Jane Yolen's Blog, page 16

Addendum or Oops Look What I Missed:

My wonderful editor at Midsummer's Night Press tasked me to tell folk that at the Boskone SF Convention he handed me my first copies of my fantasy poetry book, The Last Selchie's Child. It's gorgeous to look at and to hold and I think some of the poems are great, too. More than that I am embarrassed to say. But I am proud as punch (not the kind who is mean to Judy but probably the drinking kind) that the book is out. Or at least will be officially so in May. Still, you can order at Midsummer's Night Press now.

February 17-March 9, 2012:

A frustrating journal three weeks as I couldn't add anything because of the hacker. Adam and his friend Corwin Brust worked long hours cleaning up the website. It was a mess. Way to go hacker, you messed up a site for kids and teachers! Hope you are proud of yourselves.

So what have I been doing since February 16?Here's a fast look. Will try to in-depth reporting another time.

Went to Boskone, the science fiction convention, where I was on five panels, one signing, one reading, and one koffeeklatch. I may be exaggerating by one panel, but it was a lot. I bought a painting in the art show, the cover for my Sister Bear, and had meals with friends Bruce Coville, and Patrick and Theresa Nielsen Hayden.

I had several late birthday dinners, one with the DiTerlizzis, one with a children's book group of friends up in Plainfield, went folk dancing with a new friend, went to the Suzanne Farrell Dance Concert, a Celtic Music concert, lunches and dinners with friends, a farewell dinner to friends Wayne and Leslie who are off for four months to Burma (Myamar), spoke at Ellen Wittlinger's class at the Eric Carle Museum, watched a college classmate win the Smith Medal, had lunch with cousin Malerie at the Lord Jeff, etc.

Equally (or more) important, I did a lot of writing on both novels–The Hostage Prince and Centaur Field. Heidi and I are working on a proposal called Monster K about kindergarten for monsters for Dan Yaccarino. I have written lyrics to three songs for Donna Hébert of the Celtic music group I heard earlier in the month. (See one below.) Been doing a poem a day since Jan 1 2011! Some work on an essay for the Folio Society.

Also sold 3-5 poems to Horn Book (depends on how much room they have) for the May issue, got first copies of Bug Off, and the ARC for Curse of the Thirteenth Fey, got my presentation for Michigan put together.

Done.

 

Here's the lyrics to one of the three songs:

 

Come to Me, My Darling

The North Sea moans, the seal folk rise,

Moon in their hearts, night in their eyes.

And every single selchie cries,

"Come to me, my darling."

 

The waves fall down, the selchies ride,

And hunger for men deep inside.

They call for me to choose a bride:

"Come to me, my darling."

 

 

They've tiny seashells in their hair,

Their skins are grey, as sea, as air,

But well I know I must beware,

Or I will be their darling.

 

The water's wide and dark and deep,

Far down below the sailors sleep.

But I have wife and weans to keep

So do not task me, do not heap,

For I'll not be your darling.

 

An Apology

For any who tried to visit the website in the past few days, you will have noted that I'd been hacked. But my intrepid webmeister (hi, Adam!) has gotten things up and running again. And we hope the creeps who crept into this site will have gone on to protest some major company and leave the place alone so children and teachers and storytellers and writers can peruse it to their hearts' content.

Thanks for understanding.

Jane

February 9-February 16, 2012:

This being my birthday week, I celebrated in many different ways. There was a dinner with the family at a lovely upscale restaurant called The Blue Heron, a dinner and movie (Truly, Madly, Deeply, my favorite, and yes, I cried!) with my friend Bob Marstall at my house; and a dinner with friends Mira Bartok and her husband Doug Plavin and the ever-present Marstall at Viva in Northampton. I have one more dinner to come at the GoTen with family and the diTerlizzis, but more about that after it's done.

Heidi and I launched the second (and really the beginning) of a monthly segment of morning talk radio on the local station WHMP. The segment is as yet untitled–I favor BookEnds–but we will be talking about children's books and talking to authors and illustrators. We had Norton Juster with us this time. Next up, Angela diTerlizzi.

I got myself (thanks Jody) a recumbent exercise bike and love it! I can read while cycling in the comfort of my home and the minutes tick by. I a deep into Elizabeth Wein's brilliant World War II YA novel, Code Name Verity, and cannot recommend it enough!

May have sold a new picture book, but that is hush-hush and not set in stone yet, Scholastic has created a How Do Dinos hall costume for large conventions, and will have someone wandering around being charming in it at the IRA (International Reading Assn.) conference in Chicago this May.

