Kelly Barnhill's Blog, page 32

Reason #94,762 Why I'm Glad I Don't Work For the City

Today I found myself in the basement of City Hall, standing in line for – I don't know. Like an hour and a half. I was in the Criminal and Driving Records unit, which, for those of you who've never had the privilege, sits at the end of a poorly lit, ramen-noodle-smelling hallway. You're not allowed to use cellphones, wi-fi is blocked and the only magazines have most of their pages ripped out.

I needed to get a criminal background check for work – a task I've put off until now. Why, did I put this job off, you ask? Well, that's because it's a sucky, thankless job, needlessly complicated and inconvenient. (Why, one may ask, can we not do this online? Is this not the Age of Information? Should I not be able to accomplish this with the click of my mouse?)

But, I digress.

After standing in line, being sent to another line, standing there, being sent to the ATM, and standing in line once again, I finally made it to the front. It didn't take long. The lady took my drivers license, walked to her desk, came back with an official-looking piece of paper, embossed with the city's stamp.

"That's it?" I asked, replacing my license in my wallet.

"That's all there is," she said.

I smiled at her. "Thanks," I said. "Have an absolutely marvelous day!"

She paled.

Her mouth fell open. Then she closed it, her lips quivering slightly as she brought them back together.

"That was so nice," she whispered. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said after getting a criminal background check." She swallowed. "No one is ever nice to us down here."

And I'm sure that's true. Now, I could have given her all kinds of advice on how to create a space that invites kindness. Get rid of the ramen-noodles smell, for starters. Maybe some cut flowers. Or at least some plants. But that isn't the point. There's all kinds of places on earth that are utterly devoid of kindness – they don't expect it; they don't give it; they don't get it. Which is why my – I can't even call it kindness; more a like social nicety – caught her so off-guard and touched her so deeply.

"I'm a mom," I said. "Making people feel good about themselves is part of the job description." She laughed as I walked out the door.

Buoyed by this I told three cops that I appreciated their good work as I headed out to the snowy street. I'm pretty sure they thought I was nuts.

But the point is this: I've decided to go out of my way to appreciate the people who don't get appreciated nearly enough. Garbage haulers; tow truck drivers; tax auditors; telemarketers. I am a woman of few marketable skills. I'm neither rich nor powerful nor influential. Kindness is one of my few assets, and I've decided to dish it out widely, heavily, and with abandon.

Because that person working in the basement of a building, that person with the thankless job. That used to be me. A long time ago. Maybe its you. I would have appreciated a little bit of kindness back then. So a little kindness now isn't just a gift to some random person, and it's not a gift to the world either. It's a gift to me. It's a gift to you. And I can't recommend it highly enough.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: acts of kindness, city hall, criminal records, people mostly think I'm nuts

What I Need to Turn My Teacher Into A Toad

Confession: I have done this.

 

Okay, fine, I haven't really.

In my defense, I never really tried,  but that has more to do with a healthy respect for magic and the many laws of unintended consequences. Writers who write about magic know all about unintended consequences. Indeed, it's one of the few things we excel at.

But the reason why I bring it up at all is because of my current obsession with checking the dashboard page of my blog, which tells me the search engine terms by which folks arrive at my little corner of the internets.

(Hello, by the way, to those of you who are new. This is a quiet little corner. Unfashionable. But comfy, in a old-wool-socks sort of way. I have snacks and grog and a ratty chair that moans pleasantly when you sit on it.)

(The chair, incidentally, tells stories too.)

Now, most of the time, people arrive here because they've googled my name, or the name of one of my stories. Sometimes people arrive looking for information on yoga or nautical history, or taxidermy, or Billy Collins – all of which I've written about on this blog from time to time. Every once in a while people arrive looking for, well, yucky things. Pornographic things. I can't help but think they've gone away horribly disappointed, and for that I'm mostly sorry. But only mostly.

Today, however, someone stopped by after googling: "What I need to turn my teacher into a toad."

I stared at it for some time, mouth open, breath halting in quick, short gasps. How did they know? I asked my computer. My computer, as always, was silent. How did they know?

