Jane Yolen's Blog, page 22

January 1-7, 2011:

I wonder when I will write 2011 without having to think about it? Probably some time in March. So far I have only damaged two autographs for books, one check, and had to redo the above header. I expect there will be more. The new year invigorates some people. They are looking ahead to huge changes they hope for, getting more things done, writing down resolutions as if the things were handed down on stone tablets. On the other hand, I find it a non-notable moment in the year as I don't expect to be doing much different. I am enjoying the eventide of life. Things are slowing down a bit,  but my book ideas, my writing still flows. I have a great family, good friends. I have been blessed with luck, though I admit to working hard as well. But the days actually are galloping ahead too fast for me. I just want a bit more time to savor them.

This first week of January has been chockablock full. A New Year's party at friends Corinne and Matt's house where the children's book group mostly sat in their sunny alcove and chatted amongst ourselves instead of meeting and greeting new folk.

I have started writing a poem a day, and will try to do it for a year. So far I am on top of the count, but it's early days, of course. If I'm lucky, I might get a handful of good poems out of this exercise. It's mostly to keep my poetry mind sharp. Not sure if any of the poems written this way will be keepers.  Remember, these poems will get, at most, only one or two revisions though at year's end I'll see if there are any I might want to work on. But will try and put one up every few additions to the journal:

January 7:

City Snow

The steady fall of snow quiets the city's heart,

till its pulse is scarcely detectable.

I wait for a taxi on a street corner

bare of artifice, all Christmas decorations

packed away and stored, carols once blaring stilled.

My decorative scarf is the only color

against the snow, useless for keeping my head dry.

Twenty minutes of peering out into the lane,

I long for a hot bath instead of meetings.

Like an old warhorse, ready for the knacker, I shiver,

little runnels of cold like worms beneath my skin.

Once I rode a lipizzaner  whose body wrinkled that way,

not with the cold, but with contained energy.

My energy dissipated, I almost turn for home

when a taxi, smooth as a leopard, runs a red light,

screeching to my side. Water sprays,

the light changes, I puddle into the seat.

Honking once for practice, the driver slips us into gear,

and the city becomes alive once more.

Do I like any part of this poem? Two images please me: the pulse of the city slowing, and the old horse bit. Whether they belong in the same poem, I'm not sure. I like the phrase "I puddle into the seat" and it alone may be a keeper. Ask me in a year.

I went into New York City for three days, staying at my friends Ellen Kushner and Delia Sherman's apartment. I call it Bloomsbury-on-Hudson. The trip ncluded meetings with three editors, my agent, a visit to the Museum of Natural History with an old classmate from elementary school, two dinners out, and a scary ride through the snow from the train station to my house close to midnight, my car sliding about like Tonya Harding on a bad day.

I managed about four more chapter revisions on BUG, figured out problems in two picture books (one already contracted for, one written for my friend Bob Marstall, based on some of his doodles). We had a writers' meeting, I got my hair done, met with Dan the Handy Man about some new work that will be done this winter. As always, a combination of the ordinary and the magical.

And another question:

Sue asked: "Do picture books really always have to be riotous? What do you see as the biggest change in PB writing today?"

Well, no, they don't have to be riotous, though we can all be forgiven if we feel that way, and certainly the biggest new sellers seem to fall in that category. But then try to remember that books like Owl Moon and Where the Wild Things Are and Goodnight Moon are still selling after 25 and 40 plus and 50-60 years later and you can't call them laugh riots.

But picture books have changed. They tend to be shorter, as if the editors as well as the kids are deemed to have small attention spans. Though actually it has to do with a new perception of picture books as not being suited for anyone above 5 years old. Of course we all know that isn't true. But the latest Common Wisdom tells us that picture books shouldn't come in over 1000 words long, and under 500 is preferable. David Wiesner's pocketbook has not suffered by his doing wordless picture books. But then he is a genius at what he does.

And the rest of us? Well, I write long picture book (Elsie's Bird) and picture books that rhyme (How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight, My Father Knows the Names of Things, Not All Princesses Dress in Pink) and  really short ones (Under the Star) and nonfiction with lots of text (Lost Boy) to name some fairly recently published picture books of mine and only one of those could be considered riotous and only one is really really short.

And it's true that picture book slots have been cut back at most publishing houses in favor of YA books. Cut back–but not out.

In the end, the fate of picture books–indeed of all books–hangs onwhether the Pub Committee in its infinite wisdom (Not!) realizes what can sell and whether they want to buy it.

