Joyce Magnin's Blog, page 8

Notes From the Cliff--Cliff Notes! Ha!

"Success is counted sweetest by those who 'nere succeed" ~ Emily Dickinson



Here's the thing, success is fleeting. But failure, ah failure is your friend forever. Failure is the BFF of therapists everywhere, the boon of self-help articles and blog posts, the bane of the author's existence. It's the reason preachers don their preacher suits on Sunday, to offer encouragement and lessons in how to avoid failure or come against failure or skirt disaster. Amazon is chock full of books that pretend to tell you how to not fall off the cliff. But here's the thing, why not embrace failure? Every single one of us has some niggling concern that we might not succeed, that we'll have a brain aneurysm before we finish our next book or that the next book will fail so miserably people will laugh.



Every single time I face writing a new book I ask the same question—can I do this? Will I ever finish this one? What's wrong with me? Well, nothing really. All writers and even all artists walk that thin tight rope toward failure, teetering side to side, hanging on with all our strength to the umbrella of our own giftedness, hoping it will get us across the circus tent, across the ravine to the clown car that's waiting. Funny thing is, we climb into the clown car and the chief clown drives us right back to other side of the ravine so we can do it all again, forgetting the pain—like the pain of childbirth and actually do it all again.



I think writers love the danger of possible failure. It's an adrenaline rush, a kind of high, the Crack we crave as we go merrily along. Writers and by nature all artists but for my purposes here and because it is my experience I will use the word Writer to represent all of us who think for some reason we are the creators, live in varying degrees of failure. The problem is that the work in progress cannot be reviewed until finished and then for the writer it's almost too late to fully enjoy because she has already, long before the accolades, moved on to the next project and even as the awards are handed out, the praises published, is neck-high, once again in her own, persistent state of failure, in What If this is the one I never finish. She is busy battling her mental illnesses while holding the coveted trophy.



The truth is, we don't want to finish, oh the goal is great, the awards are boffo but it's over soon enough. The anticipation of the journey is actually more satisfying in some sick way then getting there. The trick I think is to stay on the tightrope, however much you teeter and keep moving. And, please, do not stare into the abyss of failure too long because as Nietzsche said, if you stare into the abyss too long the abyss begins staring back. You don't want to dive into it, just be comforted that it's there and it's okay that it's there—it fuels the process. It's part of the process.

Publisher's Weekly Reviews Mason--Pretty Sweet

Magnin (Bright's Pond series) writes her first book for younger readers with this middle-grade story of 13-year-old Luna, whose best friend Mason dies in a car accident. Luna decides to move in with Mason's mother, Ruby Day, who is mentally disabled, to lend a hand and to honor her friend. The plot thickens when Ruby Day's Aunt Sapphire shows up in a chauffeured limousine wearing a boa made of two dead foxes. Sapphire wants something, and it can't be good. Magnin's strengths are well displayed in this coming-of-age tale: her dialogue crackles, her wit relieves (Luna is affectionately called "Luna Fish" from a mishap with a tuna fish sandwich), and her sense of family dynamics that includes the usual verbal sparring among children is lively. Luna's parents seem a bit too Hallmark Channel good to be true, but that won't bother everyone. There's no supernatural world or dystopia here--just smalltown life, death, and growing up. Ages 8–12. (Sept.)

My Dad

Here's the thing, today is my father's birthday. He died a few years ago. I miss him terribly sometimes. My Dad was a big, clunky SOB a lot of the time but he was also smart, funny, and one of the reasons I became a writer. I loved to listen to him tell me stories about his Army days. Dad was an officer in United States Army, one of the first to land on Normandy in Operation Overlord and participated in just about every major battle of World War 2 including Argonne, the Bulge, the Herkin Forest. Her served well and was decorated several times including a silver star. He watched men die, saved lives and became a father all at the same time. My oldest sister was born while Dad was in Europe. She was two years old before he saw her for the first time. Dad carried a small Brownie camera with him through his entire campaign and snapped photos of everything from cannons to his buddies eating Thanksgiving dinner out of their helmets. When I was sixteen I found the pictures in a dresser drawer. I remember sitting for hours looking through the images of my soldier daddy fighting his way through Europe. For Father's Day that year I assembled most of the pictures into an album. Fortunately he labeled many of them and I was able to rewrite them under the photos. Always the writer, I titled the album—What Did You Do in the War Daddy? I presented it to him. He called me a Rascal—Dad's euphemism for "I love you." I have the album now.