You see, in eighth grade, while raging and fuming over some perceived injustice by one Mr. Trajano, my English teacher (who, incidentally, was a marvelous teacher, and utterly blameless in my adolescent cataloguing of wrongs. Lou Trajano! If you're reading this, I'm terribly sorry that I ever wanted to turn you into a toad!) I went into a quiet spot in the schoolyard during recess, opened my notebook (my dark notebook. My secret notebook. My notebook that held every inkling towards wickedness, every yearning for wrongdoing.) and wrote the following words:

WHAT I NEED TO TURN MY TEACHER INTO A TOAD

1. String (Magic, as everyone knows, is practical. It needs no store, no catalog, no special order. String can be both net and noose. It can be both ladder and snare. It can be woven into a bag, give direction to the blind, tied in a knot that can't be loosened. Anything that can be more than one thing at once is magic. Everyone knows that.)

2. Crayons (Magic is the alteration of substance – big to little, rough to smooth, red to green, white to black. Crayons, therefore, are ridiculously magical.)

3. Baking soda (for indigestion.)

4. Honey (to sweeten the sour.)

5. Vinegar (to sour the sweet.)

6. Wax paper (to keep it from sticking.)

7. A small mirror (A mirror doesn't show us what we are. It shows us what we were. A moment ago, when the light hit your body, hit the mirror and came back again. A mirror shows you what you've lost.)

8. Gum (always useful.)

9. A toad (that's the tricky part.)

Now, in my original list, I only had the items, not the explanations. But as I remember it, the explanations are close – or mostly close – to my thinking in eighth grade. In any case, I provided myself no instructions, believing that magic can have no instruction. Magic is intuitive. An instruction can be manipulated, distorted, bent. Intuition is the child of intention and resources; it is practical, decisive, industrious, and, above all, useful.

Even when it is not used.

I chose to refrain from turning my teacher into a toad. But I kept the list, just in case. And I list them here, not because I want you to use them, oh toad-turning reader. No! But to know that you can, but won't. There is a marvelous power in won't.

 

I had the power to turn my teacher into a toad. I didn't. But the power remained, and it, like magic, transformed into something else – a poem, a painting, a story, a song. What is the thing that you won't do? What is the power in you – running under your skin like electricity, buzzing in your fingertips, frizzing your hair, dazzling your eyes? And what will it be next?

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: adolescent wickedness, being a writer is sometimes weird, Childrens literature, eighth grade, fiction is my job, gum, Magic, Mr. Trajano, Oh my dark dark heart!, practical magic, stories, transformative thinking, what I need to turn my teacher into a toad

My First Review (sort of)

This may be a violation of protocol, but my kid has reviewed my book. Or, more specifically, my kid used my book – or at least an advanced copy of my book – for her required Reader's Response journal. The way the Reader's Response Journal works is that each child is expected to read for 15-20 minutes every day, and then write one or two sentences in response to any from a list of questions.

(Actually, this is my favorite so far of all of the teacher-created we-want-the-kids-to-read-every-day-and-show-that-they're-reading strategies. In past years, the kids had to keep logs showing how many pages they read each day and for how long. I can see how that would be useful for the children who are reluctant readers (setting goals, showing progress, etc.) but for those of us who have voracious readers, it sucks. If you have a kid who reads all the time, at different times of the day, it's actually a HUGE pain in the butt to keep a record of it.)

But, I digress.

My eight-year-old decided to use my book for her reading.

"Are you even allowed to use your mother's book?" I asked.

Cordelia shrugged. "Why not? It's not mentioned in the rules."

She had a point. Still, I persisted. "But it's not even official. It's not a real book yet."

"It's a real book if the reviewer says it's a real book. I'm the reviewer. Now, if you'll excuse me…" and she went off to read.

So here are some of the questions and her responses. (Warning: Possible spoilers. Also, possible cuteness.)

In response to the question: Why did you choose this book? Cordelia wrote: "I chose this book because my mom wrote it. Also because the cover is cool. But mostly because my mom wrote it."

In response to the question: Who is your favorite character? Cordelia wrote: "My favorite character is Wendy because she is so tough and determined. I am also tough and determined. That is why I like Wendy."

In response to the question: What are your predictions? Cordelia wrote: "I predict that Mr. Avery will stop being so bad and will turn good. Or, he will turn badder."

In response to the question: What surprised you? Cordelia wrote: "It surprised me that Wendy was sitting in a chair, and that it was a chair and a hand AT THE SAME TIME!!!"

In response to the question: What was a funny part of the book? Cordelia wrote: "I thought it was funny that Clayton has tests that prove he really does get less smarter every year."

