Robin Has An Idea

For Granny

2012-02-14T11:49:00.004-05:00

Nearly 32 years ago, I was born. Granny, my dad's mom, named me.

My sisters and brother had been around for a while before that, so I've always imagined myself arriving on a boring, possibly rainy spring day to no fanfare. I see someone saying, "Another baby has been born," and no one feeling like bothering with a name until someone else decides they must call me something, at which point my dad walks out the hospital door, down a worn sidewalk with grass growing up through the cracks, and arrives at my granny's house. He knocks and she answers, having been waiting just behind the door, somehow knowing what he was coming for. "We need a name for the baby," he says. A brief pause. Granny answers, "Robin." And that's that. I'm in the world, and I'm a Robin.

Of course it was nothing like that. But Granny did name me. No one remembers why.

When I was old enough to look forward to seeing my cousins, Granny's house was just about the best place to be. There were lots of kids to play with, and there was plenty of good Southern cookin'. It was usually a holiday, so everyone was happy. Times at Granny's were good.

There are frozen moments that come to me, many when I was alone exploring Granny's house. There was the time when I stood in the backyard under the apple tree trying to choose the perfect piece of fruit. I'd been given permission to eat a single apple. Otherwise, I'd get an upset stomach. But those sour green things were so good, the devil didn't need to convince me. In the end, I was indeed wiser, but it was worth it. I'm sure someone watched from the kitchen window and laughed as I stuffed my face. The same probably hid a smile as I denied the stomachache that followed.

Then there was the time I ventured downstairs, slipping away from the adults and maneuvering the most treacherous basement stairs in the world. It was always dark down there and had that earthy smell. There was a room just ahead at the bottom of the stairs. We weren't supposed to go messing around in there, so of course simply putting my hand on the doorknob was a thrill. But I went further, like you do, and turned it till something clicked and the door opened. Behind it was ... well it was just a bunch of junk really. Storage. Was there a metal bed with an old mattress? Were there boxes? Was there a shelf on the wall? ...I can't remember for sure. All I see is everything in smudged gray, like the photo in my memory missed a stage of development. Nothing is distinct in itself, but the place as a whole is distinctly eerie.

There was that autumn when the adults sat on the porch watching us kids play in the front yard. I guess the sliding rocker bench always squeaked but was still the most sought after seat. Someone had the brilliant idea of making a path through the leaves with a huge leaf pile at the end. I see myself hanging in the air over the pile--birds are singing, my cousins are laughing and screaming and playing around me, the adults are chatting and smoking and sitting in funny poses I don't yet understand, the air is perfect--warm with a cool breeze, and I never want to land.

Not too long ago, Granny started forgetting things, repeating herself. She seemed happy enough, but there was a distance. In the years leading up to forgetfulness, I came to the age at which one begins to notice things besides oneself, and realized upon seeing a picture of Granny and Papaw that Granny had been in love once. She'd had small children. She must have had aspirations and best friends. She probably laughed and told stories and had regrets and secret wishes and skills I knew nothing about. But at our gatherings, now full of cousins with screaming, laughing children of their own, and with Papaw long passed, Granny was often alone. She was pleasant and lovely and sweet. In fact, I have no memory of her ever being angry or speaking harshly. But she had become contemplative. She'd sit in that recliner beside the wall heater and smile at everyone and hold the new babies and have her picture made with them. She'd watch the news or a game show, whatever was on at the time. Those old pictures would hang on the walls around her like always.

Then one day, after more time passed than I'd realized, I went home for a visit. We were sitting in the living room, Granny in her recliner, and she told me the story of how she'd named me. "You were born, and Bobby came to the house and said, we need a name for her, and I said, Robin." She smiled as proud as can be, and we smiled right back. It was nice to hear her tell it, nice to see her energetic. Jonathan hadn't heard the story before, and people had gathered around to hear. But then a few minutes passed, and she started telling the story again. Then again. And again. Each time was new to her, and each time was more difficult to smile about.

This morning, I learned Granny is in hospice care. I guess that's the technical way of saying it's a matter of time. I know--it's always a matter of time. But it's down to days now for Granny. A while back, when it became clear that she wasn't able to take care of herself, she went to a nursing home. The family went through her house and took care of her things. And I haven't seen her since. Some have questioned my decision, but I chose my action for one simple reason: upon seeing me, there was a very high likelihood that Granny would feel uncomfortable, unsettled, confused, and possibly even scared because I'd likely be a stranger to her. On a good day, she might have told me the story of the naming again, but it was more likely that she'd be afraid, and I wasn't willing to take that chance. In my...perhaps stupid way, not visiting Granny has been my last gift to her. I've been trying to do my part to make sure she's comfortable and safe and calm. I even missed her 90th birthday party recently. In fact, I wasn't even told it was happening.

There are people in my family who are much closer to Granny than I am. They have years and years of memories--snapshots filling their minds to overwhelming. But she's granny to all of us, and we all have our special moments with her, our versions of her. Granny raised a good family. We're mountain folk at heart. We're tough and stubborn and opinionated and proud and can hold a grudge with the best of 'em. We're hard workers, we survive, we come together and take care of each other, and we grow and forgive and keep on trying.

When they went through Granny's things, someone saw a typewriter and brought it to me to remember her by. They figured with my love for writing, I'd want that most of all. But Granny gave me something to remember her by from the very first day when she opened that door, somehow knowing what Dad would ask, perhaps looking out into the field just behind him and seeing a little bird bouncing along happily. "Robin," she said, I imagine with all the hope in the world that I would be happy too. And I've kept the name close to me ever since.

Love

2012-02-09T10:53:00.010-05:00

This week in class, I assigned definition essays. My students were given lots of options, including the option to define an abstract concept through a personal narrative. The only rules beyond good grammar and MLA formatting: focus on one concept, don't do any research, and do it all in 500-750 words. The best example I found for them was 'Happiness' from Nikos Kazantzakis' Report to Greco.

I've been teaching since August and have assigned lots of papers since then, but I've yet to try any of them out for myself. In fact, I can't remember the last time I attempted an essay like the ones I've been assigning, but it was probably sometime in undergrad. So, in honor of Valentine's Day, I've decided to write a definition essay as my dear students attempt the same in their homes or at their workplaces or quite possibly at the last minute on their phones on the way to class.

~*~

Love

by Robin

"Dad?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"I wanna marry you when I grow up."

A knowing laugh.

"Nope," he said. "You just wait. You'll meet some snot-nosed boy and..."

I must have refused to listen from there since I can't remember exactly what he said next. I do remember thinking he didn't know everything I thought he knew. But it turns out he did.

Kindergarten wasn't far ahead, and that's where I'd meet Logan. Curly-haired. Cute-faced. Love of my life. But Summer liked him too. And she had the guts to let him know.

"I kissed Logan today," she said.

I didn't respond. Logan didn't deny it.

"Right on the cheek."

So that was how it was going to be, I thought. Logan, the weakling, letting some other girl kiss him. Fine. That must be the kind of girl he liked, and if that was the case, they could have each other. (I'd keep that mentality for a long...actually, I still have that mentality.)

It took me a year to get over it, but I did manage. His name was Jason. He had a funny deep voice and tanned skin. And he was rich, in my estimation. But best of all, Jason was funny. Jason and I had good times playing hide-and-seek and making sure never to hold hands. But those times eventually faded, and if there was a void, I filled it with my first longing love. He was Jeremy. I was in fifth grade and he was in fourth. He was easily the cutest guy in school. And quiet too. Not brooding. Sweet quiet. Romantic quiet, surely. (I never considered bad-conversationalist-quiet.) He was the first guy who wouldn't notice me, an act that sets love in stone.

After that came middle school: the gateway to the hell of relationships. It's the place where someone liked becomes someone to win, and someone won becomes a status symbol. It's the start of the game. By high school, you're in the ninth circle of hell, having skipped through several circles in-between because you're young, dammit, and don't have time for getting to know each other. Just get to the kissing! The idea of kissing was a terrifying prospect. How did one do it? But more importantly, why? And even more importantly, eww gross, please don't touch me with your tongue.

My first kiss was given to a sleeping boy at a church lock-in when I was in seventh grade. I figured I'd practice without embarrassment. He didn't wake up, so it must not have been life-changing for him. It wasn't for me either, so the next time was quite a while after, and though I won't give any names here, I can tell you he didn't deserve it. Do you know he came to my house just for that purpose? That idiot knocked on the front door, said something stupid, and kissed me goodbye without even asking. He was much too old for me, left with a smug look, having won what he came for, and never came back. Ass.

In the midst of the hell of adolescent love, there was one person. Isn't there always one? This one was my best friend. Through all the stupidness and ridiculousness of middle and most of high school, he floated in and out of my experience but stands out now as the clearest figure in my memory. He was the funniest of everyone I knew--one of those effortlessly clever people, quickest to the draw. I tried, in my idiocy, to convert him, to change him into the person I thought he should be. I suppose humor helped him put up with me. Sometime toward the end of high school on a day after that fateful but unnoticed day when I, like all of my friends, slipped into the very early stages of serious adulthood without realizing, my friend quietly acted on what we'd both suspected and had long felt but not known what to do with--and of course that's the day everything changed. Things didn't go the way they should have in a decent love story. I don't mean things should be different now. I just mean I didn't handle it well, and I suppose that's why I still dream about it. My conscience still tries to work out the scenario in a positive way, but when I wake up, the friendship is still lost, and I'm left with that unfeeling stare at graduation.

There were lots more stupid decisions after high school, and by then, I really couldn't be said to be making childish mistakes anymore. Mostly they were innocently lusty (I think that's possible, maybe even healthy) and never involved the selflessness that commitment requires. Most of them didn't involve love at all. They involved people still playing at being grown up, not realizing they actually were grown. And that's okay, in my opinion. They were part of the transition; they were preparation for the future; they were lessons in what love is not, which helped me recognize real love when I found it.

I remember a day in my teens when that old conversation about marrying Dad came back to me, and I started to cry uncontrollably. Dad asked what was wrong, naturally, and I don't know how he kept it together when I mentioned the memory and told him, in my dramatic way, that I still loved him dearly, though I no longer wanted to marry him. We had a good laugh then, and I wonder if, when dear Jonathan asked Dad for my hand in marriage, the memory came back to Dad. His response: "Don't ask me. Ask her. I've raised my girls to think for themselves."

It seems odd to talk about serious committed love in this essay because, in my experience, the marriage of minds and bodies becomes such an advanced form of love that it doesn't fit in with all the others. It's not a funny feeling in the stomach or thinking someone is cute and funny or hoping someone likes you back or even that dangerous stage (please do let it only be a stage with you, if you take nothing else from this meandering tale) when we think love is about control instead of freedom--no, married love is none of those. Married love--and this is a warning for the squeamish, a blessing for the adventurous--married love is a molting. It's an agreement to become one without knowing what one will look like, and it's a commitment to somehow remain free to be yourself within the unit. Married love has been both a glorious completion and a process of sometimes painful growth. It has been a blessing and trial, often in the same moment. It has been a tearing apart and a sewing back together. Is there anything else like it?

Since I've only got my experiences, and since there've been bazillions of people who've experienced love in its endless forms, I suppose I fail at this assignment. Because I can't actually define love. Love is yours to define. Plus I've gone over the word count, and that makes teacher especially irritated. Even more so than this fragment. Even more, than these, excessive commas. Because creative errors are expected, and awkward wording tolerated, but to neglect discipline, to ignore sacrifice, to refuse revision...those are probably the least forgivable of all.

Burns Night 2012

2012-01-23T00:49:00.001-05:00

This year's Burns Night came early for us and started, as it must do for most who celebrate, with food preparation. Here's Jonathan peeling the rutabaga, which apparently no one in town eats. The girl at the checkout had to ask what it was to ring it up, then asked how to prepare it and what it tastes like, and I finally had to admit I only eat it once a year myself. She said no one ever buys them, which is a shame because they're really good. But then as much butter and salt and cream as I added, it probably could have been any old root.

The big difference in food from this year to last (besides the blending of the neeps and tatties instead of serving them separately--careful, it's getting wild around here), was the addition of honest-to-goodness lamb heart...in a can.

I was excited about having real haggis in the house until Jonathan opened it and started to cook. It looks like dog food and smells like potted meat. The vegetarian kind is mostly bean and has a good flavor, but it was still so meat-like it turned my stomach. Or maybe the organ smell in the kitchen was to blame. Either way, I think you need a strong constitution to be in the same room with the stuff. Jonathan's summary: "It was good. It reminded me of corned beef hash but with organ meat." So there you have it.

I made sticky toffee pudding again, which was even better than last year because I doubled the caramel topping.

And of course, there was the Selkirk Grace and the whisky...

...and my cutie patootie tartan apron...

...and Harvey licking the floor in hopes of finding a tiny crumb of anything-at-all...

...and Jonathan playing Auld Lang Syne on the piano as I sang along.

But the great Burnsian adventure came today. In what we imagined to be very Scottish weather conditions, we ventured out from the northern suburbs south into the misty cold through a city of fogged skyscrapers, slipped under spaghetti junction in surprisingly light traffic, and turned off into an otherwise unremarkable neighborhood to find the jewel of the Burns Club of Atlanta, "a building unique in the world--the only exact replica of the Robert Burns Cottage near Kirk Alloway, Ayrshire, Scotland," (according to the plaque out front).

The place was cold and muddy and deserted, but according to the National Park Service, Wednesday night will see a celebration of Burns and his legacy--a party the Burns Club has been throwing since 1898 (though presumably having their Burns Supper in the replica only since sometime after 1911 when it was completed). The house is closed to visitors, but walking around outside was interesting enough.

My big hope for next year is to have pictures of the original Burns Cottage, but we'll have to wait and see if the future holds that kind of luck. Till then, a little poetry and a little more pudding. Oh--and this, if you're so inclined.

~*~

Ever To Be Near Ye!

by Robert Burns

Ever to be near ye!
Whaur ye bide or whaur ye stray,
To comfort and to cheer ye!
Be your fortune what it may,
Hearken noo and hear ye:
I'd be happy nicht and day
Ever to be near ye!
Happy I'd be nicht and day
Ever to be near ye!

Ever to be near ye!
Neither rocks nor currents rife
Ever need to fear ye
Frae the stress and frae the strife
Couthiely I'll steer ye, --
Thro' the stormy sea o' life,
Ever to be near ye!
Thro' the stormy sea o' life,
Ever to be near ye!

Ever to be near ye!
Good and bonny as ye are,
Wha could nae revere ye?
In your circle or afar
Nane there is to peer ye:
O, for better or for waur,
Ever to be near ye!
O, for better or for waur,
Ever to be near ye!

Diary of a middle school psycho

2012-01-05T12:51:00.006-05:00

If one of your offspring is in middle school and you're worried s/he will never, at this rate, turn out to be a normal human: take heart! I've just been going through my middle school diary and will now prove to you, with just a few excerpts, that a shallow, boy-crazy, ridiculous, if quite spiritual and thoughtful on occasion, spaz can turn into a pretty reasonable person (if I do say so myself), which is, as you'll realize after reading the entries below, a small miracle. In honor of crappy literature and unbridled self-expression and the art of writing for preteens, please, step into my 12-14 year old psyche...

"Today is Christmas day, and I got this [diary] for Christmas from my sister and brother-in-law. I love it." 12-25-92 11:00am

"Today's been a drag so far ... We rented (watched in order) Hook, Sister Act, and Child's Play 3, wich all of those are great."

"One night when I was about six, I had an expierience. I was layin' in bed and I looked out the window and a man appeared out of nowhere and checked our meter and smiled at me. It was like 9:30 at night. Then, he walked off and, like, disappeared. That wasn't a dream either. Wierd huh?"

"When I was a little girl about 3 and I would always talk to this little girl about my age now, (12), and I'd talk to her every night after praying."

"I had a dream that this big thing was killing everybody so me and two other girls went to the hospital with 3 guys we put the guys heads on a oporating table and the big thing came in and told us we had to repopulate the world and it would come back in about 100 years. Us girls ... pushed their heads off the opperating table on to a electric shocker thing, and walked out real prissy like en vogue and the other girls and I just got to live cause the big head thing liked our attitudes."

"I had a dream last night that I had to go to a low social studies class a 6th grade teacher taught and the reason being I made like an f or something."

"I got a D in social studies. Uggg."

"I haven't dreamed much lately. I'm grounded from going or phone but I can on weekends. Yaa Woo. ... Oh, my ideas; velcro skin ... mirror skies ... fat sucker ... rotting eyelids. All for now."

