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When my husband called on September 11, 2001 and told me a plane had hit the World Trade Center, I didn’t picture jets, fires, crumbling. I pictured some idiot in a little plane, losing his way, crashing.

 

But in a sense, that’s what metaphorically happened. Far before September 11, 2001, we somehow lost our way. And September 11 was like the definitive wrong turn, enabling us to further divide the world into good and evil, terrorist and freedom-lover, left wing and right wing, Republican and Democrat, Christian and atheist, the dichotomies giving us carte blanche to strip each other of our humanity.

 

I saw this at play in President Obama’s speech about health care a couple of nights ago—the shots of Republican Senators smirking, the cat calls. Tragic, when whatever one might think of Obama’s policies, one thing continues to stand out that has earned my utmost respect. He is a uniter, rather than a divider. Continually, he rises above these arbitrary dichotomies, trying to find common ground. It’s admirable, and it’s where we need to go as global society if we want to have any hope of saving the planet, if we want to find our way home.

 

My daughter is taking a class in conflict resolution and peace studies. She told me last night that the reading has been focusing on whether violence is innate or learned. “It doesn’t matter,” she claims, because there have been studies that show that people can resist these urges toward violence, the urges to make someone or something “other.” This is what we need to do, to stop thinking of those who are different, or who believe different things as other, to find the common threads that link us, even if they are as simple as the need for food and water, for love and for a healthy body. We need to stop thinking of ourselves as competitors and start thinking of ourselves as collaborators. It’s the only way we’re going to survive.

 

This is not what I intended to write about today. I intended to shamelessly promote my 9/11-themed children’s book, Playing Dad’s Song, about a boy in Brooklyn who lost his dad on 9/11 and how learning music helped him heal from his grief. I wanted to write about my trip to New York, my childhood home, shortly after 9/11. My friend, Greg, and I walked through the streets of Brooklyn and saw posters of the  missing, “altars” dedicated to heroes at the local police and fire stations, and Greg recounted story after story of people helping each other, bonding together;  yet, I could tell he was suffering from a malaise that seemed to hang over the entire psyche of the city, thick as the soot that rained down after the towers crumbled.

 

I wanted to write about these things, because, as I said on my Facebook status today, New York is the home of my bones. My friend Lew, a fellow New Yorker transplanted like me to western Massachusetts, corroborated that feeling with the words “deep home.” If the lessons of the decade have taught us anything, it is that need to find depth in a culture that shuns it. And in that depth we need to find home, the home of humanity, of bonding together. It’s why I write and read fiction. I’m searching for depth, for the connections that bind us together, rather than the dichotomies that force us apart.

 

 

  

After the rush of finishing a first draft, it’s so tempting to rush back in and tie up the loose threads, but I’ve learned from experience that I have to let things simmer. What does this mean for me? No writing!

At least, no writing on the WIP for at least a week—two or three is probably better, in order to really get some distance to see both the flaws in what I currently have and the opportunities to make it better. Sometimes this is a welcome relief, as pulling the book in first draft stage feels about as satisfying as pulling out my own teeth. But this book seemed to just fly. Not that it was effortless, but I found that when I could get into the characters’ heads, it felt almost like channeling.

 

All the more reason to wait—to bring my reasoned, critical voice **after** the elation has subsided, to transform that giddy, falling-in-love feeling into a more mature long-lasting love, which is what I need for my long-term relationship with the book, and what the book needs to develop a long-term relationship with its readers.

 

But, I am impatient and will need to distract myself with other tasks—hopefully more productive than my latest time wasting addiction—4 X 4 Sudoku. At least it’s another beautiful day in Massachusetts, a day for harvesting and bicycling, and a couple more marketing tasks, and who knows, maybe I’ll even get back into blogging!

