Zetta Elliott's Blog, page 12

(the) rest

I’m taking it easy this morning after too many days obsessing over my endless To Do list. Yesterday I emptied the Evanston apartment and Cozbi helped me bring the last bags and boxes of “stuff” into the city—all the files I didn’t have energy to sift through, all the odd-shaped items I couldn’t figure out how to pack on Sunday. My arms and legs ache from hauling bits of my life up and down three flights of stairs for the past week, but I have no regrets about this top-floor unit. The pink is wearing on me; even with my belongings arranged to resemble livable rooms, the color just seems to clash with everything. But I have plants soaking up the sunlight and I put some suet out on the back deck after hearing birds chattering this morning. The crane lifting materials up to the roof of the adjacent block has stopped and it’s quiet. A little overcast. Yesterday I had time for a quick lunch before the cable and internet guys showed up; they took less than thirty minutes to get my service up and running and so yesterday I treated myself to a few hours of HGTV and this morning I’m watching my favorite British crime dramas. And just signed up for yet another streaming service (Sundance Now) so I can watch A Discovery of Witches. I’m going to try to relax for the rest of the day, but it’s hard. Every room I walk into needs something fixed or cleaned or rearranged. I’m about to measure the kitchen so I can see what Ikea’s designers recommend. I’m doing an in-person consultation with another design studio early Saturday morning. I’ve ordered two ceiling fans and five light fixtures from Lowe’s because the electrician is coming Monday and he thinks he can get everything rewired and installed in one day. I got a surprise royalty payment this week and will use that to at least start the kitchen. It’s appalling and even though I’m not much of a cook, I can’t imagine living with that mess for weeks and weeks. The rest of the rooms can’t be painted until they’ve been plastered and the layers of old, flaking paint have been stripped off the baseboards and door frames. So things will be pink for a while longer. But the window repair person comes tomorrow and so far I’ve had pretty good luck with contractors. The locksmith (yelp!), cleaner (Craigslist), and junk removers (yelp!) were great, the electrician actually lowered his quote and is bringing another contractor with him on Monday so I can get a second quote on plastering these walls. The contractor my friend recommended could do everything but I think it makes sense to have a few people doing different jobs all at once. If installing a new kitchen isn’t too expensive, then I’ll make it my priority and the bathrooms can wait till the end of the year. So many upsetting things happened this past week—closing was a nightmare and so was moving day—but they’re not worth writing about. Right now I just feel blessed to have this home and will try to spend this day indoors, on the couch, in front of the TV, with only occasional attention paid to my To Do list. There’s time for everything—work and rest, fruit and cake, daydreaming and scheming. Tomorrow the new month begins and I will get back to work on the novel. Till then, it’s TV time for TV!