"I'm sitting here thinking about my dreams. I had one about a cloud, big black swirly wind. It was wierd."

"OH, I AM NOW IN LOVE. GUESS WHO HE IS?"

"MTV is starting to bite ... I want a spider, dog, cat, monkey, any kind of pet, I wanna name it Red, Rambo, or Terminator! ... PSS ANYONE READING THIS WIthOUT PERMISSION, (If you can read it, that is), is DEAD MEAT!!"

"Mom's being a butt ... A's called 4 times and mom's made me get off all 4."

"I hid R's Bible with his phone # [in it] Sunday and called him to tell him he left it and I got it for him"

"M's boyfriend got, stabbed, oh, I mean, a knife injury, last night. I need to get something done with my hair, and I need to loose about 20 pounds. I wish my eyes were so blue they were almost white ... P.S. M's dog puked in the floor and we forgot to clean it up, and J layed in it, he doesn't know though."

"About R, he's going out with a sixth-grader, so, he's probably looking for someone so, I was gonna go up to him tonight at church and say, in mid conversation, 'Hey, can I call you sometime'"

"I got some basketball cards, I got Michael Jordan, Larry Johnson, Charles Barkley, Dominique Wilkins, Muggsy Bogues, Horace Grant, Charles Oakley, Bill Laimbeer, Vlade Divac, Manute Bol, Mark Aguirre, Sam Bowie, Orlando Woolridge, Kendall Gill, Willie Anderson, Ricky Pierce, Terry Teagle, Reggie Williams, Bill Laimbeer, Buck Johnson and some others, but Bob said they weren't any good. Nothings new other than that."

"Well, my birthday's May 7, and I want a football, pocket book, camara, etc. etc. ... I just saw D at walmart. He normally doesn't pay attention to me but I had on my white, one-piece, shorts, blue polka-dot outfit on, and I have to say it was a good hair day, he looked at me like, whoa, is that you Robin?"

"I got a Hornets outfit, a football, and a camera for my birthday ... Now I kinda like A, but I really like C, and I REALLY, REALLY, like J. He's in 6th. He's really cute and nice. He asked me to go with him and I kinda said yes. Thought - I just thought to my self, I hope R doesn't tell [J] i'm stupid and ugly and stuff and persuades him not to like me; and I thought back to when he asked me and I thought 'wonder if people'ld make fun of me'? I feel bad now. That thought won't come to me anymore though. I love him, oh no, the 'L' word."

"Tomorrow's the last day of school. I got second in the 50 yd dash today."

"I love fishing"

"J had told me that C said he would rather go out with his dog than me even though his dog's a guy. So I glared at C all night."

"I wanna have a girl and a boy named Elijah and Alexa."

"Now I like M, D, J (A's ok). I got a CD player for Christmas. Shaquille O'neal and Charles Barkley are my fav. basketball players. I made an F in science."

"Well, my life's not going to great. I've been going with J for about 2 months now. T, his cousin, asked me out about a week ago. I didn't answer and L, his [ex], was after me, but they got back together at the dance. A, M's [ex], D's best friend, asked me out. I would not answer so him and M and the rest of the people at the dance got into it. They (M + A) almost got back together, but A asked me out again and D told me about an hour ago that he wanted me and him to break up and A and me to go out. I talked to P tonight him and R broke up at the dance, me and him are accually getting along again. B likes S now ... I went to church tonight and talked to B he's accually being nice to me he's been kinda stuck up since he moved back, but, I think he's changed since last time we talked. I called a few times and he was pretty nice then too ... Oh yeah, I told A I'd probably go with him if we didn't get too serious and he said ok, but then he asked me to come over and watch movies on Friday, which I doubt mom will let me, but that's ok! That's ok is my saying. But anyway, I think M is gonna go out with C which figures ... We have a game tomorrow during school and if we win we will be number 1. Then we go to tournament, then to Final Four, which would be pretty cool ... It's boring at this house cause we don't have cable hook up until the 14 when I go back to the dentist. We got a cool cordless phone today, it's in Bob's room. Mom made my room look country it's pretty though. I'm getting sleepy, which was my original plan, but I've already written 6 pages ... A bought me a carnation at school. They give them out for valentines day. I don't know I want to go with him or not. I mean I do, but I don't ... I had a dream last night that I was gonna die and was about to and I woke up. Well, later. Robin"

"I'm talking to J he's good looking. I think I kind of like him again but maybe not. I'm going with A since last night."

"Well I'm having problems. Me and T broke up, D asked me out, and I like J more than ever."

"Friday will be D and my 3 month anniversary. beginning to loose interest. I passed 8th grade but didn't make cheerleading at CHS. Well more later!"

~*~

Poor D got dumped soon after, and so began the summer before high school, when most everything would change into something new. There are lots more entries in this diary, mostly about which of my friends I loved and which I hated, about boys and social dramas. I was forever falling in and out of love. Why, I wonder, are we given childhood as our first experience of the world? It's a bizarre land closed to adults and run by tiny people who see things that aren't there and express their feelings without holding back and form little governments and communities around themselves, whether they be peopled by family members or friends or teachers or ghosts or shrubs. Then without knowing it, they slide into the preteens, that period of still being little but wanting to be big, of being concerned with the smallest things and being harmed by even smaller ones. Everything is terribly important. But things are also fun and exciting, and so many things are new and hoped for. Bless those days for not being about bills and jobs and finding ourselves! Bless them for being about the now, as the now somehow loses out to the then and the when as our hair turns gray and the creases at our eyes don't disappear with our smiles. Don't get me wrong though--I wouldn't go back for the world.

~*~

"Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth,
When thought is speech, and speech is truth."

Sir Walter Scott

For old times' sake

2011-12-31T10:55:00.002-05:00

This year, like all the years before it, has come and gone and held everything in it. Here are pictures of some of what it held for me.

2011 in Greenville, South Carolina started with a beautiful snow. Here's the little farmhouse we lived in and a view of the back yard.

I'm glad we had the snow and wonder if somehow I knew it would be our last winter in that house, because I remember not wanting to come in from the cold with everything so clean and quiet under the ice.

Winter was filled with other things too. Short visits home to Tennessee. Long hours on the road to Columbia and back to catalog old things at the library. Quiet afternoons analyzing books for the last class of my graduate school career.

One day passed after another that way till the air slowly started to feel warm again. Spring held lots of walks at the ball field behind our house. And it held Easter. And that midnight drive to St. Simons Island with Mom to make sure Grandaddy was gonna be alright. And a call from one of Jonathan's friends about a possible job opportunity near Atlanta. And a call from Mom. She was crying. A great family difficulty, caused by injustice, had finally been partially resolved, but so much damage had already been done, the healing would be long and painful.

At the end of May, I quietly graduated without going to the ceremony. We drove to Atlanta for an interview. In a blink (it seems now), Jonathan got the job and we were telling our families and looking for a place to live five hours away from them. Never complaining, our little farmhouse with the books in the hallway and the birdcage in the bedroom faded and an empty house stood waiting for us on a street we didn't know.

As we packed boxes and cleaned out dusty corners, I got a call from family. My sister was being tested for breast cancer. I wasn't worried. I guessed all would be well. Of course it would. But the day before we were to meet my other sister and my nephew for a concert, there was another call. Wendy had tested positive. She'd have to have surgery and aggressive treatments.

Next thing I knew, I was falling asleep in a familiar bed in an unfamiliar house. I cried thinking of the old one, standing in that big field all cold and empty and sad. Jonathan started his job soon after we arrived. I immediately headed off to a conference and started applying for teaching positions. We all held our breath as my sister began treatments. I received multiple rejections. Then a call came midsummer about Jonathan's grandpa. He was dying. We saw him one last time and sat on his front porch in the rocking chairs he and Grandma used to sit in to watch the birds.

A week after Grandpa's funeral, I got a job. He'd have been so proud. I was pretty damned proud myself. Finally--a teacher.

And slowly, as we went from grief to grief and happiness to happiness, we began to settle into our new situation. Because what else can you do but get new tags for the car and new licenses and new doctors and dentists and veterinarians and grocery stores and friends and neighbors and memories? We'd often walk the half mile to our downtown for Steverino's pizza and fried pickles, and we'd comment on the old houses along the way. We'd say how we were glad not to be living in the city and glad to have a quiet neighborhood of our own. And I started to find things about this place I could maybe love...the screened in porch when the wind blows warm, the pecan trees and the creatures living in and under them, the sound of the train in the middle of the night, the wooded walk in the park nearby.

My bestie came to visit. My mom and dad came to visit. I had my first mammogram. I started my new job. Jonathan's baby brother announced he and his wife would be having a baby of their own.

Then suddenly it was September and autumn had started to show. We went to our first fall festival downtown. The leaves in our yard started to change. We found a trail that led to some countryside. We took a trip to the zoo.

Halloween and Thanksgiving were spent in Tennessee. Wendy was pulling through.

By Christmas, I'd finished up my first two fall terms of teaching and Jonathan had marked six months working at his new job. He likes his new position, and though teaching has been difficult in many ways, I can't deny it comes naturally. Jonathan gave me an early Christmas present...a fancy camera for next year's travels. That's our first self-portrait below. Downtown was festively decorated for the holidays. Christmas Eve Eve was spent with the bestie, Christmas with the family.

And all the while, the little things of life were happening. New friendships were being built and old ones nurtured when time and place and circumstance would allow. Good food was cooked often and thoroughly enjoyed. Home life, though in a different state in a different town, continued to be home life as we had known it.

And so, a new year. It's just as well really. This one has started to weigh on me. I know tomorrow is just another day. I do know that. But why not leave it behind now? Why not start fresh? I've survived it--we've survived it--and that's saying something. Good for us! And, though this particular twelve-month period has left a feeling of uncertainty of whether I should look for adventure or hide from danger, perhaps the lesson is that I should do a bit of both. For now, for today, I wait for spring. For travel and accomplishment. For new opportunities. For what will bloom and when. And for rebirth. Because rebirth, being the natural way of things, holds a great deal of comfort for me.

~*~

"For the first time she was vaguely perceiving that life is everlasting movement."

Booth Tarkington in Alice Adams

Smelly Old Books: Part 2

2011-12-17T13:13:00.012-05:00

Sometimes someone who's read a book before us will leave behind a trail of interaction in the margins or folded and hidden away between two pages. Sure, you can write notes on your e-reader, and you may even have the technology to handwrite them in so we can see the slant of your personality, but I still can't physically touch the pages you turned. I can't smell the book's age. I can't feel the weight of the whole or see the cracks in the binding. Reading a paper book is like looking into the eyes of the person you love, like touching his hand. An email, a voice on the line, a video chat, a text message--these will never replace a hand on the small of my back or a nervous kiss or a gaze held too long. The physical experience goes beyond receiving the message alone.

As I mentioned in Part 1, these are books we inherited from Jonathan's grandparents. So, though wonderful and valuable treasures have been found by other lucky readers, these are a bit more personal. They were left by people who are gone or very distant, but people personally known by the family. And they're especially lovely for that. Most of the things I found are marginalia and nearly all are in schoolbooks like this copy of The Open Door Language Series Fourth and Fifth Grades: Language Games and Stories.

What a great cover. The introduction says the book "endeavors to conserve ability in the use of language which is frequently lost when adult standards are prematurely thrust upon pupils and when all pupils are expected to fit into the same mold . . . it gives him an opportunity to develop his own individual type of mind." Good for you, 1928 schoolbook! I'll never know if it accomplished its goal, but I do know it was a great book for doodling in. And for practicing writing letters to dear friends.

In case you can't read the writing, it says:

Marion, N. C.

Dec. 17, 1930

Dear Joseph

How are you, fine I hope.
What do you want for Christmas?
Oh Boy, But I would spend
($60)/sixty Dollars on you if only
I had it. You know I love you.
Do you love me?
I better close for this time.
Love --- Ruth G ---

We've got a seventh grade edition of the book as well. Inside, Jonathan's grandmother doodled pictures and wrote on almost every page, including this pretty little verse:

May is the month of springing
I can hear the birds singing
kiss each blossom on its vine
you will in this my question find

Sweetly romantic with a touch of Mrs. Darling at the end. Or possibly just something for school, but still, when a verse like this is written in messy cursive in a book that smells like the past, it's romantic whatever the person who wrote it really meant.

I can't say why exactly, but this next book is beautiful.

Is it age, experience, use? Is it that the cover no longer reveals what's inside? The title page says it's School Arithmetics: Book Two and is only about 90 years old, but living in a musty basement and surviving a doodler's childhood was almost more than it could take. Inside, besides writing her name in cursive over and over, Jonathan's grandmother copied the following verses and thoughts, which I'll let speak for themselves.

Im not going to my seat unless she calls my name and tells me to

Which did it do
Did the flu get you
or did you get the flu

When you are married
and spanking six
remember me
between the licks -

Don't steal this [book]
My little lad.
For 69¢ it cost my
dad.
And when you die
The Lord will say:
"Where is that book
you stole one day?"

The above was tucked into the middle of the book. I can't quite work it out. Can you?

The next find was a facsimile letter from the author in a book club version of The First Overland Mail by Robert E. Pinkerton. (This book is recommended reading by the Smithsonian National Postal Museum. Their site is really well done and fun.) How appropriate to find a letter in a book about mail.

The last and best find was a sixth year study reader from 1925. Not only is there A Map of Bookland inside (along with tips for travelers) . . .

. . . but R. E. Stroud drew this on the inside cover:

~*~

"For who can wonder that man should feel a vague belief in tales of disembodied spirits wandering through those places which they once dearly affected, when he himself, scarcely less separated from his old world than they, is for ever lingering upon past emotions and bygone times, and hovering, the ghost of his former self, about the places and people that warmed his heart of old?" Charles Dickens in Master Humphrey's Clock

A few of my favorite things

2011-12-13T09:49:00.001-05:00

I was talking with a friend recently about favorite chapters from favorite books. Here are excerpts from my top two, plus a favorite Christmas poem. All of these selections were on the final exam for the academic writing class I taught this term. If you're curious about how you'd do on the exam, just read the excerpts and answer the questions that follow. (Note: Except for a couple of editions, this is part of an exam for what's basically a freshman composition class and could come very easily to you!) Feel free to leave answers to one or all in the comments or just answer them to yourself. And I'd love to know your favorites if you have any. Either way, happy reading and good luck.

~*~

From the beginning of Peter and Wendy by J. M. Barrie:

“All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!" This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.

Of course they lived at 14 [their house number on their street], and until Wendy came her mother was the chief one. She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there it was, perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner.

The way Mr. Darling won her was this: the many gentlemen who had been boys when she was a girl discovered simultaneously that they loved her, and they all ran to her house to propose to her except Mr. Darling, who took a cab and nipped in first, and so he got her. He got all of her, except the innermost box and the kiss. He never knew about the box, and in time he gave up trying for the kiss. Wendy thought Napoleon could have got it, but I can picture him trying, and then going off in a passion, slamming the door.”

1.) Summarize each paragraph using no more than one sentence for each. No quotations allowed. (Probably the hardest question on the exam!)

2.) What does the selection seem to say about Mrs. Darling's personality? Provide evidence to support your claim. Remember, tone must be taken into account if it can be determined.

3.) In your opinion, who seems to be the intended audience for this piece (from what you can tell so far)? Provide evidence from within the text to support your claim.

4.) Give an example of figurative language from the selection and identify the type of figurative language being used.

~*~

From The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame (Ratty has just been mesmerized by the stories of a seafaring rat he met on the road. He's determined to head off and live the adventurous life the rat described, but has been convinced [quite forcefully] by his best friend Mole to see reason and stay home, which results in Ratty having an involuntary panicked physical/mental attack [not a tantrum--big difference] at the thought [for lack of better word] of missing the opportunity):

“Poor Ratty did his best, by degrees, to explain things; but how could he put into cold words what had mostly been suggestion? How recall, for another's benefit, the haunting sea voices that had sung to him, how reproduce at second-hand the magic of the Seafarer's hundred reminiscences? Even to himself, now the spell was broken and the glamour gone, he found it difficult to account for what had seemed, some hours ago, the inevitable and only thing. It is not surprising, then, that he failed to convey to the Mole any clear idea of what he had been through that day.

To the Mole this much was plain: the fit, or attack, had passed away, and had left him sane again, though shaken and cast down by the reaction. But he seemed to have lost all interest for the time in the things that went to make up his daily life, as well as in all pleasant forecastings of the altered days and doings that the changing season was surely bringing.

