Zetta Elliott's Blog, page 15

small things

Small things have brought me so much joy this week. I can usually tell when I’m having a disproportionate response to something—usually it’s rage and I’m able to rein myself in long enough to ask what’s at the core of my anger. But I’ve never really questioned why certain things make me so, so happy. I tried starting a poem this week but it’s not really going anywhere. I’m not sure I want to interrogate joy in this particular moment; I’m just happy it’s possible and available to me. This morning no dogs are barking and no leaf blowers are destroying the peace. The quiet of this neighborhood is astonishing and I plan to head out soon to explore the farmer’s market downtown. Find hot apple cider and write: that’s my goal for the day. I spent a good part of yesterday organizing The Witch’s Apprentice. It’s partly a way to ease myself into real writing and it also provides a road map; I now know where I’m going, and what research I have to do. I’ve almost filled out my cast of characters, though a few remain unnamed, but each day I hear their voices more clearly. I had three appointments at the clinic this week and it felt good to catch up on some of the things I postponed when the pandemic began. I was surprised to learn that I’m anemic, but my doctor prescribed iron pills so I won’t bother trying to add red meat to my diet. The vegan challenge lasts one more week; when it ends, I’ll add back salmon and tuna. The doctor felt diet alone couldn’t boost my levels so I’ll take the supplements and see how I feel. I actually nap less now than I used to but I do crash around 8pm in the evening. We’ll see if I have more energy in the coming weeks. Finding a kind, competent doctor makes a such a difference—and the clinic is within walking distance, they serve a diverse population, my test results were posted within 24 hours, and they offered alternative facilities in case the ones they prefer don’t accept my insurance. I left my appointment on Friday beaming and got to the garden in time to help out for an hour. Then I accidentally doused myself with the hose and so went home shivering but saw a bunny just a block from my building. On Tuesday the Super stopped by to show me where the laundry room is and gave me her own key when mine proved defective. That made me happy. But what pushed me over the edge was sitting for an hour in the clean, warm basement, reading my book as the shiny new machines ran through their cycles. I have two bouquets in my home because I kept shopping during the week even though the fridge was full. On Tuesday—strike day—I met a friend in the park (we now have a regular bench we’ve claimed as our own) and we talked for close to three hours. The sun was blazing so we stripped off our coats and debated the benefits and risks of making sovereignty a priority. Last week I made the mistake of putting my new book cover on social media; I asked, “Do you prefer Cover A or Cover B?” and immediately got people critiquing the font, the photo, and the overall design…for my artist friend, that kind of feedback is valuable. Not for me. If I ask, “Do you like this dress or this one?” and you tell me to lose ten pounds so I can wear pants instead, that’s not helpful to me. Maybe you’re right–maybe I *would* look better if I dressed a different way. But I already made my choice…so why did I seek validation? Sovereignty, to me, isn’t just about control—it’s about freedom. Because a free person would be satisfied with her own decisions and willing to live with the consequences. But someone who depends on the opinions of others isn’t free. When a woman rejects others’ opinions, then she’s considered arrogant. Not independent. Not confident. Not free…

The leaves are falling and so is the temperature…it’s nice to wake up to an apartment made cozy but warm radiators. All of this feels like abundance. Canadian Thanksgiving is coming up and I imagine COVID will change how people celebrate the holiday. But nothing can stop us from practicing gratitude every day. My To Do list is long but the list of things I’m grateful for is longer…

