Jane Yolen's Blog, page 17

December 24-December 31, 2011:

The last part of December whizzed by in a farrago of parties, family visits, some writing, some book news. Perhaps not so different from the rest of the year except for the number of parties, so I will begin with them.

Parties:

There were family parties–dinners at the house, at restaurants, presents from beneath the tree, the menorah lit and blessed. (Christmakah or Chanukahmass, take your pick. we don't do Kwanza.) There was a housewarming party for Rebcca Guay and Matt Mitchell, a costum New Year's party at Theo and Holly Black's, a New Year's soup with outdoor marshmallow roast party (it was 46 degrees in January in New England, folks!) at Cheryl and Mo Willem's. Too much eating. The strict diet so thrown out that it mouldered in the grass. Yes grass. There was no snow.

Writing:

I continued to the very end writing my poem a day. Didn't miss one and in a few instances got two poems done. Probably two dozen of the poems written this year have or will be published–some in books (such as my upcoming Ekaterinislav book (Holy Cow!), my Thunder Underground book (Boyds Mills), possibly a book of Holocaust poems. Some have been taken by online and print journals already, including Asimov's, Pirene's Fountain, etc. I enjoyed the experience so much, the rigor of the exercise, that am extending into 2012.

By year's end, Adam and I had 25,000 plus words on the first book of our Seelie Wars trilogy (Viking) and the possible outline for four more chapters. As of now, the first book is called Snail and the Prince but may change. It could be called The Hostage Prince I suppose. Or perhaps The Border Lords' War. I think the 3-4 chapters we worked on the days he was here with his family are solid. We did some good planning and solving of major problems. And now we are over half done. The book is due in May. Should be no problem. We have reached the galloping-along momentum time in the book. There may be scenes ahead with carnivorous mermen, a troll birth scene, a Sticksman poling a ferry across a river. Or not.

I also worked on the short story "The Jewel in the Toad Queen's Head," a Disraeli/Queen Victoria/Kabbalistic magic story. Reached an impasse by the time Adam and crew arrived. Bulled through it the day they went to Boston. Then all those dang parties intervened. Am hoping to get the rest done in the coming week.

Started to write a cow/zombie picture book but no matter the intent, it remained. . .well. . .stupid, so have put it aside.

The books news includes:

*Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers (the life of Chagall in verse, from Creative Editions) which J. Patrick Lewis and I wrote together being a finalist for the Cybils Award.

*The contract for the Seelie Wars arriving Christmas Eve day. Happy holiday!

*The contract for House of Candy (Philomel Books) arriving the day after Christmas.Happier holiday.

*The full illustrations in jpegs for Curses Foiled Again (First/Second Books) which are amazing. Mike Cavallero outdid himself on this.

* jpeg of a full dummy from Tara Chang for our (as yet unsold) picture book called The Trouble With Taking Trolls To Tea and it is truly delightful.

*jpeg of the cover for my novel, Curse of the Thirteenth Fey (Philomel) which is stunning. The cover, that is. Whether the novel is as well will be up to readers to judge.

And:

All this is to say how grateful I am to still be writing well, and enjoying it. Whether I continue to enjoy the swamp that publishing has become is not–alas–entirely in my own hands. But I think I must focus on the writing and let the other stuff go. Process, not product.

I wish all my journal readers a healthy, sane, and progressive new year. I hope that our political lives are not continued to be ruled by the seven dwarfs who, these days, seem to be of the Sleazy, Silly, Stupid, and Dopey variety. Narcissim R Us. But instead may we treat our neighbors as we would be treated ourselves, stop worrying about who may or may not marry someone they love, and let us all resolve to leave the planet a better place than we found it in 2011.

And with that–on to 2012!

November 26-December 23:

Apologies–but the month just got away from me. It included two quasi bad falls (possible small fracture in my foot on Thanksgiving and another in December carrying a box of books and wearing (well-named) slippers. That last one gave me bruises on both palms which is how I broke the fall.