Casually, then, and with seeming indifference, the Mole turned his talk to the harvest that was being gathered in, the towering wagons and their straining teams, the growing ricks, and the large moon rising over bare acres dotted with sheaves. He talked of the reddening apples around, of the browning nuts, of jams and preserves and the distilling of cordials; till by easy stages such as these he reached midwinter, its hearty joys and its snug home life, and then he became simply lyrical.

By degrees the Rat began to sit up and to join in. His dull eye brightened, and he lost some of his listening air.

Presently the tactful Mole slipped away and returned with a pencil and a few half-sheets of paper, which he placed on the table at his friend's elbow.

'It's quite a long time since you did any poetry,' he remarked. 'You might have a try at it this evening, instead of—well, brooding over things so much. I've an idea that you'll feel a lot better when you've got something jotted down—if it's only just the rhymes.'

The Rat pushed the paper away from him wearily, but the discreet Mole took occasion to leave the room, and when he peeped in again some time later, the Rat was absorbed and deaf to the world; alternately scribbling and sucking the top of his pencil. It is true that he sucked a good deal more than he scribbled; but it was joy to the Mole to know that the cure had at least begun.”

1.) Think about how Ratty and Mole have different perspectives in this scene. How does Mole perceive what has happened, and why does he see it that way? How does Rat perceive what has happened, and why does he see it that way? What, then, is the unspoken point (if there is one), in your opinion?

2.) Should Ratty have taken a chance and gone to sea? (BONUS: ...though you really need to have read the entire chapter, perhaps the entire book, and lived to be an adult: If he had gone, what could have been lost? What could have been gained?)

3.) Contrast paragraph 1 to paragraph 3. What aspects of the author's style and the characters' personalities are revealed?

~*~

“Christmas at Sea” by Robert Louis Stevenson:

“The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;
The wind was a nor’wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops’l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:
So’s we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home;
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;
For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessèd Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard’s was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother’s silver spectacles, my father’s silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;
And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
“All hands to loose topgallant sails,” I heard the captain call.
“By the Lord, she’ll never stand it,” our first mate, Jackson, cried.
. . . “It’s the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson,” he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,
And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.
As the winter’s day was ending, in the entry of the night,
We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.”

1.) Is the speaker in the poem actually seeing all that he describes, or is he describing scenes from memory? Is the shore he's seeing his true home or simply one like it? How is the poem changed by possible answers to those two questions?

2.) Without looking back, describe one strong image from the poem as you remember it.

3.) Contrast the images of the festive calm of home being disturbed by the shadow of the son going to sea with the images of the ship finally clearing the headland and continuing on its journey, and try to find a possible theme in the contrast.

Smelly Old Books: Part 1

2011-11-29T10:23:00.001-05:00

Jonathan's grandpa passed away this year, and the two things I especially miss are his wise words, always in that Lowcountry drawl, and his promise that he'd pray for me daily by name. When Grandpa died, I didn't cry. I was relieved for him. But I did cry when we visited him at the hospice house where he lay waiting; in that room, like so many others somehow big enough to contain both loss and laughter, it occurred to me suddenly, selfishly, "Who will pray for me now?"

Grandpa was a collector. He had furniture and tractors and sewing machines and books. There were stamp collections and old letters and tools and misplaced parts to everything mechanical a collector might want. There were freezers full of food and prettily curved drinking glasses. And pictures and pictures and pictures. And all manner of miscellany tucked into every corner. A Depression-era mentality filled the basement and the barns and the drawers and the cabinets and the attic, all very Grandpa. He was a dear and good (he'd probably correct me with a scripture reference there) and lovely person.

During our trip to Tennessee for Thanksgiving, I was tasked with sorting through some of Grandma and Grandpa's old books to see if Jonathan and I could adopt any. As you might expect, treasures abounded. I spent part of yesterday sorting the ones we brought home into piles. Here are three of the more interesting titles from the pile of books with pictures.

The first one is a 1920s early reader called Friends to Make, by Gecks, Skinner, and Withers--school supervisor, psychology professor, and education dean, respectively. The book is about two sets of siblings, one set living in the country, the other in the city. They take turns visiting each other and discovering the differences in their landscapes. It's a typical old-school first reader with activities at the end of each chapter, a glossary of vocabulary words, and the underlying message that the world is wide and wild and wonderful but perfectly navigable. I was struck by the illustrations, done by Rhoda Chase and Mabel Betsy Hill, who, perhaps more successfully than those crafting the words, did a lot with a limited palette.

Another book from the collection is The Swans of Ballycastle, by Walter Hackett, illustrated by Bettina (Ehrlich). Because of the colors and style, I first thought the artist was Edward Ardizzone, one of my favorites. According to the biographical information on the de Grummond Collection's site, Bettina was an artist her whole life and came to believe "that children should be given pictures based on the love and observation of nature." The dummy of this book is in the de Grummond Collection.

On the surface, the story is a folktale about three children who turn into swans off the shores of an Irish town called Ballycastle after their stepmother throws them out. But I have questions about the symbolism and wonderings about the message. That's why I like this story--because, in the folktale tradition, it says a lot without saying a lot. The tale is based on an Irish legend called The Children of Lir.

John Duncan's depiction, The Children of Lir

This version seems to be meant for children but is thankfully written in a voice (and printed in a format) that fits the story instead of a narrow audience: "Two small rivers--the Cary and the Shesk--twist their way through Ballycastle, past the whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs, finally emptying into the harbor. On the outskirts, where the green meadow land gradually becomes hills, then mountains, is a tower and beyond that a castle. From this country of hills and mountains, on a day filled with the sun, it is possible to see the Island of Rathlin, which stands between Ireland and nearby Scotland. This is Ballycastle, the scene of the legend of the wandering swans."

The last book that made me stop sorting and start reading was The Golden Book of Quotations, by J. M. and M. J. Cohen. That's because I love quotes and because there are pictures ("'What is the use of a book,' thought Alice..."). And the foreword by Louis Untermeyer is nice too: "This, then, is a book of golden thoughts...Although they are words and ideas which other minds have shaped, they will seem to be your own thoughts, your own way of speaking. All of us need them; we cannot do without them. You, too, will make them yours."

~*~

Blowing off steam

2011-10-14T12:24:00.005-04:00

Lately, I've been cooking. When I first got married, I baked a lot. I did carrot cakes and cheesecakes and cookies and all sorts of adventurous desserts, mostly from scratch. Eventually Jonathan asked, in regretful tones, if I'd please stop because his clothes were getting tighter. I agreed, but that pretty much ended my fun in the kitchen. I was never good at cooking actual meals. I was more of a freezer-to-microwave girl. So he took over the cooking, and I've gratefully eaten dinner for several years now with little involvement in the process.

But one day recently, I decided it was time to get back into the kitchen. I've been needing something--something I could start and finish and enjoy all in one day, a need I blame on teaching. Spending long gray days in front of the computer screen, grading papers and quizzes, analyzing texts, tweaking syllabi, answering emails from students, teaching night classes, learning from my many mistakes...it's all a bit...endless. And since I only half (if even that much) know what I'm doing, it's been a huge and stressful life change. Good in many ways, but stressful.

I've discovered though, that when I step into the kitchen, I get something teaching doesn't give me: instant gratification. All I have to do is follow the instructions, and I'll finish something I can be proud of. I'll be on my feet, using parts of my brain and body I haven't used all day. I put music on, and the house starts to smell so good, the garlic sizzling in the pan or cheese melting over sautéed onions or sweet juices bubbling up around the crust of a cobbler, and Jonathan will make comments about how good it all looks, and then it's on our plates, and in seconds, we're sitting back feeling stuffed till one of us makes a move to roll into the kitchen to cram the dishes into the dishwasher. When everything's done and clean and we're sitting on the couch to watch a movie, I can say I've completed at least one thing that day. It's both relaxing and satisfying, maybe relaxing because it's satisfying. And I need that. I need to know that even if I'm struggling in certain areas, there's at least one thing I can do pretty well.

So, I've started doing desserts again (till Jonathan begs for mercy), like cinnamon raisin rolls and peach cobbler and banana walnut muffins.

But dinners are the real challenge. It seems the greater the challenge I can meet in the kitchen in the evenings, the further I stay from crazy-adjunct-teacher-land during the day. First I tried a side dish, a dip really--some homemade hummus. It's actually not that difficult to make. It's just time-consuming. Though I hear it takes years to perfect, with a shake of red pepper and a drizzle of oil, it was definitely better than store-bought. And all the effort made it more fun to eat.

With hummus under my belt (quite literally), I figured I could do anything. I got really brave and did my first tart the other night. It had goat's cheese and red peppers and cherry tomatoes and black olives and red onions, and just talking about it makes me hungry. Next time, I'll use more crust than the recipe suggested. I almost always want more crust with anything crusty.

Then I did a spinach and feta filo pie once I figured out the mystery of filo dough. It's amazing when crisp on the outside and hot and gooey and cheesy in the middle, but it's not bad cold either.

Yesterday evening, after spending all day getting final grades dealt with, I decided I needed something with lots of fat, so I tried twice-baked potatoes with goat's cheese and parmesan broccoli. Jonathan had meat with his. I'm a vegetarian, but the rich, spicy smell of the sausage as he was cooking was almost enough to turn me back into a carnivore. The potatoes were magical due to all the butter and cream and cheese. Then it was pistachio pudding pie, one of the easiest and best desserts ever, especially with whipped topping.

Getting the idea? I know, I know: this isn't about writing or reading or teaching, but that's exactly the point. It's a break from everything. It's doing something else. Anything else. (Shame I didn't become an exercise junkie instead.) Besides, how can I write about life if I just read about it and never live it? How can I teach if I never learn? How can I spend all my days reading about other people's adventures and never take my own? (Trust me--cooking is an adventure for freezer-to-microwave girl.) How can I run my own b&b someday if I can only provide one b?! If that dream ever comes true, and if you come stay, I promise not to give you instant pudding pie unless you really want it. For you, only the best: chocolate cherry cheesecake. And walls lined with books. And flowers in the garden. And two cats and a dog. And me, hunched over an old desk in a corner with a stack of papers, a pen, a plate of orange marmalade muffins, and a few more white hairs than I have now. Hopefully by then, I'll know more than half what I'm doing, both in the kitchen and the classroom.

~*~

"And now, Doctor, we've done our work, so it's time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums." ~ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Red-Headed League

Death of the fairy tale?

2011-10-11T13:31:00.005-04:00

In trying to apply a lecture about style and tone in class yesterday (about how the two are connected and how they can take a paper above the average mark and make it really interesting without the student trying to put on a false academic voice if only the mechanics and grammar are sound and the style and tone applicable and consistent and the overall piece interesting), I instructed my students to rewrite Little Red Riding Hood in their own voices, but guess what. They didn't know the story.

Let me say that again: none of my students knew the story of Little Red Riding Hood.

I was amazed. Have people stopped telling fairy tales? Are they considered inappropriate? Do people just not have time? Have they gotten unpopular for some reason? Is this part of the world so saturated with stories and versions of stories in so many forms of media that the fairy tale is fading? Will it come back? Aren't they still doing remakes of these stories? Was my class just a special case? Do I just think fairy tales are important because I study stories told to kids? Or is it because my dad told me fairy tales most every night before bed? Little Red and the wolf and the three bears and Goldilocks and the three billy goats and the troll were well known to me as a child and as scary then as now. Why do I suddenly feel frantic about keeping them alive? Why does it matter? Will some connection between us and the past and the future be lost with the trolls and the beasts and the witches?

I decided the best thing to do would be to tell my class Little Red's story before it died out completely, but when I finished, they were appalled. Kids and grannies getting eaten and wolves getting slashed open by huntsmen?! (I got the Grimm version growing up. And--how is this so appalling compared to what's available now?) I had to break it to them about Disney, and I told them they might benefit from reading different versions, and that part of the magic of the fairy tale is that it grows and changes but remains recognizable (but only if it remains at all!)...and I would have said about how it crosses cultures and possible reasons why and whatever else I could remember from my very limited experience and training, but they were all so taken aback, I gave up.

I don't even like fairy tales, but I think I care because most of them don't belong to anyone or they belong to everyone and because their survival seriously says something about humans and their death would say something entirely different. Maybe I have a little nostalgia over them too, but it's the open interpretation and the mystery and the longevity and the wildness and weirdness and unmassproducedness that it seems a shame to lose. What is being created now, in this age of ownership, that's like a fairy tale? And perhaps even more worrisome--what will our folklore be? What do we have to pass down that isn't sameness after sameness?

This blogger needs to get herself out of the suburbs and into the woods before all hope seems lost. Even if there are wolves waiting behind every tree.

Illustration by Arthur Rackham

The other side of the desk

2011-09-16T14:02:00.002-04:00

The true teacher defends his pupils against his own personal influence. He inspires self-distrust. He guides their eyes from himself to the spirit that quickens him. He will have no disciple. - Amos Bronson Alcott

~*~

As leaves fall outside the window and a cold breeze comes in through the open doors, as I realize I'm 31 and a college graduate and all grown up and married, as I start to see gray hairs and just begin to notice the hint of wrinkles at the corners of my eyes, I still have trouble believing I'm finally a teacher. My lesson plans are right here in front of me. Yesterday was spent grading papers and quizzes. I've gotta teach on Monday. So it must be true. I must have finally gotten where I was going, at least in one sense.

I've wanted to teach since early on. My first grade teacher had one of those red smiley face stamps, which I assumed required a teaching license to purchase, for all the power that little grin had. If you didn't make any mistakes, she'd stamp the top corner of your quiz or test or homework. My habit back then was to place smiley faced papers at the edge of my desk where everyone passing by could see. I'd like to think I was just looking for recognition or congratulations, but it's more likely that I wanted one and all to be jealous of me and my success, to know who was master of the multiplication tables and queen of the vocabulary list, to bow to me and my map of the state capitals with its blood red, slightly smeared on one side (I hated when that happened), smile of approval.

It was then that I decided I'd someday sit in the seat of judgment. I'd have my very own red stamp. The fate of so many would be in my hands. And that day has finally come! But it turns out, I teach adults, use a regular old black pen, and feel pretty bad when a student doesn't earn the college equivalent of a smiley stamp. I am, to the disappointment of my old self, quite a merciful leader.

My first class was such a strange thing. I wasn't exactly nervous (I wanted to succeed too much to let nerves win out over adrenaline), but I was certainly new. Things went okay. Not awful, not amazing. We all survived, and most of them have stuck with me. There were moments when they got what I was saying and moments when their blank expressions told me I'd lost them. But overall, we made progress.

The worst part is knowing it'll take time to learn what works and what doesn't. I'd prefer not to make mistakes. I'd like to know the perfect way to reach every student and how to explain grammar effectively and how to best deal with different learning styles and levels, and I'd like to know it all right now. But I just don't. It's got to be earned, apparently. Like battle scars. You can only learn so much from the old pros. The real lessons come when you're out there on your own.

But there's a best part too, and that is that teaching is sure to be the hardest class I'll ever take. I kind of mourned my college days ending. I loved taking classes and having assignments and academic challenges. But this...this is something totally different. You have to know what you're talking about. If you don't, they'll know you don't know, and you'll lose them.

With all I don't know, there are a couple of things I've picked up on quickly. It seems, at least from this very green teacher who's looking for something constant to hang on to, that there are two critical things I must do, and one thing they must do. I must understand and effectively (passionately on a good day) communicate the material, and I must sincerely want the students to succeed. They must try as hard as necessary to meet the goals satisfactorily. (Yes, satisfactorily. Not all students are in love with words. I can't blame them--I'm not in love with numbers.)

It's a real shame I didn't teach first grade. Actually, no. They'd have hated me. Most first graders can't handle large doses of sarcasm and cynicism. The shame is that I'll never get to use the red smiley. My students already look at me funny when, instead of reading Jack London's perfectly good example of a descriptive essay in the textbook, we read Jacqueline Woodson's picture book Show Way and discuss ancestry for half an hour. They put up with my children's literature, but the smiley would never go over. (Secret goal: convince them children's lit is as good as (most of the time better than) adult lit. What good is it to wield the (regular old black) pen of power if you don't abuse it once in a while?) And anyway, what is an essay without a topic the student is passionate about? Why even bother? It's just homework then. Something to get through and get over with. If you make me write an essay about how to make a sandwich, I'm gonna fail. But an essay about the night I saw Santa kneeling by the Christmas tree? Now that's something with feeling behind it. (Really, I did.)

Ah, well. Just rambling now. Just trying to make connections. Just hoping I'm not the only teacher out there thinking, what the hell am I doing behind the desk? Don't they know I'm six years old? Don't they know I can't--

But I can. That's the funniest part of the whole thing. I really actually seriously probably almost-certainly surely can. And I must. They're counting on me now. And when they're not, I'll at least be counting on myself.