take comfort

This past week was pretty stressful and I ate my way through the drama. I also kept up my daily exercise routine so didn’t do too much damage but I know now that buying property isn’t for the faint of heart. I’m so grateful for my “team”! Seeing bad behavior from another attorney and agent makes me appreciate the professionalism of the folks who represent me. It took a real group effort to get us over the finish line, but I found out yesterday that we finally got the title and can proceed to closing next week. Not on Monday as was scheduled, but on Thursday. That messes up my plan to hire cleaners, an electrician, and painter to fix up the place before I move in, but it’s okay. Everything will get done in time. I’m more than half packed here in Evanston and so don’t have to rush or stress when the time comes. And I’m purging again…that’s got to be the only upside to moving three times in three years. Two bags of clothes to the thrift store, two bags of books to the donation bin outside the public library. I ordered a new bed this morning, which means I’ll be leaving my four-poster bed behind. Trying to find a local church or nonprofit that picks up furniture donations but it’s hard; COVID makes folks unwilling to come upstairs and I can’t get things down to the street on my own. But I’ll figure it out! I’ve got paint colors picked out. Yesterday I was ready to walk away from the sale unless our terms were met but it would have hurt to lose this condo. I can see myself in that old building, or reading beneath the mature trees in the private garden, or running by the lake, which is nearby. On Thursday Cozbi and I skipped our usual two-hour walk in favor of breakfast at her place (which looks like a Parisian salon!); she effortlessly whipped up a delicious meal that included buttermilk biscuits and when I blabbed on and on and lost track of the time, she drove me back home in time for my noon Zoom—but not before handing me ALL of the remaining biscuits. I’ve been trying to use up everything in the fridge and now I can say the jar of lemon curd is GONE. My meeting was with my theater team and everyone had great suggestions on ways to move our play forward. I’ve tried unsuccessfully to connect with theater folks in Chicago but decided to try the university one more time—and got an instant reply from a Black woman who isn’t even working there anymore; she suggested two other sisters and within minutes, one reached out to invite me to apply to her theater’s upcoming play competition. After so much silence it was heartening to get such an enthusiastic welcome. They’re building a performance space just south of Hyde Park so I could potentially walk to work…getting ahead of myself but excited about the possibilities. I turned in the final round of edits for The Witch’s Apprentice yesterday and found a way to donate copies of Milo’s Museum to kids in York, PA. The school board there has banned a resource list designed to help educators address race and equity in the classroom. I haven’t missed social media much but I was glad my friend Jung tagged me because I otherwise wouldn’t even have known what was going on. If you want to see the list, you can find it here. And a local nonprofit is accepting donations if you want to buy some books on the list and send them to York: Haybrook Little Free Library, 131 Haybrook Drive, York, PA 17406. Students are also fighting the ban and have created a petition, which you can sign here.

I haven’t met my daily word quota for The Enchanted Bridge this week so will stay home this weekend and try to write. If I start October with 30K words written, I’ll be able to finish by the time my deadline rolls around on the 15th. Then I can finish my Amish farm novel and THEN I can turn my attention back to writing plays. The Global Read Aloud starts next month; it’s reassuring to know that educators around the world are committed to helping their students connect with other young readers through inclusive kid lit. Banning books hurts kids but it also just doesn’t work…we live in a global society. It’s our job to prepare kids to become global citizens who can recognize and respect different points of view. Unless you actually want your kids to be isolated and ignorant, which seems to be the goal of this school board…so much work to do.

literary legacy

Every reader can name a book that made a lasting impression on their young mind, and every student can name an educator who made learning a special experience. Friday was a terrible day; conflict popped up again and again, which left me feeling combative and unable to sleep. When I finally got up the next day, I learned that my favorite teacher from high school had passed away. These days, grief isn’t automatic. Sometimes death is an end to suffering and so it’s welcome, and I don’t want anyone I love to suffer any longer than necessary. I hadn’t seen Nancy in some time but I talk and write about her whenever someone asks how I became a writer…how did I find the confidence? when did I decide that was my calling? who gave me permission to live that dream? Nancy Vichert did. I think her English class in the 9th grade was the first time I was ever required to keep a journal; it was the first time I wrote regularly and openly about my complicated home life, and it meant a lot to see her tiny black checkmarks in the margin. Sometimes she would add a brief comment or question, and at least once she kept me after class to make sure I was okay. I wasn’t used to that kind of concern, coming from a family with a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy, and it meant a lot. My parents tended to withhold praise so I turned to teachers when I needed validation—and they were always there to support and encourage me. Educators do a lot more than teach; they’re social workers and therapists and surrogate parents. I’ve been fortunate to have had so many “other mothers” in my life. One father was enough but I definitely look to older women for advice and care. Nancy told me I had talent; she made me feel like my voice, my experiences, and my ideas mattered. I wrote in class with the goal of impressing Nancy because her opinion meant a lot to me. She critiqued my work to make it stronger, never to shame me. I was lucky to have Nancy for two of my five years in high school, and I felt blessed to continue our relationship long after graduation. We both loved dessert and enjoyed sharing a meal while looking out over Frenchman’s Bay in Pickering. Nancy shared a brief memoir she wrote about her time in Africa and I hope to one day complete the play it inspired. What a gift she was—to me, her family, friends, and all her other students. I hope I can make as lasting an impression on the young people in my orbit…