In-between were trips to Charleston SC to do an early Christmas with my grandkids and son Jason and d-i-l Joanne, and a trip into New York which included seeing my S&S editors, my agent, my Scholastic/Cartwheel editor, dinners and lunches with friends, and an evening of theater in which Patti LaPone and Mandy Patinkin strutted their enormous talents across the stage.

I got an early copy of  Take Two, the book of twin poems done with J. Patrick Lewis, as well as early copies of How Do Dinosaurs Eat Cookies. Jpegs of Curses, Foiled Again, How Do Dinosaurs Celebrate Christmas, and How Do Dinosaurs Celebrate Chanukah, a jpeg of the cover of Curse of the Thirteenth Fey, and as color proofs of Waking Dragons, all of which cheered me enormously. Though I also had a bunch of books put out of print and the rights reverted to me.

At home, with other folks driving me (because of the injured foot), I had several dinners out with friends. Did a small reading at Back Pages Books in Waltham, MA of Things To Say to a Dead Man, and an even smaller signing in West Hartford B&N for Last Dragon, though a much better-attended signing with Rebecca Guay for Last Dragon in Northampton's Modern Myths book/game store ended my book travels for the year.

Son Adam and family showed up December 17 for a projected twelve day holiday stay and so far we have had a ball doing family stuff like jigsaw puzzles, dancing, singing, card games, Clue, Jenga, watching endless videos of Big Bang Theory (Bazinga!) while laughing hysterically, etc. And eating. Did I mention eating?

Adam and I have been barreling along on writing the first book of the Seelie Wars Triology, which is called Snail and the Prince for now.

And I am simultaneously writing a lot of adult poetry, working on a short fantasy story about Disraeli and Queen Victoria, and puttering a bit with Centaur Field, the novel.

Time for a vacation. Er–isn't that what the falls have been about? Forcing me to slow down?

Interstitial Moment

Sometimes my Muse has the attention span of a two-year old. The only way to treat her (without having her go into a full-blown temper tantrum– aka writer's block) is to distract her. It's the same thing you do with said two year old.

So I try 1. chocolate  2. a long walk   3. tea with old friends   4. a favorite movie  5. or (more usually) by turning to a different project altogether.

At that point (again, like the two year old) she looks up, sees me doing something else which is much more interesting than her current tantrum, comes over to get a closer look, and before you know it, she and I are playing "Trot Trot to Boston" on my knee, or dancing around the room, or snuggling together while reading a special book or. . .by writing. Maybe not on that old blocked project, but on something else truly wonderful, the words just flowing, flowing, flowing.

November 22-25, 2011

This holiday was a bit fraught. Full of friends, food, and. . .

I thought at first a broken ankle.

The stry goes like this: On the 23rd, some friends, some family all gathered for a pre-Thanksgiving dinner at Heidi's. I drank two glasses of champagne (probably more champagne or indeed wine than I have had since Jason's wedding which was ten years ago. Not much of a drinker, obviously!) And I fell asleep on Heidi's sofa. When I woke to hours later, I went straight home to bed.

The next morning as is my wont, I got up early, did my exercises, washed my hair, did some writing, some email and FaceBook. Had breakfast. Had the requisite Old Lady Round of Pills. Put on my coat and went next door to Heidi's to rouse the troops.

Well, at least I started out there. Went down the ramp (closer than just going down the front steps). Didn't notice the skim of ice on the wet leaves. My feet went out from under me and suddenly I was lying on my back, my right leg (the one with the full knee replacement) bent back under me.

I lay there for a minute, assessing. Nothing actually hurt, though once I freed my leg and stood up, I realized I was having trouble putting my full weight on my right foot.

Since I didn't have my cel phone with me, and I didn't dare try to go back up the slippery ramp, I limped/hobbled to the front of the house, managed to get up the four front steps (don;t ask me how) stumbled into the tv room, collapsed on the comfy chair where I normally write, took a deep breath, and called over to Heidi on the house phone.