Be you

2011-09-01T14:07:00.002-04:00

I'm not sure how often I'll do one-question interviews, but I'm pleased to bring you the second in the series. Many thanks to Marly for her beautiful answer on poetry last time. She's just survived Irene, though her cars and a lovely old tree behind her house didn't come out so well. Stop by her blog for an account of what happened. So glad you're okay, Marly friend. Hoping you find something poetic in the chaos.

Marly's introduction (before her One Question) was about how the mystery of poetry led me to ask for her insight. I could open this post the same way because the process of writing a scholarly paper worth reading has been, for me, just as perplexing.

Imagine how hard it was to think of only one question to ask someone who's an expert in everything from children's literature to communication to travel to cheese. In the end, I reverted to the second question I ever asked him. I had a paper due a few weeks from when I met Peter Hunt. He had just lectured for us Hollins students in Oxford and went along to the Henley Regatta where most of our group sadly lacked the proper headgear. I followed our meeting with an email asking about the process he went through to research and write an article. He gave practical and honest advice, half of which I didn't half understand but all of which I've referred back to many times since.

I've asked Peter the same question for you, and he's answered brilliantly. Thanks, Peter, for your reply to: What are the dos and don'ts of writing scholarly articles?

~*~

I suppose Robin asked me to write about this because I’ve written or edited more than twenty books, well over 100 scholarly papers in dozens of journals, lectured and examined at well over 100 universities, and spent too many years reading student papers and refereeing articles for journals. As a result, she probably thinks, in her kind way, that I should know what I’m talking about (rather than qualifying for a lobotomy and extensive therapy).

So if I assume (as the audience ALWAYS comes first) that you, dear reader, haven’t suffered as much as I have, and are starting out writing scholarly articles - undergrad, grad, post grad, or having to write something to get or keep your job, then we have a problem - that what I can get away with, and what you can get away with, might be rather different.

This blog, then is the truth about writing scholarly articles: it’s partly - mostly - about writing articles that are interesting and readable at worst, and inspiring and life-changing at best - which is what all articles should aspire to be (otherwise why write them?). It’s also about the Real World, where there are teachers and editors who are not adventurous, who are so brain-beaten by the mediocre and the meretricious that they not only accept dull, uninspired and downright bad articles, but have come to expect, to assume, that that is how articles should be. And then there are the unsung heroes of the academic world, the people who write and the people who grade endless papers which all come out of the same mould, which are all diligent and competent, and which all follow the standard model: really, it’s you that I really want to write for - to encourage you to think again, to break the mould. At worst, you could get rejected for being bright and original, which is better than being rejected for being just as boring as everyone else!

Easy for me to say. So, really, I should begin with the advice that you’ll find in any writing textbook (although I may be a little briefer): if you want to get a good grade for your scholarly paper from your professor, or if you want your article to be accepted (or at least read) by a journal editor, then find out what they want, and give it to them. That sounds so cynical that I can hardly bring myself to type it - but if your instructor or professor has a list of things that she/he wants you to say in your paper, or a particular pet format or (it happens) a pet phrase, or a pet theorist that you must include, then it would be foolhardy (up to a point) to ignore that. Similarly, some journals are clearly trying to come across to their peers as intellectual citadels (or, if you prefer, pretentious jargon-ridden garbage) and it would be (at least to begin with) rather a waste of time to present them with a paper that doesn’t check those boxes.

And I’m not talking about the mechanical details of format, word-length, referencing and stuff like that. Frankly, if you can’t be bothered to read the University style sheet, or the requirements for contributors, and follow them to the letter, then you get no sympathy from me. Even the best, the most sympathetic, the kindliest of editors (and they are, despite what you might think, in the majority) faced with the daily mountain of submissions, is only too delighted to find a way of reducing their workload. (And, of course, the chances are that a paper with the wrong format for this journal may have already been rejected by another journal.) Editors, unless provoked, put aside papers with regret, knowing that they may be missing a gem: but sloppy thinking in one area might suggest that there is sloppy thinking elsewhere. Don’t give them any excuses. (So if you notice that no articles in that journal have sentences beginning with ‘And’, or ‘So’, you might deduce that the editors have some (irrational) objection to these perfectly logical and widely-used structures, and adapt accordingly. The same goes for personal pronouns. Hatred of personal pronouns is not only cyclical (in the 1980s they were all the rage) but is also a function of how low or high you are on the academic scale. The lower you are, the greater the tendency to hide an opinion (“I think”) behind a gross inaccuracy (“It is thought that...”)

All of that simply means: follow the rules. And use common sense: for example, when you’re researching and reading, always write down the precise references for every quotation, and the precise book details of everything you’ve read. That means that your bibliography and references are already done when you start to write the article (what a relief), and you never have to go back to check anything. (This is, of course, a piece of advice right out of fantasyland - everybody has to go searching for something they forgot to write down - and (dare I say this) almost everyone sometimes fakes a reference.)

(Should also mutter that I’m not talking here to anyone who thinks that searching internet essay-banks constitutes research, or even legitimate intellectual activity. I’ve never quite understood how anyone who cheats their way into a qualification can ever take that qualification seriously. Maybe they don’t. Or don’t care. )

Having assembled (for a term paper) lots of material-that-other-people-have-thought-of OR my inspired insight backed up by lots of material-that-other-people-have-though of, then put your material into an acceptable shape. This usually means a logical exposition: an introduction, thesis, illustrations and discussion, conclusions - you can read that advice anywhere, and if you do that, then you should pass.

But you won’t stand out. There’s a saying in lecturing that you only have to be competent to be outstanding: the same is, sadly, this true of writing - but how can you be SO outstanding that you get an A+++ and editors take your articles? No magic bullet, but some suggestions...

For scholarly articles, it helps a good deal if you have something to say - you might be surprised how often articles submitted to journals don’t have anything to say (and it’s only polite, when you do have an idea, to read around a bit to see if you’re the first to have it.) Try to avoid the temptation of writing what extremely cynical academics call the MPU - Minimum Publishable Unit. The fact is that you might have a good idea, but will it really make an article? Of course, the answer is, that it has to if you want tenure or whatever: and editors have only themselves to blame if they get grossly padded articles, if they will specify that ALL articles shall be, say, 5,000 words: would that all articles (and term papers, come to that) could be as long as they need to be.

The next way to attract attention (apart from simply being literate) is to get off to a striking start. A lot of grad and undergrad article-writers seem to think that this means insulating their opening paragraph from criticism by citing an authority (often with a pretty tenuous connection to their topic): how many articles have you read (or started to read) that began something like: “As the great critic Peter Hunt has so wisely said, ‘quote’...” (and, by the way, if you’re writing for an international audience or journal, remember that the British and other Europeans do not have the taste for obsequious compliments that Americans have: in Britain, that sentence would read: “As Hunt says..”). So, if everyone starts obliquely (and how many times have you been told that it is somehow polite to “lead gently into the topic” (you are not wooing your reader!)) then it is far, far more striking to use the simplest, most basic strategy - answer the reader’s primary question straight away - and that is, “why should I bother to read this?”

You might even do this in the title: suppose that I was writing a paper on what might (to judge from her blogs) be Robin’s favourite book Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, intending to prove (not difficult) that it is primarily a love-letter to the real Alice which depends on Alice being in love with Carroll (rather more difficult). Which of these titles would catch your eye?

“Ancient Person of My Heart.” Was Alice in Love with Carroll?

Alice Liddell’s Influence on the Sexual and Emotional Iconography of Wonderland.

Lewis Carroll and Alice: a Reciprocal Love?

Lewis Carroll and Alice: a Reciprocal Love.

“You Didn’t Cry as Much as I Thought You Would.” The Relationship Between Alice Liddell and Charles Dodgson.

And which of these beginnings?

The question of whether the seven-year-old Alice Liddell reciprocated the feelings of “Lewis Carroll” has vexed scholars for many years.

The whole tone and feeling of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland depends on the fact that Alice Liddell was as much in love with Carroll as he was with her.

Critic and Biographer Morton Cohen states “the attitude of Alice Liddell to Carroll” remains uninvestigated. In this paper, I investigate it.

If you use the “newspaper strategy” - tell your reader the ANSWER straight away, then you may well be breaking an academic mould, but most editors (and professors) will be grateful. Academic writing is predicated on the totally spurious and impractical premise that readers willingly read your whole article/paper to the end. This doesn’t happen in real life: as a writer, you might wish that the reader will read every golden word. But as a reader - what do you want from the paper - and the answer is - you want the answer. If you give your reader the answer - what it is that you have deduced or concluded, right at the beginning, then they can judge straight away whether to read (or accept, or grade highly) your article. But they won’t read it all you might wail. Well, no: why should they? Would you?

And then carry on, as if you were writing to a sensible, intelligent reader, who has very little patience, and doesn’t really want to have to decode unnecessarily dense writing. As Jonathan Swift said in Tale of a Tub (and I paraphrase, this being a Blog, and not a refereed journal...): “Articles are like wells. If the water is clear you can see to the bottom, however deep the well. If the writing in an article is clear, readers will understand deep ideas. If the water is muddy, you don’t know how deep it is - but there are always fools who assume (as with articles) that it is wondrous deep, because it is wondrous dark.”

Remember that good editors/professors will not notice/care if you don’t use the latest fashionable words - here’s a selection to translate

familial group

utilise

textual representation

fictional works

the present author suggests

disrupts the diegetic levels of narration

disruption of the spatio-temporal narrative axis

mediates the character through the locus of control of the text

provides a ludic space for readers to escape their material positions

And, small things that can make a difference. For example, don't do what everyone else does - which is to name the author of an idea and then give the idea. It is the IDEA that is important, not the Author. So DON'T begin with the obsequious quote: “The famous critic William Shakespeare says incisively that ‘Carroll was in love with Alice’...” Say, “The suggestion that Carroll was in love with Alice’” (Shakespeare 2009: 3) is not useful to my argument, because I argue that whether Alice was in love with Carroll is vital to understanding the books.” It makes a big difference. Write to the point. Write REAL.

I write the whole paper in note form first. Don't look for the fine phrases: get the ideas in order. And always use newspaper-story structure - that is, ALL the punch at the beginning - the question and the answers. Then lay out the argument, every paragraph beginning with topic sentence (as you were taught in high school!) and relating to the title and the topic. Big signposts all the way. Don't summarise at the end - there is nothing more tedious than a page (or pages in PhDs) which say - just in case you haven’t read the abstract or the article, here it all is again. Endings should be strong: ask more questions! What else could come out of this? What are good links?

Oh, and another rule. Don't Accept Anyone’s Ideas without thinking about them and, if possible, disagreeing. However ‘distinguished’ they are. Sorry, but I'm no respecter of persons in that way. Great critics can write rubbish, and do.

In fact, this whole blog can be distilled into two words: “Be you”! Well, seven words: ‘Be you, and keep the brain awake!.”

Good luck.

Peter

Peter Hunt

Visiting Professor, Newcastle University UK

Emeritus Professor, Cardiff University UK

Visiting Professor, Hollins University Children’s Literature Summer School, 2005, 2013

Delicious autumn

2011-08-23T12:27:00.003-04:00

Since we moved to Georgia, I've been wondering when autumn would come. A week ago, I let the dog out early in the morning, and there it was--the first hint. The breeze was cool, the humidity gone. And there was that feeling. Then the heat quickly rose with the sun and every day since has been hot and my thoughts of fall have been pushed aside with other distant hopes for the future as I've walked the dog and prepared for classes and eaten things and rested my head and distracted myself, because we must keep living while we're longing.

But then this morning, I met the chilly breeze again as if it had always been there but just around the corner. And I was immediately happy. I was healed momentarily of all that has troubled me lately. Everything will be okay, the wind told me. Everything will come back around and turn out how it should.

There are still hot days to come. Long hot days. It'll be at least a month before I can wear long-sleeved t-shirts, before Jonathan starts baking bread again and the pecans are done enough to taste, before I can think about jack-o'-lanterns and all the pretty elven dresses hiding in the guest room closet, before visits home and cranberry sauce and breathtaking mountain drives. But I will wait patiently. Let it ease in. Let it happen just when it's meant to. And then, let it last as long as it can.

~*~

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird

I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.

~ George Eliot

Wonderland

2011-08-04T15:08:00.001-04:00

One summer day nearly twenty-five years ago, I decided to have a picnic. It was hot, so I found a place in the shade under a tree on the edge of the big square of grass in the middle of the neighborhood. Carefully, I unfolded a large piece of cardboard and started on the side closest to me using markers to draw the picnic. I sketched out four beautiful place settings, each with a big plate and a small one and neatly folded napkins. In the middle, I drew fruit and sandwiches and drinks and dessert. It was lovely. I was as happy as can be to pretend it was all real. And in a way, it was.

If you're like me, you remember your childhood as a number of scenes from a story you know by heart. It doesn't seem possible that it was really you, the same you as now. But believe me, it was. No matter how long ago it happened or how much you've changed, that was definitely you. Things are just different now. Some things have been lost and others gained. Perceived security was traded for perceived independence. Innocence given for wisdom. Matchbox cars for used Hondas. Yes, slowly and suddenly, we changed. And the change affected everything.

I've spoken before of my experiences with Alice. If you search this blog, you'll find that one moment I love her stories and another I don't. The most accurate thing would be to say I appreciate them. As a child, Looking-Glass captivated me. As an adult, both of Alice's adventures have frustrated me, even though Wonderland hasn't changed in the last twenty years. Neither has the story. I'm the one who's different. I can't fit through the small door anymore. I'm too busy thinking about the logistics of nursing a pig baby and the deep sadness in waving a handkerchief to a White Knight. I'm busy trying to place the things I'm reading into neat compartments (a silly, almost insulting thing to do with Carroll).

From a facsimile of Carroll's Alice's Adventures Under Ground

The first time I met Alice, I was with my parents at their best friends' house. The grown-ups were smoking over a game of poker in the kitchen, so I was sent to the big cushy recliner to watch television in the living room. Somewhere between the card table and the tube, I came across Through the Looking-Glass. The recliner would have been the perfect place to read, but I seem to remember hiding behind it instead of sitting on it. I don't know how much time passed, but I was totally engrossed (and disappointed) when my parents said it was time to go home.

The real shame isn't that I had to stop reading that night, though that was a pity. No, the real shame is that I didn't go back to the book again until my late 20s, and by that time, it was too late. The glass was just a mirror.

Tenniel's White Rabbit

I'm not trying to say childhood was great and adulthood isn't. Not at all. I wouldn't be a child again. I wouldn't dare be an adolescent again. I don't even want to go back to my 20s. It's wonderful to be able to see more deeply into a text and make subtle connections and understand or guess at implications. And it's even more wonderful to eat chocolate all day if I want or get in the car and go as far as I like with music playing as loud as I want or hop on a plane and go see the sea. I'm just saying: things change. We're only children once. And what a shame, what an utter waste to miss out on wonderlands while you still have the capacity to understand them.

~*~

So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality--the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds--the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen's shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy--and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy fam-yard--while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle's heavy sobs.

Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make THEIR eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.**

From Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll

Alice illustration by Marjorie Torrey

*Please note that the quotation above is made up of two sentences. Two! Children can handle this.

*Please also note that I'm not implying that this is children's literature or adult literature. It's a story is what it is.

Delight in distraction

2011-07-27T11:44:00.002-04:00

I should be cleaning my house. The problem is, I started my list of chores by ironing the bedroom curtains. Have you ever ironed curtains? If you want to do something utterly soul-sucking and tedious, I recommend it. Otherwise, get distracted and end up on the screened porch with a stack of books like I did.

The first one I read is a story you know well: Beauty and the Beast. I picked up this copy because the beast looked like a Wild Thing and the girl was only averagely beautiful, but the story was no less troublesome. I won't get into literary theory or anything else I can't explain. There's an abundance of insightful scholarship available on fairy tales without adding uninformed opinions to the conversation. But I can say fairy tales aren't exactly pleasurable reading. Not for me. I usually end up frustrated with the characters and asking questions like: "What the hell is wrong with her dad?" "How come she couldn't turn 'ugly' to suit him instead?" (A Shrek writer might have asked that one.) "Is happily ever after an elaborately layered irony?" Yet I keep coming back because there's much more to fairy tales than what's obvious on the surface (particularly fascinating is their existence to begin with and "what they can do") and because these stories have had the honor of being beautifully illustrated time and again. The artist for this edition is Alan Baker (click pictures below for larger images):

The next book in the stack was Fortunately, by Remy Charlip. How strange and unique and wonderful. The illustrations are surprising and striking and often done in full spreads. The story is an oddly poetic back and forth of fortune and misfortune with a little extra fortune at the end...but then misfortune again just around the corner. You must read it because it's funny and because you'll find comfort in knowing that someone else in the universe has ups and downs too and that with a little luck and a little skill, there's a good chance you'll end up doing alright. Or not. But we're all in the same predicament is the point. (Click here to learn about Charlip and his connection to Hugo Cabret.)