In response to the question: What do you find interesting in this book? Cordelia wrote: "I find it interesting that the voices in the dark think it's interesting that humans can bleed. What else would they do?"

Another prediction: "I predict that Jack and Anders will save Wendy from the bad lady. Or, that the bad lady will win. Or that Wendy won't need to be saved and will save Jack and Anders instead. I can't really tell yet."

That's my girl! Even-handed, open-minded and beautifully literal. And honestly, I might be done reading reviews. I hope to get some, obviously, but I think it would be better for me if I pretend that they're written in a language I don't know, or that they're about a book I've never heard of. Because I can see myself obsessing. I'm an obsessor.

Cordelia! Thank you for your kind attention to my story! I think you might have a future in book reviewing.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: My Kids Totally Rule, reader response, reviews, sometimes my job wins., The Mostly True Story of Jack

A year buds, swells, blooms, dies.

All things considered, I really dug 2010, despite its rather inauspicious beginning at which I learned that my book, originally slated to slide into the world in the fall of 2010, was to be delayed until 2011. That was a blow, and a crushing one at the time. Looking back on it, though, I don't disagree with it and am actually pretty happy about how things have turned out. In the meantime, I was pretty productive this year – finished some projects, started some more, met some good people, tended my family, read some books, and generally had a pretty nice time. Here is a list, in no particular order, of some of the things I managed to get done this year.

1. Wrote two books. One will come out in 2012, the other I have no idea.

2. Sold a short story collection.

3. Caught a fish. My first one. Likely my last.

4. Learned a bunch of cool stuff at an astronomy workshop in Laramie, WY.

5. Hung out with lovely, amazing and ridiculously smart nerds. Will love them all forever.

6. After a lifetime of longing, I finally loaded the family into the car and headed northward to Canada and the Winnipeg Folk Fest, where I spent five glorious days in dusty squalor listening to an amazing array of musicians, and my kids managed to delight all who saw them with their dancing prowess.

7. Sent my baby to Kindergarten. Cried a lot.

8. Sent my other baby to Middle School. Cried even more.

9. Grew bushel-loads of vegetables in the garden. Ate very, very well.

10. Camped on an island in the middle of the Boundary Waters. Saw the Northern Lights reflected on the surface of a windless lake.

11. Showed the children how to find Jupiter. Listened to them gasp as they located it with their binoculars, seeing that bright red spot winking like a ruby in the dark night sky.

12. Welcomed a Brother-in-Law into the family. Learned of an impending Sister-in-Law.

13. Swam in the ocean. Did not get eaten by a shark.

14. Saw wolves. Two of them, and they were huge and wild and wonderful. They haunt my dreams.

15. Met more writers this year than I ever have in my life, thanks to Launchpad, Kidlitcon and World Fantasy. This is good, because the disparate jobs of writing and mothering makes me sometimes feel very alone in my work life. Or that my world life must always happen in the margins. Or something. In any case I just have never had a lot of opportunities to connect with other people in the same work as me – the people for whom the building of stories is a daily vocation, the people who sweat and groan under the construction of sentences, who mine words like precious stones. It was astonishing for me; a revelation. It's nice to have colleagues, even if you only see them once a year. It's nice to know we're not alone.

 

As for 2011 – this year I become a novelist, and while that thought makes me so nervous that I think I might barf with these incessant jitters, I'm very, very pleased as well. My little book! After fits and starts, revisions so severe that only a sentence or two survived, after begging, pleading and ultimate despair, my book will finally live. Grant you sure feet, my book. Strong legs. Clear eyes. Feathers. Wings. In the end, our books really are like our children: we conceive, we nurture, we labor, we tend; and in the end they fly away. Grief, pride, relief. Is this normal? I hope so.

 

In any case, hello 2011! Welcome. We'll do our best to make you beautiful.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: 2010, 2011, astronomy, Boundary Waters, Childrens literature, fiction is my job, Launch Pad, Little Brown, New Year, No wonder I've been so exhausted, novel, Winnipeg Folk Festival, writing, Year's-end recap

In Which I Engage In Competitive Storytelling With My Son And He Totally Wins.

Leo, my six-year-old juvenile-delinquent Kindergartener, has bested his mama at Stories. Look, I can admit when I've been beat. It takes a big man – or woman, in my case – to concede the fight. Leo! You win!

