Laura Langston's Blog, page 44

For the Love of Books

“I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library.” Jorge Luis Borges

I’m with Jorge. Only in my case, it’ll be a library with Michelin quality food and table service. To those who know me, this is no surprise. My first word was cookie and my second was book; my priorities haven’t shifted since I slept in a crib.

I adore books. And, when I had kids, I assumed they’d share my passion. How could they not?  I’m of the ‘children are made readers on the laps of their parents’ school. I also figured they’d share my love of food and have the easy-going disposition of their father.

Well, one out of three isn’t bad. We all do love to eat.

My daughter was captivated by books when very young. My son, not so much. For a long time, Zach only read books about fire trucks. Then came books about dinosaurs, sea creatures and cops, and only if I pushed him to sit down with me. But a story? Even a short one? Forgetaboutit. Zach had no time for a fictional world.

Until the summer of his fifth birthday.  We were spending a week at the beach. Taking a bag of books (this was a few years before e books) was de rigueur. Having reached the end of the cops cycle, I didn’t know what to take for Zach.

My husband did. He went out and bought a couple of Pokemon comic type books. One didn’t even have a story – just a creature per page, in bright detail, with the names spelled normally and phonetically. The second was an actual story, but heavy on the kid-friendly graphics. We gave the first book to Zach on the drive, hoping the pictures would hold his interest until we arrived.

They held his interest and more. By the end of that week, Zach was reading. As happy as that made me, I was more thrilled by the shift in his attitude. He was interested in stories. And he wanted more.

Mostly, for what seemed like years, he wanted more Pokemon. At the same time, my daughter went through a Babysitter’s Club book phase. When you’re a recognized writer checking armloads of Babysitter’s Club and Pokemon out of the library on a weekly basis, you’re awarded strange looks. Criticism also came from teachers and well-meaning friends who were appalled that I’d let my children read ‘such trash.’

For a while, I thought they were right. I went back to encouraging the kids to read books I deemed ‘appropriate.’ That worked about as well as getting them to clean their rooms. In other words, it didn’t.

Then my husband told me why he bought those Pokemon books in the first place. When he was a kid, his parents allowed only the classics in the house. In high school, more classics. For some kids that might have worked, but it didn’t for him. It was only years later, when he stumbled across an Isaac Asimov novel, that his love of reading began.

His words woke me up. Love. Of reading. I’d forgotten the very thing I wanted most for my kids. I wanted them to have a lifelong passion for books, to experience the joy that reading brings.

I set aside some snobbisms and grew up that day. My kids have grown up too. They no longer wear diapers, spit food, read Pokemon or the Babysitter’s Club. Right now Zach’s on a Paulo Coelho kick. My daughter has three books on the go, including a literary thriller that’s keeping her awake at night.

Raising one child who was born loving books and another who had to be led to them, taught me a few things. I learned that ultimately reading itself is what counts. That reading for pleasure may be as important as reading for information. That fire trucks and little boys go together, that Pokemon and the Babysitter’s Club eventually fade, but that the love of a good story, whatever form it takes, endures.

Now please pass the cookies. My book is waiting.

 

 

 

 

Authors in the Classroom

It’s back to school this month.   As an author who writes books for teens and children, this time of year always makes me think of literacy. There are many wonderful worlds waiting to be discovered within the pages (or screens) of books. One of my joys as an author is sitting down at my computer and bringing those worlds to life. I also enjoy doing school visits.  It’s an opportunity to reach readers of all ages (and maybe convert a few non-readers in the crowd). I love talking about writing and creating and publishing. I never forget to stress the importance of persistence and revision. Mostly I like to inspire others to find and nourish their own creative well.

When I was in Grade Four (yes, that’s me circled above), I knew I wanted to be a writer. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind (much to my mother’s horror). But I had no idea authors existed outside the pages of their books. Well, they did then, and they still do today. Only these days it’s a lot easier to find one willing to go into schools. It’s a great opportunity to leave our fictional worlds behind and meet characters who talk out loud instead of only in our heads.  And whenever I talk to kids I always wonder if maybe, just maybe, I’m talking to an author-in-the-making.