Next up, a lovely story with thoughtful, engaging, imaginative images, written and illustrated by Edward Ardizzone. It's somehow quiet without being sweet and full of action without being void of character. (Ardizzone is officially my new favorite. A copy of this is on its way to my mailbox. Can't wait for its arrival.) The book pictured below is Little Tim and the Brave Sea Captain, the first of many Tim books. It's hard to describe why, perhaps partly due to the blend of straightforward prose and a soft pallet, but this is one of those books not only able to stand the test of time, as it has, but which possibly has the magical combination of things that make a book last forever.

~*~

If you're interested in learning more about illustrating children's books, check out my dear alma mater, Hollins University. They've recently added a Certificate in Children's Book Illustration to the graduate program. For more info on the instructors, take a look at the work of author/illustrators Ruth Sanderson and Ashley Wolff. Hollins is a lovely place. You'll learn and make friends and wish you could go back even after you've graduated. And you'll get a degree to boot.

Marly on poetry

2011-07-19T12:20:00.001-04:00

My husband Jonathan is a genius computer guy. He does not, however, repair toasters. Toasters are wonderful pieces of technology. If you use them just right, you can make a Frosted Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tart even more amazing than it already is. But just because Jonathan can build robust distributed systems doesn't mean he can make your bread brown faster. It's a different kind of technology. That's not to say that being technically minded doesn't connect with other technical things sometimes, it's just to say that one doesn't necessarily follow the other.

The same goes for writing. I write creative nonfiction short stories and children's fiction for older children/young adults. I do not write romantic sci-fi thriller trilogies. I don't write picture books. I don't write copy or journal articles or comic book captions or biographies. They're all different and take different skills.

Marly Youmans is, among many other magical things including being a children's author, a poet. I mean she has the rare gift of being simultaneously poignant and succinct, of not only seeing things in a unique way but being able to communicate her point of view with language. Not every writer has these gifts (these skills, these powers) coupled with the discipline to harness them. Marly does.

Because poetry is a beautiful mystery to me, I recently asked Marly to be my first One Question Interview interviewee, and I'm happy to say she accepted. Thank you, Marly! My one question for Marly was this: Why poetry? Her answer follows.

~*~

WHY POETRY?

To begin in longing.
To fall in love with language.
To make the beautiful as it is made in no other way.
To rejoice. To grieve. To dance my dance with a reader.
To be a reader. To play with Hopkins and Dickinson and Yeats and the Gawain poet and people from other lands and other times.
To be a part of a dream-village of readers and poets that stretches vertically through time and horizontally through space.
To wield the gift. To give a gift.
For mystery.
Because I can, and because I’m good at it, as Flannery O’Connor said about her fiction. She didn’t think she was good at much else, except maybe chickens and peacocks and writing wonderful essays. I don’t think I am good at much else, except making stories and novels and maybe raising three rather unusual children. And the occasional performance…
To knock the tedious weight of post-post-Modernism off my back so I can live in a place where tradition and today marry.
To practice humility before the work of the great masters of poetry.
To be like a magic room that grows bigger on the inside, where it matters.
To sing without a note.
To know the pleasure of streaming-forth words.
To change my life.
To make something like this only different:

THE STARRY FOOL

from The Book of the Red King

In a shivering of bells
The Fool comes shining, shimmering
Unseen along the moonshine way.

Little fir trees sprinkle his path
With needles, lift their limbs and point
To the bright whirligigs of stars.

And the crack in the Fool's heart is for once
Mended, as if without a seam:
He shakes his bell-branched staff at the stars.

So cold, no one plays the watchman,
But in the tower called The Spear
The Red King rules the chiming hour.

There he will spy the moon-washed Fool
Skittling like a toy top through the city.
He will run outside to greet him,

Calling, My brother and my self,
My mirror, the crack inside my heart!
Reprinted from Mezzo Cammin

The eighth book (and second book of poems) by Marly Youmans is The Throne of Psyche (Mercer University Press, 2011.) Forthcoming books include an epic poem, Thaliad (Montreal, CA: Phoenica Publishing) and A Death at the White Camellia Orphanage (Ferrol Sams Award, Mercer University Press, 2012.) www.marlyyoumans.com www.thepalaceat2.blogspot.com

Essence of Paddington Day

2011-07-13T15:06:00.002-04:00

Yesterday was one of those days. The interview I was meant to have was rescheduled. The dog peed on the office chair. I had an argument with Jonathan about cottage cheese in the middle of the grocery store. That kind of day.

That's why today is a Paddington day. You'd think yesterday was, with all the mishaps, but no; I mean it's an Essence of Paddington day.

When I first read A Bear Called Paddington, I thought, "Wow. What an annoying guy." That was just before I headed off on my first great adventure to England. Being in England didn't make me like him more, in case you're wondering. Now I know the problem was that I was too old and organized and uptight to appreciate his outlook on life. He was simply too messy and haphazard for me to put up with. A few children's books are like that, I told myself: they're childlike.

But knowing he's cherished by many and being drawn in again by the artwork of Peggy Fortnum (I love Fred Banbery's too), I decided to give him another chance, and guess what I learned: Paddington isn't actually all that childlike. At least not purely. Sure he's small and accident prone and likes to eat sugary things. But we all know animals are used in children's books for more reasons than their cuteness. And we know that personified creatures don't always represent child characters (enter Ratty and Mole and the White Rabbit and the Caterpillar and Ladybug and Miss Spider and Eeyore and Owl and--) or even childlike circumstances.

No one knows Paddington's age, not even Paddington himself. (This is very convenient for character and plot building possibilities. The character can put on a magic show like a kid at his birthday in one chapter and complain about the price of opera glasses like my dad would in the next.) But he has travelled halfway around the world by himself. And he's a bargaining grocery shopper. He likes to sit around having long chats with his good buddy old Mr. Gruber. And he has "a strong sense of right and wrong." It's up for debate whether or not kids have that sense, but the point is, even though he may come off a bit more like a child because of all the clumsiness and inexperience (more due to his emigrating than his age), I'd say Paddington's leaning more toward the grown-up (if naive) end of things. And we all know that guy, don't we? He's the one we're a teensy bit jealous of. He gets away with everything, mooches off of people who always forgive him, leaves a mess wherever he goes, is incredibly lucky, and, in the words of creator Michael Bond, is "eternally optimistic." But we love him anyway. He's living life how he wants and getting away with it. He is the children's literature version of The Dude.

Okay, maybe not quite The Dude. Paddington doesn't have the worldly edge or colorful language. But he's got the laid-back personality and the same talent for getting into trouble and out of it. I can hear The Dude echoing Paddington: "Things are always happening to me [man]. I'm that sort of bear." So, in honor of bears like Paddington and The Dude, and in order to erase the stupidness of yesterday, I decided to embrace my inner slacker and avoid the responsibilities of today by making Paddington's Marmalade Buns as described in Jane Brocket's Turkish Delight & Treasure Hunts instead.

I must say, they are delicious, even if they're more cupcake than bun. It was the perfect way to make up for yesterday, and there's enough left over to make up for tomorrow if it turns out to be ridiculous too.

We all need a little Paddington in our lives. We need adventure. We need sugar. We need wonder and naivety and messiness to make up for the continuous insistence that we strive for order and success and perfection.

Screw perfection, friends. Have a marmalade bun instead.

Dear Jane

2011-06-30T19:38:00.004-04:00

"Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience generally is."

Jane Austen

While unpacking boxes this week for what will soon be my writing room (very exciting even if the room shouldn't make much difference), I found a sleeve of stamps. Some have flags on them, others have illustrations of journalists, and one has a drawing of a kestrel. But I've got no use for stamps now. I write letters through email. Our bills are paid online. If I must mail something, I take it to the post office where they print out a sticker with the postage paid. It's all very convenient. Emails can be really lovely--they are made up of words after all. A few of the most treasured letters I'll ever receive have been through email, and a single paragraph in an email I got recently put all my prose to shame.

But there's something about a handwritten letter too. Call me romantic, but with paper and ink, there's the wait. There's the slant of each word. The smell of the paper. The time the author put into writing and stamping and walking to the mailbox and putting up the flag. The opening of the box to find your name and the expectation of what's inside. There's the possibility for mistakes. And the permanence. I don't mean permanence in time. An electronic letter can obviously outlast paper. I mean the permanence of ink dyeing fibers.

Just think--what makes Pride and Prejudice so excruciating? Tension. It's all that damned TIME spent waiting and wondering and regretting and hoping in the midst of clever dialog. Even in the BBC version, I'm thinking, "Get ON with it!" It's the most wonderful anxiety. But I'm sure someone has rewritten the story by now--Wickham is quickly recognized as the player he is when the Bennet sisters see all the chesty women posting notes on his Myspace profile. Lydia is easily found because she's constantly checking into her locations on Facebook from her phone (a real disaster since those two truly deserve each other). Pemberley has a virtual tour online, so no need for Elizabeth to visit. (I know you're thinking of the lake scene from the movie. Shame on you.) The hope of something to come between Lizzy and Darcy, and the fear it never will, is settled with a quick text. How everlastingly boring it all sounds.

Though I don't doubt her skill, and I'm sure she'd be up for the challenge, the story just wouldn't be the same without all that waiting and all those letters and the time it took them to reach their destinations. I'm glad Jane was born in the late 17s instead of the 80s. I don't think I could bear the story otherwise. And so, in honor of dear Jane, I shall use up my sleeve of stamps on a few of my favorite people. Till then, some letter-writing quotes from the book.

"About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases."

"Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it."

"With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise full . . . Mr. Darcy's letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart."

"Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia."

"Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was the grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated."

"Darcy mentioned his letter. 'Did it,' said he, 'did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?' She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed."

"But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure."

"Dear Sir, I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give. Yours sincerely, etc."

All quotes from Project Gutenberg

Finding your place

2011-06-17T22:07:00.002-04:00

The more you write, the more you'll see things with a writerly eye. Just like a photographer sees the world in frames, you'll see it in words. You'll see the parts that make the whole. And things will inspire you--experiences, places, people, conversations, dreams, flavors--all sorts of things.

Lately, I've found nostalgia very inspiring. For example, my husband and I lived in South Carolina for almost seven years in a sweet farmhouse with a quirky personality. We saw our little playful kittens grow to be big lazy cats there. We used to leave the front door open in the evenings to listen to the owls and the frogs and the whippoorwill. We spent many hours making and enjoying meals in the big kitchen. But then one day recently, something took us from that place, and I knew right away that if we ever happen to return, things will be totally different. That quickly, the life I knew there ended. Now I'm left with a funny pulling. It's an excitement for the adventure ahead but a sadness in leaving the known behind. And that is life: beginnings and endings.

That pulling of positives and negatives produces a special energy. A creative energy. It's the perfect time to write. And in this circumstance, the writing process has begun with setting.

It all started while I was cleaning at the old house last week. I looked out the kitchen window and saw Mr. Bluebird sitting proudly on top of his birdhouse. Jonathan and I have been watching Mr. Bluebird and his wife for years. They stay around almost all year and don't mind that their house sits on a crooked pole. I even had to save one of their babies after it took a ride in our cat's mouth one summer, and Jonathan nailed a stovepipe around the pole to avoid future tragedies. Seeing the bluebird on top of his home with his chest out made me think, "There are so many things I'll miss about this place." But only moments before, I'd noticed a patch of mold on the bathroom ceiling and thought, "There are lots of things I'll be glad to leave behind. I wonder what the next place will bring." Upon recognizing this juxtaposition, I immediately stopped cleaning and started brainstorming a list of things I'd miss, like the wild roses that grow on the bank in early summer, and things I wouldn't, like the plethora of ticks in the high grass. The list is substantial now. With a little filling in, it will become a ready-made landscape for a story--the small farm with its grapevines and barns and overgrown pear trees. With its old red outhouse. And the ghost cat. And the cornfield. And on clear, cool nights, Orion looking down on everything.

Some people have a great talent for creating settings and characters and stories from scratch. I don't. I write what I know and don't feel one bit lazy for it. It's very real to me. All I have to do is make it real to you. And real comes through in the details--in the list. In how grass doesn't grow in the front yard, so years of tenants have let the pine needles pile up till there's a soft brown carpet dotted with pine cones. When my character comes walking through some late spring afternoon, deep in thought, I'll know the soft brushy sound and the earthy smell and where the stripes of shade cross his face when the sun sneaks through the trees that line the road. Real comes through in how the ferns that the landlady's mama planted so long ago stand out against the faded red barn like a feathery green collar. In how the wheels of a car rolling over the gravel driveway sound. The setting is there if only I'll listen to the chimes, taste the grapes, smell the magnolia, feel the cold porch under my bare feet, watch the sparks fly through the smoke of an autumn bonfire. I know what every season is like. I know the sound of hail pounding a tin roof. All I have to do is remember and communicate.

And I know the place so well, I can even begin to imagine what it would be like if something happened there that I never actually experienced. Like a tornado. I can guess which trees could be uprooted and how the weathervane would screech. Or if someone broke in. I know where I'd hide or how I'd try to get away. Or if I were my old self back in elementary school and ran away from home and found myself at a little farmhouse with a tin roof and a red barn and a scared, shiny black cat hiding in the cornfield. The setting, that crucial character, is ready to interact with any other players I introduce. It is whole. It is living. Remember and communicate.

Who will live in those foothills? What will they think of the rooster next door crowing at all hours of the night. Will they be angry at the lady across the road who spies on them from behind sheer curtains? Will they fill the house with the music of a peaceful and balanced life or with the dark and heavy tones of turmoil? I don't know yet. But when it comes to telling stories, knowing the setting intimately can be just as important as knowing the characters themselves.

Six books I couldn't pack and why

2011-05-31T00:11:00.008-04:00

My husband and I will be moving soon. That means lots of books have been stuffed into lots of boxes. But there were some books I couldn't bring myself to pack away. The risk was too high. I'd worry about them too much. All of the other books in the house could suddenly disappear, and I'd survive without too many tears. But these are my special books. A few are irreplaceable. Almost all have sentimental value and represent something I care deeply about. And all will be bubble-wrapped and transported carefully beside me as we drive to a new house in a new town in a new state. Overkill? You must not love books like I do.

In no particular order:

Northern Lights by Philip Pullman

This book is special for two reasons. First, because it represents a period in my life when I discovered that humans can have an affinity to a place and never know it till they land there (if they're lucky enough to ever make it). Second, because it represents a beautiful, magical summer I had once upon a time.

There's a Boy in the Girls' Bathroom by Louis Sachar

If you've read the blog before, you may know why I can't heartlessly stuff this book into a box. It's the only book that survived my childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, and now into my 30s. It has been with me these 22 years and still makes me cry. It is the example I want to live up to when I put pen to paper.

Peter Pan and Wendy by J. M. Barrie

You might also know why this made the list. All I'll say here is that I love this story because it's saying something. Not all stories do that, and of the books I've read, none other does it this well.

The English Struwwelpeter by Heinrich Hoffmann

This book can't go into a box because it's simply too fragile and worth too much money. It permanently lives in a ziplock bag, and the cover won't hold much longer. But there's one more reason I want to keep it safe. That's because it's hand-colored. It's unique. It's beautiful (though hilariously gruesome). In other words, you can't get one at Walmart.

When We Were Very Young by A. A. Milne

This one is also worth too much to pack away. However, I love it and own it for two important reasons. First, because it's heartbreaking. Most everything I've read of Milne's is, to me. But also because it is our first introduction to Pooh.

The Great Divorce by C. S. Lewis

I've heard everyone goes through a crisis of faith at some point. We question what we've known. We look for answers. It's as human as eating and breathing and hoping. This book came along just about the time I started asking questions and changed the way I think about certain things forever. This copy may be ugly to some, but with my original markings throughout, it will always be beautiful to me.

Voice

2011-05-28T10:23:00.006-04:00

Earlier today, I found this binder from my senior year in high school:

The horrible curly-lettered cover hides a stack of my first attempts at creative writing. I'm not exaggerating when I say they're truly awful. Just imagine a poem with lots of italics and talking animals. A short story about roadkill. Guilt-ridden religious prose. There's even an autobiographical piece about...dare I say it...poop.

