his eye. He stared at them for a few minutes before turning to ask me if he could take one out. “Of course,” I told him, “that’s what they’re for.” So he took out a book about Eli Manning. After he’d returned it, he asked if he could take out another. And then another. And so it went. I often put aside sports biographies for him that I thought he’d especially like. He always seemed grateful. Eventually, he ran through most of those so I suggested some novels about athletes, such as Thank-you, Jackie Robinson, by Barbara Cohen, and Heat, by Mike Lupica. After he ran through those, he decided to try something different. I got him to check out The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe which led him to the rest of C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia, and then other fantasies, mysteries,and some realistic stories about kids like him coping with difficult situations. Books won't necessarily solve anybody’s problems, but they can extend hope to them. By offering them a portal into other worlds, other lives, books can help light the way for children as they navigate their way along the thorny road to adulthood.
To teach is to touch a life and I hope that in some small way I have done that.
It used to be we simply jotted down a few highlights from the past school year and that was that. Alas, that was in the good old days! Our end of the year reflections have since taken on a life of their own. In fact, it's now synonymous with the worst kind of essay exam - you know, the kind with the questions that make you squirm in your seat as you stare out the window and wrack your brain in an effort to find something semi intelligent to say. This was the first year I actually had to look up some things in a reference source. The more we get paid, it seems, the more they ask us to justify our worth. I understand, truly I do.
One thing we were asked to so this year was explain how we made a difference in the life of one student in particular. It was a tough, but good question, and I had to pause a while to ponder it. When you're a teacher, sometimes it's not always evident if you've reached your goals. You hope so, but you can't always be sure. When a carpenter builds a bookcase or a gardener plants a garden, he can step back and marvel over what he's accomplished by the sweat of his own brow. Even after a morning or an hour of writing, we have something we can see, something tangible to hold in our hands. But when you teach, you often walk away wondering if anything you said penetrated their gray matter.
When you work in a library, it's even harder. I see all the students in our building as well as about half the students in another building. My goal has always been to make readers of my students. I feel that a love for reading is the best recipe for success in school - perhaps even life.
So, here's the story I shared.
I had a student, a bright but rather neglected boy who often came to school a little grubby and tired. He often seemed sad, sometimes angry. Perhaps he had good reason to be. At any rate, this boy wasn’t reading and it seemed I couldn’t reach him,no matter how many great books I placed before him. One day, I put some new sports biographies on display. Those caught his eye. He stared at them for a few minutes before turning to ask me if he could take one out. “Of course,” I told him, “that’s what they’re for.” So he took out a book about Eli Manning. After he’d returned it, he asked if he could take out another. And then another. And so it went. I often put aside sports biographies for him that I thought he’d especially like. He always seemed grateful. Eventually, he ran through most of those so I suggested some novels about athletes, such as Thank-you, Jackie Robinson, by Barbara Cohen, and Heat, by Mike Lupica. After he ran through those, he decided to try something different. I got him to check out The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe which led him to the rest of C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia, and then other fantasies, mysteries,and some realistic stories about kids like him coping with difficult situations. Books won't necessarily solve anybody’s problems, but they can extend hope to them. By offering them a portal into other worlds, other lives, books can help light the way for children as they navigate their way along the thorny road to adulthood.
To teach is to touch a life and I hope that in some small way I have done that.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
An Interview!
My crit partner, Heather Burnell, interviewed me for her blog, Frolicking Through Cyberspace. I have to admit, it's the first time I've ever been interviewed (not including the time the kindergartners interviewed me for a book about our school). It was a lot of fun. Thanks so much, Heather!
Here's the link. Please drop by and leave a comment.
http://frolickingthroughcyberspace.blogspot.com/
Here's the link. Please drop by and leave a comment.
http://frolickingthroughcyberspace.blogspot.com/
Friday, May 8, 2009
Crossing the Virtual Bridge
Last year I wrote an article about how composing poetry can help you improve your prose -- even if you never become a published poet or anything you write ever makes it out of your Word files or beyond the covers of your spiral-bound notebook. I called it "Verse-atility" and queried Stephen Mooser, editor of the SCBWI Bulletin, to see if he might be interested in publishing it. He was. After cutting the article down and revising it half a dozen times, I finally subbed it to him before I left for Chautauqua last July. He accepted it and my little article finally made it into the most recent May/June issue of the SCBWI Bulletin.