lull

I’m between projects, which isn’t always a good place for me. Stayed in yesterday and finished my first draft of the stage adaptation of SAY HER NAME. Got up today ready to get back to Jaxon and Ma but haven’t written a word. Went out for some fresh air, got home before the rain. Last week I was searching for a way to donate books to young readers in Louisville, KY and a few hours later, a teacher from that city reached out to me on Twitter. So glad that I can send the books to her and in return, Ms. McCormack sent me this photo; it’s from the memorial to Breonna Taylor set up at “injustice square.” One reason I try to keep busy is it stops me from lingering…if you train your mind on a particular task, then it’s less likely to wander into dangerous territory. The police officers who shot and killed Breonna won’t face any criminal charges at this point. And that news was handed down by a useless Black male district attorney with ties to Mitch McConnell. If you didn’t hear Tamika Mallory’s epic takedown of that fool, it’s worth a listen. Black women are organizing a strike for tomorrow…I’m ready. Wear white and purple, don’t work, don’t shop. There’s a longer list of actions you can take here. These in-between times aren’t easy but they’re necessary. I caught the first session of the Black Womxn Time Camp yesterday and it was on rest as a form of resistance. Being still doesn’t mean you’re lazy or unproductive. As a Black woman, I need to reframe my relationship to time…will try to work some of what I learned at Time Camp into the next novel. But I won’t be working on it tomorrow. STRIKE!

 

dreamland

It’s been one month since I moved to Evanston! And I decided this was the week I would finally venture into the city. I don’t love the word “Chicagoland” but since I live just outside the city limits, I need a term for home. I don’t know Chicago all that well; I’ve visited the city half a dozen times and I look forward to exploring its many neighborhoods. Chicago feels familiar in a way it shouldn’t to someone who hasn’t spent a whole lot of time here. I think, like Harlem, I learned about the city by reading African American literature from the Harlem Renaissance…and while studying lynching, I definitely learned about the Red Summer of 1919. I don’t think I’m a romantic but there is something dreamy about this city. It has a quiet grandeur that exists alongside its grit. Today I went down to Millennium Park because The Witch’s Apprentice opens with Jaxon staring into Cloud Gate, otherwise known as “the Bean.” The plaza was buzzing with tourists the last time I was there, but today the sculpture is fenced off and this is as close as you can get. The nearby Lurie Garden was still open so I took my time moving through the park, admiring the wildflowers and art installations and thinking of ways I could incorporate them into my story. I already know I’m going to mimic the pandemic somehow so Jaxon will encounter the city just as I am experiencing it now—not entirely empty but not bustling. I walked over to the Art Institute, which was closed, and strolled through the gardens on either side. The fountains had been drained but this sculpture still caught my eye—the Great Lakes are represented as nymphs bearing shells that would ordinarily spill water from one to the other. Suddenly I heard a crow and spent a minute scanning the leafy boughs above until I found her. There’s a crow figure in the novel as well…an African crow, of course. Everything just felt perfectly placed—the lions in front of the Art Institute, the statue of Lincoln in a nearby, rather neglected park. So many flowers, so many buzzing bees…I better get to work and write it all down before I forget. I’ve spent the past few days working on a play but think I’d better pivot and get my outline hammered out. September isn’t over yet so that gives me 7 weeks to write this novel if I want to get it in on time. And I do! because then I can get back to my other projects. This was supposed to be the year I finished things but that’s hard to do when I keep starting new novels/plays/poems…

butterflies

Earlier this week I looked up “anhedonia” because I was worried that I wasn’t feeling joy like I used to…it could be depression or stress. Anxiety can make you hustle so hard that you forget to stop and enjoy your achievements because there’s also something else to get done. This morning we signed a two-book deal that will continue the dragon series, then I talked to the theater producer and for the first time in a long time, had butterflies in my stomach. I think because I’ve been wanting to get back to writing for the theater for a while now and my ideas about adapting Say Her Name didn’t seem too far out…everything’s possible at this early stage of development. Hopefully I can find some local teens who are interested in acting and collaborate with them. Then I had another call with my film agent and we are *this* close to closing that deal. It’s for the option for the first two dragon books so there’s no guarantee a film or TV series will get made, but it does feel real now in a way it didn’t over the summer. Had a great conversation with an editor on Tuesday about a new picture book…as my amazing agent pointed out, “Zetta, this is your week!”