I wish I were kidding. It's just awful.

I didn't make a serious attempt at writing again until about four years ago when I took a creative nonfiction class. Since there was nowhere to go but up, it's not bragging to say I'd improved over the years. But as bad as those early tries were, there is one striking similarity between the way I wrote in high school and the way I write now. The voice--the cadence, attitude, tone, style, approach--though it has grown to be more subtle and controlled, the voice I use now is strongly hinted at in the old writing.

Voice is one of the great mysteries often discussed in writing classes. But I think the connection between my old and current writing sheds some light. Perhaps every author has an innate writerly voice. That's not to say she can't put on another voice very successfully or that the innate should always be used. It's just to say that a natural and consistent voice exists within a writer and will become stronger over time (with hard work, practice, lots of editing, and consideration of constructive criticism).

But I don't think the critical point about voice is that it exists within each writer--it's that a particular voice exists, one that no one else has. Knowing what you want to say--plot, problems, characters, themes--those are just details. Voice is the glue that holds them together. Voice is your special ability. It's taking your unique viewpoint and communicating it with words. It can make your story stand out from the countless others. Yes, originality of plot can do wonders (and is an amazing feat), but a strong voice can even carry a recycled structure to amazing heights. Take Harry Potter for example. That's no original plot structure. It's not even an original premise. But it's a good story with its own uniqueness. And it's engaging. Really engaging. In my opinion, that's because of two things: universality and the storyteller's voice. Universality is available to all. But your voice is yours alone.

Featuring independents

2011-05-19T16:43:00.005-04:00

Sure, I shop at big chain bookstores once in a while. They've got really good pumpkin cheesecake in the cafe in the fall. And they have lots of pretty cards and stationary. And bookmarks. And most any popular book you're looking for. But there are at least three very important things the big chains don't have that independent bookstores do:

#1 - One of a kind, hard to find, out of print, international, local interest, like-new, obscure, signed, and self-published books

When you walk into one of the mammoth chain bookstores (otherwise known as McBookstores), you're looking at a room full of books a group of corporate buyers thought would sell. That doesn't mean all of them will, nor does it mean there aren't some fantastic stories on the shelves, but it does mean the decisions made were based on money, not necessarily on what a group of executives deemed to be valuable literature (this is also true of some publishing houses).

When you walk into an indie bookshop, you're looking at a room full of books the owner and his/her colleagues chose. Don't get me wrong--they often have to think about profits in order to keep their doors open. But at least IT (yes, the slimy brain thing from A Wrinkle in Time) didn't choose the stock, so you're guaranteed a unique experience at each store. Plus, part of the money you spend goes to the owner and the local community instead of being used to get the brain a new cushy pillow to sit on. Lots of times, you find the same books in an independent shop as you will in IT's store, like the ones below from Poor Richard's Booksellers in Easley, South Carolina. By buying new books indie style, you'll be supporting local business. (Though, if you really wanna save money and natural resources, you could always just go to the library.)

You can also find like-new books in indie shops if they sell used. Like this beautifully illustrated copy of Pullman's take on the Puss in Boots tale for just $5 from McDowell's Emporium in Anderson, South Carolina. IT wants almost $14 for the same title and lacks that extra little bit of love and wear that any good used book offers.

If you find a shop that sells old used books, it's also possible to buy something no one else in the world has a copy of. And you might even get it for a measly twenty bucks like I did. Below is an autograph book I found at Noah's Ark Book Attic in Tryon, North Carolina. Originally full of blank pages, it was used kind of like a school annual is used today. Friends and classmates of the book's owner signed their names inside along with short poems or messages to be remembered by.

There were two books in this set, one from the owner's days in high school and one from college. I couldn't afford both, so I chose the one from his younger years. Autograph books can be found at antique stores as well. If you're lucky, you'll also find little bits of memorabilia inside like the cut-out of the black cat. In the book from the owner's college years, someone had pressed a four-leafed clover between two pages, and it was still intact these 120 years later. Some have elaborate illustrations drawn in as well. These are one of a kind, and they can be very affordable, so if you come across one, buy it. It'll probably cost you less than any number of new hardbacks from your local McBookstore.

If you shop indie, you're likely to find titles IT can't afford to stock, or at least titles IT thinks it can't afford to stock (the scope of the human brain is obviously largely unappreciated by IT who apparently uses things like statistics and percentages and popular opinion to make decisions). Below are just a few of my recently found treasures. Some I bought, and some I only took pictures of to remember for later. I did buy this beautifully bound and illustrated $7 book of Tennyson's poems printed in 1888. I found it at The Village Book Shoppe in Tryon, North Carolina.

This late 70s printing of Kate Greenaway's Book of Games is in great condition and was only $5 at McDowell's Emporium.

I couldn't afford this one from Noah's Ark, but I was really pleased to flip through its pages. It's a first American edition of The Zankiwank & the Bletherwitch, notable partly for its Arthur Rackham illustrations as seen on the title page below.

I didn't buy this one from the Emporium, but I wish I had. The text is available online if you're curious about the powers a generous person can hold after death (if said person plans ahead and if those left behind are patient). But online, you miss out on the woodcuts.

I did get this from the Emporium for just $2! How about that late 70s cover design? Mushroom houses in electric blue on a field of blindingly green grass? And stories about gnomes and goblins and pixies? Yes, please.

I even lucked out and found the following. It's hand-colored and calls itself the "Twentyfirst Edition...After the ninetieth edition" of the German language version. All pages are intact. And for only $18 at a Hendersonville, North Carolina antique shop! I paid for it quietly so the person behind the counter wouldn't realize what she was getting rid of for such a small price. Don't let the cover fool you. It has neither funny pictures nor pretty stories. But then, according to Peter Hunt in An Introduction to Children's Literature, the book is a satire of cautionary tales.

#2 - Character and community

Sure, you can get most of the books above (and more) online. You can even get free shipping from some places. But you can't get the feel of walking into a little downtown shop with retrofitted shelves and cat hair and old smelly chairs and stacks of unshelved books in the corner and an owner on site who can tell you where the book lived before it came to his shop and lamps for lighting and low ceilings and homegrown reading groups and homegrown readings. You can't spend hours scanning shelves for rare treasures or have fascinating conversations with the owner about things like the fragile nature of vellum binding or sit on the back porch while men with beards smoke cigars. You can't walk out with a paperback of Anne of Green Gables under one arm and an antique typewriter under the other. You can't have the place all to yourself. And, perhaps most importantly, you can't smell the thing before you buy it. The sense of smell, in the case of buying books, is essential.

The Village Book Shoppe in Tryon, North Carolina:

The Book Shelf in Tryon:

City Lights in Sylva, North Carolina, where I recently spent a lovely evening listening to a dear friend read from her new book, surrounded by friends and family and a mountainy atmosphere:

McDowell's Emporium in Anderson, South Carolina:

Poor Richard's in Easley, South Carolina:

Malaprop's in Asheville, North Carolina:

Noah's Ark Book Attic in Tryon, North Carolina:

And Mr. K's in Greenville, South Carolina:

#3 - Cats

You will never be minding your own business down a side aisle in a McBookstore only to be interrupted by the meow of a cat who sounds like he's smoked one pack too many and who is bordering on obesity. (I will continue to use the pronoun "who" in reference to a cat instead of "that" even though the Chicago Manual would probably disagree. Anyone who's met a cat knows a cat is never a that and always a who or a whom.) Having your book browsing interrupted by a meow is a pleasure only to be had in independently owned bookstores. These cats are often spoiled, demanding, shedding, slightly oily, very vocal, and are surprisingly never named something literarily satisfying like Watson or Hester or Phineas. And yet, I love them anyway. Why? Because felines, in their quirkiness and pride and irreverence, embody the very spirit of the independent bookshop. They do what they want, when they want, and answer to no one.

This sweet looking cat who lives at Noah's Ark weighs in at about 20 pounds. He's the second most demanding cat I've ever met and is surprisingly agile. If you find yourself at Noah's Ark, my advice is that you not turn your back on him, however sweet he looks.

The lazy cat below lives and reigns at McDowell's Emporium. He's got a sore foot but still manages to be right in the way of whatever section of books you happen to be looking at, meowing his smoker's meow and rubbing against your leg till your jeans are furry. (It's my own fault. I made eye contact and took his picture and said, "Here, kitty.")

These are just a few of the nice things about your local indie bookshop. Learn more at ABA or IndieBound where you can search for shops near you if you're in the US. Read more about local bookshops in the UK and search for locations here and here.

Looking for stones

2011-05-08T09:14:00.012-04:00

When I was little, I longed to do the dishes. It looked like so much fun--all that warm water full of bubbles, dishes making music as they slid past one another before disappearing beneath the foam, the mysterious satisfaction of taking something dirty and making it clean. I remember Mom laughing and saying, "One day, you'll wish you didn't have to do the dishes." I couldn't fathom that. I'd have traded any number of Barbies for a chance at the sink. But it was a long time before I was allowed. As you and I know, sometimes shining bubbles hide very sharp knives.

Mom, in her wisdom, did allow me some grown-up opportunities. The one I remember most distinctly was my job as seeker of stones. Before a deliciously earthy meal of brown beans with onions, cornbread on the side (with lots of butter), and tomato slices (if they were in season), Mom would ask me to sort through the bag of beans. Sometimes there were rocks or tiny sticks in there, she said, and if I didn't get them out, they'd end up in someone's bowl. As you can imagine, I took this job very seriously. I'd sit with my legs folded under me at the kitchen table, a high, rough rectangle of wood with legs, put together by my papaw. My only tools were a bowl and a sharp set of eyes. Beans went into the bowl to be rinsed. The sticks and stones formed a pile on the table. I imagined that if I went through and found nothing, Mom might think I hadn't looked hard enough. If I found too much, she might not want to use that bag, which would mean no big steaming bowls of buttery, salty, soupy, oniony beans that evening. What a terribly important job, being the bean sorter! I was always proud of my little pile of stones at the end. I eventually started putting half-beans to the side as well, even though Mom said they'd be alright to leave in. The decision was ultimately up to the bean sorter, and the bean sorter in this case chose to take out half-beans so her loot pile would be more impressive.

Recently, during several intense days of editing articles on a tight deadline for a magazine, a thought occurred to me: Editing is basically looking for stones. It's looking for things that don't fit and removing them so the end product will go off without a hitch. No one wants to bite into a stone. Or a twig. Or even a half-bean, if you're like me. I want perfection: the right mix of salt and butter and onion and beans. I want fluffy cornbread with butter and honey (on the comb, if you have it). Give me ripe tomatoes or none at all. And I don't want to get too full. That would ruin the experience. I prefer to be left wanting more.

I learned while doing this project that the process of taking a written piece from bag to bowl is one I love. Making sure everything is right--the tone, the style, the grammar, consistency, subtlety, voice--is rewarding. I actually want to find errors. With its pile of errors discarded to one side, a written piece can be seen and appreciated fully instead of being filled with distractions. With my own writing, I find myself (with a little bit of luck and usually after many, many revisions) saying, "There! That's what I was trying to say!" But editing yourself is different from editing someone else. It's a much more personal action to take away a precious sentence here, a lovingly placed aside there. It's difficult to delete a character or to save an epiphany for the next story. It's natural to want to create perfection on the first go and be reluctant to admit mistakes. But it's also natural to then slowly begin to extract what doesn't belong. Don't we hope to continue to become better? And doesn't it sometimes hurt during the process? But the end result is worth it.

Of course, what happens at that rough table is totally different from what happens in the kitchen! And in truth, editing is done throughout the entire process and up to the very end, not just in the preparation stage. Maybe someday when I'm wiser and more experienced, I'll write everything I've learned about the great art of cooking up a story. For now, I'll just share a few things I learned from my brief but interesting stint as a contract editor and from those old days of looking for stones:

Grammar rules, though confusing and still partly a mystery to me, are your friends. They work to keep confusion at bay.
If voice and style are strong and consistent, they can (if allowed in the publication and if skillfully used) override established grammar rules and be a welcome break in a stiff collection (or tradition) of works.
Even if you've read through a piece twenty times for errors, chances are you'll find another error on read twenty-one; four eyes are better than two.
Editing someone else's work helps you learn to edit your own.
A written piece, whether fact or fiction, is a three-legged table. Content, style, and grammar work together to form a coherent piece. As strong as the other two may be, if one leg is broken, the table will fall.
An informative piece should still try to appeal to the universal. In other words, having an article full of facts doesn't give you permission to be boring.
Apathy is as evident as passion.
Working facts, theories, and figures into stories is a way of giving readers a reason to care about them.
Layout can be critical. (Just ask a poet. Or a publisher.)
What a piece can be and should be and was hoped to be is only possible after refinement, but a bag without rocks is no guarantee of a good bowl of beans.

Books on a budget

2011-04-25T18:03:00.008-04:00

In celebration of finally finishing my thesis, I went to my favorite antique store to buy books. This particular shop has lots of books, and tons of them are categorized as children's literature.

The process of choosing is always a difficult one. This time, I gave myself the following limits (otherwise I might have been tempted to go straight to that big glass case in the back and get those beautiful old copies of Dream Days and The Golden Age):

My total bill could not exceed $20

I could not buy copies of the usual suspects (Peter Pan, The Wind in the Willows)

Purchased books must be children's literature (or literature children could read)

Buying books for less than $20 in an antique shop isn't easy, but with a little diligence and the willingness to be disappointed (like finding a first American edition of Pullman's The Ruby in the Smoke and hoping the dealer doesn't know what it's worth but realizing he definitely does know and has marked it up for good measure), you really can find wonderful treasures. The following came out to $21.20 because of tax, so I did break my rule a bit, but the total before tax was exactly $20.

Here's what I found:

Though another much more beautiful and expensive first edition copy of Kate Greenaway's Language of Flowers was on the shelf right beside this one, I stuck to my limit and spent only $4 on this. It's an old library hardcover copy in good condition with the dust cover. This may be the most romantic book I own, and I don't mean like lovey-dovey romance. I mean the attitude of the thing. Beautifully illustrated flowers all daintily colored and lovely women blessed with perfect faces grace almost every page. And the text adds to the romance, though it's also very informative. Who knew oak leaves speak of bravery and weeping willows of mourning? (Harry Potter fans might read through to make onomastic connections like the one on the page below.)

The second book I found was Marigold Garden, another $4 Greenaway piece with pretty illustrations. Also a discarded library book, it appears to have been used to teach children poetry. In the front, some thoughtful teacher inscribed, "Poems to teach: page 7, 6, 9..." and so on. My personal favorite of those marked is on page 22:

When You and I Grow Up

When you and I
Grow up--Polly--
   I mean that you and me,
Shall go sailing in a big ship
   Right over all the sea.
We'll wait till we are older,
   For if we went to-day,
You know that we might lose ourselves,
   And never find the way.

If you've read the next book already, don't ruin it for me. It's one I've been wanting to read, partly to give me an excuse to visit The Manor. It's not a beautiful copy, but that makes it perfect for reading. And for only $4 with the library sleeve still attached in the back, I couldn't pass it up. It seems to have been checked out regularly from August 1961 to May 1978. That's a nice long shelf life.

My most expensive purchase was a $6 copy of Richard Scarry's Best Story Book Ever. I know the title is presumptuous, but it may well be true. I actually gasped a little when I saw the following illustration because it took me to such a specific and vivid time in my childhood:

I can't be the only person who is immediately transported back in time at the sight of that crow. Then there's that old cat peering across the table in The Country Mouse and the City Mouse:

This book is completely full of stories from my childhood. I read them over and over back then, probably because they were some of the first things I read on my own that had a decent story, but I can't remember for sure. I do know the illustrations made an impression on me. Isn't it intriguing that out of all the things my brain could store for later, it keeps artwork from a children's book?

With only $2 left, I managed to find a tiny book with a big message. The yellow and brown motif isn't my favorite, but the story inside (at just over 90 words) is hopeful and rebels against common sense, two characteristics I don't often hear attributed to board books. Plus, even in yellow and brown, you can't help but love Crockett Johnson's illustrations and think of Harold (though he and his purple crayon came 10 years later):

Even with all of these treasures now living on my shelves, I still slightly regret not having the Grahame books from the big glass case. You wouldn't happen to be looking for the perfect graduation present for me? Oh, you are?! Just go straight back and to the right corner...or there's always the Pullman first edition hidden on the bottom shelf...or that beautiful Greenaway near the front door...

I've got an idea--just surprise me.

