Brigit Young's Blog, page 3

The Words I Needed Today

The news in the world today has me reeling, both on a micro and macro level. In this next book I'm writing, some rough memories of my youth are surfacing. I'm going to write through it. I will write through that lingering sadness and end up with a piece of work that conquers it, or at least accepts it. Thanks, Ijeoma Umebinyuo. 

Ten Photos That Tell the Story of WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

The protagonist of Worth a Thousand Words, 12-year-old Tillie Green, speaks in photographs. Below are ten images that address scenes from the novel in some way, or include imagery that inspired me in the writing of the piece.Once you've read the book, they'll all make perfect sense! For more, follow my WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS board on Pinterest.

Just Some Art

Much of Worth a Thousand Words considers the healing affects of art on the psyche. And as #inktober has taken over my Instagram page (to my delight), I've found myself looking back on old art work of my own and experimenting with new forms when the rare moment of non-writing/non-toddlering arises. Below are a few of my favorites over the years. They bring me back to times of physical pain, emotional challenges, and respites full of revery.I need to paint more. Draw more. It could do nothing but inform my writing with texture and spirit, even if each amateur piece wastes away in folders stuffed in drawers. In some ways, that's the best kind of art - a practice with no pressure, a playful experiment on an unassuming page.FlowerBillie in Charcoal Boy on the train Me, pregnant Purple womanTeenage girl with warm eyes Sly lady

Poem of the day/week/year/forever

My amazing friend and talented poet, Kelly Granito, posted this Margaret Atwood piece on social media today, and as I dive into my second book, its message of surrender feels so right.The MomentThe moment when, after many years  of hard work and a long voyage  you stand in the centre of your room,  house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,  knowing at last how you got there,  and say, I own this,  is the same moment when the trees unloose  their soft arms from around you,  the birds take back their language,  the cliffs fissure and collapse,  the air moves back from you like a wave  and you can't breathe.  No, they whisper. You own nothing.  You were a visitor, time after time  climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.  We never belonged to you.  You never found us.  It was always the other way round. -Margaret Atwood

Alice Brady, My Grandma, Storyteller Extraordinaire

My grandma, Alice Brady, passed away yesterday. She was by far the strongest person I've ever known. She survived poverty, domestic violence, and a literal tornado. She raised five kids and cleaned houses and worked her fingers to the bone on the family farm. But though her hardships and her resilience in the face of them are a part of her story, they in no way define it. My grandma was hysterically funny, often in a morbid way. She used to put odd names she found in the obituaries onto the return addresses of letters she sent. And she loved to laugh. When I was a kid I'd go to her trailer on weekends and perform endless, ridiculous cabarets for her, and when I sang "I'm Just a Girl Who Can't Say No" from Oklahoma! she'd laugh until tears streamed down her face. She was unfailingly thoughtful, always asking how I was doing and remembering the details in my life, even on the days she was in unbearable physical pain. She was feminine and saucy - a real flirt (her personal heart throb was Pavarotti, and she'd make you blush when she talked about him. And she always referred to my husband as "that handsome husband of yours.") She was an avid consumer of politics. If she'd been born in another time when her economic status and womanhood wouldn't have been the impossible barriers they were in her era, she says she would have gone into journalism. She was deeply empathetic and always considered how others would be hurt by any policy. Her heart and intellect were enormous. My grandma and I shared some of the most precious memories of my life. We scoured the bins at Good Will for the best deals, she taught me how to care for the dozens of cats she took in over the years, and she made me the most delicious pudding parfaits imaginable.She also taught me to love stories. She told me countless tales about growing up on the farm (her pet chickens, the mean roosters), and recounted family squabbles as if they were telenovelas or epic trilogies. I see a direct link between her storytelling and my eventual career as a writer. Listening to her spin a yarn was the best part of the weekend overnights we shared together. I can picture it perfectly even now: me, cuddled up in her arms at night, listening with rapt attention as she introduced the characters (often my aunts or grandpa), the conflict (usually an untamed creature or a financial worry) and the resolution. In the cultural tradition of the Irish, she had a flair for slight exaggeration as well as tangents of whimsy and philosophizing. Watching her take a bit of truth and dress it up as something more dramatic taught me a lot about watching the world around me, distilling what I see, and heightening it to create a lively, structured story. Further, beyond her own storytelling abilities, my grandma knew how to listen. Her curiosity was boundless, and she not only wanted to know all about my life, but she asked pointed questions about my friends' lives as well. She'd get personal details out of strangers, and remember tales that had been told to her by casual acquaintances long ago. As a writer, I try to emulate my grandma's skill for listening, for asking questions, and for letting people's answers touch my heart and stay there. In all these ways, she was probably my first real writing teacher, exemplifying how to live day-to-day in touch with the profundity and importance of stories. Alice Brady lived 90 years and filled them with grit, humor, sass and love. I'll miss her as long as I live.

Brooklyn! And a Finished Draft!

I'm officially a Brooklyn writer now.My first Friday here, I stumbled upon some astoundingly talented kids performing a dance at the local Rec center in honor of Cinco de Mayo. Check out those colors! That twirling!I nearly broke out into hives as I stood dumbfounded before a room of boxes.I began to set up my daughter's first room! The poor kid has been stuck sharing one with me and my husband up until now. (And yes, those are bats. She has excellent taste in favorite animals.)  And I spun around in the park after finishing my final draft of A Thousand Words before it goes into copy edits!

The Blogging Commences...

As my debut novel, A Thousand Words, nears completion, I'm finding myself a part of the middle grade fiction community. The middle grade world consists of a funny, warm, welcoming bunch of people. People with blogs... So here I am joining the party!I'm at a loss as to how to begin a blog for this site, so, since A Thousand Words strongly features photography, I thought I'd share a couple photos of the garden in which I wrote pieces of the book and did a large chunk of the editing. Gardens are hard to come by where I live in Midtown, Manhattan, so this place proved a true blessing.In one week my family and I move to Brooklyn, where I hope to find another little garden in which I can dive into Book #2.