Jeannine Atkins's Blog, page 34

Revising: Or Giving Your Words a Whirl

My poems begin with people who did something that made me stop, frozen with hard-beating heart, the way I did as a child playing Statues after a friend grabbed my hand and spun me around.

Then there’s the wandering through libraries, collecting armloads of books about that person, the places where she lived, the company she kept, her moment in history. I muse over incidents I find as I stalk the character from home to work, try to peer into her cereal bowl or what’s left on her plate, and the softness of her pillow, and how long she might lie awake. All along I’m taking notes, which I spend a long time ordering not just through days but years. Though, of course, sometimes childhood moments appear smack in the middle of life as a grown up, so while admiring chronology, I don’t want to pledge to its logic.

I’ve put a lot of poems in order recently, mostly happy with the flow of events, my word choices, echoes, and imagery. Now I want to shake the poems like doormats in spring air and see what flies, or what’s left in the spaces where old dust was wedged. I want to spin things around and check angles I missed. I’ve lingered with images, wondering what the tracks in the snow, cobblestones on Boston streets, old moccasins, an obsession with Cleopatra and swans could tell me. I’ve set down my guesses, but it’s time to guess again, look deeper in the tracks or around the corners of those narrow streets. We want people to read poems more than once, and that means we have to make our way through them, I don’t know, a hundred times? There’s no need to count but there’s plenty of need to backtrack and set things awhirl once again. I begin with wonder, proceed with some knowing, and now want to return, for a while, to the state of seeing things anew.

Please visit Poetry Friday Roundup at The Drift Record where Julie Larios writes about a book of poems by Stacy Gnall called Heart First into the Forest, novels in verse, and the compression, elegance, and mystery poetry and fairy tales have in common. She’s convinced me to order Heart First into the Forest, because reading other peoples’ poems can set me loose from my own predictable ways, fling me into the right sort of dizzy and open-minded state for this stage of revising.

Last Chapters

Not that I have much familiarity with good housekeeping, something I expect I’ve recorded too much here, but what sometimes gets me through chores is being able to fill a vase with flowers at the end. I like the last touches. The neat-at-last stacks, the fluffed-for-once pillows, the afghan in its place are fun to arrange, like tending to details at the end of a draft. I like dawdling among a plot that I’ve set through a lot of heavy hauling. It’s fun to mess with line breaks, turn around a sentence here, replace a word there. Staring into space in search of an image can make me fidget, but polishing the edges is kind of delightful.



The past weeks have been devoted to such dustcloths, and I’m both happy and scared. The room is almost ready for guests I’ve longed to see. But of course then the nerves start wracking. What if no one wants to sit down? What if, after all, there are clumps of dog hair I missed? What if this room where I’ve been cozy isn’t a space anyone else cares about?

So I go back to tidying. A little bit necessary, a little bit obsessive. And with my face near the floor, I might notice the state of the cabinets. Yikes. One surface sends me to others, and I may have to open doors. I find my character tipping, when she can use a good push. Or raising her eyebrows when she needs to slam her fist. I’m a fan of the subtle, but I can get too sub. So bits of plot gets swept around.

And I remember sometimes we have to bring in lilies of the valley whether or not the bureau is dusted. In the quiet room I can’t wait to bust out of and also hate to leave.

The Wilder Life by Wendy McClure

I was one of those girls who dressed up in cast-off long dresses and straw hats and day dreamed about horses and covered wagons. I was mother of the president of a (two person) Laura Ingalls Wilder Fan Club. So no surprise I loved The Wilder Life, in which Wendy McClure not only muses about her childhood adoration of the Little House books, but kind of lives the dream as an adult: buying a butter churn on eBay, which probably cost “enough to pay for one of Mary’s semesters at Iowa College for the Blind” and using it (while watching TV), retracing routes to Laura’s former homesteads (wading in Plum Creek!) -- though hardships include a rental without GPS, interviewing devotees, figuring out the lines between Wilder fact and fiction, and trying to charm her way into an overnight in a dugout.

As a children’s book editor, Wendy is often asked about favorite childhood books and notes that some people nod almost smugly when her answer includes the Little House books. She feels uncomfortable, because of course she’s an adult now, and beyond the sunbonnets and blue skies can see holes, contradictions, and elements of racism, while still holding onto what’s good. She can be crazy about Laura and also irritated by the crankiness of Mrs. Wilder through chapters focusing on particular times, places, or themes, each ending with moving revelations. I expect everyone will have their favorite chapter. As someone who’s read a lot about Laura’s only child, Rose Wilder Lane, I was glad to have company, especially as we found similar things endearing and not-so-much. Wendy gives a brief overview of Rose’s life and suggests that beyond fuzziness re who wrote the books (and she offers evidence about why there should be no dispute about a collaboration) Laura-lovers often dislike Rose most of all because of her sadness. I think she’s right. The Little House books are so much about overcoming disaster and moving on with a good attitude, whereas Rose struggled with depression, which must have been particularly hard in that time and place and living with a chirpy, energetic mom who for all her strengths likely found “moods” pretty hard to understand. Tending to chickens isn’t the cure for all blues.