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I don't exactly have first draft blues, but I do have first draft purples. What does this mean? It means I can keep slogging, even though I can't seem to do what my critique group is telling me to do--give one of my two main characters a more distinct voice that conveys her quirkiness. I want to just insist that my critique group is wrong. I hear the nuances in my character's voice. I know where she comes from. But if they don't get it, that means that readers won't get it either. It's still in the shadow stage, and I need to sharpen those edges. I'm beginning to see a few glimmers of them in the last couple of days--it gives me the kind of hope I feel this time of the year where time is more expansive and the sun shines late into the evening.

I feel a bit as if I should come up with a host of “dog-ate-my-homework” excuses around not blogging for four months. Though all I’m going to offer is that I’d rather be writing and blogging, and time being what it has been with my teaching job at the university this semester, it’s been all I can do to keep working on my fiction.

 

Still, I’d love to hear from others on what you get out of blogging. I’ve been advised that it’s one of those necessary activities authors need to do to fulfill the requirements of that nasty “M” word—Marketing. I’m married to someone who does marketing for a living. He likes to blog. It gives him a forum to share his political views and promote his thinking about business and ethics and how it relates to his vision for a better world.

 

I think that as a fiction writer, my vision is more metaphorical, or, at least, I’m more comfortable expressing it that way.  I am one of those writers who don’t keep a journal—oh, occasionally I scribble some words to work out a feeling, or explore an issue through poetry, but I have no great need to create a chronicle of my mundane thoughts and activities. And not surprisingly, when we travel, it is my husband who takes all the pictures. I’m happy to have them, but don’t feel the need for something that tangible, preferring instead to remember the fragments as they reappear in my brain from time to time, often transformed into something I can use in my fiction.

 

However, one of the things I have liked about blogging is the community—the people I’ve met through LJ and Facebook, MyNESCBWI and other sites. And I’ve missed that, so rather than kvetching, I’m going to try blogging one more time. And I’d like to intersperse my own musings with interviews of other YA and middle grade authors, particularly if you have a book coming out—so please do contact me. 

So many lovely things about the KidsHeartAuthors day:

First, there was the warm welcome from Rebecca, the children's book manager at the Odyssey Bookshop. Second, I got to hang out with a wealth of friendly, talented and interesting authors. I met author/illustrator Diane de Groat for the first time. I’ve admired her work for years, since first reading Lois Lowry’s Anastasia and Sam books to my kids when they were little. I also enjoyed meeting and chatting with Crissa-Jean Chappell, who made the trip all the way from Miami, combining an author event with the opportunity to visit her extended family in New England. Then there was Rich Michelson, whose warmth, generosity, and wit have always impressed me, and who connects me back to my New York Jewish roots whenever I hear him speak. And finally, I got to spend time with my dear friend, Jeannine Atkins, member of my writing group extraordinaire, without whose eighteen years of gentle but on-the-mark criticism, I would have never found myself at this place at this time.

 

At ten o’clock, as we were happily ensconced at the signing table—in alphabetical order, nonetheless, the children began to come in. Not a mob, but a good handful. But they were young. Really young. Pre-schoolers, mostly. Maybe a few in the K-2 range.  Great for Diane deGroat, whose Valentine’s Day book, Roses are Pink, Your Feet Really Stink was the perfect match for the day and the audience. Jeannine read next from her award-winning  picture book, Aani and the Tree Huggers about a community in India who saves the trees in their village from developers. It’s a wonderful book to inspire budding environmentalists—get them while they’re young. Much as I loved the event and loved the Odyssey, at this point, I did begin to wonder what I could offer these children who had trekked out in the cold. Playing Dad’s Song the “younger” of my two books, is really for ages eight and up, ten being about right. But serendipitously, my 16-year old, Raf, just happened to be home that Saturday—he’s usually taking music classes at New England Conservatory, and even more miraculously, happened to be awake. A quick call on my cell phone, and he was there, pulling off a short performance scene in my book, where my protagonist, Gus, plays the oboe with a blanket over his head because he’s too scared to speak in front of the class. By this time, the crowd had dwindled to just a few kids, but quality made up for quantity, as I (really Raf) had them entranced as he played the oboe, Jeannine’s sari, substituting as a blanket.