Here's what happened:

This morning, at the breakfast table, Leo was begging for pancakes and I was avoiding pancake-making. So I picked up a folded piece of paper from the table and held it up like a book. I peered at my son over the rim of the paper and cleared my throat.

"Once upon a time," I said, "there was a boy named Leo who met a magical bunny. He asked the magical bunny for some pancakes, but the magical bunny said that pancakes had ceased to exist. So Leo had cereal instead and was filled with happiness. The end."

I put down the paper with a smack and raised my eyebrows. Leo picked it up. Cleared his throat.

"Once upon a time," he said, "there was a girl named mommy who went into a deep, dark forest looking for a magical bunny. She was chased by the Knights Who Say, "Ni!" and then was eaten by wolves. The magical bunny turned itself into a pancake. The end."

He slapped the paper onto the table and folded his arms with a grin. I picked up the paper, opened it up, and started to read.

"Once upon a time there was a boy named Leo who found a pancake in a deep, dark, forest. He was about to eat it but the pancake started to cry, because it was secretly the magical bunny. Leo screamed and ran out of the forest where he was captured by the Knights Who Say Ni, who forced him to purchase a shrubbery. The end."

Leo guffawed. I was on the ropes and he knew it. He approached the table at a swagger and picked up the paper.

"Once upon a time there was a girl named mommy whose eyeball fell out of her head and onto the floor. It stayed on the floor for one year where it rotted. Then, Leo picked up the eyeball and threw it into the trash, and it exploded. The end."

He cackled.

I picked up the paper.

"Once upon a time," I said, "there was a magical fairy princess who came to a boy named Leo in a pink cloud. 'Leo,' she said, 'I did not like the story about your mommy's eyeball one bit. I am going to turn you into a toad.' And so the fairy princess turned Leo into a toad and everyone lived happily ever after. The end."

"Hmph," Leo said. He picked up the paper.

He stared at me over the paper's edge. His eyes narrowed. He cleared his throat.

"Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit," he said, "ribbit, ribbit, ribbit. Ri-bbit."

AAAAAANNNND, that's Leo for the WIN. Nice work, buddy!

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: being a mom is sometimes weird, competitive storytelling, fiction is my job, juvenile delinquent, kindergarteners totally rule, mama

And another thing……

I just finished reading Genevieve Valentine's glorious novel Mechanique: A Tale of the Circus Tresaulti, and HOLY HECK. That novel knocked me out, down and sideways. Now, I'll write more about it when we get closer to its release date (in May, I believe. I got to read it early because I am SOOPER SPESHAL), but in the meantime, take a look at that gorgeous cover. Then, hop over to Amazon and order you up a copy of your own. Seriously, you'll thank me for it. And, you're welcome.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: circus, Genevieve Valentine, new books, novels, speculative fiction, steampunk, Tresaulti

On Birthdays (mine, specifically)

Tomorrow, I turn thirty-seven. I'm particularly excited about it.

Now, I'm typically excited about birthdays – that prospect of newness, that feeling of standing at the cusp of limitless space, that sea of possibilities. (Except twenty-nine. Turning twenty-nine sucked immensely. In retrospect, I think that twenty-nine – as an age, as a concept – can go screw itself) Anyway. In general, I like the age that I am, and always have. It has never occurred to me to lie about my age or to pretend myself older or younger. I'm proud of every blessed day I've had on this earth, and I will wear them like a badge.

Still, there's something significant about the step between thirty-six and thirty-seven.

When I turned thirty-six, I was ridiculously thrilled about it because thirty-six is a unified number – a square that is also the product of squares. It is solid, amenable, and sure-footed. It gets along well with others. Thirty-six is wide hips and floured hands and words spoken carefully at a PTA meeting. Thirty-six carries weight. It fits into pre-existing groves and keeps things moving along. Thirty-six is a team player. It is an integral piece. Thirty-six is an age that isn't likely to get kicked around. And while it hasn't been perfect, I'm very happy with thirty-six. All in all, it's been a good, good year.

But.

Thirty-seven. Thirty-seven is prime. It cannot be cut, diced or broken. Thirty-seven is a singularity. It asserts itself, announces itself, and does not bow. Thirty-seven accepts its edges – sharp, jagged, and lovely. Thirty-seven resists classification. It is shadowed, inscrutable, and vaguely dangerous. Thirty-seven is both promise and sting; it is a curve and a blade; a beacon, a comfort, and a threat. I think I'm going to enjoy this age.