Meanwhile, I have written several new chapters on The Hostage Prince (Seelie Wars Book 1) with Adam. We are getting close to the end. Also wrote two new chapters on Centaur Field, and am not quite sure how far along I am on it or if the opening has to be severely cut down. And I have been keeping up with my poem a day project. Plus tea and lunches with new friends and old. Just because I had a birthday doesn't mean I declare myself old!

January 16-February 8, 2012:

Long delay between posts, I know, but I have been so busy with writing, I have scarcely looked up to breathe.

Between bouts of writing, I have done the following: one trip to New York, where I went to the SCBWI winter conference and announced the Jane Yolen Midlist Grant, something SCBWI and I have been planning for a while. Among other things, I said this: "In these difficult book times, even well-reviewed and honored midlist authors often find themselves stalled in their writing lives and find they are having trouble selling new work. I am no different. I have 30 unsold picture book manuscripts, most of them the kind of book I love writing the best, books that would remind the reader of my Owl Moon or my Elsie's Bird, both of which took a long time to find the right editor. Yes, I still get lots of rejections.

"In our attention to up-and-coming authors—or pre-published authors as they are called by the Romance Writers and I do not mean this as a strike at any of you, for all midlist authors were up-and-coming once and we were all pre-published once (though Gordon Korman wasn't pre-published nearly long enough to count, since he began his massive and impressive publication career at 13!)–we often ignore these midlist writers who struggle to remain true to their personal vision and craft. They are the workhorses and the warhorses who are never as celebrated as the dancing Arabians or the airs-above-ground lippizaners."

On that trip, besides seeing my agent, I also had a very exciting luncheon with three amazing women about setting my book (written with Bob Harris) Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons, into a musical for the Long Wharf Theater in New Haven.

Along the way in those three weeks, I also went to the Hillside Salon and heard friend Mira Bartok speak, had brunch with friends Jane and Steve Schoenberg, went to a goodbye party for Amerhst ballet head Catherine Fair, dinner with neighbors Forrest and Amy, the Illustrators' Guild meeting, a bunch of my writer's group meetings, dinner with friend Ann Wheelock, worked on the set-up for a scholarship at UMass in David's honor, did swim therapy, and did two Skype sessions (one with college kids, one with K-8 kids.)

But mostly I did book work.

First there were three book jackets to consider: one for Curse of the Thirteenth Fey, which had to be redone. Then two separate looks for the Ekaterinoslav poems, two revisions of the Curses, Foiled Again jacket.

I had to read through and comment on the entire Foiled Again page proofs, a very technical and difficult read. As well as go over the color proofs of Waking Dragons which was easy. And am now stuck into the pages answering copyedited questions for Thirteenth Fey. I saw and approved jpgs for Emily Sonnets with stunning pictures by Gary Kelley.

And I have written about 3/4 of Centuar Field, and about 4/5 (with Adam) of The Hostage Prince which used to be called Snail and the Prince and is the first book of the Seelie Wars Trilogy.

If that isn't enough, I have also been working on an essay about Andrew Lang and the Olive Fairy Book; written a poem a day since January 1; started a picture book with Heidi called Monster K for new friend, illustrator Dan Yaccarino; and been in conversations with (and did a bit of writing on) a book project with Mira Bartok called provisionally Magnus Mikkelson's Museum of Unnatural History. (I think I am forgetting something, but never mind.)

So, while I have done a lot it's clear I still have a long way to go.

Interstitial Moment:

Today I received two different cover comps for a book of mine. (My new book of adult poems.) And as I looked at the two side by side, I thought a lot about what makes a good cover.  I also realized how difficult it is to make a decision about what will most appeal. It's not the first time I have had this thought, of course. Back when I was an editor for Harcourt with my own imprint, I had to think about it a lot as I was editing between 5-10 books a year then.

But here goes:

First, as everyone will tell you, a book jacket is a poster. It will be (if you are lucky) face out on the shelf in a bookstore and it needs to sing a siren song to anyone walking by. It needs to crook its finger at the buyer. It needs to wiggle its beautiful rear. It needs to seduce.

But my seduction (Johnny Depp, Colin Firth, Alan Rickman) may not be yours. You may be (mirable dictu) a Justin Bieber seductee. And so the art director and editor (along with the marketing department and occasionally, God help us, Barnes & Noble) need to look at the cover comp with the eyes of the hoped-for book buyer.They have to make it gorgeous and appealing, not necessarily to their own aesthetic but to the perceived audience's desires.