If you’d like to arrange an author visit, feel free to drop me an email. If you’d like more information, go to the bio link here on my website and click on author talks.

See you at school!

September Reads

There’s a coolness in the air most mornings now, and routines are starting back up.  Nights are growing shorter.  The days of barbecuing dinner and eating outside will soon end.  I don’t mind. September always feels like a fresh start. I’m sure it’s the memory of heading back to school with new supplies, new clothes, and another teacher to suss out.    I spent all summer writing my next YA, and that won’t change with the flip of the calendar,   but other things will.  I’ll be cleaning and oiling the bike, and putting it away for the rainy season. I’ll be harvesting basil for pesto cubes, and drying tomatoes and tucking them away for winter. I’ll be cleaning and putting the garden to bed until the New Year. I’ll be inside reading a lot more too.  And that’s always a good thing.  Here’s what I’m reading right now:

At the Gym: The Alley of Love and Yellow Jasmines by Shohreh Aghdashloo

On the Kindle: Finding Isadora by Susan Fox

In the Office: Wired for Story by Lisa Cron  & The Emotion Thesaurus by Angela Ackerman & Becca Puglisi

 

 

 

 

One Stop Title Shop

There are times when a one stop title shop would come in handy. Though I’m an ambivalent shopper at the best of times – and rarely have trouble coming up with titles myself – it’s frustrating when a title is elusive.

Most of my titles arrive, in one form or another, as I’m writing a book. Sometimes the title occurs to me before I even start.  I get attached to my titles too. Seriously attached. In the same way I’m attached to my eyes or any other body part.  They become part of the whole and not something I want to live without.

So title changes can be challenging.

A few weeks ago, my editor at Orca Book Publishers said I needed to change the title for an upcoming young adult novel. The original title – Flavor of the Week – was a perfect fit, except for one thing. The word flavor can be spelled with a u (the Canadian and British spelling) or without a ‘u’ which is the American version.  Orca prints and distributes their books in both Canada and the U.S. and they use American spelling.  So I did too when I typed out the word flavor. It was all good, or so I thought.  But while Canadian readers are, for the most part, happy with American spelling, they tend not to like American spelling in their titles.  And who wants to annoy a reader before they even open the book? Not Orca and not me.

A title change was necessary.

This happened to me once before.  Lesia’s Dream was originally titled Under a Prairie Sky. I loved that title. It was as perfect as my right arm. HarperCollins liked the title too. So did Anne Laurel Carter. When she released her own Under a Prairie Sky (a delightful picture book) the season before my YA came out, HC quickly requested a title change.  It took numerous brainstorming sessions and a lot of back and forth but eventually we came up with Lesia’s Dream.  Which I love.

So, with a little more brainstorming and exchanging of lists, I’m sure we’ll come up with a fitting replacement for Flavor of the Week.   In the meantime, if you know of any one stop title shops, could you let me know?

Peach Perfect . . . Oh Wait, Not Exactly

The last thing you want in a book is a perfect protagonist, or one with a perfect life. It doesn’t make for an interesting story.  I get my writing kicks out of complicating the lives of my characters, throwing one damn thing after another at them. But I like my life to be as smooth and as sweet as a latte.  It never is, of course (is anybody’s?).  This, however, seems to be my Season of the Unwelcome.

The peaches are feeling my pain.  They’re stressed this year. Diseased or blighted or suffering from the peach flu, I don’t know what it is, but they aren’t happy.  They’re mottled in some spots, tough in others, certainly not at their dripping-juice-down-your-arm best.

Now here’s the thing. I have expectations. And as Mr. Petrol Head keeps reminding me, I should know better (he apparently mastered the rather remarkable skill of going through life without expectations back in the crib).   If I’ve learned one thing from publishing – from life itself – it’s that expectations bite you in the butt.

 

I thought I’d beaten back this particular character flaw, especially where my garden is concerned.  Out there, I like to think of myself as sanguine (the word has such a nice ring to it, don’t you think?).  Some years the peach tree sets a good crop and some years it doesn’t.   The same goes for my apples and pears and raspberries and figs and just about anything else I grow.  Some years the bees and the weather and the Gods are kind and the harvest is good. When it isn’t, I tell myself there’s always the following year.