The day he died was bittersweet. My mother had been in the nursing a home a few years and he would visit her every single day. He brought her tiny pink tea roses once a week. But that day he called Mom and said, "Flossie, I won't be coming today. I'm gonna have to see you on the other side of the Jordan."



My sister found him a little while later.



We told Mom at the nursing home. But she said, "I know. He told me."



I worse a black jacket to his funeral. It was cold, the dead of February. I wore his Good Conduct medal. But here's the thing, Dad loved Jelly Beans, well candy of any sort. But it seemed he always had jelly beans in his pocket. So I brought a bag to the service and handed them out to folks. We all stuffed Dad's pockets with jelly beans. He loved that. But even though he could be so very mean, just before they closed the casket I clipped his good conduct medal onto his lapel. It had been a hard journey. But I think he mostly did his best.



So, Dad, you SOB, you had your tender moments. And for that I'm grateful.

What is Wrong With People?

Here's the thing, I watched the national news this morning. Big mistake. The economy is apparently going belly up again—something about stocks and credit ratings I don't pretend to understand. Philadelphia is being over run with what they call Flash Mobs—groups of youngsters beating up innocent bystanders. London is on fire. Seriously, people are rioting and breaking things, and kicking down doors and looting, turning over cars, setting fires and beating the hell out of each of each other. If only that were possible—to beat HELL out of someone and be left with well, the opposite of Hell.



I have the answer. I've been saying this for years. Even my pastor suggested it from the pulpit Sunday. Ready. Here it is—simple as this. Nobody goes to Sunday School anymore. That's it, the simple answer. These kids in the flash mobs should be in church three times a week learning the difference between right and wrong, good and evil. Back when I was a kid everyone went to Sunday School, Hebrew School or Catechism classes to learn how to behave in society and love God so that He can be a blessing to them. We learned that lying is bad, shoplifting is bad, and I suppose breaking down the doors and windows of a jewelry store and looting thousands of dollars of diamonds and then setting it ablaze would be considered naughty. Don't you think?



Now I know this sounds simplistic and there are people out there who will tell me it has more to do with socioeconomics and stuff. And yes, you are correct but I'm telling you—a few well-paced Sunday School teachers with the wrath f God and the Love of God at the ready will go far.

The Thing about a Dust Jacket

Here's the thing, I received a boatload of books Friday. They came in two brown boxes and were delivered by the UPS guy. They were copies of my debut middle grade novel, Carrying Mason. I cried. Okay, it might be a menopausal mood swing but still, I cried. Oh, I cried when my adult novels arrived also. Don't get me wrong. It's not like my Bright's Pond novels are the ugly step sisters. But this was is different and here's why. As most of you already know I have wanted to be a writer since I was nine years old. I cannot think of anything else I ever wanted to do with my life, other than a few fleeting thoughts about working for the CIA as a spy and there was that one unfortunate stint as a dog groomer, but let's not discuss that dark day. So when the books arrived I was naturally filled with emotion and sat down and read the entire book from cover to cover as I do with all my books.



The big thing was the dust jacket. I don't know what it is about a hardbound book with a dust jacket but it somehow makes it all more, literary, novely, writerly or bookish, maybe even permanent. It's not an E-Book that can be deleted. (Although E-books are good too, there's room for both) Maybe it takes me back to those days at the library when I would climb the stacks looking for a new author to read, when . . . and I might be wrong . . . but most of the books had dust jackets, that's how I remember it. I worried about the dust jacket. I was always afraid I would rip it. Most of the book jackets were already bandaged with tape and so crimpled that one more small rip or crinkle wouldn't matter. But I worried. I didn't want to make it worse so I always took the jacket off when I could and set it neatly aside while I read about Pippi Longstocking, or Harriet the Spy, or the mating rituals of East Indian elephants. And then I replaced the jacket and returned it to the library. Back then I was a good citizen and returned library books. I've gotten a little slack in the department.