The questions are asked: is it bold enough, alluring enough, does it tell a story (does it, the author begs, tell the right story, but that is a different question and another fight). Can you recognize it and its genre across a crowded room? Is the type big enough, too big, too ornate, not sexy enough, too old-fashioned, too modern? I myself dislike san serif type, but understand its place on book jackets and often have to give way. There are times the art directors get caught up in the tropes of the day. For example, recently there has been a tidal wave of  YA book jackets and adult novels jackets with the main characters' heads cut off. Go figure. And a few years ago no one would ever use green on a jacket because the common wisdom of the day had been "green jackets don't sell." Fairy tale novel covers, once the province of romantic illustrators like Kinuko Craft and Ruth Sanderson and John Jude Palacar seem these days to have been given over entirely to photographers.

It's a tough job and an often thankless task. Not everyone is pleased with the result. But in the end, if the jacket appeals to the buying public, there is satisfaction enough to go around.

January 4-15, 2012

This has been a chock-a-block twelve days (and nights) and even looking back on it, it's hard to get a handle on all that got done. And all that didn't.

Basically–I wrote a lot,  both poetry and prose. I partied hard. I had a friend over for a three day writing/painting retreat. Did a few meetings, skype visits, dentists, water therapy.

And boy! are my wings tired.

First, of course, there are the organ recitals (as we oldsters call it.)

I lost a tooth suddenly, crunching down on a soft date. Yeah, go figure. So I had the first of a series of dental visits. Ongoing water therapy at the Y pool for back problems.  Minor annoyances.

Then there were the parties:

There was a 12th Night party in Amherst, though it wasn't on the date and was in the afternoon. But a lot of fun. I took my granddaughter Glendon as my date. A friend's 5oth birthday party in Greenfield, complete with a Celebrant who led us in games and appreciations, and we got to watch the birthday girl (lady?) walk over flower petals into her next half century. One of her gits was a yodeling pickle. (You had to be there) I wrote her a sonnet. Then an astonishingly good brunch in New Salem with old friends and possible collaborators. A farewell party in Amherst to the head of Amherst Ballet. Plus dinners with other friends and neighbors and daughter and grandlings. My, I was Ms. Popularity all right!

The Writing and Publishing:

Here's where things got gnarly.

Yes, I was still writing a poem a day, the good and the bad and the really and truly ugly.

I worked on two new chapters for Centaur Field, a short middle grade novel.

Wrote and rewrote about three new chapters for The Hostage Prince (nee Snail and the Prince) the first book of the Seelie Wars Trilogy with son Adam.

Started my talk for SCBWI's midwinter conference.

Began the introduction for a book of fairy tales (not mine) the Folio Society is bringing out.

Organized a mss. of my New England poems as a quasi-calendar. Don't have a publisher for it yet.

Read and edited the text for Curses! Foiled Again with Mike Cavallero's great artwork in pdf format in front of me.

Read and edited Emily Sonnets with the pdf of Gary Kelley's gorgeous artwork in front of me.

Ditto the covers for How Do Dinosaurs Celebrate Christmas and How Do Dinosaurs Celebrate Christmas.

Did a Northampton WHMP radio interview with Heidi.

Went to a KidLit drinks night with Heidi in Northampton.

And am probably forgetting a dozen more things.

I wish I could say the next few weeks promise to be easier. NOT!

Interstitial Moment:

As many of you know, I decided last year to write (at least) a poem a day for the entire year of 2011, and by December 31 I was done. But along the way I had so much fun and learned so much, that I have decided to do it again.

Writers as a whole love to have written and hate to write. They bellyache and complain endlessly about how hard writing is, how a book is not going the way it ought to, how they spent all day looking for a single right word and the next day threw the word out. Some call it bleeding on the page. Some give their books curse words for titles, like "The Book from Hell" and the "FB that I am writing" (the B word is book.)

On the other hand, there are a hardy few who absolutely adore the act of writing, and I am one of them. I am never so happy as when the words are pouring out of me in a white heat. I feel productive, pro-active, and pure.

But I have always feared something one of my first editors said to me: "You are a facile writer. Do not be beguiled by your facility." I have taken that to heart. So anytime I get to feeling complacent about my writing, too full of my own facility, I take a step back and set up a challenge. Maybe it's trying a screen play or a graphic novel or the lyrics to an opera. Some of these I have managed, some are still a bit out of reach.To be honest, some are completely out of my reach.

This past year the challenge was to write a poem a day, beginning on January 1. I didn't constrict it any more than that, didn't say: all poems to be sonnets, or haiku, or verse forms. I didn't say each poem has to have a central metaphor or an image of nature, or had to be about something real that happened to me. Just this: write a poem a day.

And sometimes two happened.

I also didn't say the poems had to be good (most were not), or revised endlessly (some were, some weren't) or that I had to try and get them published (about thirty have been published or purchased for print publication, though altogether the money I made on the 2011 poems I sold would not get me a dinner out with three friends, not even in Northampton, MA, the nearest foodie town to where I live.)