Just as love holds together the Wilder family through rough weather and roads, the loyalty, humor, and truth-telling of Wendy’s boyfriend forms the heart of this memoir. For Christmas, Chris gives Wendy “The Little House Guidebook,” a travel guide to the homesites, which she “mentally subtitled Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Driving Out to Remote Locations in the Upper Midwest to Find Your Childhood Imaginary Friend but Were Afraid to Ask.” Chris reads some novels for the first time and sometimes joins Wendy on journeys to landmarks, bringing new perspectives and charming us with his willingness to share this passion or obsession, never trying to parse the line between. One of my favorite scenes is when they rent a covered wagon in a South Dakota camp for wanna-be-pioneers and it hails pretty ferociously. It’s not an easy night. In the morning, the first thing Chris says is, “We have to go check on the wheat.”

No wonder there’s a happy ending here, as Wendy finds a sense of place both in the past and present.

What I'm Reading: The Wilder Life by Wendy McClure

I was one of those girls who dressed up in cast-off long dresses and straw hats and day dreamed about horses and covered wagons. I was mother of the president of a (two person) Laura Ingalls Wilder Fan Club. So no surprise I loved The Wilder Life, in which Wendy McClure not only muses about her childhood adoration of the Little House books, but kind of lives the dream as an adult: buying a butter churn on eBay, which probably cost “enough to pay for one of Mary’s semesters at Iowa College for the Blind” and using it (while watching TV), retracing routes to Laura’s former homesteads (wading in Plum Creek!) -- though hardships include a rental without GPS, interviewing devotees, figuring out the lines between Wilder fact and fiction, and trying to charm her way into an overnight in a dugout.

As a children’s book editor, Wendy is often asked about favorite childhood books and notes that some people nod almost smugly when her answer includes the Little House books. She feels uncomfortable, because of course she’s an adult now, and beyond the sunbonnets and blue skies can see holes, contradictions, and elements of racism, while still holding onto what’s good. She can be crazy about Laura and also irritated by the crankiness of Mrs. Wilder through chapters focusing on particular times, places, or themes, each ending with moving revelations. I expect everyone will have their favorite chapter. As someone who’s read a lot about Laura’s only child, Rose Wilder Lane, I was glad to have company, especially as we found similar things endearing and not-so-much. Wendy gives a brief overview of Rose’s life and suggests that beyond fuzziness re who wrote the books (and she offers evidence about why there should be no dispute about a collaboration) Laura-lovers often dislike Rose most of all because of her sadness. I think she’s right. The Little House books are so much about overcoming disaster and moving on with a good attitude, whereas Rose struggled with depression, which must have been particularly hard in that time and place and living with a chirpy, energetic mom who for all her strengths likely found “moods” pretty hard to understand. Tending to chickens isn’t the cure for all blues.

Just as love holds together the Wilder family through rough weather and roads, the loyalty, humor, and truth-telling of Wendy’s boyfriend forms the heart of this memoir. For Christmas, Chris gives Wendy “The Little House Guidebook,” a travel guide to the homesites, which she “mentally subtitled Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Driving Out to Remote Locations in the Upper Midwest to Find Your Childhood Imaginary Friend but Were Afraid to Ask.” Chris reads some novels for the first time and sometimes joins Wendy on journeys to landmarks, bringing new perspectives and charming us with his willingness to share this passion or obsession, never trying to parse the line between. One of my favorite scenes is when they rent a covered wagon in a South Dakota camp for wanna-be-pioneers and it hails pretty ferociously. It’s not an easy night. In the morning, the first thing Chris says is, “We have to go check on the wheat.”

No wonder there’s a happy ending here, as Wendy finds a sense of place both in the past and present.

The Hudson Book Festival and a Thrilling Mother's Day Surprise

 
I had a great day at the Hudson Book Festival selling some books and chatting a bit with other –there were a hundred! --authors and illustrators. I remembered to take a few photos. Here’s D. Dina Friedman, a member of my writing group and author of Escaping into the Night, a great novel about children hiding in a forest outside Poland during the Holocaust.


Susanna Reich, smiling through the day despite a leg injury, and Gary Golio also write about amazing people in history, with some emphasis on the arts.


Here are Katie Davis and Jerry Davis, another creative husband and wife, with their charming new book, Little Chicken’s Big Day. And peeps.


It was fun to see Kate Messner  kmessner  who we know writes beautifully about both history and contemporary life. I look forward to reading her latest for new readers, Marty McGuire.


Sarah Darer Littman writes with passion important novels for teens.