I haven't received my hard copy in the mail yet, but I can't wait! I know it's such a small thing but it's been many years since I've had anything published in a format I can hold in my hands. Why? Well, there was my job and then those busy years of raising our children, of shepherding them through soccer games, music lessons, track meets and homework sessions. Too many disruptions and excuses not to pursue my love of the written word. In fact, I don't think I've had anything truly "published" since my college days. I've had some poems published in ezines and online, but nothing in actual print form. Now I feel as though I've crossed some sort of bridge into the world of legitimacy. The last time I remember feeling this way when I turned 13 and finally became a true blue teenager. While cyberspace is an exciting frontier, it's one in flux, a format that's constantly evolving and changing. Websites spring up overnight and just as suddenly, they vanish. And when they vanish, you wonder sometimes if they even existed. Was it all just a dream?
There's something validating and reassuring about seeing something you wrote printed on paper - printed in a format you can actually hold, fold over and read as you ride the train into work or sip your morning cup of tea. My dad started out as a newspaper man - a journalist for a newspaper in England called The Manchester Guardian (now called simply The Guardian). At one time he subscribed to five different newspapers. Books, too, were such an integral part of my life that I had a hard time imagining life without them. For me, getting into "hard copy" is the ultimate litmus test, a sign that yes, what I wrote was important enough to print on something that will linger longer than a few nanoseconds of cyberspace time. I may embrace technology, but cherish the old fashioned world of the printed word.
I haven't received my hard copy in the mail yet, but I can't wait! I know it's such a small thing but it's been many years since I've had anything published in a format I can hold in my hands. Why? Well, there was my job and then those busy years of raising our children, of shepherding them through soccer games, music lessons, track meets and homework sessions. Too many disruptions and excuses not to pursue my love of the written word. In fact, I don't think I've had anything truly "published" since my college days. I've had some poems published in ezines and online, but nothing in actual print form. Now I feel as though I've crossed some sort of bridge into the world of legitimacy. The last time I remember feeling this way when I turned 13 and finally became a true blue teenager. While cyberspace is an exciting frontier, it's one in flux, a format that's constantly evolving and changing. Websites spring up overnight and just as suddenly, they vanish. And when they vanish, you wonder sometimes if they even existed. Was it all just a dream?
There's something validating and reassuring about seeing something you wrote printed on paper - printed in a format you can actually hold, fold over and read as you ride the train into work or sip your morning cup of tea. My dad started out as a newspaper man - a journalist for a newspaper in England called The Manchester Guardian (now called simply The Guardian). At one time he subscribed to five different newspapers. Books, too, were such an integral part of my life that I had a hard time imagining life without them. For me, getting into "hard copy" is the ultimate litmus test, a sign that yes, what I wrote was important enough to print on something that will linger longer than a few nanoseconds of cyberspace time. I may embrace technology, but cherish the old fashioned world of the printed word.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Six Things On a Saturday
1. I'm so glad I got to accompany my husband to the Boston Marathon last Monday. Boston is a beautiful, clean city with great museums and galleries, fascinating historical sights and wonderful architecture. And the people of Boston were so terrifically supportive of the runners. People lined nearly foot of the route, clapping and shouting words of support. My husband said he drew a lot of energy from the crowds that helped sustain him through the 26.2 trek through the city (including Heartbreak Hill). Three cheers for Boston!!! And congratulations to my husband for his time of 3:49! That's a pr for him. I wish I could post a picture but my camera crapped out on me that day.
2. Exercise, I discovered long ago, is the best way of dealing with stress and the nasty knocks life sometimes deals you.
3. Spring is a time of rebirth and renewal and, despite some recent blows and disappointments, I am trying to look forward with my head held up like the daffodils.
4. When life gets tough, I think of Ernest Hemingway's philosophy of "grace under pressure" or courage. It's so easy to crumple in the face of adversity, much harder to do the right thing and carry on. My father had a friend, a writer named Bill Weatherby. They worked together at The Manchester Guardian in England and both of them, like so many other immigrants, eventually came to America in search of a better life. While my dad abandoned his writing career (he had a growing family to support, after all), Bill stuck to his. He covered the Civil Rights movement in the south during the 1950s for the NY Times, fell in love with a black woman and made no attempt to hide his love for her. When a group of southern white KKK members spotted him holding hands with her in public, they jumped him and brutally beat him. He knew the risks but refused to be bullied. Now I call that "grace under pressure".