We wrapped up the event with Rich entertaining us with a delightful set of poems from Animals Anonymous, set to music composed and performed by his daughter, Marissa. Rich recently won the Sidney Taylor Gold Medal for As Good As Anybody: Martin Luther King and Abraham Joshua Heschel’s Amazing March Toward Freedom. Wow! Crissa, whose book Total Constant Order was aimed at even older kids, chose not to read, but I bought a copy of her book for Raf who’s already reading it and says it’s awesome. He’s supposed to be reading The Dispossessed  for school this week, but oh well.

I'm delighted to be participating in Kids Heart Authors. On Saturday, from 10-12 (Valentine's Day) I'll be at the Odyssey Bookshop in South Hadley, MA along with Rich Michelson, Jeannine Atkins, Crissa-Jean Chapell, Ellen Wittlinger, and Diane deGroat. Mitali Perkins has done a great job organizing over 150 authors and illustrators to appear at independent bookstores throughout New England. You can get more information at www.kidsheartauthors.com. and find events in your area. Please spread the word--especially if you are in western Massachusetts :). It will be a fun day of readings and book signings--great for people of all ages.

We have a tradition on Chanukah to put menorahs in windows on all sides of the house, and then get out and walk around the house, singing and looking at the lights from outside. Since we started doing this, around eight years ago, we have gone out in all types of weather--knee-deep snow, sheets of ice (a bit of a challenge since there's a hill involved), mud, rain, sleet, blizzards, and clear starry nights. But it is never disappointing, especially with my kids' exuberant energy; their enthusiasm rears at the bit, even though they've reached the attitude-driven teen and post-teen years. And at least that means they're old enough to make the latkes, and I don't have to, any more.

It's been fun having both kids home for the five nights of Chanukah so far, though today they took off for New York. So it will be just my husband me trouncing around the house in a little while. I wonder if it will feel silly, as I don't think we've ever done it without at least our son being there. Our daughter has missed a bunch of Chanukahs, since the holiday's been earlier the last two years and she was in college, though last year we Skyped her so she could participate virtually. Amazing--the power of technology.

A Chanukah tradition we started this year each night as we opened our presents, was Tzedakah, which means giving to charity. Each night we pick an organization to give money to, and we all contribute. So far, we've picked refugee relief in Darfur, Heifer International, a local shelter, an organization where Veterans go into schools to talk about the horrors of war, and Neve Shalom, an organization that brings Jewish and Arab kids and teenagers together for peace programs. We'll pick the other three when the kids get back on Monday. It will be the end of Chanukah, but there will probably also be a stray present or two to open. I'm delighted with my lined mittens and silk underwear and warm socks--as well as opportunities to connect back with my own teenage years with a DVD of Get Smart and a CD of Cat Stevens--now Yusuf. I wonder if they'll pack the same umph. I wonder what tradition-laden things my kids will want to remember when they're my age. I'm hoping that at least one night per year, they'll circle the house with us, so we can all look at the light.

Happy holidays, everyone!

Like most people, I have a love/hate relationship with the snow, yet I am grateful for the reflected light, especially in these dark pre-solstice dates. I am loving the view from my window, the remnants of the storm, the snowflakes that now look like harmless loafers without purpose, falling on my neighbor's white New England farmhouse. It continues to snow without accumulation, and I feel like these loafer snowflakes--continuing to write without really producing much to talk about or be proud of.

With snow, however, comes ice. Glossy, crisp, and flat. I like to think of ice as the stuff bad writing is made of, though who am I to decide what writing is good and what is bad.?I will therefore revise that statement. I like to think of ice as the stuff my bad writing is made of, a substance intensely beautiful but with no permanence. A substance that depends on surfaces. I have been struggling with this surface idea of writing, struggling with plummeting depths, worried that the constant call of my life's other surfaces, the teacher, mom, house caretaker surfaces will make it impossible to get through that ice.

