Month: April 2010

Friday Five

It’s been a busy week, so I’m sneaking in under the wire with five quick things on a Friday…

1. SeaMonsters…  I had a phone conference this week with the editor for SEAMONSTER’S FIRST DAY, one of my picture books with Chronicle.  We talked about the illustrator sketches, which are so funny and awesome they make me bounce up and down a little every time I see them. Also, I love that my job involves having serious conversations about what a sea monster’s belly ought to look like.

2. Tractors…  I’m reading Marina Lewycka’s A SHORT HISTORY OF TRACTORS IN UKRAINIAN, which is a book I probably would never have picked up on my own (because, really… tractors?) but the band director at my school recommended it.  That’s enough for me, since he is also the person who told me about Elizabeth Kostova’s THE HISTORIAN, Jean Hegland’s INTO THE FOREST, and another book, the title of which has eluded me, but it was gorgeous, rich, full of longing, and set in a circus in Venice.  Anyway, TRACTORS is turning out to be not about tractors so much as family and forgiveness, our weaknesses as human beings, and our strengths.  It’s making me laugh, too.

3. Audio Books… Confession: I am kind of an audio-book failure. I start listening with the best intentions, but Inevitably, I end up drifting off somewhere else in my mind, only to tune back in after several minutes have passed and I am hopelessly lost.  Until this week, when I popped in this CD during my drive to a couple school visits.

If you haven’t already heard people raving about Jandy Nelson’s THE SKY IS EVERYWHERE, it’s a YA novel about a girl whose sister has died suddenly, and she finds herself feeling both crushed with grief and filled with passion for two different boys who fill totally different roles in the new life she’s trying to navigate.  It’s funny and sad and joyful, full of music, and life-affirming, and after I finish, I’m going to have to go get the print version, too, because I love it so much.

4. Number Four is a secret. Sorry. Forget I mentioned Number Four.

5. Vacation… My school’s spring break started today, so I’m  looking forward to a week of family, reading, and playing outside. I’m taking a bit of an Internet break, too, so the blog will be quieter than usual. I hope you have a great week, full of good books, good news, and sunshine.

Thank you, Saranac Elementary School

Today was one of those amazing, amazing author visit days. I talked with kids about books, was given beautiful artwork, had a fabulously fun lunch with some fourth graders, laughed a lot, and even cried a tiny bit…  I’ll tell you why in a minute, but first, a HUGE thank you to the teachers, librarian, and kids of Saranac Elementary.


All these hands are up in response to my question about long car rides & whether anyone has ever asked "Are We There Yet?" (Sometimes writing a book can feel that way, too!)

When the third and fourth graders got to the gym, one of their teachers approached me with a copy of The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z.  "We have four pages left, and we wondered if you’d like to read the end."   She didn’t have to ask twice.


It was so special to get to finish up the book with these students, and they had great questions & observations about Gianna and her family.

Then it was off to a special lunch in Lisa Napper’s fourth grade classroom, where the kids had some surprises ready for me. Lunch, cookies…and art!

The class had read all three of my books in preparation for our visit today, and each student chose a scene from Spitfire to draw.  There are definitely some budding illustrators in this group!

After lunch, Mrs. Napper showed me something that gave me goosebumps.  If you’ve read The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z, you know that Gianna’s grandmother is struggling with memory issues and (mild spoiler ahead) her family makes a memory book — a sort of scrapbook to help her remember the things that are slipping away from her.  The scrapbook in my novel came from my imagination; I pieced it together in daydreams and notebook scribbles. 

But when Mrs. Napper was reading that chapter of Gianna Z. aloud to her class, she recognized that memory book.  She made one for her own grandmother.

Mrs. Napper’s Nana was 98 when she died.  Turning the pages of this book, I couldn’t help feeling a little sad that I never had a chance to meet her.  She was clearly a beautiful, beautiful woman and so very loved.  But like Gianna’s grandmother, she was having problems with her memory.  This book gave her back the story of her life, one loving page at a time.

She read it every day.

And yes…this is the part of the day that made me cry a little.  It is a beautiful, beautiful book, and I’m so thankful that Mrs. Napper brought it in to share with me and her students…and gave me permission to share it with you.

Thanks, Lisa…and Rebecca…and all the teachers and kids at Saranac.  It was a day I won’t forget.

Thank you, Colchester Middle School!

As an author, you know a school has really gone out of its way to make sure you have a great visit when you pull into the parking lot and find a shiny red music stand marking your spot…

Colchester Middle School rolled out the red carpet, too, when I visited to give presentations for the 6th, 7th, and 8th graders.  Every student had read at least one of my books, and they were a terrific audience. 