2020 has been a dumpster fire and we still have election drama to deal with, no one has been charged with Breonna Taylor’s murder (though the civil suit was settled this week) but I am grateful for my team and the technology that has made it possible to communicate with creative folks all over the country. The pandemic has certainly forced us to innovate and adapt like never before. I saw on the local news last night that the monarch butterflies are a little late starting their annual migration back to Mexico. I hope the smoke generated by the fires in California doesn’t interfere with their journey. With all the chaos we humans have created, it’s reassuring to know that some life-affirming impulses in nature persist…

still standing

I really needed to blog this week—there’s been a lot going on—but something was wrong with the server and I couldn’t access my website. Now I’m here and I’m tired…missed the garden on Tuesday and planned to go today but then fell asleep on the couch and woke up at 4pm realizing I hadn’t eaten lunch yet. It’s been raining off and on all week, which means the view from my window is very green—but the temperatures dropped suddenly so I’m wearing polar fleece and even got the space heater out of the closet. This is the sort of weather we used to hope for as teens because we wanted to wear our new fall clothes on the first day of school and it usually still felt like summer. It’s hot in California and I unexpectedly found myself writing about the redwoods as I finished up my acknowledgements for American Phoenix. It feels like the entire west coast is on fire and I’m worried about my friends who live there, especially those with respiratory conditions. Many of us assumed the redwood forests would be destroyed but apparently the ancient trees are scarred but still standing, and the ones that did fall will eventually decompose and help with regrowth. Redwoods are built to be resilient, which is why they can live for over a thousand years. That gives me hope.

On Tuesday I turned in my poems for Moonwalking and that same day I got feedback from my freelance editor about American Phoenix. I waited till Wednesday to look them over and was delighted to find that she really enjoyed reading many of the poems. One of her favorites was recently rejected by a literary journal and now I’m glad it will only appear in my book. My editor offered useful advice on how to “torque” a handful of weaker poems and today I sent the revised manuscript off to my designer. One of the poems from that collection, “Juneteenth,” I’ve decided to remove since my agent submitted it to some kid lit editors and three have expressed interest. We’re still waiting on a final offer from the film studio but in the meantime we got an improved offer from Random House for Book #3 and #4 in the dragon series. I have an appointment to talk to the theater producer next week; she asked to see some of my plays which sent me tumbling down the rabbit hole….in part because I couldn’t remember where I’d saved them on my computer and in part because the material felt so foreign to me. Some plays I remembered writing years ago but many I had completely forgotten about. My collected plays were among the first books I self-published back in 2008. I was using Lulu then and did my own formatting instead of hiring a book designer. I would write a play and enter a competition; that did result in three or four staged readings but then I got frustrated and moved on. I’m not big on team sports and theater is something that requires a team. And theater people are…different. Dramatic. The introvert/control freak in me decided it wasn’t my cup of tea. Have I changed since then? I think so. I still find collaboration challenging but I know now that the rewards sometimes make the irritation worthwhile.

I have an 8am workshop so I’d better go and prepare my slides. I used to hate making photocopies but now I miss the ease of distributing handouts! But I’m looking forward to writing with teachers—fantasy fiction and then poetry. If we accept the Random House offer, I’ll need to finish the next book by mid-November. Much as I love poetry, I’m ready to pivot back to prose. And maybe, before the year ends, I’ll try writing plays again…