And here’s Ann Haywood Leal, who never fails to make me laugh, author of Also Known as Harper and other novels for middle readers.


It was a great day, capped by coming home and finding my daughter, who conspired with my husband to surprise me. You might have heard me scream (which Peter captured on video, which I posted on Facebook; if you’re not already my friend there, just send me a request). Emily and I had a wonderful time catching up, eating great food, stopping by at the grandparents, before Peter and I drove her to the airport in the wee hours so she could get back to work today. I’m one tired but happy mom.

Ghosts and Ghost Busters: Writing What We Don't Altogether Know

The ever-thoughtful novelist Mitali Perkins asked questions at Mitali's Fire Escape about ways writers approach differences in time, class, culture, and race. I chimed in, which you can read in the comments, and everyone’s invited to join the conversation, which made me think about two strands of my process as I cross cultures and centuries.

The first is humility, a word I don’t often use. It smacks first of the church in my childhood, where it seemed girls were expected to bear more than our fair share of the trait, and then of pop stars holding glittery trophies they say make them feel humble, and I think, huh?, though what do I know about such things? Anyway, I’m the one who brought up the word, which suggests the alertly listening, almost ghost-like task of the researcher. We let ourselves fade as we enter the world of another whose life is different from ours. And we do research the same way we might approach a new person we hope will become a friend. Paying attention to what’s said, but also to points that might link us.

The second trait I think writers crossing boundaries needs is chutzpah: I like the sound of humility and chutzpah together, so I’m borrowing it with some audacity, a term you can use if you prefer it to the Yiddish term, which is pretty far out of my realm. While the humble writer keeps quiet in the corners, another part of us must stalk in like ghost-busters in big boots. We have a certain sense of importance that I hope doesn’t run over into entitlement. We think we can get things right, or at least most things, and we brim with eagerness to try. Why not?

I suppose the cloak of invisibility and loud boots are a variation on fear and confidence, those old companions. I wish all of us luck with both!

What I'm watching: Library of the Early Mind

Yesterday at the Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art I saw a screening of a documentary that’s been showing around the country. Ted Dalaney and Steve Winthrow, the creators of Library of the Early Mind: A Grownup Look at the Art of Children’s Literature,  were on hand and explained that the title came from New Yorker writer, Adam Gopnik.



In the film we hear over 40 illustrators, writers, librarians, booksellers, editors, and critics speak from studios, libraries, or offices: once in a while, we even get to watch over a creator’s shoulder. The film starts with an image of a locomotive and words we soon learn are spoken by Chris Van Allsburg about the origin of The Polar Express. Much as C.S. Lewis worked from a lamp in the forest he’d dreamed years before for The Chronicles of Narnia, Chris Van Allsburg took a recurring mental image and asked if he was a child with a train that could take him anywhere, where would it go?

There wasn’t much more discussion of work’s origins in the film, but others touched on how this is a literature written by adults for children, sometimes for the child they had been or, as Anita Silvey remarked, often trying to create the childhood they wished they had. We hear David Small talking about Stitches, his graphic memoir about a miserable childhood written for teens and adults. Natalie Babbitt, author of Tuck Everlasting, speaks of how between the ages of six to twelve, we learn good things and “some not good things…The questions we ask as children are hard questions, which some adults forget,” and want to protect children from.

We hear from illustrator Jerry Pinkney and his son, Brian Pinkney, on growing up in a household where writing and illustrating was part of the day. Brian tells of going to his studio and playing drums before getting down to work. “I always knew play was part of making art, keeping my mind wide open and creating from there.” And “Smaller stories help children understand the bigger stories. One story is in books, the bigger story is the world.” Other of my favorite observations are from illustrator Brian Selznik on working from an author’s text. “You’re opening the words.” An illustrator is considering “the best materials, lines, colors, style to tell the story that needs to be told.” Mo Willems said, “Drawing is a physical form of empathy… and if there’s anything this world needs, it’s empathy.”

There was quite a lengthy interview with the cheerful Nancy Garden about her groundbreaking novel for young adults, Annie on my Mind, in which two girls fall and remain happily in love, and a shorter interview with writer Leslea Newman on the picture book, Heather Has Two Mommies. And some allusions to the business side of things. Norton Juster, author of the Phantom Tollbooth, seemed disturbed about gatekeepers who want only what children already know. Lane Smith spoke of rejections of The Sneaky Cheese Man, which went on to delight millions. Jane Yolen spoke with heart about the two sides: “there’s literature with its great history, with a breath (or was it breadth?), and it’s a business.” Her tone flattened on that last word, and I couldn't help wishing I could hear what she might be saying beyond the cut.  Writer-illustrator Grace Lin remarked that if you thought about all the people who had to consider a book before it reached a child, you could go crazy. 