5. This month is National Poetry Month. I've been receiving a poem a day in my email from Random House. What a delight! Here's one of my favorites by author Joyce Carol Oates. And yeah, I liked Elvis!
Waiting On Elvis, 1956
This place up in Charlotte called Chuck's where I
used to waitress and who came in one night
but Elvis and some of his friends before his concert
at the Arena, I was twenty-six married but still
waiting tables and we got to joking around like you
do, and he was fingering the lace edge of my slip
where it showed below my hemline and I hadn't even
seen it and I slapped at him a little saying, You
sure are the one aren't you feeling my face burn but
he was the kind of boy even meanness turned sweet in
his mouth.
Smiled at me and said, Yeah honey I guess I sure am.
6. And, here's another I loved by Brad Leithauser from his collection, Curves and Angles.
A Good List
(Homage to Lorenz Hart)
Some nights, can't sleep, I draw up a list,
Of everything I've never done wrong.
To look at me now, you might insist
My list could hardly be long,
But I've stolen no gnomes from my neighbor’s yard,
Nor struck his dog, backing out my car.
Never ate my way up and down the Loire
On a stranger's credit card.
I've never given a cop the slip,
Stuffed stiffs in a gravel quarry,
Or silenced Cub Scouts on a first camping trip
With an unspeakable ghost story.
Never lifted a vase from a museum foyer,
Or rifled a Turkish tourist's backpack.
Never cheated at golf. Or slipped out a blackjack
And flattened a patent lawyer.
I never forged a lottery ticket,
Took three on a two-for-one pass,
Or, as a child, toasted a cricket
With a magnifying glass.
I never said "air" to mean "err," or obstructed
Justice, or defrauded a securities firm.
Never mulcted—so far as I understand the term.
Or unjustly usufructed.
I never swindled a widow of all her stuff
By means of a false deed and title
Or stood up and shouted, My God, that's enough!
At a nephew’s piano recital.
Never practiced arson, even as a prank,
Brightened church-suppers with off-color jokes,
Concocted an archeological hoax—
Or dumped bleach in a goldfish tank.
Never smoked opium. Or smuggled gold
Across the Panamanian Isthmus.
Never hauled back and knocked a rival out cold,
Or missed a family Christmas.
Never borrowed a book I intended to keep.
. . . My list, once started, continues to grow,
Which is all for the good, but just goes to show
It's the good who do not sleep.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Poetry Book
Well, I guess it's now official. My poetry critique group, The Poet's Garage, is having a collection of their poems published by Marshall Cavendish sometime in 2010 and I'm thrilled to say at least two of my poems will be included in the collection!
Fourteen of us pulled together a collection of our poems and our two moderators and accomplished poets, Jennifer Judd and Laura Wynkoop, were truly the key to finally getting it accepted. They submitted it many times before Marshall Cavendish expressed an interest in picking it up. We knew it was an unusual and risky proposition but, despite the odds, Laura and Jen persisted and their diligence finally payed off. So, yay!!! We're thrilled about this project and can't wait to see our poems in print. All 14 of us will be represented (we were a little worried somebody would be left out).
I must say, I never imagined this project as my first published book but it's exciting. Hooray Poet's Garage!
Fourteen of us pulled together a collection of our poems and our two moderators and accomplished poets, Jennifer Judd and Laura Wynkoop, were truly the key to finally getting it accepted. They submitted it many times before Marshall Cavendish expressed an interest in picking it up. We knew it was an unusual and risky proposition but, despite the odds, Laura and Jen persisted and their diligence finally payed off. So, yay!!! We're thrilled about this project and can't wait to see our poems in print. All 14 of us will be represented (we were a little worried somebody would be left out).
I must say, I never imagined this project as my first published book but it's exciting. Hooray Poet's Garage!
Sunday, March 15, 2009
How Do You Write?
When drafting a novel, the general recommendation is to sit yourself down someplace comfortable and write it straight through to the end in as short a time frame as possible - to get the damn story down, no matter how ugly it is, THEN go back and revise. I envy those who can do this, I really do, because I'm just not like that. I wish I were. It would make my writing life easier I suspect. I might even have my novel finished by now.
But no. I write, then backstitch and rework it. Then I write a little more, then backstitch and revise again. Sometimes I go waaaay back in the wayback machine to revise parts I wrote months ago - even segments I wrote last year. All the time, I'm still pressing forward toward the end. It just takes me longer.