Thinking rocks

2011-04-16T14:28:00.009-04:00

When I was five, we lived in a house with big rocks in the yard. It's not uncommon in the northeastern part of Tennessee to have to deal with such rocks when laying foundations, and many people see them as a nuisance. Our rocks weren't a nuisance to me. They were little mountains mixed in amongst a thin stand of trees and were perfect for climbing and using as rugged terrain for toy cars and trucks. I knew every cliff and valley, and their colors, a mix of grays with little sparkly dots of quartz mixed in, are still fresh in my mind.

Those were my thinking rocks. I spent countless hours with them, sometimes playing pretend, sometimes pulling weeds out of the little crevices full of gravelly sand and dirt, sometimes lying across them in the hot sun. Many of life's mysteries were faced on those mountains.

I distinctly remember one warm afternoon in particular. It was sometime in early elementary school. I don't know now why the thought hit me so hard, I just remember suddenly realizing about written language: that the letters we'd been learning at school formed words, the very words I spoke every day. But none of the symbols made sense. All I could see were straight lines and curvy lines. I knew they meant something, that there was a hidden message, but it was closed to me. No matter how hard I tried to understand, I couldn't. And so, I cried bitterly on the rocks that day, fully sure the mystery of words would never be solved. I remember thinking, "I will never learn to read," just as someone drove by our house and honked. I was so deep in miserable thought, that friendly neighbor passed in a blur of tears without so much as a nod from me.

My dad must have been watching because the next part of the memory is me crying to him on the porch as I confessed my fears. With a certain twinkle in his eye, he took my concerns very seriously and spoke to me with true wisdom as if the problem at hand were very real, because it was. I wish I could remember his exact words, but I at least remember their spirit:

"Oh, you'll learn to read, babe. You wait and see. You're quick as a whip. You'll learn, you don't have to worry about that. But you'll have to work for it. You can't just get what you want by wanting it. Keep working at it, and you'll see. You'll be reading before you know it."

I believed him. I didn't know how it would happen or how he could know it would, but I believed him. And he was right. One day, it all came together--letters and words and sentences and ideas.

Dad was right about a lot of things. He still is. I did learn. And I keep learning. I bet that's what the twinkle in his eye meant. He knew all along how it would be. First I'd start reading, then I'd start writing, and then who knew the places I'd go.

How did it get so late so soon?
It's night before it's afternoon.
December is here before it's June.
My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?
~ Theodor Seuss Geisel

Read to learn to write

2011-04-07T15:09:00.001-04:00

I believe a good book is second only to discipline as the ideal writing teacher.

I've always heard the best thing a writer can do is read good books. But I usually get so involved in the story that no time is spent figuring out how the author made her masterpiece. I always thought it would ruin the magic to look too closely. But this semester, I've been reading and analyzing writerly elements in classic stories, finding style and point of view and character development and so on. And I've found it's true--to read a good book closely is to learn something about writing. The following is a list of a few things I learned this semester by reading from a writerly point of view.

~*~

Anne of Green Gables, by Lucy Maud Montgomery

If you can afford it, ignore the market. Quiet character-driven books only need to be written well in order to be magical all on their own, no wand necessary.
Some of your beautiful descriptions will be skimmed. Write them anyway.
Pacing is a powerful poetic tool. If a character's appeal is her freedom of imagination and action, dulling those traits in a sudden swoop of summarizing narrative can be off-putting.
A story about a girl doesn't have to include a boy love interest. But if you must, and if he's an ass, let her break a slate over his head and hold a grudge till nearly the end.

Little House on the Prairie, by Laura Ingalls Wilder

The imagination of an adult can fill in the blank space between sparse descriptions beautifully. Just think what the imagination of a child can do.
Children's books are sometimes about adults. Especially classics.
Babies cry and behave badly at least sometimes. Surely.

Mary Poppins, by P. L. Travers

Irony and fantastic elements can give figurative language added depth. If done well, the reader hopes and guesses at what is true and what is imagined. When a cow curtsies to a King, it's literal. So when trees are said to dance, do they really? No need to answer. Let the reader decide.
There's a strong irony in opposites. Sometimes children like disagreeable adults.
If someone asks what your protagonist's motivation is, and you can't answer, that doesn't mean you've done something wrong. Necessarily.

James and the Giant Peach, by Roald Dahl

Similes are good. But they're also overused. Stretch your figurative wings.
"Show, don't tell" is a suggestion, not a rule. Sometimes, "Aunt Sponge was enormously fat and very short" pretty much sums it up.
It's totally worth it to get good at ending chapters with cliffhangers.
Illustrations can greatly enhance or greatly detract.

The Boxcar Children, by Gertrude Chandler Warner

A book without parents isn't always a book without parents.
Sometimes a character could be omitted and the story wouldn't change. If so, maybe that character should get the ax or needs more purpose.
For early readers, sometimes just a little tension is plenty enough to engage. The adult mind will not necessarily be entertained by every children's book.

A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeleine L'Engle

If a character has unbelievable abilities, one way to keep him convincing is to allow the narrator to acknowledge the juxtaposition.
Not showing the bad guy might be scarier than showing him, especially if he's just a slimy brain thing.
However, to children, a slimy brain thing might well be terrifying.
Therefore, always remember that you are an adult and shouldn't get yourself upset if, for example, you think Harry should have ended up with Hermione or something like that. You are only allowed to read certain books because you've got the money to buy them, not because they were ever intended to entertain you (not that I'm suggesting a particular readership for Harry, I'm just saying, if you're all grown up and sticking your nose in, just remember, it's not really about you).

Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson

Sometimes your protagonist can get away with murder.
Really obvious foreshadowing does not necessarily decrease tension, but you'd better be able to write damn good action scenes if you're going to tell the reader all ends well. And consider including stabbings and gunshot wounds. And treasure. And a parrot.
Your narrator can switch to a different character in the middle of the book and then switch back or never come back or whatever you want really.
It's okay to write a terribly frustrating character, one the reader loves on one page and hates on the next, but I suspect it takes a lot of skill.
The reader does not have to understand every word to enjoy your story. Write it as it should be written and hope you inspire ownership of dictionaries.

The Phantom Tollbooth, by Norton Juster

Parental figures don't have to die for protagonists to have adventures. Sometimes they're just not around at the moment.
Stories are saying something. Even if what they're saying is over your head.
Authors are saying something. Even if they won't tell what they're saying.
Allegory can work, but consistency (in everything) is key.

A Wrinkle in Time

2011-03-20T12:43:00.002-04:00

A Wrinkle in Time. Just hearing the title takes me back to those late elementary school days. I remember spending a solid two weeks reading everything I could get my hands on sometime during my fourth grade year because our teacher had come up with the brilliant idea of letting us earn homework passes for reading. All you had to do was read a book and tell her what you'd read at school the next day. She'd put it all on a big chart for everyone to see, and after you got up to so many books (ten maybe?), you were given a pass to use in place of actually doing your homework! (This would be really helpful in grad school actually.) Though I didn't have a lot of books at home, my neighbor did. Picture books and chapter books and those early reader ones. I sat on the floor of her apartment and read probably fifteen books the first day. I can still remember the look on my teacher's face when I brought in the long list. Dear Mrs. Christian. She was one of those who secretly, outside of class, must have laughed all the time because smile lines showed around her mouth and eyes even when she wasn't smiling. She had a sparkle in her eye I couldn't understand at the time, but now I know it was a mix of mischievousness and determination.

Once on the playground, a boy hit her and ran away from school. We were taken back to our classroom by another teacher and sat terrified wondering what would happen to Michael (yet utterly impressed that he'd run from school grounds without looking back). The entire class held its breath in silence, waiting for Mrs. Christian to return. I was sure she'd have that angry teacher look on her face and punish us the rest of the day for what he'd done, but when she came into the room, hair disheveled and face red, she wore a huge smile. I'm sure there was a collective sigh. "I'm getting too old to run like that," she said, or something similar, and suddenly everything was okay again. That's the kind of teacher Mrs. Christian was. When she saw my long list, she looked at me and said, "Picture books don't count," but her sparkly eyes said, "You cheated, but I'm impressed." Or at least that's what I thought they said. She let me have a homework pass but said I'd have to use books closer to my reading level for it to count the next time. I guess she knew I'd probably read 1000 picture books to get out of work for the rest of the school year if given the chance.

Sorry, I meant to talk about A Wrinkle in Time, but that's what seeing one of my old favorites does to me...it's like a wormhole. Suddenly I'm back, and I can see Mrs. Christian's red face and feel my relief that she's smiling instead of angry. "Funniest thing," she said. "Michael saw his dad parked at the grocery store and took off." Another collective sigh mixed with the mystery of coincidence. We must have all thought he'd never be seen again. I did. He'd live on the train tracks and grow a beard. He'd live off of scraps and have a shabby dog for a companion and--oh, but never mind, his dad was just parked across the road, so all was well.

I'm reading A Wrinkle in Time today in order to analyze it for class. That means I find the figurative language, note sentence structure and diction and point of view, look for distinctions in characterization, things like that. I loved the story as a kid because it appealed to my imaginative side, the side that wondered about the universe and what could be and what couldn't be. I remember thinking, could this really happen? Could it be real? Maybe. It could be. Why not? This book was probably my first exposure and response to realistic fantasy (or science fiction depending who's categorizing) and had that very effect on me--to seem real but surely not real at the same time. Lovely.

It might sound a little wrong to dissect it like I'm about to do. As if cutting it into smaller parts and then cutting those smaller still will somehow expose it for what it is--just letters formed into words put into groups organized into scenes and placed in chapters until everything seems contrived and nothing seems magical anymore, but no. Analyzation of a brilliant book doesn't work that way. It's more like seeing a beautiful flower and learning how the separate parts work together to make it live and then looking even closer till you can see the very atoms which are themselves tiny worlds of mysterious activity set in motion by an even bigger mystery. The flower doesn't lose its beauty, it becomes epic, unbelievable almost--that everything should work together so that in the end a perfume rises to meet you when you pass by a rose on a bush or a book on a shelf.

~*~

This post is in memory of childhood and dear Michael, the one who ran away, the one I caught cheating off my test, the one who loved all the girls and was funny and hyper and had a nice smile, to dear Michael who moved to a new state so far away and was later killed in a bicycle accident, suddenly impossibly distant from us in a place none of us knew how to reach.

To childhood and to Michael, as L'Engle signs her books, "Tesser well"...

The golden rule

2011-03-16T00:38:00.012-04:00

After nearly four years of critique circles, I now have a tiny group of faceless critics living in my head. They sit at a rectangular table and bear swords in the form of pens with red ink (yes with the ink of my blood like when poor Harry learns the cost of telling the truth to a lying, selfish, good-for-nothing witch. No really, she's a witch).

Until recently, this critique group in my head was based on a limited understanding of what a story can be. Sadly, I have to take credit for those limitations because the critics live in my brain after all, and the only resources they have available are those I allow into the...brain room (my analogy just got weird). Reading, learning, thinking, and especially questioning what I've always believed to be true--these all affect my tiny critics, broaden their tiny minds. For a while, especially in the beginning before I'd begun to learn and stretch and question, the group was really strict and insisted I fit whatever I write into a formula. According to them, a story just couldn't work unless a+b+c led to the climax which led to the denouement which led to the possibility of a sequel. But guess what--it was all a lie! A lie I uncovered over time by reading really good books with meandering plots. A lie that may have only been embedded in my brain room and not yours, but a lie nonetheless.

That's not to say plotting is bad or that a+b+c is bad. It's just to say all writing styles don't fit the formula, nor should they. Just ask Charles Dodgson. Or the faceless army of storytellers through the ages, those mysterious authors of folk and fairy tales and the readers who love them. Just read Swallows and Amazons--nothing happens! Mary Poppins? Episodic and all about grown-ups! The Railway Children? Dream Days? The Wind in the Willows? Countless classics have no inciting conflict to motivate a protagonist to go on a quest! Some with no climax at all! And even better, half of those classics weren't even written for children, but children still read them and love them anyway!

There is no perfect formula. There are only good stories. Write backwards. Write forwards. Write inside out, upside down, with pictures, without pictures, with nothing but pictures. Write in three genres at once if you can manage it. Write a true story. Write a false story. Write whatever you want!

Really!

But there is one rule.

In all the classes and all the conferences and all the lectures and panels of academics and panels of publishers and panels of agents and small groups and big groups and award winning speakers and award losing speakers, the ONLY common piece of advice I've heard, the one magic rule to follow in putting the ideas from your head into words and sharing them with the world is this deceptively simple nugget of wisdom which must be followed exactly to the letter whether you've plotted or unplotted, whether you write what you know or don't know, whether you show don't tell or tell don't show, whether you're allegorical or metaphorical or phantasmagorical, the golden rule, the one rule, the Unbreakable Rule is this: Write well.

Book love

2011-02-22T12:49:00.009-05:00

There are many types of love, they say. A girl can love her cat, for example, and also love her mother. But those loves are very different (hopefully). I can love chocolate, the ocean air, the scent of almonds, the color green, travel, and my old fourth grade teacher. All are different loves because they're for very different reasons.

And the same goes for books I think. (Or maybe I should say, the same goes for stories. Because books are supposedly in transition from being bound papers covered in ink to being bits and bytes. But that's for another rant on another blog.) I love the Harry Potter series, but not like I love The Little Prince. My childhood favorite, There's a Boy in the Girls' Bathroom--I love it too, but for even different reasons. These differing affections are a result more of my response to the overall stories (in general, how they made me feel) than to a specific genre, subject matter, protagonist, or theme.

For example, I love Harry's story (I would say Harry Potter's story, but is there really any other Harry I could mean?) because I couldn't put it down. I couldn't put it down because I grew to care about what happened to its players and to hope for a satisfying end for them and because that grand good vs evil storyline with a healthy blend of grays between its blacks and whites and with wit and culture mixed in pulled me happily through seven books and left me with a wanting sigh at the end. The writing style hooked me and told a good (if formulaic) story to boot. So there are books I hold dear simply for their ability to keep me entertained.

There are also books that have touched my heart on a deeper level. The Little Prince is one of my best examples. It's not an uplifting story. It's very sad, but redeeming in a way and has the ability to quietly pat me on the back and say, "It's alright. We all go through deeply sad moments, but there is a kind of beauty in them and we come out stronger with a few scars." And so I've made a connection and therefore don't feel so alone in the world, and for that, my dear Little Prince will always have a piece of my heart. The Narnia series does the same for me. And The Secret Garden. Christy also. Peter Pan goes without saying (he lives in many categories of love and is the crown atop all the books I've owned and ever will own and really deserves a special category, perhaps something like a soulmate would have).

Then there are books I love out of respect. They really seem to say something--something I'd have said myself if I'd been skilled enough. They're often a product of some extreme period in history and make me frustrated as I read but nevertheless stick with me like a thorn, nagging me to take action in a vague way that always ends up requiring courage. Like Uncle Tom's Cabin. The Awakening. The Scarlet Letter. The Great Divorce. A Separate Peace.

There's a very powerful book love, probably the only one I'd fight to the death for, which has caused many a book to land on that special top shelf in the living room, never to be touched but by me. They are the books that are bound in nostalgia and deep connection. No one is allowed to dislike them in my presence and remain a true friend! None can critique them without sounding ridiculous to me. But then, no one really loves them like I do. (You see how dangerous and blinding nostalgia can be.) They are books like There's a Boy in the Girls' Bathroom. And James and the Giant Peach (you should have heard my scathing review of the movie when it came out). And The Wind in the Willows. A Wrinkle in Time. Peter Pan (don't even say the title in front of me unless in a tone of reverence). Through the Looking-Glass. When We Were Very Young. Hamlet.

There's also a less visceral category of books I've come to cherish just because they seem to do it all--tell a good story in an excellent style for the subject matter, keep me reading and interested, say something worth saying in the end, and stick with me long after I've closed the book. They win the award for best in show. Like Holes, Treasure Island, and Jane Eyre.

I have more of a fondness than a love for some books. Usually it's because of the illustrations and the story working together to bring about a general feeling of niceness about the world. Pretty much anything by Oliver Jeffers lives in this category. Anything by Milne, even though (especially because) his niceness is mingled with melancholy. Beatrix Potter is like this as well.

There are many other levels of affection I could mention, like books I love because I just do: Alice in Wonderland. Or books I love because I like imagining I live in another time and place: Pride and Prejudice. Or ones that seem to need loving: The Sun Also Rises.