Midwestern comfort

I just baked my first banana bread in my new home…so nice to have a brand new, full-size stove and lots of counter space, though I managed to bake well enough in my tiny kitchen in Lancaster. I’m having a glorious weekend and with temperatures only in the 70s today, I’m definitely dreaming of autumn…soon I’ll be back to starting each day with a hot cup of tea—I shivered a few times yesterday with all my windows open and almost reached for the chenille throw on the back of my chair. I am feeling very dreamy, thanks in part to the weather but also the documentaries I’ve been watching and the book I’m reading. I absolutely love Show Me a Sign by Ann Clare LeZotte and almost don’t want to finish it. Then yesterday someone on Facebook posted about a PBS documentary on Ursula K. Le Guin so I watched that and while the banana bread was in the oven just now, I watched Secrets of the Dead—one of my favorite PBS shows—because I saw an ad on Facebook about an episode on the “real” King Arthur. Watched the latest episode of Lovecraft Country last night and finally figured out why the blond guy looks so familiar—he’s Ube, son of Ragnar, from another favorite show Vikings! If it isn’t obvious at this point, I watch a lot of TV. And that means I read less than I used to, which is a shame. But I’m still studying storytelling when I’m watching a series or film; I didn’t get cable this time around but I subscribe to a whole lot of channels (PBS Passport, Netflix, Acorn, Prime, Hulu, HBO Max, Disney+) so I’m probably paying just as much each month. After yesterday’s documentary, I finished one poem and started another before I felt myself starting to drowse; I hadn’t sleep well and woke around 4am again this morning. But I still got changed and walked over to the community garden where I was the only volunteer so Katharine and I had a great talk about politics and purpose while she showed me how to plant lettuce. I came home, took a nap, made some popcorn for supper, watched TV, and then finished another poem. Baking, gardening, dreaming, writing…I realize how blessed I am to be living this sort of life, though it likely seems dull to some. Today I think I’ll try to finish another poem before I head downtown in search of the farmers market. Then maybe I’ll walk home via the lake and dream a bit more before getting back to work. It’s a long weekend, which doesn’t mean much to me generally, but it’s important to recognize our own labor and the labor of others, especially those activists who fought for better working conditions over the years. So many people are unemlpoyed right now because of the pandemic and others are hustling just to make ends meet. Katharine and I talked about universal basic income yesterday and how much MORE would be possible in our society if we freed people to pursue what they love. We’d have more innovation and creativity and I think more people would serve others if they knew their basic needs were taken care of…I haven’t read much Le Guin but will find the library and see if I can get some of her books since I now know how committed she was to the dream of a just society. This writer isn’t always hopeful but so many things seem possible right now—in my mind, in my life, in our world. Time to get to work…

in the weeds

I didn’t go to the garden yesterday. It rained all afternoon and my 2pm conference call lasted more than an hour as my film agent tried to explain every clause in the latest offer. I tried to stay focused and think I now understand all the rights up for grabs, which ones we’ll relinquish and which ones we’ll reserve. I’m not in any rush to seal the deal but I still feel pressed because I didn’t finish Moonwalking by Monday, which means my co-author is waiting on me as well as our editor. I think we all have a slightly different vision for the book so we really need to sit down and find common ground…but we can’t do that until my poems are done! I wrote three yesterday and stayed up late, which meant I slept in this morning. Woke up already worrying about my long To Do list…yesterday I heard from a theater producer who wants to collaborate, and every day I get 2-3 requests for a virtual visit. I haven’t been leaving the house this week much but in between penning lines of verse I get up and pace the apartment, stopping to tidy something, hang a picture, put up one more curtain. The apartment is just about done and I do feel settled and yet I don’t—projects and gigs that are scheduled for later in the month aren’t on my mind right now but that doesn’t stop the organizers from reaching out with requests…I dreamed of Scotland last night but I wasn’t living an anonymous life—I was still signing books and talking to kids. I’m not sure that will ever stop. And I don’t think I want it to stop completely. I’m starting to understand how some of my friends have thousands of unread emails in their inboxes. If I weren’t so obsessive about clearing my inbox, I could let a few weeks go by before I responded to all these requests. But they tug at my brain and they’re mixed in with messages I do want to read. I’m so grateful for my friends and all the support they provide…on Saturday I got my copy of ME & MAMA which is a gorgeous new picture book by Cozbi Cabrera. We got to hang out safely at the bookstore and my other new neighbor Elisa gave me a quick history of racism in the local library system over a slice of pie. On Sunday I planned to attend a service of lament for Jacob Blake and then checked my calendar and realized I had a Zoom presentation at the same time…We’ve got a working cover for my next picture book, which features original artwork by Gracie Berry; I had hoped to have it done before leaving Lancaster but better late than never. I’m mostly juggling things pretty well and will feel much better once my poems are finished. I hate to keep people waiting but I don’t want to turn in shoddy work. That’s one of my mantras for the fall: “I can finish what I start.” I’m not a dilettante. I’m not a slacker. I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew. Yes, I have moved three times in three years but I do have a sense of purpose. Everything will get done in time…