When she answered, I said–my voice rather breathy but calm–"I fell and. . ."

"I will be right over," she said.

Within a minute she was.

Gingerly, she took off my shoe and sock and we both kind of gasped. There was a tennis ball-sized lump protruding from my ankle.

"Broken?"

"Maybe not," she said.

She called Maddison to bring over her purse. Maddison was just as speedy, and she took a photo of my foot, saying that when her boyfriend, Brett, had broken his ankle in soccer, it had looked like that, which wasn't comforting.

Between the two of them, they carried me down the stairs. (How had I gotten up them is still a mystery. Adrenaline is such a great drug!) and into the car. We were all laughing as we went, a combination of Yolen-Stemple gallows humor and grace under pressure.

Surprisingly, nothing hurt but my pride.

At the Northampton Cooley Dickinson hospital, I was taken in immediately (small town, good service!) and x-rayed. Within an hour, we had the results. No break, not even a fracture. Just a bad sprain. Rest. Ace bandage. A walking air cast when needed. Ice. Iburofin. Crutches.

Put a damper on Thanksgiving. But we all managed. And except for some back pain (minor) from sleeping on the sofa, and under arm pain from the crutches, I seem to be fine. And by the 26th , I was  (gingerly) walking.

I got a little revision on Centaur Field done. A lot of games of boggle. Watched Netflix and On Demand movies. Caught up on "Bones" and "Top Chef" among other tv series. Read a bunch of magazines. In other words, I was forced to lead a normal life.

I don't like it!

November 9-21, 2011:

Travel:

Despite my wonderful PA's best efforts to control me, I did too much travel this past week and a half.

There was the Connecticut Book Fair where Heidi and I presented and signed  a gadzillion books. I was also at the special dinner for the winners of the Raab prize (the young illustrators used my poem "Infirm Pachyderm"and I was one of the judges.) I stayed at Susannah Richards house.

That was quickly followed by a two day trip to Indiana where I spoke in Fort Wayne's Convention Center, addressing the Indiana Library Federation in a speech called "I Still Believe in Books." Plus a signing. And met both the author/comic book illustrator of UnShelved, and four wonderful fairly new Indiana YA authors who were all delightful.

Followed by a Boswell Books signing with Heidi up in Shelburn Falls, attended only by seven adults and 3 children and I think we sold seven books altogether, but we love Shelburn so not a complete loss.

Then Rebecca Guay and I went to Barnes and Noble to do a presentation to three classes of a local school (they walked over for the preentaion)–6-8th graders. Sold maybe ten books.

Entertainment:

Tea with a college friend Mary, an evening watching Maddison dance at the Willison dance concert, Rebeeca G's art gallery opening, dinner with my children's book dinner group, and then the first of the Thanksgiving week of dinners with friends at Heidi's.

Book stuff:

Managing to keep writing a poem a day. (Since January 1!)

Working on the first two chapters of Centaur Field.

Saw the absolutely adorable color pictures for Waking Dragons.

Learned that on the Poetry Foundation's list of bestsellers, gathered from actual book sales in numerous bookstores across the country, Things To Say to a Dead Man was #7 on the contemporary list and Switching on the Moon #7 on the children's list.

And here's one of the poems from this ten days:

Listening to the News Reminds Me of Yeats

These are the turnings we were warned of,

the center imploding, the far edges

of the universe folding in upon themselves.

Now birds fall from the darkening skies;

preachers become prophets, making profits

from the end of days; a haze of obituaries;

fewer weddings and those disputed.

Notice how no celebrities look like us,

with their perfect bodies and ironed faces,

while we wrinkle like the sea.

There is no rough justice slouching

towards Bethlehem or the Arab states,

or for that matter in the courtrooms of Texas,

or the boardrooms of multinational banks.