But consider this: when a picture book has been turned down over a period of fifteen years by absolutely ever publisher and then suddenly finds an editor who loves it to pieces and buys it (it will be out next year, and no, I won't tell you which one!) it turns everything I think I know and understand about publishing on its head. Not much help in answering your question, Sue, but it's all I've got!

Interstitial Moment:

CS sent me a question by email that has to do with pitching to an agent and getting a response which, while it praised the writing and the premise of the book, was a decisive NO. The reasons? They seem to be twofold. First the agent didn't fully love the "voice" and second didn't think he/she could love the book enough to be the right advocate for it in today's difficult market.

CS  questions to me are also twofold:

1. Should I worry about the voice? I know that voice is the most subjective part of writing. Is it just that this agent didn't like the voice and another one might?

2. I've been told by other writers that it is a very unique idea but the agent said that they weren't sure how to pitch it in today's market. Is there such a thing as too unique?

My answers are entwined. First, we should always worry about the voice in our book. But when something is new and exciting, it may be a hard sell. In fact, as my late husband used to say to me, "It's easier to sell the known than the unknown quantity. Something truly original and new will take a bigger leap of faith on the editor's part."

Who knew that a voice such as Laurie Halse Andersen's in Speak would work until she did it? And it was a first novel, too. Who knew the combination of humor and gravitas pared down to the bare minimum could have such brilliant psychoogical impact in a picture book till Sendak wrote Where the Wild Things Are? In both cases the voice is absolutely unique. And if I might also mention in this august company the voice in my picture book, Owl Moon, which was turned down by the first five editors who read the mss. as being too gentle and quiet and underspoken. All things which have since been highly praised in reviews, editorials, textbooks.

However,–and this is the big however, and the only one that counts–you always want an agent and an editor who comes to your book with a full and understanding heart. Nothing worse than an agent who is more concerned with what's wrong with your book than what's right. Or the editor who is antsy about how to pitch the mss. to her committee or the revised book to the sales force. I want the agent and editor to be  as totally committed to the piece as I am.

As to being a critter called "too unique"? There's bad writing, stupid characters, plot holes as big as Florida sinkholes. There's a voice that has flatlined and cannot be resurrected. But there is no such thing as "too unique," either grammatically or as a critique, though your book may may be too far ahead of its time to sell right now.

So my answer–that agent did you a favor, being honest and also praising where praise was due. Move on. If the book is good, worthy, interesting, unique it will find an agent and an editor who will want it. If not, then it is a practice piece. Take what you have learned from it and write the next book.

End of December, 2010:

The days galloped towards the new year, the second decade of the 21st century. And I galloped with them.

Some of that galloping was in book work–trying to get hold of a picture book idea with Heidi. We are on our third approach to it and I'm still not sure it's working. Rewriting about 9 chapters of BUG which still needs much hand-holding. Signing the Grumbles from the Forest contract. And of course–as in all book world time–waiting, waiting, waiting.

I went to a New Year's party at Holly and Theo Black's house. A Venice costume masked ball party, though I didn't wear a costume and hate the closed-in feeling of masks so didn't wear one of those, either. Managed to stay up till after 11 but not good enough to see the new year in.

I have some of the following on my immediate new year plate:

1. Writing of course.

2. Rewriting, definitely.

3. Playing with children, grandkids, friends in New York and beyond. As often as I can. As often as they want me.

4. Speaking at the Eric Carle Museum. On a two-person panel with friend Corinne Demas about being working writers, in Northampton. At the SCBWI New York conference.  All this is in January. Then it begins to really go pear-shaped since after that and I will be hitting Boston, Indiana, Springfield Ill, Minneapolis, Jamestown NY, Bolton MA, Chicago, Florida, SCBWI New England, Charleston SC, and finally (deep breath) Scotland for 3-4 months.

5. Paying attention to diet, exerise, and the ups and downs of health that women my age suffer. (Thanks to gravity, thanks to having children, thanks to having some diffident DNA and some difficult DNA.)

But mostly, I am looking forward to 2011. Of course–consider the alternative.

So a lift of the glass to absent spouses, family, friends, lovers, partners, all those who have left us much too early and/or in particularly difficult ways. I plan to live the life that is left to me to the fullest, write the best books I know how, be the dearest and most loving mom/Nana/friend I can be. And help others along the way. I suggest that you, my readers, do the same.

Send me questions. It's been nearly a year since anyone has done that. I will answer them if I can, here in an Interstitial Moment.

Interstitial Moment

I posted this on FaceBook and on another group, but thought I should also post this here.