So here I am with a dust jacket with my name on it, wrapped like a comfortable blanket around the book I wrote. Oh, and the flaps make nifty bookmarks. I'm really not being prideful, although I am proud of my achievement, but I am mostly touched and even spellbound that this is really happening. Sometimes it seems impossible that this pigeon toed, stringy girl from a Westbrook Park row home got to have her dream come true. It's as though I'm nine years old again. But the truth is, I am more a testament to perseverance, hard work, stick-to-it-tive-ness as my mother would have called it. Forty-five years is all it took. And hey, if you rip the jacket that's okay. Just be sure to tape it. Maybe someday I'll be rummaging through a library and find a copy all taped up, a battered and hopefully well-love book.

The Cheese Never Stands Alone

Here's the thing, the past several weeks have been busy. I was/will be teaching at summer conferences, not to mention attending to my own writing schedule. I just got back from the Montrose Christian Writers Conference where I taught my ever-growing-in-popularity-it-seems fiction clinic. This time around I had 16 first time novelists and one interloper. And I must say, it was one of my best clinics so far. I absolutely love doing this. These small groups, these communities of writers and lovers of words become family if even for a just a few short but intense days. That's them in the picture. I love them.

What's fun is the variety of manuscripts I get to read. Everything from a children's books set in a Dystopian Society to Women's Literature to Fantasy. Sure, all the books need work. But hey, whenever I read my own books published years ago, I wince and wish Superman could fly backwards around the globe and reverse time. But no, there comes a time with every manuscript when you have to stop adding and subtracting words. But sometimes it takes a village to raise a book. To make it publishable—that's the thing, that's the big thing and probably the subject of another post down the road.

I especially enjoy watching the light bulbs go off inside the workshopees minds when something I say about Point of View or Dialog or what have you sinks in and they get it. I enjoy watching the participants get to know each other and trust each other and learn from each other even when I'm not around. It's community.

My approach is simple—talk about novels. Talk about growing an organic story that builds and develops and thrives starting with premise and pressing through to character, structure, setting etc. We talk about how one aspect of the novel naturally grows out of the other. The cheese never stands alone in a novel. If it did, the dream, as John Gardner calls it, will end.

I'm in the process of reading 12 more manuscripts for the Greater Philadelphia Conference next week. I already know it's going to be great.

Stupid Jokes

Here's the thing, I took my son to a pet store today. It was very very far away. A two hour drive. But I must admit it is a totally cool place. Adam's latest hobby is fish. Yes, that's right fish as in aquariums and water and fish and plants and fish and water and well, he likes it. So yeah, I was a good mom and took him to this amazing pet store in far far away land.
They had everything you can think of from chameleons which were really neat to the teeniest tiniest shrimp. Guess that's why they call them shrimp--they were like an eight of an inch long and cost $3.99 each. Uh, yeah, right.
Anyway, on the long long drive home I discovered Adam is a sucker for a stupid joke. LIke this one:
Q: What is big and yellow, sits in a tree and is very, very dangerous?
A: A one hundred and fifty pound canary with a machine gun.
He laughed and laughed.
I love him.

Long Ago Summer

Here's the thing, for some reason I started to wax nostalgic the other night about summers gone by. I'm not sure what brought the flood of mostly sentimental longings and memories rushing to the forefront of my mind. Perhaps it was the thick, humid air, or the buzz of a mosquito, or the crack of a baseball against a well swung bat. I remembered the warm summer evenings when we got to stay out past nine because it was still light out. My mother would bring trays of crescent cut watermelon slices to us on the stoop where me and my compadres, six or seven awkward, free for the summer hooligans sat scheming about what to do next. We'd slurp the luscious, red flesh of the fruit and spit the seeds as far as we could under the moon and the street lights just coming to life.