So, I am going to go back to journaling, to sitting quietly, to worrying less about projects and more about process. I am going to be a loafer snowflake for a while, and I am going to relegate my "ice-life" to afternoons and evenings, claiming the mornings to take that brave plunge into the depths of white out. I am hoping that something will germinate out of this process, though the scariest thing is that it may not. Still, if I learn a tiny bit of patience, it will be well worth it.

Okay, here are my ten questions. I'll tag anyone who hasn't done this yet.

1.    How old were you when the craft of writing called you to perform?
Probably around 8—when I realized it was unlikely I was ever going to be an actress in a Broadway musical, which was my first ambition.

2. What's your favorite writing outfit?
I’ll wear anything, but the more comfy the better. Lately I’ve been enjoying my sweatpants and my gray hoodie.

3. What computer program do you use for your writing?
Microsoft Word

4. What's the name of your most difficult character to write?
All of them are difficult until I get to know them.

5. When is your favorite time of day to write?
In the morning, but not too early, since I’m not an early riser. Usually around 9 until around eleven or noon, before my brain clogs with the detritus of the rest of the day.

6. What's your favorite genre?
Realistic contemporary or historical fiction for children and/or adults with strong characters and which also tackles societal issues.

7. What writers have inspired you the most in your career and why?
My fabulous writing group for the past 18 years—Jeannine Atkins, Lisa Kleinholz, and Bruce Carson. Also my former teacher/mentor, Pat Schneider of Amherst Writers & Artists.

8. Do you think you're smarter than a fifth grader?
That seems like a loaded question. I believe I have more adult wisdom, but probably lack some of the spark of the young and curious.

9. What's your favorite thing to do when you're stuck on a scene?
Walk my dog in the woods, get another cup of tea, or lie on my bed and write a lot of “what if” notes.

10. If you could give one piece of advice to your fellow writers, what would it be?
Believe in yourself and hold true to the vision of what you want your work to be, but at the same time, be willing to let go of an attachment to anything that doesn’t work, no matter how much you love it.

One of the skeletons in my closet is my extreme lack of organization of anything tangible. I'm fine with ideas, but give me one more physical thing to find a place for and I melt down. Paper is the worst, and the older I get, the more it seems, I have. It shouldn't be so difficult to put things in file folders neatly labeled by category. I get a bit flummoxed, however, when it comes to deciding how to categorize things, or when I keep making the same lists over and over--places to submit my books, places to contact about promoting my published books, press clippings, reviews, old rejection letters. In the best of all possible scenarios, they just might be in the folders or boxes I've designated, if I have a clue about where to find those. In the worst case, they're stacked randomly on the "Shelves from Hell. " And this doesn't even compare in size to the volumes of manuscripts: novels, short stories, plays, poems, journal entries, and countless snippets of something or nothing I've generated in the last twenty plus years (scribbled down to "work on later") , also randomly arranged, all 26 drafts of them, in whatever space might have been available at the time.  

Yesterday, when I sat down determined to tackle a new round of submissions, I melted. I couldn't find the lists of top people to send to, which I'd researched at least three times. So today, a day off, I decided that if I accomplished one thing, I was going to go through every sheet of paper in my office and reorganize my entire filing system. I made sure to start this project early in the morning, before I got distracted and then told myself I was too tired. And I made sure to approach it with a good attitude by holding steadfast to a vision of bare space. Of course, the mid-process was worse than the beginning. Stacks scattered all over the floor, and the dog snoozing in the middle of them (butt on contracts, head on marketing ideas). But by 4 pm, I had really done it!

Two wonderful things: I got rid of A LOT of paper I didn't need--filled a recycling bucket, in fact. As a Buddhist living among packrats--this shedding felt great. As a matter of fact, whenever I felt stuck, all I had to do was take a pile of trash downstairs and then admire the bare spot on the floor where it had once been. And even better, I came across all those wonderful old treasures--reviews, letters from children, even the rejection letters made me feel good; so many of them said nice things about my writing, and how they'd like to see more work. So now, I have an even longer list of people to try--and I did find my old list, too--all five copies of it.