Wall Street crumbles, the stock market stumbles,

housing starts tumble. Yeats set it all down first:

that bloody tide of change and not-change,

that bloody intensity of right and not-right,

the beast stalking the presidency

down the twisty, blackened capitol streets.

We were warned, we did not listen,

and the teeth are at the back of our necks.

Soon they will be at the front.

©2011 by Jane Yolen, all rights reserved

Interstitial Moment:

Mark Twain wrote: "Of course truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense."

Well, even poetry has to make sense, though it is a bend-your-mind-around-this-metaphor kind of sense. That's what we have to remember always. Just because something is actual, doesn't make it True with a capital T.

Let me tell you a story. This actually happened to me. To understand the story, though, you need to know that my married name is Stemple.

My husband David Stemple and I came back from a nine- month's journey in a VW camper bus around Britain, the Continent, Greece, and the Middle East where I had become pregnant with our first child in Paris' Bois de Bologne. (It was the '60s after all!)

We bought an 8 room house in Conway, Mass and two weeks later had a baby. All the furniture in the world we owned when we moved in was a brass bed, a roll top desk, a guest bed where my mother stayed for a week, and a room full of baby furniture. And so we spent our weekends (and once I was fully ambulatory, I spent weekdays) going to homestead auctions trying to furnish eight rooms on the cheap and quick. Have I mentioned it was the '60's!

While David was at work at UMass, I went to one auction at the homestead of an old man who'd recently died. Because of the baby's schedule, I'd gotten there too late for the previews.  Baby Heidi was in her stroller, so we were at the back of the crowd. All I had to go on was gut instinct when items were held up. In this way, I bought a dresser for seven dollars.

When I got back home, got the baby to sleep, and wrestled the dresser out of the van, I realized how truly ugly a piece it was. And far too heavy for me to get it into the house and upstairs by myself, so I left it in the driveway.

When David returned from work, we looked inside the drawers which turned out to be full of the dead man's underwear. But beneath the worn boxer shorts, we found a small cast-iron bank. I shook it, and could hear the rustle of paper money and the clank of several coins. So maybe I hadn't entirely wasted seven dollars.

With a hammer and chisel, David forced-open the bank. Inside were $15 in one dollar bills, and a couple of rare early American coins. Score!  Plus there was a newspaper article about the old man's father who'd been in the theater when the night Lincoln was shot.

For some reason I turned over the article, and on the back was an obituary for somebody named Stemple. Now Stemple is not  a common name in New England. In fact, spelled our way, we were it.

That, as I have noted above, is the actual story. But where is the truth in it? The sense? It may give you a momentary frisson. I'll grant you it's a bit spooky.  But, what else?

Nothing.

It's not fiction. Mark Twain had it right. "Of course truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense."

As a story, my anecdote makes no sense.

So listen to Mark Twain.

A poem, a story, a novel is crafted, not just told. The characters may be based on people you know, incidents that have happened to you, even stuff you have read in magazines or newspapers, or heard about elsewhere.  But for fiction, there has to be invention and storying. Metaphor at the ground level.

As writers we must not just go after truth with a small t, but Truth with a capital letter. And if you have to lie—tell a story—to get there, then you do.

October 26-November 8, 2011

This being book touring season, I get to the journal when I can. And today I have some time.

Travels:

I had six wonderful women writers, all published, at the house for a retreat of five days. I had to do little for it, had some meals and chats with them, all very low key. Mostly they were working, thinking, walking, retreating.

Flew to Iowa for a science fiction convention called I-Con which my second cousin, Galen Brownsmith was running. Son Adam drove down from Minneapolis. I was on lots of panels, gave a reading with Adam, was interviewed, listened to Adam do an hour music set, signed some books. Lovely time.

Flew to Rochester, NY for a book fair, gave a short talk on graphic novels. Signed hundreds of books. It;s my absolute favorite book fair, well run, mammothly well attended, and lots of fun people, including Bruce Coville, Vivien Vande Velde, Leda Schubert, James Howe, Cynthia deFelice, Jeff Mack, and other darling folk.

