Kate DiCamillo's Blog, page 40

The Polish poet Wislawa Symboska died last week. Adam Gopnik, writing on The Ne...

The Polish poet Wislawa Symboska died last week. Adam Gopnik, writing on The New Yorker website quoted from Symboska's Nobel Prize acceptance speech: ". . . in the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it. Not a single day and not a single night after it. And above all, not a single existence, not anyone's existence in this world."
I've got those words taped to my desk now; I want to be reminded that ...

Last week (when I was feeling puny) I received a letter from fourth graders at H...

Last week (when I was feeling puny) I received a letter from fourth graders at Hillside Elementary in Hasting-on-Hudson, New York. The letter is wonderful and funny ("We think your life is interesting. We like how you say, 'I can't write' and then go into your office and write!"). The kids also sent a poster constructed of words they love—dingy, spring, sing, peep, drop, shrimp—written on the backs of tickets. Each word on the poster seems like a gift, a promise, a beginning; and every ti...

Here is a picture of Henry the day after he got two teeth pulled, when he was st...

Here is a picture of Henry the day after he got two teeth pulled, when he was still feeling a bit puny. "Puny" is a word that my mother used to describe general under-the-weather-ness. The American Heritage doesn't really condone this usage. It defines puny as "Of inferior size, strength, or significance: weak."
But when my mother asked me if I was "feeling puny," I knew what she meant.
She was inquiring after my body and/or my soul.
Henry is feeling better.
As for me, I feel the tinies...

A friend of mine is teaching herself how to paint; she sent me a picture of what...

A friend of mine is teaching herself how to paint; she sent me a picture of what she is working on.
I said: "It's beautiful."
She said: "It's nowhere near being done. I keep having to talk myself into taking the brave strokes."
In the dark of early morning, when I sit down to write, I hear her words.
I think: go ahead, take a chance, make a mess, make one brave stroke.
Those words help me. Maybe they will help you, too.

In the back of my working notebook, I keep a list of words that hum for me, word...

In the back of my working notebook, I keep a list of words that hum for me, words that I feel might turn into stories someday. One of those words is portmanteau. I have transferred this word from notebook to notebook to notebook. It continues to hum for me; but still, no story. Today, I was looking through the dictionary for something else, and there was my old friend "portmanteau." Directly below it, was this entry: "portmanteau word" a word that is formed by merging the sound and meaning...

I've always been confused by when to use "was" as opposed to "were." In fact, I...

I've always been confused by when to use "was" as opposed to "were." In fact, I have received several (deeply confusing) letters from readers about how I have misused "was" and "were." Imagine my delight, then, when I came upon this exchange between a mother and a child in Edith Pearlman's Binocular Vision:

"I wish Milo was my aunt."
"Were."
"Were. Why?"
"Condition contrary to fact."

I get it! I finally get it!
Were is for wishes.
Was is for how it is.
And stories are a way of turni...

On a signboard in front of the Mel-O-Glaze donut shop: "If you want sweet, give...

On a signboard in front of the Mel-O-Glaze donut shop: "If you want sweet, give sweet."
I love these words. I have repeated them over and over . . . as an admonishment, a reminder, a truth. I have said the words at the grocery store, in traffic, at the post office. I have spoken the words to the bare-limbed trees, the frozen lake, my own stubborn heart.
I have said the words so often and so passionately, that I can feel, finally, some small sweetness unfurling inside of me.

I spent the weekend in a little hermitage with a woodstove. It was very cold; a...

I spent the weekend in a little hermitage with a woodstove. It was very cold; and at one point, I texted a friend and said: I am having a very hard time working this woodstove. And she, bless her, texted back these words: "You put the big log in the back, with the smaller sticks and kindling in front and newspapers stuffed in between. Once the big log is lit, you're in business."
These turned out to be very good instructions. I stayed warm all weekend. And I thought, more than once, that ...

My friend across the street is a writer. Like me, she gets up early. Like me,...

My friend across the street is a writer. Like me, she gets up early. Like me, she turns on a light when she sits down to write. Sometimes, she beats me out of bed. Sometimes, I beat her. But in the darkness of early morning, we both get up and look for the light of the other person.
There is something indescribably comforting about this: it is like sailing on a dark ocean and spying another ship. Your heart leaps. You are not alone in this deep and mysterious sea of a story. Someone...

From the Candlewick team: Because of Winn-Dixie is one of the thirty World Book...

From the Candlewick team: Because of Winn-Dixie is one of the thirty World Book Night titles! Sign up today to give away free copies in your community!


The Books 2012
These are the 30 book picks for World Book Night on April 23, 2012. Help spread the love of reading by choosing 1 of these 30 books to give out in your community on that date. Go to , event, bago...