A Writer's New Year's Resolutions:

1. Take more time to read other folks books.

2. Resist blurbing.

3. Find a couple more beta readers.

4. Stay in touch with editors better.

5. Keep better records and not just rely on my agent, or keep bothering her for non-essentials like that.

6. Go ruthlessly through my bookshelves and get rid of anything not necessary.

7. Breathe.

8. Take an actual vacation.

9. Let the plots sort themselves out.

10. Remember to trust the lizard brain.

December 24-28, 2010

Publishing, like much of the US, is closed for the holidays which means little to report. Though Rebecca Kai Dotlich did contact me by FaceBook to say that finally–FINALLY–the contract for our co-authored book of fairy tale poems, Grumbles from the Forest, landed on her desk the day before Christmas. She will sign it and I will get it some time this week to sign and send back.

Other book news? Some nice reviews, some lovely letters, some books from publishers as Christmas gifts, and as wee David still believes in Santa, we had stockings hung by the menorah with care.

I did more work on  BUG and passed on the first eight chapters (down from ten) to Adam.

Adam&Co went to visit Boston relatives (Betsy's aunt and uncle and cousins) in the teeth of the Noreaster, and ended up stranded near Boston. But they made it home the next day, in time to do the first round of packing. They left the next day and got home easily. Hartford had snow but was not hit with the brunt of it, like New York or Boston.

I went to see "The King's Speech" with friends Bob, Wayne, and Lesley. It was incredibly wonderful. We made it home in the storm. Western Mass got only a small–about 4-6 inches, so nothing that would faze a New England driver.

I finished reading Wolf Hall, which has high-jumped onto my all-time fav list. Hilary Mantel is an amazing writer. Have begun reading another favorite writer of mine, Grahame Joyce. Oh yes, they have something in common. Both British writers!

And now it is incredibly quiet around here.The fridge has been emptied (ie given to Heidi) of stuff I will not eat.I am now trying juicing vegetables and fruits together for a power drink like the kind I used to make for David when he couldn't eat much of anything because of chemo and/or radiation. I am back to my good diet instead of all that holiday food.

I hope to do some writing as well. Well, after I finish my end of the BUG revision, that is.

Here's a poem for my readers:

Only the Women Can Hear

And this is no country for old women.

The internet chats, the movies, songs,

all sing of youth and time. Forgotten,

challenged by gravity, by memory, we long

for the past, though it is long past time when

we can recall the splendors that once rang

through us like Old Tom's mighty knell.

We are in some strange notion of Hell.

How did we get here? Step by step

along the unforgiving path of time.

How do we leave here? Stop by stop,

along the train's slip line, become

childish, childlike. inelegant, inept,

back to the beginning, back to the womb,

to the heartbeat, blood beat in the ear

that only the fetus and the women can hear.

©Jane Yolen 2010 all rights reserved

December 18-23, 2010:

No snow, lots of visitors, guests, books, a rejection letter, stuff.

First of all, my son Adam and his family arrived on the 17th and from then on we have had nonstop rounds of eating too much, playing games with (and without the kids, watching DVDs of kid-friendly movies (Shrek 3, Toy Story 3, Despicable Me, Up, etc.), conversations both deep and funny with a side order of snark laced with anarchy. And multiple trips to the grocery store, toy store, etc.

Adam and I took time to go over ideas for the latest revision of BUG, the golem novel. And I have already started my end of it. I revised A Bear Sat On My Porch Today picture book in line with some of the editors suggestions. Been revising some of Last Dragon graphic novel, now that almost all (two more pages to go) of the art is in. Wrote a half dozen more re-tellings of folk tales for Wee Tales.

And I got a rejection.

Also Adam and I inched closer to the possible sale of a trilogy. More on that if it happens.

December 17, 2010:

This is a pause between big posts, as the Clan gathers.

Friend Crescent Dragonwagon, writer and humanist supreme, stopped by for an overnight and for a deep and oft hilarious conversation. Then son Adam & Co arrived very late (plane an hour late leaving Minneapolis, so they got here at 1:30 a.m.) for a ten day visit for the holidays. Hard to know when I will get back to the journal.

Bits of writing, none of it good or good enough to mention. Lots of holiday cards. Lots of ho-ho-ho cheer. The Christmas bird count. Fun and games and drinks with neighbors. The usual.

So I will instead leave you with two recent poems:

Annual Children's Illustration Show: Michelson's Gallery 2010

I envy artists the tools of their trade,

so full of color, bristle, tooth.

They live through their eyes.

A piece of white paper is saturated with life:

each line telling a story.

An arc for them, like a tree limb, carries weight.

They place a dot on the page;

it becomes an eye, falling rain,

the buttress of a tiny bridge,

the start of a new life.

Perspective bends.

A spot of red signifies

dusk, dawn, a riding hood,

trillium by a darkling river,

the bursting of a vein.