Why write this way?
I think it's just the way I'm made. It's in my genetic makeup or something. In all our old family home movies taken during birthdays and Christmas, I'm the kid cleaning up. I wouldn't open the next present until I'd placed all the gift wrap and trimmings from the first present in a garbage bag. My sister claimed I had no fun. She ripped into everything with gusto.
I like all the underpinnings to be neat, without any bumps or wrinkles. When my husband "makes the bed" he just pulls the comforter up over the wrinkled sheet, plumps up the pillows a tiny bit and tosses them onto the bed in the general direction of the headboard. But not me. No, I have to smooth out the sheets until not a wrinkle shows and then make sure everything hangs evenly around all sides of the bed before I pull up the comforter and carefully arrange the pillows. Honestly, I wish I was different. My art instructor is always urging me to draw a little looser, not to grasp the pencil so firmly. But he can't change what he can't change.
So, how do you write? Are there any other anal retentive writers out there besides me?
But no. I write, then backstitch and rework it. Then I write a little more, then backstitch and revise again. Sometimes I go waaaay back in the wayback machine to revise parts I wrote months ago - even segments I wrote last year. All the time, I'm still pressing forward toward the end. It just takes me longer.
Why write this way?
I think it's just the way I'm made. It's in my genetic makeup or something. In all our old family home movies taken during birthdays and Christmas, I'm the kid cleaning up. I wouldn't open the next present until I'd placed all the gift wrap and trimmings from the first present in a garbage bag. My sister claimed I had no fun. She ripped into everything with gusto.
I like all the underpinnings to be neat, without any bumps or wrinkles. When my husband "makes the bed" he just pulls the comforter up over the wrinkled sheet, plumps up the pillows a tiny bit and tosses them onto the bed in the general direction of the headboard. But not me. No, I have to smooth out the sheets until not a wrinkle shows and then make sure everything hangs evenly around all sides of the bed before I pull up the comforter and carefully arrange the pillows. Honestly, I wish I was different. My art instructor is always urging me to draw a little looser, not to grasp the pencil so firmly. But he can't change what he can't change.
So, how do you write? Are there any other anal retentive writers out there besides me?
Friday, March 6, 2009
Five Things On a Friday
Here are a few random thoughts.
1. My new principal thinks books will become obsolete in the future, although she didn't specify how far into the future she thinks this may happen. The thought horrifies me. There's still something very intimate and wonderful about holding a book - about nestling into bed with one or sharing a picture book with an enthusiastic group of first graders. You can take a book any place - to the beach, the doctor's waiting room, the airport terminal ...the unemployment line. Try plugging in your laptop in any of those places! I don't think books will ever become obsolete, no more than I think calculators will ever become a substitute for a solid knowledge of your math facts.
2. This winter has gone on long enough. Please, we need a sign of spring - a crocus or something! I still have a foot of snow in my yard. Ugh.
3. I was pleased to see a lot of teens in the YA section of Border's a few weeks ago. I heard a mother telling her daughter, "This time, don't leave it in your backpack." She was referring to her daughter's copy of Twilight. Somebody had apparently stolen it. Does this elevate books to the status of iPods and iphones? While I don't like thieves any more than the next person, I like the idea of somebody wanting a book that bad. It gives me hope, in a weird way.
4. My husband started remodeling the bathroom off our bedroom. The floors are coated with a fine gray dust and our bathroom vanity is sitting smack in the middle of my bedroom. Fortunately we have another bathroom we can use until this one is finished.
5. My eldest son is losing his job. Today is his last day and so far he has no job prospects. He is looking, however. Anybody have any job leads for a hard working, punctual, smart, literate college grad on Long Island? He does not want to sit around collecting unemployment.
Happy Friday!
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Creating Suspense
I've never been a big mystery fan, preferring instead to read fantasy, contemporary and historical fiction. However, this doesn't mean that I don't recognize the advantage of borrowing some techniques from mystery writers when it comes to plotting. I recently finished reading two wonderful but very different novels - Graceling, by Kristin Cashore, and So B. It, by Sarah Weeks. The former is a young adult fantasy about a young female warrior named Katsa with an extraordinary talent or "grace" for killing, the second a middle grade novel about twelve year old Heidi, living with her mentally impaired mother in Reno, and her desire to learn something about her muddled past.