Except (and there’s always an except and I’m pretty sure the word except and the word expectation are related).  Except, I like to eat the food I grow. (I also like to sell every book I write which is another blog where the word sanguine may or may not appear).  But as far as the garden is concerned, I feel as if we have a deal of sorts. I will do the work and step back and let Nature do the rest. If – when – the plants produce, the unspoken rule is the results shall be edible.

This year the peaches are not. At least not as a whole, and not in the way I like my peaches – for breakfast or after lunch or late in the afternoon, peeled with a delicate little knife I bought years back at a flea market. I like my peaches minutes from the tree, fragrant, plain and real.

Not possible this year. Maybe, I decided, the peach tree was trying to tell me something. Maybe it was saying that into every life a little peach pie must fall.  That in the Season of the Unwelcome, a little sweet can be soothing. Even for those of us who aren’t dessert people, who rarely indulge, who are so task oriented that they would never consider peeling and slicing and baking peaches into a pie to only pamper themselves. Especially for them, the peach tree seemed to be saying.  Especially for them. And so I went into the kitchen where I peeled and sliced and diced, and turned a basket of perfectly imperfect peaches into a deliciously imperfect peach pie.

Thanks peach tree, for giving me the most unexpected and welcome gift of summer.

New Life for an Old Favorite

   I’m delighted to announce that The Fox’s Kettle is now available in digital format with an audio component.  This picture book, which was shortlisted for a Governor General’s award for illustration, has been unavailable in print for some time.  We decided to see how it would translate to digital and the results are stellar.   Vic Bosson’s illustrations come to life even more vividly in this format, and I was lucky enough to voice the audio which gives a fresh component to an old favorite.  Thanks to Crow Cottage Publishing and Stephen McCallum for doing the legwork, adding some wonderful sound effects into the mix and pulling the whole project together.

It’s funny how stories come to be.  A number of years ago, I worked with Vic Bosson on another project, also a picture book.  As we neared the end of that story, Vic showed me some drawings he’d done of Japanese inspired foxes. I was enthralled by the detail, the color and the overall evocative nature of his art.  I had to write a tale that would highlight the foxes, I told Vic.  And so The Fox’s Kettle was born.  We hope you enjoy it on your tablet or computer.  And don’t forget to push the kettle on the bottom of each page to hear the audio!

https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-foxs-kettle/id681320325?ls=1

 

The Sound of Silence

 

 I’ve been thinking about sound lately. The digital version of The Fox’s Kettle will available through iTunes any day now and it’s coming out with audio. I did the recording and the publisher mixed in a few sound effects too: coins jangling in a silk purse, bird song, a collective gasp, some wonderful music. It was great fun!

As much as I love sound, however, I also love silence. I realized that when my computer motherboard died a month ago. It was a noisy old thing but I got used to its thrum and groan as it struggled under old age and limited capacity. Now that it’s gone, my office is blissfully quiet. And I like it that way.

Only this morning – a lovely, sunny summer morning – it’s not quiet at all. I hear the two resident hummingbirds making their unique buzz-whistle-chip sound as they dive bomb the flower border in an effort to establish territory. That’s a sound I like.  But the bullet-like rhythm of an air gun as my neighbour gets a new roof put on his house . . .  the pounding on a set of drums as the teen in the house on the other side practices . . . the frustrated bray of the beagle that lives a few houses to the south and is alone yet again?  Not so much. I have work to do; I need to concentrate. Even with the window shut  (and I don’t want to shut the window; summer will be over soon enough) the sounds are loud enough to leach through.