making maps

As I child I used to love books that had a map printed on the opening pages. I don’t write high fantasy and generally think my stories are easy to follow, but things are getting a bit more complicated in Book #4 and Jax needs to find a missing map in order to save his grandfather. He has to settle for a sketch of the map made by Professor L. Roy Jenkins and after describing it with words, I decided to draw the map myself. I tell kids that writing for me is 70% dreaming and that is basically what my weekend has looked like: lots of lolling about, which then leads to spurts of writing. My agent suggested I reactivate my Pinterest account so I also spent a bit of time gathering home decor ideas…Friday was my third time in the Hyde Park condo and each time I’m there, I see the place differently. Or I see myself living there in a different way. The inspection didn’t take too long and I should get the report tomorrow; the inspector said he didn’t find any major problems but there’s definitely work to be done. I looked up electricians in the neighborhood because some rooms have original wiring from the 1920s and I’d rather have it ripped out and replaced than have new wiring added externally. I don’t want a dishwasher but am keeping in mind as I design my “dream kitchen” that the next homeowner might want to add one. The dining room has wood paneling and I’ve decided that will be my long wished for black room; it makes sense then to have the cabinets in the adjacent kitchen be black as well. I turned in SO many documents last week and was very grateful for my mortgage broker’s assistance and endless lists; she anticipated what the underwriter would ask for and so I was ready when the requests came in (starting at 8am). Turns out a freelance writer isn’t the ideal candidate for a mortgage—at least it’s harder for us to prove steady income. So even though I earn more now than I ever did as a professor, I’m scrutinized more closely because I have multiple income streams instead of a single employer who pays me once a month. But we cleared that hurdle so now it’s just the appraisal left and negotiating repairs with the seller. This will be my fourth move in as many years and I really hope I can stay put for a while. On Friday I reached Hyde Park early and so decided to take a walk around the block. After just a couple of minutes, I heard someone call me by my full name and looked up to see my friend Ebony and her parents. They were returning from the lake and we walked and talked till it was time for the inspection to begin. That encounter felt magical to me and reminded me of how I felt when I first arrived in Brooklyn so many years ago…people would stop me to ask for directions, assuming I was a local and not a recent immigrant. Belonging is powerful. I wound up in Brooklyn because I saw a picture of young Black artists sitting on the stoop of a brownstone. I don’t have as clear an image of the life I want in Chicago but I’m letting myself dream…

here be dragons

It was once believed that early cartographers wrote “here be dragons” on unfamiliar areas of their maps (it only happened once, apparently). I’m in uncharted territory right now—my offer on the condo was accepted and we’re hoping to conduct the inspection later this week. I expect there will be some significant bumps in the road ahead; the seller’s bringing in a plumber to fix some valves and there are a couple of rooms with original wiring from the 1920s. But I just unsubscribed from one of several daily property listings and will delete the rest by the end of the month. I’ve found a credit union and hardware store not far from the new place; I picked out paint colors a few days ago…at this point, I’m daring to let myself do more than dream. I wanted to move to Hyde Park a year ago and hoped to buy my first home there. I have no regrets about my year renting in Evanston, but I’m glad I didn’t relinquish that original plan, didn’t let myself get too comfortable and ready to settle. I’ve also started reaching out to theater people in Chicago. It’s humbling having to start over and build a new community from scratch, but it’s also exciting. I’m in discovery mode and on Saturday took a public art tour that started at the Chicago Cultural Center. The first sculpture was by Richard Hunt and I was able to pull up his Ida B. Wells sculpture to share with the two friendly New Yorkers on the tour. The next stop was a beautiful mural by another famous local artist Kerry James Marshall, which pays tribute to important Chicago women. We went into Millennium Park to see a few more pieces and when the tour was over, I crossed the bridge that leads to the roof of the nearby Art Institute. More sculptures by Richard Hunt were on display there and I saw dragons in each one! I’ve only finished three chapters of the fourth dragon book but I have no appointments this week and hope to make up for lost time. It was strange to be in Millennium Park with the usual crowds when I had the place to myself last fall. But it was also reassuring to see children playing in Crown Fountain and seagulls casually perched atop Cloud Gate. I learned on the tour that Chicago’s motto is urbs in horto or “city in a garden.” It isn’t green everywhere and communities of color pay a high price for the inequitable distribution of trees across the city. I’m grateful that my new neighborhood is close to the lake and several parks. I’ve reached out to some schools, libraries, and bookstores…if the sale falls through, at least I’ll have forged connections with folks on the South Side. For now, I’m going to think positive thoughts and keep my fingers crossed…