I can walk away and be okay.

I can finish what I start.

I can set limits and develop a greater capacity for genuine generosity.

I have enough.

I may fail but I am not a failure.

I can take risks without being reckless.

I need to be honest about my motives and goals.

I want to live with less shame.

I’m allowed to be selfish sometimes.

I can heal without hurting others.

I can let others shine.

room to breathe

Last week I felt like I’d been holding my breath for too long. Waiting on the movers, waiting on my Lyft ride to the airport, trying not to breathe too deeply on the packed flight to Chicago…then I finally reached Evanston early Tuesday morning, made my way down to the lake, and let myself exhale. The sound of the waves was so soothing…the streets were empty and quiet except for the church bells that rang right at 9am. I knew as soon as the Lyft driver turned the corner that I’d made the right choice. The apartment is lovely but not perfect; the building is a little shabby and there are smokers downstairs. But I was just so relieved and the movers were late—again—but by Wednesday evening they’d brought everything up and were headed back to PA. Now I’m starting my second week in Evanston and I feel a bit breathless. I’m pacing myself, exploring the lakefront trails and parks, shopping locally for the few things I need for the apartment; I found a handyman to install my air conditioners and shelves, I volunteered at the community garden and met some new folks. I had a long, honest conversation about the publishing industry with an author friend who left NYC and now lives just a few blocks away. I’m working on my manuscript and think I just might meet the deadline. Then Jacob Blake was shot in the back by a cop in Kenosha. I learned that his grandfather headed an AME church here in Evanston in the 1960s. They’re holding an outdoor memorial service this Sunday. Evanston wasn’t meant to be a sanctuary for me; after 25 years in this country, I know there’s nowhere I can go to avoid White supremacist terrorism. What’s riled me this week are the endless requests in my inbox from White folks who don’t seem to understand the fatigue Black people feel as victims and witnesses of this violence. I finally reached out to a booking service but they’re not taking on new clients right now. The constant emails, the relentless requests…I just can’t right now. Even when I put people off—I’m not booking anything more till November—they come right back with requests for quotes and head shots and other nonessential requests. Even after I explain that I’ve got a deadline looming and just moved from one state to another. I’m tired of it. And willing to lose these potential gigs just to have some peace for a few weeks. I’m thinking about putting an away response on my email so if you reach out to me, you might not hear back for a while…

My essay for Horn Book came out yesterday–you can read it here.

Coronavirus infections are surging across the country, and protests that began in big U.S. cities and small towns have spread across the globe, igniting a movement to end police brutality and the dehumanization of Black people. Some feel optimistic about this moment. I do not, but I have mostly kept my opinion to myself. Living under quarantine has made that fairly easy; as a middle-aged Black woman with asthma, I’m in no rush to go outdoors, and if I’m not presenting for virtual audiences on Zoom, then I’m alone at home writing.