It’s making me cranky. If my mother-in-law were here right now she’d be able to concentrate. She’s close to deaf and doesn’t wear a hearing aide. But that means she doesn’t hear the fire alarm going off in her building (a neighbour has to bang on the door to alert her) or the hummingbirds, and she didn’t hear the pigeon fly through her bedroom window last week either. She only noticed him when he walked across the floor in front of her (thankfully heading for the open patio door). She misses a lot. I wouldn’t like that.  In fact, when I stop to think about it, there are many things I’d miss hearing if I were deaf:

Laughter

Violins

A cork popping (such a happy sound)

Fireworks

Bacon sizzling

Wind chimes

Thunder

Crickets chirping

Toast jumping

A cat purring

Typing on a keyboard

Applause

Children giggling

A New Zealand accent (such a sexy sound)

Sirens

My kids saying I love you

Corn popping

The engine of a plane

Whistling

Birdsong at dawn

Church bells

The phone

The whoosh of skis on snow

Fizzy bubbles

Dog nails clicking on the floor

A fire cracking

The symphony

A bee buzzing

Wind rustling leaves

A heartbeat

My husband’s soft breath in the middle of the night

 

After a minute or two of thinking, my crankiness dissolved. And I opened the window wider.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sssssssh!

 

Today’s blog sponsored by the ‘less is more’ school of thought:

 

Filling the Well

 

I’m in noodling mode these days, working on a couple of projects, but mostly wanting to be outside enjoying the weather. We’re lucky – unlike so many places in North America, we’ve had a wonderful summer with great temperatures and lots of sun.

Last weekend I stole away to appreciate some local and nearly local attractions.

 

 

Dungeness Spit, 9 kilometres of heaven

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tiny treasures walking the spit . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In good company . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Searching out fields of lavender

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peek a boo, harbor view

 

 

 

 

 

And night falls . . .

The Name Game

 

I’ve been thinking about names a lot lately. I’m in the early stages of a new novel, getting to know my characters, falling in love with them, giving them life. And that means giving them names.

It’s not as easy as you might think.

People react to names.  And everyone has an opinion. If Kim Kardashian was near Twitter when the name of her first born hit, she might have noticed there wasn’t a lot of love for baby North West. As I write this, monarchists are waiting for the Duchess of Cambridge to give birth to the first Prince or Princess of Cambridge.  William and Kate don’t have to worry about Twitter but they do have to follow royal protocol. No Princess Poppy or Prince Lucas for them.  (Odds are heavily weighted to Alexandra for a girl or George for a boy.)

Luckily I don’t have to follow royal protocol or pass my pick by the world via Twitter.  All I have to do is find a name that fits.  I have help – a huge, thick book of 100,001 baby names gathered from around the world. And if that doesn’t inspire me (though it usually does) I can leaf through a school annual for teen names, read the newspaper, or go grocery shopping (everybody wears name tags and for some reason I find food shopping an endless sort of inspiration).

When I find a name that’s right for a particular character, there’s usually a mental ‘click’ that tells me it’s a good fit. So when people react negatively to a name I’ve spent a long time pondering, I’m always surprised.

Case in point – the other night at dinner when I happened to mention my teen protagonist by name and a hushed silence fell over he table (a silence broken only by the belching dog at my feet but I think that had more to do with the stolen piece of chorizo he scarfed down minutes earlier than any sort of personal reaction).

The name in question was (notice the past tense) Daisy. I happen to know that one school in my city had two girls named Daisy graduate recently. Seemingly intelligent and socially active young women who, if their annual bios were any indication, are destined for great things. For a pile of reasons I decided the name was a good fit for the main character in my next YA.

According to the men in my family, I am wrong. They say Daisy works as a dog’s name, and it’s not bad for a flower either, but that is all. I turned to my refined, well-read, supportive daughter expecting validation for my choice. She shot me down with a very unrefined comment.  At this point I was curious, so I polled half a dozen other people and got the same reaction: a resounding no. (Sorry if your name is Daisy. I like it and obviously your mother does too).

Given the strongly negative reaction, however, I decided to rethink Daisy as a first name. I settled on Grace instead. And, yes, I know they’re radically different but I’m going to work with that. I think, in fact, I may give my character Daisy as a middle name. Perhaps she doesn’t like it. Or perhaps the people in her life don’t like it and insist on calling her Grace. There are a number of different ways I can go with it. I have lots of strong opinions to draw on.