Sharon Creech's Blog, page 32

Bigga Moon

It's nine p.m. on this Friday evening in North Carolina, and that moon at perigee is spec-tac-u-lar. Are you gazing at it, too?

This may not be the best or clearest photo, but I like the fuzzed light--this reminds me of paintings by . . .by. . .well, the name escapes me. Perhaps you know?

Revision Done (Maybe)

This is the latest revision (post editorial comments), ready to go back to my editor. Many pages have small changes; the yellow pages are new scenes.  Most of the changes came in the second half of the book, tweaking characters and plot points, uncovering new connections. Revisions could go on endlessly--no matter how many times you read something, you can always find something to tweak, but at some point you have to let go of it.

On Sunday, I loved it. On Monday, I hated it. On Tuesday, I kissed it.

And now, a reward--off to empty my brain:

Basketball Poets

Today I made my annual visit to the Basketball Poets of Supply, NC. These are student basketball players who write poetry--and poets who play basketball. This is about my seventh visit to the Bball Poets and their teacher/coach and surfing queen, Marty Mentzer, a remarkable woman with contagious energy, enthusiasm and optimism.

The group changes from year to year, but they always entertain me by reading their own poetry--and that's a very nice change for me--to be able to listen instead of being 'on' for an hour.

Comfort Dolls

I first heard about making comfort dolls–to go to African AIDS orphans–from writer and friend Karen Hesse.  Although I'm not a skilled knitter, I can follow this pattern with ease; above is part of my bundle which I'll send off soon.

They are soft and squishy, between 4-6 inches tall, easily held in the hand.  More information and pattern at:
http://www.squidoo.com/african-knit-dolls
and
http://creativestitchonline.com/pattern.html

If you're interested, you might also want to google 'comfort dolls' and/or check locally. Some community organizations and churches collect the dolls to send on in bundles, and some focus on sending to other nations, especially post-disaster.

One unexpected by-product of making these dolls is seeing that each one takes on its own character; no two come out exactly alike. I like that.

Climbing Tree

I love this tree with its smooth, mottled 'skin.' When I was young I would have been up in this tree in a minute--it begs for a child to roost in it. Now it's my grandchildren and my characters who climb trees.

This one is a crape myrtle--or so we've been told. We've never been here when it blooms–we're usually up north then, where the climbing trees are the maples.

And where you are: any climbing trees?  And did you climb when you were young (or old)?

Looka, Looka

Looka, looka:  trees are budding:  spring! Always astounding. So much renewal and energy and force–especially welcome to my northern friends this year, I think. This is in NC, but soon it will creep northward . . .

And speaking of creeping and renewal: While I'm wrapping up final revisions on one book, buds for a new one are preparing to emerge. I've learned to trust this process. Yesterday, I woke with the opening to the next story, the first paragraph intact, like a flower opened overnight:


There is a larger lesson here, one not so mushy, but the words today are still stuck in the muck. Alas.

Nibbles

Writer fuel, carefully spaced:  dark chocolate . . . cinnamon candy. . .

Also carefully spaced:  walnuts, almonds, and clementines . . .


Can't work without 'em . . .

You?

'Lost' Dreams

When I'm in the middle of a near-final manuscript revision, I often have 'lost' dreams: either I am lost in a house or a city, or my purse or wallet is lost.  I either can't find my way out (of a house or city) or I can't prove who I am (purse/wallet = have proof of identity).


In the houses, rooms lead to other rooms, hallways wrap around in a maze, I can't get back to where I started, and I don't know how to exit.  This seems a pretty transparent dream of where my mind is in the revision process!

The lost wallet and purse dreams are somehow tied up with my identity as a writer vs. my 'other' lives as wife, mother, friend, sister, etc. Who am I? How am I going to 'prove' it?

I know, though, that I will eventually find my way through the manuscript and my various selves will not be lobbying for attention . . . and the 'lost' dreams will subside.

Revising Dresses

Often when I'm either writing or revising a book, I dream of dresses. In the dream, I'll be looking for 'the right dress' and I'll discover–around a corner or in a back room–a cache of beautiful dresses in rich, rare fabrics and unusual design–nothing outlandish but exactly what I am looking for: something classic and yet different from all the other many look-alike dresses I've encountered.

I used to awake from these dreams wishing I could create dresses like those, and one day I realized I had already created the dresses, in the dream(s). Ta da!


I have come to recognize that these dreams are transparent reflections of my dreams for the book: I'm trying to write something beautiful, something classic and yet different from all the other books out there. Something that fits me.


The above sketch, which doesn't do justice to the dresses I 'saw,' is from a dream two nights ago. In the dream, I 'found' them in a back room of a small boutique. They were of the softest, combed cotton, summery and light. The front had two longer panels on the sides and a shorter panel in the front. There were two dresses: one in faded denim blue with a narrow khaki stripe, and the other in cream with tiny brown flowers sprinkled across the field of cream.

Try as I might, the sketches never do justice to the visions in the dreams, just as perhaps my books never do justice to the visions I have of them in my head.

But if I keep track of all these dresses, maybe one day I'll have enough for a collection! Ho!

Beach Revisions

Time: noon today.  Place: Oak Island, NC.  Temperature: 70.  Activity: Revising.

Today I was working on revisions.  At the beach.  Truly.  Received long, eloquent editorial letter yesterday, with astute observations and questions on the work-in-progress.  The questions are complicated and not easy to resolve, but if resolved, they will make the book stronger. And so today, with the questions in mind, I walked the beach. And sat. And walked. And sat. And thought.

The value of thinking/gazing time is enormous. It's an essential part of writing, and it is why many writers take on that glazed, daft look: they are off in the world of the book, resolving problems, even when they are not at the computer/typewriter/paper--maybe especially when they are not at the computer/typewriter/paper.

These are the times when I put the phone in the fridge, the milk in the oven, keys in the freezer. It is hard to live in two worlds at once, mm?