Although the two novels have little in common, except that they're both well crafted, beautifully written, engrossing reads, they share one common bond; in both books the authors create an air of mystery that keeps the reader turning the page.
In Graceling, Cashore leads the reader into her novel by immediately setting up an enigma. Who kidnapped harmless Prince Tealeaf and why? What could anybody possibly want from the father of the most peace loving king in the land? Soon, Cashore introduces yet another mystery; who is the handsome, graced fighter who confronts Katsa in the courtyard? Yet a third mystery concerns neighboring King Leck and the mystery surrounding him and the apparent abuse of small animals and young girls. Little by little, over the course of the novel, the missing pieces fall into place until we have a complete picture and each of the mysteries is solved. Cashore's writing is vivid, her characters well drawn but the mysteries she establishes early in her book are what pull the reader along to the end.
In So B. It, Sarah Weeks also sets up several mysteries. Heidi is 12 years old but because her mother is mentally disabled and only has a vocabulary of 23 words, there are gaping holes in her life and family history. For instance, what is Heidi's last name? When is her birthday? Who is her father? Her grandmother and grandfather? Where did she come from? Then there is her mother's word, "soof". What does it mean? One day while organizing a closet, Heidi comes across a camera containing a roll of film. When she has the roll developed, she finds pictures of her mother with other people. Could the woman standing next to her mother be her grandmother? Are any of the other people in the photos her family? Maybe they can help her fill in the missing holes. The only clue Heidi has is the pictures were taken in a group home in Liberty, New York. So, off sets Heidi in search of the missing pieces of her life and the meaning of the word "soof". Slowly, over the course of the novel, Weeks reveals the answers to the mysteries she established in the early part of her story. To ensure the reader keeps turning the page, she saves the most compelling information for last. The ending brought both a few tears and a sense of satisfaction to a well-crafted novel with believable characters.
You don't need to be a "mystery writer" to create intrigue and suspense and compel the reader through to the end, but certainly as writers we each have something to gain by weaving a little mystery into our stories and novels.
Although the two novels have little in common, except that they're both well crafted, beautifully written, engrossing reads, they share one common bond; in both books the authors create an air of mystery that keeps the reader turning the page.
In Graceling, Cashore leads the reader into her novel by immediately setting up an enigma. Who kidnapped harmless Prince Tealeaf and why? What could anybody possibly want from the father of the most peace loving king in the land? Soon, Cashore introduces yet another mystery; who is the handsome, graced fighter who confronts Katsa in the courtyard? Yet a third mystery concerns neighboring King Leck and the mystery surrounding him and the apparent abuse of small animals and young girls. Little by little, over the course of the novel, the missing pieces fall into place until we have a complete picture and each of the mysteries is solved. Cashore's writing is vivid, her characters well drawn but the mysteries she establishes early in her book are what pull the reader along to the end.
In So B. It, Sarah Weeks also sets up several mysteries. Heidi is 12 years old but because her mother is mentally disabled and only has a vocabulary of 23 words, there are gaping holes in her life and family history. For instance, what is Heidi's last name? When is her birthday? Who is her father? Her grandmother and grandfather? Where did she come from? Then there is her mother's word, "soof". What does it mean? One day while organizing a closet, Heidi comes across a camera containing a roll of film. When she has the roll developed, she finds pictures of her mother with other people. Could the woman standing next to her mother be her grandmother? Are any of the other people in the photos her family? Maybe they can help her fill in the missing holes. The only clue Heidi has is the pictures were taken in a group home in Liberty, New York. So, off sets Heidi in search of the missing pieces of her life and the meaning of the word "soof". Slowly, over the course of the novel, Weeks reveals the answers to the mysteries she established in the early part of her story. To ensure the reader keeps turning the page, she saves the most compelling information for last. The ending brought both a few tears and a sense of satisfaction to a well-crafted novel with believable characters.
You don't need to be a "mystery writer" to create intrigue and suspense and compel the reader through to the end, but certainly as writers we each have something to gain by weaving a little mystery into our stories and novels.
Friday, February 13, 2009
The Poetry of Prose
I try to squeeze in as much reading as I can when I can but between my job, trying to maintain some sort of an exercise routine and trying, also, to write and work at art projects, it ain't always easy. Anyhow, I recently finished reading The Underneath, by Kathi Appelt. It's truly one of the most lyrical and beautifully written books I've ever read so it came as no surprise to me when it won a Newbery Honor Medal this year. My only surprise was that it didn't win the gold medal for it truly deserved it. There was some discussion about this book holding little appeal for children, about the language being inaccessible, but every one of my students who has read it has finished it and absolutely loved it.