I always love giving presentations to big groups and answering questions, but sometimes the quieter moments that happen as kids are leaving are some of the most memorable.  Today, I had a chance to visit with a handful of writers who stayed behind that extra minute to tell me about the projects they’re working on, the hopes they have for their stories, and the problems they’re facing along the way.  Many were challenges I’d faced in revising my own books, and I was reminded once again that those of us who write are kindred spirits, no matter how long we’ve been at it.

And one last note, just for the Colchester kids reading this…  First of all, thank you.  You guys were awesome today, and I loved spending time with you.  And second, I know that we ran out of time during the Q and A period in a couple of your groups.  If you were one of those people with your hand still in the air when it was time to go back to class and you still have a question you’d like me to answer, please leave a comment here or drop me an email using the link on my website, and I promise to send along an answer soon.   Thanks again for a great day at your school!

Sometimes on a Mountain in April: A Poem in Photos

You can’t really see it in this photo, but on top of the wind blowing my hair all over, I am pretty much covered in mud. 

Hiking in the Adirondacks in April is a messy proposition sometimes, but so, so worth it.  There is something about the switching seasons, the in-between-ness, that always brings me down the mountain a little bit changed. My words and photos don’t really do it justice, but I decided to try…

Sometimes, on a mountain in April,
winter hides in caves.

…and clings to warm stone
while spring whispers green promises
in the sun.

Sometimes, on a mountain in April
the rocks are so slippery
you have to slow down
and this is good.
It’s when you’ll notice
a quiet curtain of moss
that drips with melting snow.

It’s when you’ll hear the rush
of streams,
swooping up tired old leaves
carrying them off
in dizzy laughter
to somewhere warmer,
open,
free.

Sometimes, on a mountain in April,
you’ll slide down slippery rocks
and land in mud.
It’s okay.
You’ll remember
how black and rich and squishy
and beautiful mountain mud can be.
Don’t get up right away.
Dig your fingers in,
and breathe.

Sometimes, on a mountain in April,
if you pause close to the summit,
a butterfly will fly so close
you hear the sound of its wings.
And if you keep listening,
though the butterfly flutters on,
you’ll hear quieter things still.

Snow melting on faraway hills,
Insects blinking awake.
Tender ferns unfolding in the sun,

And answers
to questions
You didn’t even know you had.

best tracker

In Honor of National Poetry Month…”When Do You Write?”

April is National Poetry Month, and that’s worth a cheer or two in my world.  I wrote poetry long before I ever finished a novel, and my junior high school journals still live on my bookshelves, full of free verse celebrating (and sometimes cursing) certain junior high school boys.

So to celebrate this month celebrating poems, I decided to share one that I wrote as part of a lecture I gave this winter.  I’m guessing my writer friends may appreciate this one…

When Do You Write?

When people ask when
amid this teaching-wifing-mothering-reading
dinner-making-lesson-planning life
I write,
I assume they want to know
when my bottom meets my chair,
when fingers meet keyboard,
when words spill onto white.
And so I answer,
Nine to eleven.
That’s it?
That’s it.

But really, it isn’t.
The truth is, I write always.
From the quick-quick backpack mornings
to the last click of the bedside light.
I write in the shadows of sleep
before my alarm clock starts singing
for the second time,
and if you must know,
strange characters often join me
in the shower before school.
We have conversations in the steam,
discuss their dreams
their failures,
and where they hid the secret map
while I shampoo my hair.

I write spreading peanut butter.
(Sometimes the plot gets sticky,
but there is nothing to be done about that
nor the fact that one misses turns
while writing on the drive to school.)

I write in the classroom,
those moments before class
when I am at my desk
and my not-quite-teens file in, chattering,
secure in the knowledge
that people over the age of 20
are completely and fully deaf
until the bell has rung.

I scribble down their "Oh. My. Gods."
Their "Can’t believe its"
"Who could blame hers"
The occasional joke about the principal’s shoes,
and every last
"Why’s she going out with him?"

I collect their lines like seashells from the beach.
Shining. Wet. Alive.

I write on the way home,
which is why I sometimes forget the milk,
the dry cleaning,
gas for the car,
and to stop at that red light.
It was yellow, really, until I started
considering its amberness —
a perfect metaphor for fear of change,
and I’m truly sorry, officer,
it must have turned red
while I was searching for the right words.

By dinnertime the voices in my head
are too hungry
to care about the rice on the stove.
They ask me questions,
demand nicer apartments,
lament their broken dreams,
and wonder if just once
they might end a chapter on a positive note.
And when the rice sticks in the bottom of the pan,
they laugh and slap one another on the back
and say, "Use that in your story, lady!"

And finally
I sit down at the keyboard at nine
And I do.