I could go on and on. But what I'm really trying to do is make a point, which should be sharp, so I'll get to it. Books are like people, loved on different levels for countless different reasons. This idea, though probably not original or profound, has changed the way I look at writing a story and reading one. As to writing one, it lends a freedom, a limitless possibility of expression--and freedom in writing is critical because if a girl sits on her couch tapping away at her laptop in hopes of writing a story to be liked by all for all time (this used to be the secret hope of a writer I know intimately), she will eventually be crushed under the pressure. But having freedom to write the story that's in her and write it honestly will result in that story being loved by someone somewhere for reasons the writer may not understand, just as her favorite stories are often mysteriously cherished in her heart. And in the end, a story would probably rather be deeply loved by one than marginally appreciated by all. As to reading, this revelation has given me a broader scope for what a book can be. The critic within me must accept the written word on an infinite number of levels and love it for its innumerable manifestations. After all, not every book (indeed, no other book) can be Peter Pan.

In the interest of libraries

2011-02-09T00:33:00.005-05:00

When I was little, we didn't live far from where the small public library sat at the big bend in the road on the main street in town. On Saturdays, my mom and I would take the short trip to switch out read books for unread ones. Mom would disappear leaving me to one of my few moments of complete freedom to search and discover whatever I wanted. When the right adventures were gathered into a stack, I'd put my selections on the counter with the help of a wooden footstool and watch as the librarian stamped the little card in the back with the date the books were to be returned. I felt so grown up being trusted to choose what I liked best and having my own library card. It was the beginning of independence! Just a taste of the freedoms to come!

Sadly, I can hardly remember which books I checked out besides one series, which I devoured. I suspect I remember the series because there were so many volumes, but whatever the reason, I have distinct memories of walking three shelves back from the front door down an aisle on the right where a row of white spines sat just low enough for me to reach:

Choose Your Own Adventure. To me, these books were amazing. They could be read multiple times through with a million different plot lines and endings. Yes, they're cheesy and ridiculous and gimmicky, but in kid language, that just means they're really entertaining. I almost always chose the wrong ending. In fact, I don't know if I ever had a happy ending without cheating. But it didn't matter because just like when it came to checking out books, the choice was mine.

~*~

I have an entire room in my brain dedicated to memories from elementary school, many of which happened in the school library. There was the after school reading club called Junior Great Books and the Scholastic fairs where I never had enough money to buy all I wanted and the Christmas store where I got my mom those tiny glass angels with bells in their skirts and those few minutes we were allowed to check out books to take home each week. All wonderful memories! But looking back, I find my favorite moments to be those when we gathered in the reading circle. Inside the library to the right of the door was a high wall which hid a tiny amphitheater of carpeted steps where our class would file in and sit down in front of the librarian who sat in a chair at the bottom of the steps and read aloud from a book she'd chosen for us. And guess what. We actually listened. Because the books were really good and she was really good at reading them. I loved hearing her read. In those few minutes, I was taken away from history and spelling and geography and red smiley face stamps and science projects and minute-math quizzes and annoying boys and everything else that made my brain hurt. I entered another world.

For some reason, of all the books she must have read to us, the book I have the most clear memories of hearing in the reading circle is one I called my favorite for many years after. I think that's because, like all books I end up loving, it was melancholy. It didn't matter to me that the author was a creative genius. What did I care? All I knew was, it was a very good story:

The second most memorable book was usually only read briefly if there was extra time before reading circle was finished. Thank goodness for our librarian's sense of humor because without it we may never have heard the irreverent poetry or seen the slightly disturbing illustrations of a man called Shel:

~*~

I was recently reminded of these memories (and many more grownup library experiences) after hearing about libraries being threatened with closure in the UK. It's been such a big issue that Pullman put a word in (he makes a terrific speech) along with lots of other famous and unfamous folks. Save the libraries, they're saying. And I'd say the same thing if our libraries were at risk because, as you've seen, I have lovely and tender memories of going to the library as a child. But as wonderful as those thoughts are, I wonder, if it were my library being threatened, would I actually go check out a book?

See, there's a small gas station not too far from our house. They sell hotdogs and produce and gas, and the place looks like some guy's garage from the outside. Recently, while passing this neighborhood icon, someone started a conversation about how they're to build a fancy new gas station, a BP or something, a few hundred yards away. When I heard this news, I made a passionate speech about how awful it was that the big guys were coming in and would push out the neighborhood store. I said many things I won't take back but can't quite remember now. Just know that it was all very high and mighty.

The only problem is, I've never actually been to the neighborhood store. Never. In six whole years. So why do I care? If I don't support the local store, why do I make a huge speech about it? You know why. Because of nostalgia and ideals and fighting the man and blah blah blah. But talk doesn't mean anything or do anything. Action does. If I really cared, I'd at least stop and buy a pack of gum, wouldn't I?

I'm not saying people shouldn't get on the bandwagon when the time is right or that people aren't allowed to decide they love something once it's threatened with death. That's perfectly human. Good for us for having the right to come to realizations and change our minds and act. I'm just saying, do act. Act before it's down to the wire if you can, but if you can't, then at least act in the final hour. Because libraries are really and truly worth fighting for. They're just sitting there waiting to serve you, to bring you adventure and knowledge. They quite literally exist to broaden your mind. For free! Think how rare that is! Libraries provide moments of discovery and individualism and revelation and freedom. There aren't a lot of places that do that for us and there aren't a lot of those moments given to us freely in life. So, go. Check out a book. Join a reading group. Take your kids to story time. Volunteer to shelve books or sweep the entryway. Research. Read. Imagine. Be free.

~*~

"All those books, and I was allowed to borrow whichever I wanted . . . what a gift to give a child, this chance to discover that you can love a book and the characters in it, you can become their friend and share their adventures in your own imagination. And the secrecy of it! The blessed privacy! No-one else can get in the way, no-one else can invade it, no-one else even knows what's going on in that wonderful space that opens up between the reader and the book . . . And the body that gave it to you is the public library. Can I possibly convey the magnitude of that gift?" ~ Philip Pullman

A story is born

2011-02-02T12:04:00.003-05:00

The novel I've been working on for my thesis has monopolized my storytelling brain cells for most of the past year and a half. Only two times have I stopped to think up new story ideas. One was in November for NaNoWriMo, but that doesn't count because it was more of an exercise in discipline and commitment than anything else. The other was this past summer at school where I started six or so stories to fulfill class assignments. I never picked any of them up again because I had to focus on getting my thesis edited and submitted to my advisors. So I haven't really put hard work into a story since I started the thesis.

That's because thinking up an idea is one thing. One very tiny thing. Following through on that idea is an enormous process: brainstorming, outlining, writing, editing, writing, editing, burning a copy of the manuscript in a huge tower of gasoline fueled flames while laughing wildly and dancing around it in underwear, editing some more, and so on. That's a huge chunk of my life spent attempting to mold an idea into an almost living thing that conveys an aspect of life in a moving way. Therefore, I must care about it deeply, and therefore, it doesn't happen often.

Recently, my time opened up. The major writing and editing stage of the thesis is mostly over, and I don't have to start working till fall, so I'm finally free to consider new story possibilities. This coincided with an opportunity to make a submission with very little risk involved, so I pulled out some of those stories I started in the summer. All I have to do is send in a good strong chapter to my regional SCBWI folks to try to win free tuition to the fall conference in Charlotte. In order to choose the right chapter to submit, it might seem obvious to ask: Which will capture that mysterious-and-all-powerful-editor-type-judge? Which chapter is a winner? A prize winner? Which is sure to captivate and stun and move its possibly tired and irritable audience? (I've met that editor before--she was not impressed with me--I have the scar [also known as the painfully polite rejection letter] to prove it.)

Those are the questions a winner would ask, right? Lucky for me, I hate winning things. All that attention, the attempt at humility and avoiding smugness, the fame and glory and honor. Fleeting! What matters is: Which story do I believe in? Which chapter seems to promise a million possibilities? Which one gives me that feeling of excitement that makes me want to drop everything and start writing? That will, in the end, be the best story I could write. I haven't felt this way about an idea since the thesis. But I'm happy to say that one of those chapters, just six little pages, is now shining for me.

It's the one. It's my next story.

I mean, sure it'd be great to win, to be recognized for writing well, to possibly be seen by an editor who has the power and connections to turn a chapter into a book deal. But what a lovely and lasting feeling, having a new story to tell.

Two new books

2011-01-27T17:15:00.001-05:00

After several weeks of not buying a single book, I gave in. I should know better than to go to the antique store with money in my pocket. But it was meant to be an Arthur Rackham kind of day.

I found this copy of Willows to add to my collection. It's hardcover and still has the dust jacket, and I paid much less for it than it's worth. It's an unabridged 1940 printing with twelve color plates and an introduction by A. A. Milne:

I also found this copy of Fairy Tales by Andersen. It's not a particularly special copy, but it is hardcover with dust jacket and twelve color plates and tons more illustrations throughout the text. Plus I didn't have a copy. For a kid lit student, that's probably unacceptable:

Aren't they pretty...in a strange Rackham kind of way? Both books have that satisfying old smell to them which for some reason brings up a recurring image in my mind of a future me disappearing into thin air and kids coming across my spooky house out in the woods and finding it full of books and pulling ones like Fairy Tales off the shelves and flipping through the slightly gruesome pictures and more than slightly gruesome tales, completely enthralled, and hopefully sneaking out with books in backpacks or under their arms. I promise if this happens, and if you're that kid, I will not haunt you.

I'd be perfectly content to know my purpose in life was to leave books behind.

Burns Night Pictures

2011-01-26T11:32:00.009-05:00

Some things I learned during our first annual Burns Night dinner:

1. Haggis was never meant to be vegetarian
2. In a contest between boiling water and loosely tied intestines, boiling water wins
3. Neeps ain't half bad
4. Just because something smells like woodsmoke doesn't mean you shouldn't drink it
5. Bagpipe music has the special ability to be awesome and annoying at the same time
6. The more oil/butter/cream/salt/sugar, the better (I knew this, but just in case you didn't)
7. Heaven is made of sticky toffee pudding

After much preparation, our Burns Night meal started with the Selkirk Grace, read by me (with bagpipes playing in the background, thanks to Pandora)...

...then To a Haggis, read by Jonathan.

Then the feasting began. I suppose we should have started with the starter, cock-a-leekie soup, but we just ate it along with our meal. It was delicious, partly due to number six above. Traditionally it would have had chicken in it, but ours didn't. Click here for the recipe. But add more oil to make it Southern good.

The main meal was very heavy and filling. Top left in the picture below are the mashed potatoes (I like leaving the skins on and putting in tons of butter and salt and milk). Top right is the mashed rutabaga (again, lots of butter and salt but no milk). That took care of the neeps and tatties requirement (some people mix them together, but we didn't). Bottom left and right are the two types of vegetarian haggis we had, sweet and savory. Click here for the haggis recipes if you want them, though I didn't like either very much. One was too mustardy and the other too gingery. They weren't awful, just not to my taste. As a former meat-eater, I appreciate those times when meat would be a better option. Like...when ordering steak for example. There's no substitute for steak. And, though maybe we just need to try a different vegetarian recipe next year, I'm currently of the opinion that there must be no substitute for sheep organs either.

One of our additions to the traditional menu was Jonathan's homemade sourdough bread. It's best toasted with butter and honey and is very pretty to look at. The hardest thing is waiting for it to cool before cutting it.

Our other addition was the pudding instead of a traditional Burns Night dessert. But before I show you pudding pictures, I may as well get one other photo out of the way. Below is Jonathan stuffing the casing with prepared veggie haggis. (The casing is supposed to be larger but must have been mixed up by the butcher with a thin sausage casing instead.) It was much more horrifying in person than the picture portrays. I shivered a little at the thought of it after it was all over. One more reason to never eat animal parts. The concoction didn't hold up under boiling water, but Jonathan wasn't put off and is planning to do 'real' haggis next year. I foresee myself leaving and coming back when it's finished.

I hope you can erase that image from your mind with the following: me preparing the sticky part of the sticky toffee pudding. The recipe is here. Whatever you're doing, stop and go make this immediately. You'll thank me.

Notice the fancy tartan apron?

I think the entire night was worth the effort for the dessert alone. It's really moist because it's full of dates and egg and butter. After the cake bakes, the topping is warmed and poured over and broiled till it bubbles. The following picture is what makes up the topping...brown sugar, butter, double cream, and vanilla...over heat it basically becomes caramel and after the broiling, becomes crunchy. Next time, I'll probably double the topping. Or maybe triple it...

Burns Night wouldn't have been complete without whisky. We had Bowmore. It smells like woodsmoke, a happy homey kind of smell, especially nice in winter. When you drink it, the smoke is mixed with a syrupy flavor that's quite good. And very warm.

We wrapped up the night with a few readings, then Jonathan sang Auld Lang Syne with a Scottish accent. Good food and drink and company. A very nice time. And though I probably won't read any Burns for a while or listen to bagpipes for an even longer while, I'm glad I got to know a little more about a literary heritage that's close enough to my heart to be my own. It's like they say, good writers manage to touch on something universal and make it accessible and moving. That's what Burns has done for others and what he's now done for me.

Burns Week: Day 7

2011-01-24T23:04:00.000-05:00

There's plenty more to say about Burns, but I think I've said enough. Today, he can speak for himself. In excerpts. (All excerpts from Project Gutenberg)

~*~

From Remorse - A Fragment

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison the worst are those
That to our folly or our guilt we owe.
In every other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say, 'It was no deed of mine;'
But when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added--'Blame thy foolish self!'
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse;
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt,--
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others;
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us,
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,
There's not a keener lash!

From On Seeing A Wounded Hare Limp By Me

Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart.

Full text of fragment The Book-Worms

Through and through the inspir'd leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But oh! respect his lordship's taste,
And spare his golden bindings.

From My Heart's in the Highlands

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe--
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

From Flow Gently, Sweet Afton

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream--
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

From Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

~*~

Tomorrow, we feast! Pictures to come...

Burns Week: Day 6

2011-01-23T16:06:00.000-05:00

Almost there now! Tomorrow is the last post, then Tuesday is the supper.

So. Why celebrate Robert Burns?

That's a personal question, really. I suppose everyone would have a different answer. Some because of his works, some because of their ancestry, some because they like an excuse to drink whisky and wear a kilt. Whatever their reasons, I can tell you mine. From what I've learned in this short week (speaking of which, I knew practically nothing before this week, so this was never meant to be an academic pursuit, just a pursuit of pleasure, which isn't to say academics and pleasure are mutually exclusive, but which is to say don't quote me on anything without looking it up first for yourself), Burns seems to have been thoughtful, approachable, and flawed. He knew what it meant to be lovesick. He died young but left his mark by sharing his heart through the most powerful means--those that came naturally to him. He was a successful writer but still had to work a day job to make his way. He longed for adventure but knew how to see and appreciate his immediate situation. And his brief life was full of what some might call mistakes. In short, he's the kind of guy I'd have liked to have as a friend. In that case, why not commemorate? People lined the streets to mourn him at his funeral. Countless have been celebrating his life since before it ended. And though countless people in agreement can often be a bad thing, this time it isn't. When the people come together for something good, it's time to take notice.

So, then. How does one celebrate Robert Burns?

Any way one likes. But there are some pretty rigid traditions you can follow if you choose to. Jonathan and I have chosen to use the rigid traditions as a loose guide and make the night our own (especially since authentic haggis isn't legal in the states...yet). We considered going to an official Burns Night celebration, but to my surprise, the big ones within driving distance are all black-tie events. And they're fairly expensive. I don't have much interest in going to a Burns Night where Burns himself wouldn't be admitted, though I don't necessarily disparage others for going. I learned from a Burns expert this week that the formality seems to be a regional response. Somehow, though I'd imagine the South to be the place where the most relaxed celebrations could be found, they've become formal events. I suspect what some people call Old South money to be behind it (you know, big plantations, southern belles, all of that), as well as the exclusivity of some of the regions' Burns clubs (some are for men only and many are just for people with documented Scottish ancestry), but I can't be sure. Apparently, if you want to find a more farmerly highlander style gathering, you have to have one of your own or find a small group of people who've done the same. Sadly, we don't know any of those people, so we've decided to have an intimate little feastie with just the two of us. Perhaps if it goes well we'll invite others next year.

The disadvantage of a small gathering is that much of the ceremony is lost...no piping in of the guests or the haggis, no lovely accents for our readings, no kilted revelers spinning around the room to live music, no grand immortal memory. The advantage is that Jonathan doesn't have to rent a tux and we don't have to feel that awkward tension of sitting at a table full of strangers. More than that, we can decide what's most important to us and make the night personal. And when it comes to what's important, I tend to agree with Burns:

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.