And of course there was lots more, including Richard Michelson speaking about picture books crossing cultures and Jack Gantos showing pages from his notebooks with journal entries on one side and fiction on the other. My apologies if I misheard words in any of the quotes above. Here’s a taste from the trailer. You can click on this  link  to see where the documentary will play next.

At Wild Rose Reader , Elaine Magliaro is celebrating...

At Wild Rose Reader , Elaine Magliaro is celebrating National Poetry Month. Click on the link to be taken to her blog, where with a simple comment on one of her posts dated April 22 to 28 (which is today, so don’t hesitate) you can win a chance to receive a copy of Borrowed Names.



I’ll be one of the hundred authors and illustrators appearing at the Hudson Book Festival on Saturday May 7 in Hudson, New York. Lisa Dolan, one of the amazing organizers, reviews my picture book, Mary Anning and the Sea Dragon, and asked me questions about writing for children here at the Register-Star. I love her comments about her son gaining perspective on his world from an amazingly patient and determined girl born over 200 years ago. 




It’s so good to have friends who support reading! Thank you!

Pauses and Gifts

A few women sat on the floor near the dollhouse and horse-rocker in the library. I overheard a bit of their conversation, broken by comments tossed to children investigating books and stuffed animals. Most words were of the traffic control kind. Stop right there. That’s too far. Get back here. Then the women turned back to each other, with at least one eye on the children.

So many conversations get broken. Such as the ones we make between our minds and the page. In this case, we don’t mind if someone runs off too far, gets into trouble. We’re writers, not moms or other caretakers, and don’t have to protect.

Still, it’s rare we have a chat or write dialogue that moves straight ahead. Sometimes I wish I were that kind of fluid writer, who didn’t have to backtrack and draw arrows and stumble into a plot. This is probably as futile as wishing to be a foot taller or shorter. Our methods are who we are. And I realize that while I deal with a certain amount of scaffolding in my work, the givens of history, the poetry happens in the spaces between those gifts. Those pauses where I don’t have a clue what to write? They leave room for poetry. If I wait them out, that’s often when two strange images collide. When an unexpected word flutters by. When I notice the way the parallel conversations of mothers in the children’s room make a sort of song.

What I'm Reading: Nantucket: A Photographic Essay by Charles Fields

 


Nantucket: A Photographic Essay by Charles Fields showcases gorgeous photographs of sea, land, houses, people, and animals, with lighting that seems to sweep you to this island off the Massachusetts coast. We see clapboard houses, including the oldest house on the island, ponds, cobblestone streets, an old brick warehouse and bank, artists at work, dogs playing in surf, and the Athenaeum where astronomer Maria Mitchell, first woman to discover a comet, served as the town’s first librarian. Photographs were taken in different seasons and times of day, and include aerial shots and panoramas. All reminded me of the importance of the art of waiting, for beaches and buildings are often seen without people around, and you know the photographer exercised patience, often in the cold, for both the right light and solitude, or the particular angle of a wave or wing.

Lovely as the photos are, I bought this book for the elegant captains, which were written by Elizabeth Bergman, a good friend of my daughter’s who will graduate from the University of Denver in a matter of days. I’m so proud (not that I have any claim, except for feeding her the occasional raspberry muffin in days gone by) that she got her name between covers before she even has her B.A. I was impressed by how much information on place and history she packed into a few lines.

She kindly answered some questions. I learned that she worked on the sort of no-sleep deadline more common in journalism than for a book, and was even more impressed that she came up “with a host of ways to compliment the aesthetics of the photos without sounding like a broken record, or, at least, I hope I did!” I can assure you she managed valiantly to avoid the gushy but trite words that came to my mind looking at these scenes.

“It was difficult to pick and choose what information would be most resonant and interesting for readers, but there is certainly something to be said for an economy of words….Luckily, I was able to write so quickly because of my extensive preexisting knowledge of Nantucket. I used to work for the Nantucket Historical Association and have read many book about the golden age of whaling on the island; I even wrote a research paper last year about the island's architecture and building guidelines. I did, however, have to research the flora and fauna featured in the pictures quite a bit; although my experience landscaping on Nantucket helped me identify many lovely flowers. For the more abstract photographs, I relied more on my personal interpretation of the photograph as an artistic object, and approached it in a more poetic way.”

Asked about the pleasures, Liz replied, “This may sound kind of silly, but the most fun part-- or, certainly the most exciting part -- was holding the book in my hands once it was finally printed, and turning to the Library of Congress page to see my name in print in a book for the first time.” Um, why would that be silly? I was glad to hear: “I really love everything about the publishing process. …I have a not-so-secret ambition to publish at least one book (of my own!) in my life, and I think I will do it. No matter what, I always hope to hover close to the world of writing, be it news writing, editing, or just writing for myself.”

Thanks, Liz! We wish you luck for many books and a good post-graduation job!