I am tired of mourning. I am tired of raging. I am tired of hoping for change. I am also exhausted by the largely unproductive conversations we keep having about anti-Black racism in publishing. For over a decade I have written and spoken publicly about racial disparities within the U.S. publishing industry. Though many in the children’s lit community cling to the myth of meritocracy (“True talent will always be recognized — just keep trying!”) and favor narratives of gradual progress (“Things are getting better — just give it time!”), all studies show that the U.S. publishing industry is still dominated by Whites who are determined to hold onto — rather than share — power.

look up

Moving is stressful. For a neat freak like me, having my apartment turned inside out is extremely unsettling even though it also creates opportunities to do a massive purge. The other day I couldn’t reach a lock box on the top shelf of my closet so I pulled out the step ladder, hopped up, and immediately rammed my head into the doorframe. I iced it right away and managed to avoid a bump but found it telling that I hurt myself by blindly reaching for something I don’t use or need. One of the things I like least about being an author is selling books but a few years ago, I was vending enough to make a lock box necessary. That’s what this move is making me realize—I have held onto things that no longer serve me. I’m going through my files now and finally threw out the essays I read in graduate school and the writing lesson plans I developed for kids over a decade ago. A poet friend sent a lovely video she made with her husband at the seashore and it ended with the hashtag #imagineblackfreedom. What does it mean to be free? My head hurts and I have more packing to do so I won’t try to answer that question now. But it’s hard to move forward if you haven’t taken time to imagine what it would be like to be free. I watched my favorite real estate show yesterday and for the first time, it made me want to walk out of this house with nothing but an overnight bag. I love beautiful things and enjoy being surrounded by them. I want to buy a condo but I don’t want to fill it with more stuff…I’ve lived nearly half a century and my achievements can’t be measured with things—my books count, of course, but very little else is precious to me. I keep my great-grandparents’ fancy china in the cupboard—I haven’t used it once since my mother gave it to me years ago. I could give it to a cousin or I could commit to using it at least once a month. My desire for a simple life isn’t probably isn’t compatible with my magpie eye for pretty, shiny things. I made the above sign almost twenty years ago and it has been on my fridge all that time—maybe I should let it go and make another that reflects how I see myself now. Tomorrow I’ll have to make another trip to the Goodwill donation center. I’m going to try to find enough quarters to do a final load of laundry, though the pandemic coin shortage makes that tricky. On Friday I took some cookies to my favorite clerk at the post office and sympathized with her fear that the service is being sabotaged by the current administration. We have to plan carefully—NOW—so that we can maneuver around the many obstacles being placed across the path to freedom. And I can’t be agile if I’m weighed down with too much stuff. Time to let it go…

on faith

I did it—I signed a lease on an apartment in Evanston, IL! I am definitely stepping out on faith with this move, but so far things have been falling into place. I’m trying not to tear the place up, but I’ve started packing and purging—the hallway is full of bagged books, DVDs, clothes, shoes, housewares…this is why moving is worthwhile. You realize just what’s worth bringing along as you move forward in your life. I’m letting go of the couch and the dresser my grandfather gave me when I was a kid…I’m FINALLY letting go of the essays I read in graduate school. It’s clear to me that I won’t be teaching the courses I used to teach as a Black Studies professor, so all that material can go. I doubt I’ll ever be a professor again but if I do return to campus, I’ll build new syllabi with new books. That’s the goal right now—try new things. Yesterday I did my first Facebook live reading plus workshop. It’s a lot easier when I can share my screen, and that’s what I’ll do as I develop some writing tutorials for another nonprofit. I still have a few conference calls with film studios scheduled for next week and one last library Zoom presentation. Then I can focus on packing, moving, unpacking, and writing as summer starts to wind down. I’m looking forward to sitting by the lake…and doing research in Chicago for Book 3 in my dragon series. There’s a park I plan to visit with a Garden of the Phoenix—a Japanese garden—and then I found out this week that DRAGONS IN A BAG has been nominated for the Sakura Medal in Japan’s international schools!

My latest newsletter went out on Tuesday, but I gave folks the wrong date for my PBS reading of A PLACE INSIDE OF ME. If you missed our episode, you can find it on CampTV.org or you can watch just my read-aloud here. We still haven’t gotten any trade reviews of this timely book, which is perplexing, but the responses on social media have been heartening. I have faith that this book will find its way into the right hands.