Zetta Elliott's Blog, page 15

The Children’s Book Podcast with Matthew Winner

gleam

It has been almost a year since my Aunt D’thea was killed in a car accident and my relatives in Canada have been going through her possessions as they prepare her house for sale. A lot of things were thrown out or given away; my cousin saved a few mementos and offered some items to me—prefacing her offer with an acknowledgement that I am actively “anti-stuff.” It has taken years for us to reach that understanding; I’ve moved three times in as many years and each time I unloaded gifts that were given with love but without consideration of my particular preference. My mother agreed to make a donation in my name years ago and that meant a lot to me; my friends respect my wishes and only give things that I can consume or that will expire (chocolate or flowers or tea). Other folks do what they want to do and I act accordingly (Goodwill, regifting, or garbage). Gift-giving is complicated. I’ll always remember my father insisting that a funeral wasn’t about the deceased—it was for those left behind and so *they* got to decide how they wanted to mourn. I think that’s absurd, especially if someone makes arrangements before they die; their final wishes should be honored. For some folks, the same principle applies to gifts—it’s not really about what the recipient wants or needs or requests. Giving a gift is an opportunity to put the giver’s needs first. Over the weekend I had to find seven receptacles for an online theater workshop; I had six bowls but needed one more and so emptied out a small beaded basket in which I store jewelry that I never wear. In it I found a badly tarnished brooch that another aunt gave me almost twenty years ago. I was heading to Africa for the first time and she wanted me to have a reminder of home; I wore it proudly while I was there and in the years that followed, but at some point it wound up in my little basket along with the many silver bangles I once loved but no longer wear. Why did I hold onto this brooch when I gladly got rid of so many other gifts? Maybe because it’s small or because I love my aunt (though I’ve happily parted with gifts from other beloved relatives). Perhaps it’s because that failed trip to Djibouti left me feeling so disconnected; my father had just died and I gave up my Brooklyn apartment to teach at a new university that turned out to be nonexistent. Adrift, I flew back to Toronto, moved in with my mother for six months, and wrote a memoir about loss. I cleaned the little brooch and pinned it to my coat yesterday; my aunt’s thoughtful gift continues to operate according to her original intention—it reminds me that I come from a particular place and people. My birthday’s coming up and my uncle sent the loveliest letter that contained a photograph of my older sister as a toddler, a picture of my great-grandparents’ barn, and a shot of them using the tools needed to cut and measure the beams back in 1910. He also included a tribute to my grandmother that I wrote for her 90th birthday celebration. I recycled part of it for my writer’s statement but the rest I had completely forgotten about…it still rings true, though, and I’m so glad I was able to put into words just how much she meant to me. How did my tribute wind up with my uncle? Perhaps he, too, was tasked with going through her things after she passed and felt it was worth saving. Someday I’ll have to think more about the way gifts circulate and land back in the giver’s lap…

“Everyday Use” from HOP TO IT: Poems to Get You Moving

"Everyday Use" by Zetta Elliott from Pomelo Books on Vimeo.

play date

Today didn’t go as planned. After another spectacular day in Chicago, I thought I would spend today writing and instead I was curled up in bed with a hot water bottle. I’m almost at the end of Season 6 of Schitts Creek and that means I’ve only written a couple hundred words when I was supposed to write at least a thousand. But tomorrow’s another day and it was still a pretty great week. We closed on the film deal and I did write over three thousand words on Wednesday; I did some solid research for the novel, shared my ideas for the book’s cover with my editor, and I signed up for *three* online theater workshops! Last weekend my friend told me about the memorial her kindergarten students created for Breonna Taylor. Yesterday while in Chicago I found the memorial and saw their sweet messages. It had been vandalized but the tributes were still legible, the sun was shining, other children were playing nearby and came over to share their favorites with me; one gathered up a bouquet of artificial flowers and another pointed to a drawing of a gerbil. Do they understand what police brutality is? I was a masked woman with a camera and yet they totally forgot about the need to social distance and/or not talk to strangers…and even as I tried to step back every time they drew close, it was hard. I’ve missed being around kids and it was refreshing to see them being so carefree in spite of the state of the world. The memorial was set up at the base of a monument to the first president of Czechoslovakia, represented as a helmeted knight on a horse. I was paying attention to every detail because I’m trying to see the city as Jaxon might—a nine-year-old boy from Brooklyn visiting Chicago for the first time. The Gothic buildings on the University of Chicago campus would probably look like castles to him…he might be amazed to learn that the Ferris wheel made its debut at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893. I strolled through the serene Garden of the Phoenix and imagined Jax walking the same paths with a baby phoenix in his pocket. Should I mention the Breonna Taylor memorial in my novel? So far I’ve included the fact that the Japanese pavilion adjacent to the garden was burned by bigots following WWII. Can I mention anti-Japanese prejudice without also talking about the incarceration of Japanese Americans during the war? Can I talk about the history of fires in Chicago—the Great Fire of 1871, the Red Summer of 1919, uprisings in the 1960s and 2020—without mentioning the devastation wrought by the atomic bomb? For now, I’m letting myself put everything in, knowing that some references won’t make the final cut. It’s about striking the right balance…just enough magic and just enough reality. There’s *so* much history in the city, and a friend hipped me to this self-guided tour book that highlights the contributions of Chicago’s Black women. Today I signed up for an architecture boat tour on the day before my birthday (two weeks away!) and I almost bought a ticket to the holiday light show at the Museum of Science and Industry. Monday is Canadian Thanksgiving so I’m moving into holiday mode. This coming week is packed with online gigs but it helps to know I have days set aside that are dedicated to exploring the city. Writing Brooklyn into my books wasn’t hard because I lived there for two decades, but I’m new to Chicago. A few day trips won’t make me an expert on the South Side but I hope Chicago kids will still appreciate seeing their city featured in Book #3.

If you’re free on Tuesday, join us for our session at the Boston Book Festival; on Thursday I’ll be part of a panel on “In Between Reads” for School Library Journal‘s Day of Dialog. I’m recording a few other talks that will be available later this month. And somehow I will find a way to write a thousand words a day!

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…