at home

Today I laughed so hard I cried and my throat is still sore after talking for hours at brunch with friends. I’m slowly building up my social stamina but it’s not easy getting used to being out in the world again. Earlier this week I was in Hyde Park and all of a sudden I had a slight panic attack; I’d made more effort than usual and was wearing a dress with heels when all of a sudden I felt extremely self-conscious (who are these people? why am I here?) I had planned to take the train back to Evanston but instead I called a Lyft and hurried home. I was back in that neighborhood a couple of days later because I’m thinking about buying a condo there. The second time around, I was fine—more comfortably dressed and happy to see so many people out and about, dining on the sidewalk as a jazz trumpeter played on the corner. Folks were friendly and said hello as I passed…and I realized I’ve really missed being part of the world. I love quiet and solitude but even this introvert has probably had enough to last me for quite a while. House-hunting isn’t exactly fun, but shifting from looking at online listings to in-person tours makes a big difference. I haven’t found anything that makes me want to drop everything and move, but I might put in an offer on one place that has “good bones.” I’ve always prided myself on my ability to beautify my homes—I can see potential even under layers of grime and (in this case) pink ceilings and walls. But after a year of living comfortably in my current rental, I don’t know that I’m ready to take on a total renovation. This fall I will finally have more time to myself—do I really want to spend it tearing out two bathrooms and installing a new kitchen? I tried to get a few quotes so I’ve already got contractors texting, phoning, and emailing me…but a lot of building materials are hard to come by right now and unlike on HGTV makeover shows, renovations can drag on for weeks. This is the biggest challenge for me coming out of the pandemic, I think. Knowing when to push myself out of my comfort zone and when to be a little more indulgent. House-hunting took up almost all my mental space this past week, which meant I lost momentum on my novel-in-progress. I did ask my editor about an extension but don’t want this particular project eating up my “free” fall months. Will try to be a bit more disciplined next week and maybe set aside the condo search for a little while. The market isn’t as frantic as it was even a month ago so I think it’s safe to take my time and enjoy what’s left of the summer. Lately I’ve been hearing Nat King Cole singing “Autumn Leaves”…a reminder that September will soon be here!

the moon

The moon is in Taurus right now. I only know that because I signed up for the Chani Nicholas astrology app and her weekly explanation of the planets and their transits has become an interesting way to think about my personal and professional growth. The moon in Taurus is apparently good for collaborators and this week Lyn and I revealed the cover for Moonwalking, which will be published in April. I didn’t get much writing done this week but Chani reminded me that “in a culture that pushes you to monetize every moment of your existence, rest is radical.” The Enchanted Bridge is due at the end of the summer and I did a little research last week but the outline isn’t done and that makes it hard to move forward. But I delivered a keynote for teachers on Monday and presented for my last school on Wednesday—there’s nothing on the calendar until December! So I feel like I finally have enough time…to rest, to dream, to write, to reflect. I talked to my cousin for two hours today and she shared an activity about values: list the five traits you value most in five people that you love. My list would include daring, loyalty, integrity, and humility. Curiosity also means a lot to me and I want to do more exploring in the coming months. Travel may not be possible but there are internal journeys I have yet to take. I tell students that a good story begins with “what if?” But sometimes it’s just as important to ask why…