And I knew that out of the 365 plus poems, I would be lucky to get several dozen that I even liked well enough to want to work on further, or to take a line from to twiddle with elsewhere. I was not doing this to become Poet Laureate of the US or even of Northampton, MA, and knew most of what I wrote in the challenge would never be read by anyone but me.

But I knew the poem-a-day challenge would stretch me, and at the same time would let me see where I tended to be facile–using repeating phrases from one poem to another, or even borrowing from myself in other ways. It also let me see that I tend to like list poems, and sometimes let a rhyme sneak in even when I am not writing a rhymed poem because. . .well, because I like rhyme. And that I overuse alliteration. (See the third paragraph of this IM.) And how often I try to impose form on what is not a formal poem.

Some of the poems I posted online and–to my embarrassment–garnered much more praise than I knew they were worth. Sort of like Samuel Johnson's cruel and stupid canard comparing women who preach to dogs who walk on their hind legs. "While neither does it very well, it's surprising to see it done at all." I am nothing if not ruthless about my own writing.

But I did write three or four pretty good poems along the way.

January 1-3, 2012:

The first posts of the new year include a little heartache, a little toothache, and a lot of writing.

Heartache:

One dear writer friend, a student of mine, is dying. She has written a beautiful, powerful upbeat goodbye to a number of us and has become my new hero. There is an elegance and a promise in her letter that will be my guide for the future.

Toothache:

So, it's not all about dying with heroism, it's also about living heroically with pain. I am not so good at that. I was sitting in my writing chair, looking over something I'd just written, eating a soft date, when I bit down on something solid. Not the pit, which I'd already removed. It turned out to be the upper right incisor which had just broken off. The pain was like a knife in the gum.

As it was already 4:30 in the afternoon and the dentist about to shut down, I raced over, tooth throbbing. My lovely dentist built up the broken tooth, soothed the ache, thinks it will not need root canal, but will need to be capped. What a pain–in both senses of the word.

Book news:

*Contract terms for Centaur Field dealt with.

*Short story about Disraeli finished, revised, sent off to the editors. Now I must wait to find out if it fits the bill.

*New poem-a-day series begun. Here is one of them, from Jan 2.:

The Year Starts Well

The year starts well: two poems,

juicy and anarchic,

a short story finished that till today

was recalcitrant and bad in bed.

I have caught up on my journal,

Made a start at cleaning my house.

By tomorrow I should be

Empress of the Known World.

How can one not like a year

that begins this way?

Too bad they all end the same.

*First stab at organizing materials for an introduction for a Folio Society book. (Will need to hit the Smith College Library next week.)

*Saw cover of The Last Selchie Child poetry book (two versions, like them both.) Went over the galleys.

*Went over the full illustrations for the graphic novel Curses, Foiled Again. Illustrator Mike Cavallero has outdone himself!

*Got my first rejection of 2012. A picture book. And so it begins. . .

Interstitial Moment:

In critiquing a friend's manuscript, I told her she needed texture in her writing. She asked me to explain. So I sent her this. I thought it might be of a more general interest to everyone.

Texture means simply that your characters are set in their world. Here are three ways of writing the same scene. The first has not texture and is simply bare-boned. We have no idea where or when these folks are living. The second and third have texture, and see how differently the writer can make things seem.

1.

Margat moved toward him and held out her hand. "I am pleased to meet you."

When he took her hand, it was a limp shake, as if she'd offered him a dishrag. But his smile was

dazzling.

2.

Margat moved toward him, across the cobbled courtyard, the hem of her gown making the sound of falling leaves where it passed across the stone. When she reached him, she held out her hand. "I am pleased to meet you."

When he took her hand, it was a limp shake, as if she'd offered him a dishrag. His silk sleeve never moved or trembled the way other young men did when she was near. But his smile was dazzling even though it never reached his eyes. They were looking past her, at the duchess, as if he had to wait for permission to greet Margat, or even take her proferred hand.



"Margat moved toward him,  across the cattleyard, and held out her hand. The wind was so a-wail, she could hardly move at her usual pace. It was as if she had to swim through the air to reach him. "I am pleased to meet you." She tried to give him a hearty shake, the way her Pa would have done. A tumble weed fetched up by the back of his boots, though he didn't seem to notice.

When he took her hand, it was a limp shake, as if she'd offered him a dishrag off a dirty sink. But his smile was dazzling.

For all his  clothes–he stetson and the muddy boots, the kerchief and the rest–he knew him for a cheat. Papa always said, the handshake tells all.