For anybody who hasn't delved into this book yet, it's the story of a dog and a cat and her kittens who live beneath the house of a cruel man in a backwoods bayou. The story of a giant crocodile, two young lovers and a giant shape-shifting snake are also seamlessly woven into the story. At the end, all the stories come together. And that's all I'll tell you about the ending, except that it was emotionally satisfying. All I could say was, wow!
Kids, I've discovered, love beautiful language - words that roll off the tongue and paint a vivid picture for them. I love to read aloud stories that captivate their imagination and slowly reel them in. This year I have a squirmy bunch of fifth graders and as I started reading The Underneath aloud to them, they were moving around in their seats, whispering, flicking little wads of paper, etc. Slowly, they stopped to listen and as they did, they stopped squirming and tuned into the story. I knew I had them. At the end of the period, they groaned. Somebody even asked if she could come in during her lunch period to hear more!
I've read novels written in poetic prose before, but not recently and none that I remember for children (although Cynthia Rylant's books come close at times). A lot of books today are written in free verse. Sometimes it comes off sounding a little artificial, though, and I think the story would have been more effective if it had been written in narrative form.
Some outstanding free verse novels that work well for me include Karen Hesse's Out of the Dust (one of the first written in this style), Susan Taylor Brown's lovely novel, Hugging the Rock and Sharon Creech's book, Love That Dog. I'm sure there must be more.
Practicing the art of crafting poetry can lend your prose more beauty. But, more on this another time. Anybody else out there practice writing both poetry and prose? If so, I'd love to hear about it.
For anybody who hasn't delved into this book yet, it's the story of a dog and a cat and her kittens who live beneath the house of a cruel man in a backwoods bayou. The story of a giant crocodile, two young lovers and a giant shape-shifting snake are also seamlessly woven into the story. At the end, all the stories come together. And that's all I'll tell you about the ending, except that it was emotionally satisfying. All I could say was, wow!
Kids, I've discovered, love beautiful language - words that roll off the tongue and paint a vivid picture for them. I love to read aloud stories that captivate their imagination and slowly reel them in. This year I have a squirmy bunch of fifth graders and as I started reading The Underneath aloud to them, they were moving around in their seats, whispering, flicking little wads of paper, etc. Slowly, they stopped to listen and as they did, they stopped squirming and tuned into the story. I knew I had them. At the end of the period, they groaned. Somebody even asked if she could come in during her lunch period to hear more!
I've read novels written in poetic prose before, but not recently and none that I remember for children (although Cynthia Rylant's books come close at times). A lot of books today are written in free verse. Sometimes it comes off sounding a little artificial, though, and I think the story would have been more effective if it had been written in narrative form.
Some outstanding free verse novels that work well for me include Karen Hesse's Out of the Dust (one of the first written in this style), Susan Taylor Brown's lovely novel, Hugging the Rock and Sharon Creech's book, Love That Dog. I'm sure there must be more.
Practicing the art of crafting poetry can lend your prose more beauty. But, more on this another time. Anybody else out there practice writing both poetry and prose? If so, I'd love to hear about it.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Billy Collins -
My son, Derek, shared this recording of Billy Collins reading his poem, "The Lanyard", with me and I loved it. So, thought I'd share it with you. Enjoy!
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Hope
Watching the inauguration yesterday of President Barack Obama, I felt moved and inspired and once again proud to be an American. It's hard to admit that for the last 8 years I've felt embarrassed to call myself an American. I barely recognized the country I was born in. I was so ashamed of the last administration - ashamed of their violation of human and Constitutional rights and their disregard for the treaty of the Geneva Convention. I was appalled by Bush's apparent disdain and neglect of the environment, by the way he and his administration favored big business and big oil over the common man and the poor people of this country and Bush's apparent disrespect of gays. I was almost dumbstruck by his attempts to create a theocracy out of a democracy, by the way he thumbed his nose at science. He was almost too bad to believe.
When Bush was handed the presidency 8 years ago (I still don't think he earned it), I knew we were in for a bumpy ride. But never in my wildest dreams could I have envisioned the total hell he'd put our country through. Thanks to him, our country is embroiled in two useless wars, the economy is in shambles, unemployment is at a record high, we're once again saddled with a national debt and most of us have been left wondering what happened to that nest egg we'd put away for our retirement. I'm beginning to wonder if I'll even have a job next year.