quiet desperation

I watched a really good movie this week: Another Round. In US films, when men have a midlife crisis, they buy a flashy sports car and ditch their wife for a woman half her age. But this Danish film revealed the quiet desperation of middle-aged men who lack the skills they need to understand their own misery. So instead they embark on an experiment to see how much alcohol they need to consume daily in order to improve their personal and professional lives. Not a healthy or sustainable strategy but the main character does begin to reconnect with his family, his students, and his creative self. The film is meant to be funny at times but beneath it all, it’s really quite sad. Why couldn’t these four men bond and help one another without relying on alcohol? Why didn’t they consider therapy or just communicate with their wives? What did they teach the next generation of young men about confronting pain and fear? When I first began experiencing symptoms of depression, I didn’t tell anyone how I was feeling. So many things unraveled in my life when I was a teenager but I just swallowed the shame and kept going. That was my survival strategy: sleep a lot, do the bare minimum at work and at school, and make it to college. Then, I thought, everything would change for the better. It didn’t, of course, but at college I met a friend who wasn’t silent about the dysfunction in her own family. Lucy made me laugh out loud with her stories about “Cutesie Wootsie,” her frivolous stepmother, and soon we began swapping stories about how our fathers favored our obnoxious older sisters. Lucy took her own life a couple of years after graduation and for a long time I was angry; I blamed her family for causing her so much pain and not giving her the help she needed. I mourned the brilliance I saw in her that she couldn’t seem to see in herself. But I was also grateful for the way she modeled emotional honesty for me and by the time I reached NYC in the ’90s, I had at least some language with which to talk about my family. I found friends who were also grappling with their own difficult childhoods and we compared notes and shared resources. When you’re in your 20s, your childhood doesn’t feel that far away. I eventually found a wonderful therapist who listened as I laughed about my laissez-faire parents, and I tried to move on with my life. Now I’m nearly 50 and I realize that my childhood still doesn’t feel that distant; I’m still there, in a way, because I’m attached to that little girl and want to say all the things she wasn’t able to express at the time. I recently ordered a couple of books to help me with the healing process and have been quite energized the past couple of weeks. I started writing again and finished three new picture books. I got dumped by my film agent last week and decided to part ways with my literary agent this week. Now I’m thinking more deeply about the kind of career advice and support I need. Looking back at my childhood actually helps me understand my triggers and why I have a disproportionate response sometimes to criticism and rejection. I often tell kids during author visits that I write about 8-9 year-olds a lot because that was a pivotal year for me: I started a new school with almost no Black students or educators, despite having already skipped a grade I wasn’t placed in the gifted and talented program, and I had to fight every day for my teachers’ good opinion when it had been automatic at my previous school. Feeling invisible, underestimated, undervalued…knowing that those in charge may arbitrarily withhold things I need…I learned those lessons very early on. As a result I became braver, knowing I’d have to fight for what I felt I deserved. But these days, I’m tired of fighting. And, as I found out as a girl, being Black, female, and defiant comes with risks and penalties. On the one hand, I’m tired of finding myself in the same situation over and over again. My mantra is “I can walk away and be okay” because I’ve stayed in unhealthy relationships in the past just to avoid conflict or rejection or abandonment. But I’m grateful that I can recognize the patterns in my life now and confront them with less anger. Healing matters more than accountability sometimes. No apology can change what happened in the past, but it’s possible to do the work so you don’t hurt yourself or anyone else. We excavate so we can “build back better,” right? Tonight I watched a documentary on hummingbirds, which reminded me of my unfinished family memoir The Hummingbird’s Tongue. There are so many projects I’ve put off because I’ve focused on writing for kids. Maybe it’s time to serve my adult self instead of speaking to that little girl who didn’t have the stories and mirrors and support she needed so long ago…