Did a reading ay Smith College's Neilson Browsing Room of the poems from THINGS TO SAY TO A DEAD MAN and 83 people showed up.  Very moving.

Ahead: Connecticut Bookfair in Storrs, Ct, keynote speech for the Indiana Library Federation, Two book signings at Barnes and Noble in Holyoke and West Hartford. A signing at Boswell Books in Shelburne Falls, Ma. And all this before Thanksgiving.

No wonder I'm tired.

Books & Writing:

Still writing a poem a day and combining that with a poem a day in November to raise money for a charity. In the November deal, I send out the new poem each day to folks who pledge a certain amount per poem. This is my third year.

Have been working on the trilogy with Adam, and we are well into the first book, over 11,000 words and waiting for the contract. (Still.)

I was surprised by a picture book which is called THE VANISHING PACHYDERM. And could not wrap my head around a picture book and editor asked me to write. Sent out a proposal for a middle grade novel, CENTAUR FIELD.

And of course had tea and lunches and dinners with a variety of friends along the way. And an old storytelling friend, Connie Regan-Blake stayed overnight and we took a walk along the Connecticut River and caught up on so many years since we'd spent time together.

October 5-25, 2011:

A lot to catch up on as I have been in a whirl the past twenty days, having been in New City for a conference, Minnesota for two readings, speaking at Mt. Holyoke, at a workshop at the Eric Carle Museum, have six writers on a retreat at my house, and got a lot of book work done as well.

So let's begin way back after my return from Scotland.

On the 5th I dealt with getting tickets to Minnesota, Heidi and I spoke with our Bad Girls editor, and I tried to catch up on mail.

6th: I did a SKYPE visit with some 7th graders studying Girl in a Cage, managed to work on some small rewrites for the Last Laughs book while admiring the amazing illustrations. And waded through more mail, and fell into bed early.

7th: Worked during the day on a new chapter for the Seelie Wars trilogy and sent it off to Adam, then had tea at 4 with friend Patricia Lewis in Northampton.

8th: Went to the Paradise City Arts Fest with my friend Bob Marstall, bought a few Christmas presents, had lunch with our old friends Bobbin and Eric, John&Polly, with lots of reminiscing.

9th: Worked much of the day on house stuff, and had dinner with Heidi and Maddison and the DiTerlizzis.

1oth: Poetry day, working on Thunder Underground poems and some adult poetry as well and worked on two speeches, one for Mout Holyoke and one for an Indiana Library conference.

11th: A full day of writing, catching up on reading a lot of magazines, more house work, laundry, picking up books from huge piles, reading a good section of a biography of Denys Finch Hatton.

12th: Spinning of poetry wheels, mostly Thunder Underground, managed to delete much of the day before's work, had dinner with Ann Wheelock at Green Street Cafe which is always fun.

13th: I took a morning train into New York, reading magazines (more catch up) and more Denys Finch Hatton bio and wrote some more poetry. Staying over at friend Bonnie Bryant's apartment, went to a panel on writing fantasy with Holly Black, Delia Sherman, and other smart, articular women writers.

14th: Breakfast with agent, lunch with editor Jill Santopolo, dinner with another friend and Birdland Big Band Jazz. Wish I'd remembered my earplugs. It was great but we were practically sitting in the drummer's lap. A dinner in the Village at a found restaurant which proved delightful.

15th: Signing Last Dragon at Comicon with Rebecca Guay, did two interviews with her, but the place was too overwhelming for me to stay long. Though I did seek out David White and bought a book from him, and then Peter Beagle where I bought two from him (all Christmakkah presents). Then I met my Birdland friend at the Metropolitan, where we saw the Steiglitz show, then had a lovely dinner, and afterwards a long and cozy walk along the Highline.