With Barack Obama in charge, I once again feel there's hope for our country. I by no means think the next year or two will be easy. If anything, things will probably get worse before they get better. But at least we now have a man of intellect and vision at the helm, somebody with regard for history, an understanding of the Constitution and endowed with a sense of what makes America great. I hope he can get our country back on her feet.
When Bush was handed the presidency 8 years ago (I still don't think he earned it), I knew we were in for a bumpy ride. But never in my wildest dreams could I have envisioned the total hell he'd put our country through. Thanks to him, our country is embroiled in two useless wars, the economy is in shambles, unemployment is at a record high, we're once again saddled with a national debt and most of us have been left wondering what happened to that nest egg we'd put away for our retirement. I'm beginning to wonder if I'll even have a job next year.
With Barack Obama in charge, I once again feel there's hope for our country. I by no means think the next year or two will be easy. If anything, things will probably get worse before they get better. But at least we now have a man of intellect and vision at the helm, somebody with regard for history, an understanding of the Constitution and endowed with a sense of what makes America great. I hope he can get our country back on her feet.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Back To Art
I enrolled in a life drawing class this semester. It's been a while since I've drawn a living person and I didn't realize how much I'd missed it until I sat down at the easel with my pencil case, measuring, drawing and erasing and drawing again. I hadn't taken an art class since early last year.
Robert moved LIAFA to a new location down the road (in Riverhead) and it's charming. It's in an old office building above a pizzeria and a few other businesses. The new space has tall ceilings, oak floors, is clean and well maintained, and actually has running hot water and a radiator that works. In the old building, we suffered all winter without adequate heat and had to wash our paint brushes in ice cold water, turning my hands numb and white. When I drove in to paint on a Sunday afternoon, I often chattered with the cold as I sat mixing my colors on my palette.
There's much to love about drawing - the feel of the pencil between your fingers, the smooth, creamy surface of the paper, the meditative solace it brings as you strive to capture the curve of the model's back, the gesture of the hands, the turn of the head. I love the comforting quiet of the studio and the mingling odors of paint, charcoal pencils and mineral spirits. Sometimes drawing from life is incredibly frustrating. After a break, it's hard to get the model positioned in exactly the same pose. Sometimes I get a stiff neck or I can't quite capture the pose or work out the proportions. Still, I keep on.
Drawing helps to train the writer's eye. It helps the writer to cultivate patience with himself and his craft. Most artists, like most writers, work hard at what they do. Success often comes slowly after many years of hard work.
Really, isn't that true of anything that requires skill, whether it's wrestling, running, building a piece of furniture, cultivating a garden or composing a poem? Few of us get it right the first time. And that, after all, is makes makes success so sweet when we finally hold it, plump, ripe and juicy, in our own two hands.
Robert moved LIAFA to a new location down the road (in Riverhead) and it's charming. It's in an old office building above a pizzeria and a few other businesses. The new space has tall ceilings, oak floors, is clean and well maintained, and actually has running hot water and a radiator that works. In the old building, we suffered all winter without adequate heat and had to wash our paint brushes in ice cold water, turning my hands numb and white. When I drove in to paint on a Sunday afternoon, I often chattered with the cold as I sat mixing my colors on my palette.
There's much to love about drawing - the feel of the pencil between your fingers, the smooth, creamy surface of the paper, the meditative solace it brings as you strive to capture the curve of the model's back, the gesture of the hands, the turn of the head. I love the comforting quiet of the studio and the mingling odors of paint, charcoal pencils and mineral spirits. Sometimes drawing from life is incredibly frustrating. After a break, it's hard to get the model positioned in exactly the same pose. Sometimes I get a stiff neck or I can't quite capture the pose or work out the proportions. Still, I keep on.
Drawing helps to train the writer's eye. It helps the writer to cultivate patience with himself and his craft. Most artists, like most writers, work hard at what they do. Success often comes slowly after many years of hard work.
Really, isn't that true of anything that requires skill, whether it's wrestling, running, building a piece of furniture, cultivating a garden or composing a poem? Few of us get it right the first time. And that, after all, is makes makes success so sweet when we finally hold it, plump, ripe and juicy, in our own two hands.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Happy 2009
Instead of making a list of resolutions that I know I'll never keep, I thought I'd make a list of things I like. This comes after feeling just a wee bit sorry for myself because I can't eat deserts or sugary things anymore. So, here are just a few of the things that bring me comfort and even joy.