The sounds of neighbors arguing, horns blaring, music drifting on woolen air that smelled of fresh mown grass and cigarettes. It made you think you could lose your mind if you didn't find something to do. We all had legs that ached to move and hands that needed a job and over active imaginations that made every unusual car on the street full of kidnappers and the occasional passing airplane on its way to Istanbul.

Someone, it didn't matter who, would suggest a game of Hide 'n Seek because it was something to do on a sultry, sticky night when no one could sleep. We'd toss the melon rinds into the yard for the squirrels and cats and coyotes and wolves and then we'd scamper through the neighborhood. Boundaries were my house—because it was an end row and the last house on the block where the weird people lived with the one daughter with the greasy black hair who only came out that one Saturday to bury a headless Barbie Doll. The people who built the bomb shelter in the backyard and stocked it with Campbell's soup and Band Aids. The only family that would survive the nuclear attack we all knew was coming.

Hide n' Seek on my block was not a game for the faint of heart. It was all out war between the hiders and the seeker—one summer school parolee combing the usual places looking for a kid to tag and then chase back to the light pole—to base. Being on base was one of the best things summer vacation had to offer. There you were safe. Safe from anything anyone could dish out. All you had to do was yell, "On base," and no one dared lay a hand you. It was code of the block.

Then, almost without exception, every single night someone would kick the light pole right in the sweet spot and all the lights would buzz off for a few minutes. It was like the great eyes that watched had gone blind and for exactly six and a half minutes the street was plunged into utter darkness. Only the inadequate bulbs of a few stoop lights cast a small ring of yellow that barely shown because the moths drawn to the light eclipsed any brightness they had in them.

But when the lights went out our simple game of hide 'n seek became dangerous. No longer an innocent game it became a game of Catch 'n Kill. Now everyone became a hider and everyone a seeker and our row was transformed to Lord of the Flies Avenue. When getting found meant getting tackled and pummeled like a piñata full of gumballs unless you reached base. The only thing that would save you was tagging base, tagging the blacked-out street light pole.

It was only the light that saved you.

Until some member of the tribe cried and went home and then one by our names were called from the stoop. It was time to go home.

It Takes Two men and a Truck to Water the Lawn

Here's the thing, I'm at my desk this morning working when I hear this noise outside. It was a sound that went: Squeaaaak! Grumble. Shoosh. Squeaaaak! Grumble. Shoosh. Squeaaaak! Grumble. Shoosh. Unable to bridle my curiosity any longer I went to investigate. It was a large township truck and a man in an orange shirt walking behind it. He was carrying an orange hose. He was watering the pretty flowers and trees along the street.That's them in the picture. It made me think. Geeze. All that manpower to water the plants. And that got me thinking even more, leave it to the men to figure out how to build a giant machine to water the azaleas or whatever they are—they're pink mostly. And that got me thinking if the men had the babies that's probably how they'd bathe them. Just line all the children up on the street. A big struck drives slowly past while another man sprays them down. Job done. Go home.

The Smudge Issue

Here's the thing, I have a smudge on my monitor. It's been there for about two weeks. Yes, that's right two weeks. Ever since I started the edits for Harriet Beamer. What do you suppose it means? I could very easily clean it off but for some reason I don't want to. It's not really in my way or impairing my vision. I tried to take a picture of it. It's not that I'm lazy. Ordinarilyy, the spot would have been gone by now. I will clean it when I finish the edits. It will be my reward for when the job is done. Most writers I know celebrate with chocolate or a nice dinner. No, not me. My celebration will be a clean screen. Does that make any sense? Any of you psyche majors out there who can tell me the psychology behind my smudge. Is there some deep-seated, smudge-related thing going on? How about you, is there a smudge in your life you can't seem to Windex away?