16th: Drove home with Rebecca Guay and Scott Fischer, and managed to get to bed at a reasonable time, though my friend Steve Gould–here to see his daughter who is a freshman at Smith–arrived too late for me to spend any time with him.

17th: So Steve got up early in order for us to have a chat before Heidi arrived to take me to the airport and off I went to Minneapolis. Adam and Betsy picked me up, and I spent the day with them until 5 when the editor of my poetry book Things to Say to a Dead Man got me for a quick dinner and then I gave a reading of the book at Hamline University. We used up half of three boxes of tissues and sold lots of books.

18th: Betsy and I went clothes shopping,  had lunch, bought gifts, and when the kids got home, we all went out to dinner at my favorite Greek restaurant, Christos.

19th: Adam and I worked on several projects, including a book trailer for Snow in Summer, and plotting much of the first book of the Seelie Wars. We've already written 10,000 words. Then my editor Jim picked me up for my second reading at The Loft. Sold more books. In fact, between the two readings, we sold 83 Things to Say to a Dead Man, not bad for poetry!

20th: I flew home on an early flight, and then went to get my hair done. In between, much to do about various mail and email.

21st: Patricia Gauch was doing a master class at the Eric Carle Museum on writing picture books, and I sat in on it and was a second voice. Then we went out with a group of folks from the Museum and another author but service was so bad at the restaurant that after waiting two hours for the main course to be served, I had to leave without eating because I had an early start for the next day.

22nd: At 9:15 I gave the keynote address for the Mount Holyoke College Write Angles Conference and stayed most of the day. But I was too exhausted by the end to go out to a movie with friend Bob.

23rd: Six writers showed up between the afternoon and evening, who were staying at the house for a writers' retreat. Besides more revisions on Thunder Underground, I began work on a new book proposal for short novel, Centaur Field. Heidi and I went off to see Glen and her boyfriend Jason's new apartment in Northampton and to meet Jason's parents. All very lovely.

24th: Retreat in full swing. I got a flu shot, had tea at 2:30 with friend Jody, and dinner at the Green Street Cafe with friends Geri (complimentary aunt) and Susan who's daughter Gavi is a freshman at Smith. Much fun talk ensued, though Gavi had to leave early for a dance class. Heidi and I gave the retreat writers a tour of the children's book art in the house from 9 p.m. to 10.

25th: Retreating writers still here. I went to my regular writing group, which I had missed sorely the last five months. Then back in time for dinner with the retreat group. In between I finished the two chapters and book proposal for the new middle grade novel, Centaur Field (will go over it tomorrow and send it on) as well as worked over the first proofs for How Do dinosaurs Celebrate Christmas and How Do Dinosaurs Celebrate Chanukah, two  books for 2012 with Mark Teague's best art ever.

After that snap shot of twenty days of my life, I wonder if you are as tired as I am!

Interstitial Moment

The start of a new speech, one I am giving in Indiana:

Unless you have been living under a bridge with the trolls, you will know that books are under a real threat these days after 500 years of type on paper.

Now I can't be absolutely sure about all of you, but I still believe in books. These days such sentiment means one is either an author or a very old person, or perhaps a very old author—and I readily admit to being both. I couldn't disguise it if I tried. And while saying in public that I still believe in books is somewhat tantamount to sitting on one's front porch and shouting at anyone who comes close, "Get off my lawn!" I tell you now a third time, I still believe in books.

And as we have seen, in rather too many fantasy novels lately, anything that is said three times has power. And while it's true I may be indulging in some actual magical thinking, I believe in those hard or paperbound creations with pages that must be turned by hand and which–once upon a time–were well and carefully edited, beautifully and professionally illustrated, and (dare I point out) well written, too.

There, I have thrown down a particular gauntlet. Take it up if you will.