Here's to...
Old china cups with tealeaves clinging to the sides.
My bedroom slippers with the worn down heels and the hole in one toe.
The humble, low-tech book with four straight sides and no gigabytes of RAM but acres and acres of stories.
The creaky wooden floors of the S.S. Kresge Store in downtown Wayne with its soda fountain, ceiling fans and counters full of useless, fascinating junk.
The sweat on my forehead and the black dirt beneath my fingernails after an afternoon working in the garden.
The tufts of green grass poking through the cracks in the sidewalks and the fissures in asphalt parking lots.
Strands of Christmas lights and the multi-colored joy they bring to the gray winter streets.
The wink of fireflies on soft summer nights.
Vanilla ice cream that’s a little soft and creamy around the edges.
Chocolate dipped ice cream cones.
Heaps of gold and crimson leaves.
French fries a little burnt along the edges.
Pizza with bubbling hot cheese.
The purr of a cat curled contentedly in my lap.
The comforting creak and bang of a screen door in the wind.
A neatly mowed lawn sloping down to a gurgling stream.
The thud of a basketball on a cement driveway.
The rumble of distant thunder.
The lazy drone of a bumblebee wandering from one hollyhock to the next.
Silver rimmed autumn morns.
The button well sewn, the shoelace well-knotted, the dishes well scrubbed.
Clean, fluffy towels fresh from the drier.
Guppies spawning in neighborhood creeks.
The kingfisher waiting with infinite patience for the flash of fin and scales in the water below.
The smell of oatmeal cookies baking in the oven.
Bali Hai.
Beep Beep the Roadrunner. Long may he outwit and outrun Wile Coyote.
Sleeping in ‘til 8 am.
Glass elevators.
Crabs swimming sideways through the bay.
Clear, starry nights.
The challenge of the empty canvas, the blank page of a drawing tablet.
Bright veined lightning on a black, storm swept night.
A yard full of snow sparkling in the sun.
Radiators that alternately clank, hiss and purr all winter long.
The soulful song of the cello.
The dappled light of a forest floor.
Singing in the shower.
Elmer's Glue.
Happy New Year, everybody!
Here's to...
Old china cups with tealeaves clinging to the sides.
My bedroom slippers with the worn down heels and the hole in one toe.
The humble, low-tech book with four straight sides and no gigabytes of RAM but acres and acres of stories.
The creaky wooden floors of the S.S. Kresge Store in downtown Wayne with its soda fountain, ceiling fans and counters full of useless, fascinating junk.
The sweat on my forehead and the black dirt beneath my fingernails after an afternoon working in the garden.
The tufts of green grass poking through the cracks in the sidewalks and the fissures in asphalt parking lots.
Strands of Christmas lights and the multi-colored joy they bring to the gray winter streets.
The wink of fireflies on soft summer nights.
Vanilla ice cream that’s a little soft and creamy around the edges.
Chocolate dipped ice cream cones.
Heaps of gold and crimson leaves.
French fries a little burnt along the edges.
Pizza with bubbling hot cheese.
The purr of a cat curled contentedly in my lap.
The comforting creak and bang of a screen door in the wind.
A neatly mowed lawn sloping down to a gurgling stream.
The thud of a basketball on a cement driveway.
The rumble of distant thunder.
The lazy drone of a bumblebee wandering from one hollyhock to the next.
Silver rimmed autumn morns.
The button well sewn, the shoelace well-knotted, the dishes well scrubbed.
Clean, fluffy towels fresh from the drier.
Guppies spawning in neighborhood creeks.
The kingfisher waiting with infinite patience for the flash of fin and scales in the water below.
The smell of oatmeal cookies baking in the oven.
Bali Hai.
Beep Beep the Roadrunner. Long may he outwit and outrun Wile Coyote.
Sleeping in ‘til 8 am.
Glass elevators.
Crabs swimming sideways through the bay.
Clear, starry nights.
The challenge of the empty canvas, the blank page of a drawing tablet.
Bright veined lightning on a black, storm swept night.
A yard full of snow sparkling in the sun.
Radiators that alternately clank, hiss and purr all winter long.
The soulful song of the cello.
The dappled light of a forest floor.
Singing in the shower.
Elmer's Glue.
Happy New Year, everybody!
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