out of words

I finished a new novel last week, which means I’ve spend the past few days floundering…I started a poem last night and pulled up a couple of unfinished picture books but can’t find my flow—yet. I really need to work on my tendency to use busyness as a way to avoid serious reflection—and ACTION. I recently watched a series about a family coming undone (US on Masterpiece) and realized two things: 1) I revisit my own childhood trauma often when I’m writing, and 2) being proficient/productive can lure you into complacency when it comes to personal growth. My mother had her first major stroke when I was a toddler; she had a second stroke when I was in high school and I still remember the terror of not knowing what was going to happen. The novel I just finished has a little girl struggling with her great-aunt’s recent stroke; at first Ruby finds reasons to avoid her aunt but eventually she needs Ida’s help and so learns to accept her aunt’s limitations. I wrote another stroke victim into The Phantom Unicorn but this time around I wanted to include Ida’s recovery process. At first Ruby was being raised by a single mother, just as I was, but then I changed it to a single father. Which made me wonder how often I have two-parent families in my books…my parents’ divorce was traumatic for me and shaped my understanding/practice of family. I always try to include a range of family configurations in my books because every child doesn’t come from a “nuclear family.” But I rarely depict the kind of ideal family I wish I’d had as a kid…why? I was invited to a friend’s home on Friday—she cooked and talked and shared her own family history. And I was fascinated by how close-knit her family is but also a little disturbed. It was clear that she had reproduced her family culture in her own home/life and it was all too clear (to me) that I’ve done the exact same thing. I *never* have people over for dinner. A tea party, maybe, but those are rare. I’m happy to go out to meet folks at a restaurant—I met up with some Chicago kid lit authors last week and thoroughly enjoyed the three hours we spent at the pub. On Saturday I had tea at a friend’s home and found it reassuring to hear her reflect on her parents (deceased) and the way their values continue to show up in her own life. I suspect most of us look back on our lives and search for signs that we’ve become our parents somehow. In Us, I started out feeling sorry for the clueless husband desperately trying to hold his family together. But he kept having flashbacks that revealed he wasn’t clueless at all—he just kept making choices that alienated and/or hurt his wife and son. We didn’t learn anything about his parents but we could see all the ways his anxious, fussy, routine-loving personality made his artistic wife and son uncomfortable. He was so busy counting his steps and trying to keep everyone on (his) schedule that he missed opportunities to be spontaneous and emotionally present. Having a routine helps me manage my anxiety and my endless lists keep me on task; the pandemic didn’t diminish my productivity at all since crisis seems to activate my imagination. But I don’t want to leave lockdown without learning the lessons COVID has tried to teach us. As an introvert, my homebody life wasn’t terribly disrupted and I had the privilege of working remotely. But now the world is opening up again…so how will my “new” life be different? I’m serious about slowing down, setting boundaries and saying “no” more often; I took on a dozen gigs this month but I won’t take on anything else for the summer or fall. I have to start The Enchanted Bridge next week and I’ve got a couple other novels to finish. Moonwalking, A Song for Juneteenth, and The Witch’s Apprentice (look at our gorgeous cover!) are still in production and I’m waiting on feedback from my sensitivity readers. I can manage all of that; I have no trouble staying busy. But I think I’ll revisit Chani Nicholas’s Year Ahead astrological reading this week. We’re halfway through 2021 and no one knows how the second half of the year will unfold. Another surge caused by another variant? Am I ready to get back on a plane? If we’re meant to “build back better,” how will I improve myself and my life? Time to upset my routine, I think, and consider how to create in real life—not just in fiction—the family/home life I always wanted but never had. We can’t change the past but the future is up for grabs…so REACH!

The Colored Girl’s Quest: Finding Mirrors in the Museum