But to place something more onto the blaze I have started, I remind us all that Steve Jobs just died. I have a vision of him sitting somewhere with a long-faced, heavy-browed, bearded man who is wearing a cloth cap and a heavy robe that is surmounted by an accordion-pleated stiff lace collar and. . .no, dear friends, it is not God he is sitting with. Rather, it is Johannes Guttenberg the blacksmith, goldsmith, and publisher who invented modern printing. In my vision, Jobs and Guttenberg are drinking beers and discussing the delivery systems for story.

Because as much as I still believe in books, I believe in story more, as well as poetry and nonfiction. I believe that we humans are the only ones in our universe who are able to tell stories, make up poems, and craft pieces of nonfiction. Yes, animals have their own communication systems: they can speak to one another of flight and food and that other F best left to chic lit and slippery soft porn novels. Yes, bees can dance out a map to the nearest honey source, dolphins can click sophisticated alerts about the next school of edible fish on the move, wolves in packs hunt by calling out their positions to one another,  crows advise their own flocks and others of danger, chimps and apes have been taught minimal signing.

Yes and yes, I know all that. But we humans have not only a talent, but a craving for, an addiction to, and a cultural need for stories. We are, if you will, the lying animal. The storytelling creature. The owner of the make-believe gene.

October 1-October 4, 2011:

The saga of getting home starts with endings. I got a hair cut, tea with Christine in her sitooterie, dinner with Debby and Bob, and repacked everything once again, mailing home stuff that was too heavy to carry and that made closing the suitcase impossible.

Then bright and early Sunday morning, I put my stuff into the car and drove over to Debby's house as she will have my car for the winter. Then she drove me–without trouble, though at times it was bucketing down–to the airport.

The Scottish and airplane portion of the trip was entirely without note. I got settled in quickly, no problem with bags, nice folks sitting next to me. I watched (for the first time) GranTorino with Clint Eastwood, and a forgettable Owen Wilson film (aren't they all?) about Paris and time travel. I liked the bit parts–Hemingway, Scott and Zelda, Dali, and especially Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein, but the rest–feh!

But once I got to the US, the trip turned into a saga. At Newark airport, it took over an hour to get through customs. (If I'd gone straight on to Hartford, customs usually takes at most fifteen minutes.) The bus into the city was late. Dropped at Port Authority, I couldn't find a cab for over twenty-five minutes. It was shift change, and all the taxis zipped past with their Off Duty lights on. (There were NONE at the taxi line in front of Port Authority.) Finally, I hauled my ever-increasingly heavy two bags and bottle of single malt for my host along two avenue blocks and five streets in the rain looking for a cab. My bag fell over, twisting my fingers and ripping off half of my fourth finger's nail so hard there was blood.

At last a cab and then a second materialized. Got me uptown. I fell onto my friend's guest bed crying, "Sanctuary!"

We had an early dinner, but my body whispered seductively, "You have turned into a pumpkin." Because–of course–six o'clock in New York is elven o'clock in St Andrews. I (wo)manly stayed up till 8:30, then said goodnight to mine host, and fell into the aforementioned bed and stone-slept until 5 a.m.

The next morning the train was an hour late. Which made, with my various delays, the trip from Newark to Hatfield (I am not counting sleep time or dinner/breakfast time) longer than my flight across the Atlantic. The hours just don't add up. I have to find a better way home.

Greeting me at home– besides my love granddaughters Glen and Maddison, and the ever wonderful daughter Heidi–my first copy of THINGS TO SAY TO A DEAD MAN, a copy of SISTER BEAR, several reprint pieces in anthologies, etc. News that a favorite illustrator of mine has signed up to do YOU NEST HERE WITH ME. And several copyedited mss. will be heading my way any minute.

Heidi and I went clothes shopping and we bumped into our dear friend Angela DiTerlizzi and her marvelous daughter Sophia. I scored big in the clothing buy, necessary since I left a lot of stuff (of course) in Scotland. And I managed to go to hear poet Jane Hirschfield (an old friend from our teaching days at Centrum writing conference) do her Q&A session with Smith students but there was no way I could stay up for her reading later. Jetleg was (and is) still dogging me.