All I have is words.

Some day that may be enough.

© 2010 Jane Yolen

Shadowrama x 4

This shadow

lifting from a branch,

a shadow

of a branch,

into the shadow-filled sky

reminds me of you.

This full moon,

caught in the tree's arms,

the dead tree,

roost for owls,

knocking place for woodpeckers,

reminds me of you.

Each small thing,

in nature's cupboard,

each shadow,

and each shade

of feather, fur, leafmeal, mold

reminds me of you

who is now

tree, moon, owl, sky, wing,

shadow, ash,

memory

as insubstantial as air,

as necessary.

©2010  Jane Yolen

December 8-16, 2010:

I was absolutely floating on a writing cloud for a while. Much had to do with being down at son Jason's house and he and I worked feverishly for 2 1/2 days working on two book proposals for the two of us;and then I showed him how to sketch out a 48 page nonfiction project, storyboarding it. I also worked on writing the proposal for graphic novel  3 of the Foiled books, tentatively titled En Garde. All three proposals are at the agent. And I edited down Jason and Joanne's picture book called The Great Sand Dollar Hunt.

I also worked on several poems. Read many chapters of Wolf's Hall. (There are many chapters more to go, and am loving it. Her writing just sinks into my bones.) Did some responses to two small and different copyedits of books ( Bad Girls and Waking Dragons.)

Along the way, I had a marvelous visit. It's not just my grandmotherly duty to wax poetic over grandlings. The twins are adorable, funny, smart, and well-behaved without being smarmy about it. They are wonderful little sponges, drinking in the world. I read them the entire The Thirteen Clocks by James Thurber, one of my favorite books as a child and now one of theirs. We spent the rest of the visit talking about being split from our guggles to our zatches. And if you haven't read the book, not only are you missing an enormous treat–but you are missing the allusion.

It was, however, terrifically cold (in the 20s and 30′s) for South Carolina so we did little of the planned southern things, no going out on the boat or long walks along the waterfront. It was rainy, windy, and cold. We stayed in the house or car.Or in lovely restaurants such as "The Fat Hen".

And when I came home, it was in time for the opening of the Eric Carle Museum show called "Partners of Wonder" in which illustrations from my private collection of  pictures from my books were in the middle gallery and we had a small, intimate opening where I did a gallery talk and walkabout. People seemed to enjoy it, and the illustrators group gave me a dozen red roses which now have pride of place on my kitchen table.

November 29-December 7, 2010:

If you want to now what writing I have been working on the most, it has been Wee Tales, the retelling of fairy tales for the youngest listeners. I now have first (well in some cases second) drafts of some 17 stories, with about 13 more to go. As this is due at the end of the month, you can tell I am scrambling. (The editor held this one up, not me.) I can do about two a day. . .when I am not running around to meetings, speeches, etc. But my days are pretty packed, and so it has been a much more difficult writing time than I wanted it to be.

I also finished the Thirty Poems in Thirty Days project, raising money for The Center for New Americans in Northampton, Mass, and I have raised close to (I think) $2,000 from pledges by people who wanted to see my poems each day, which I sent out by email. I may have 3-5 good enough poems for working on further. Not a bad average, I'd say.

But work on The Thirteenth Fey has stopped entirely until I can see daylight with the Wee Tales project. And do the revision with Adam on BUG. Though I did take time out to tidy up the three chapters and proposal Heidi and I had worked on for Ghoul School and sent that out. And at one dinner where my friend Burleigh wrote the wrong dinner date on her calendar and I was left waiting in the restaurant alone, I began thinking about the third Foiled book. I may have (though not written-down yet) the first pages and the idea for the proposal. It is to be called Engarde!

But even I cannot write five major books at the same time.

I also received several (very minor but nice) awards: besides the National Outdoor Book Award Honor to Jason and me for An Egret's Day reported earlier here, I heard that Switching on the Moon was  listed both on the Toronto Globe & Mail Best Books list, and was on the Gold Oppenheim Toy Book Award list. All Star was also a gold Oppenheim. And Elsie's Bird was on Betsy Bird's (no relative) Fuse # 8 list for Best Books. As I said to an editor friend, what's a month without an award?

And if you want to hear the national NPR interview with me, go to Kids Author Jane Yolen Never Too Old For Comics : NPR

www.npr.org

I also did three local signings, writers' meetings, a poetry reading, saw one movie with friend Bob "Ghostwriter" (which I had mixed feelings about), had a number of dinners out with other friends. And the usual stuff any life has to encounter: grocery shopping, clothes shopping, holiday shopping etc.

I expect the next few weeks will be equally fraught.