Yes. I think I'm going to enjoy it very much.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: aging, birthdays, cake, did I mention cake?, sharp edges

Resolution: No More Car Accidents. AND I MEAN IT!

I was nearly in another car wreck today.

I had a carpool's worth of kids in the back (I always have a carpoolsworth of kids) and we were negotiating our way down Ford Parkway, across the high span over the churning ice chunks of the Mississippi, and along the tight curve where the bridge fits against the riverbank. We were moving slowly, hemmed in my other cars moving slowly, but the traffic moving opposite us skated along the curve, their rear ends fishtailing in a wild joy of motion, the thrill of chaos.

I found it annoying.

I found it irritating.

And I was afraid. We inched forward a little more.

And then, I saw the car.

It was, of course an SUV. Drivers of SUV's in my state are notorious for failing to notice the clues of their surroundings, for failing to mitigate their driving behavior as the weather spits snow or wind or rain. This car – it was the color of pearls – took the curve too fast and blossomed into a slide.

And it was beautiful.

It moved at an angle, its full, broad side swallowing the road ahead of it, plumes of salty snow unfurling around its wheels like banners.

It was headed right for us. I couldn't move. I say this without rhetoric – though, even if I wanted to move, I doubt that I would have been able to do so. My hands gripped the wheel. My heart leaped at this vision of motion and power and grace. The poetry of fear and violence.

I could see the face of the man who was about to hit us. He was young and beautiful. (Of course he was young. Of course he was beautiful. Carelessness is the birthright for the young and beautiful.) His fingers were as white as bone, his mouth was soft and open. His eyes had snapped to wide, round stones. They did not blink. His gaze hooked into my own.

I'm sorry, said his wide, round eyes.

I know, said the tight muscles in my set, fearful face. I braced myself for the hit.

It didn't come.

If it was a fortuitous patch of ice, or a handy chunk of snow, or a well timed jerk on the wheel, or simply the mechanations of a Universe not currently set for my own destruction, I will never know. What I do know is this: the rump of the car shuddered sweetly, then swung the other way, sending the car spinning in place. Despite the heavy traffic, despite the ice, it spun, righted itself, and continued on its way, without hitting a soul.

I breathed.

He breathed.

I could feel him breathing. I could feel his breath in my mouth and my breath in his. And if we ever meet, it will be like meeting a long-lost relative – a twin separated at birth. I know you. I have always known you. I will always know you.

I blew my fear away, clouding the window next to me, feeling the hum of my car's motor, the regularity of its gears. I flicked my eyes to the rear-view mirror.

"Everything okay back there?" I asked.

The children looked up from their books and their homework and their wordfinds and their hangman games.

"Of course it is," they said, the assumption of safety glossing their beautiful faces. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Filed under: Uncategorized

I swear, I could look at this all day

And one more thing to put in the file titled My Book Actually Exists! are these two little pages from the 2011 catalog at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers.

Which means, currently, at the Barnhill House: more joyful squeals; more dancing about the room; more wild abandon.

 

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: 2011, Childrens literature, Debut, fiction is my job, Little Brown, Middle Grade Novel, new books, SQUEEEEEE

My Eleven-Year-Old Thinks Terry Pratchett has the Power to Save Literature (or, here's incontrovertible proof that my kid totally rules)

I tweeted a while back about my eleven-year-old's borderline violent reaction to the book ERAGON (a book chucked hard against the far wall, a blonde-haired girl gone mad with frustration, an impassioned cry to the god of books, "WHY does this book have to be so OBVIOUS?")

Well.

Today, my darling girl sat down next to me on the couch, sighing deeply. I was deeply involved in the pages of The Blind Assassin and didn't look up. She sighed again.

"Everything alright, hon?" I asked.

"No," she said, sighing again. "Since, apparently, I like to torture myself, I decided to read the second book in the Eragon series."

"Hmmm," I said, turning my page (I was at a particularly good bit). "That seems like a strange choice."

"It's just that I thought it would be better than the first one." She pressed the heels of her hands against her forehead. "I thought he might have learned."

I shook my head. "It's probably best you learn right now to not put a lot of faith in boys learning things. Remember, that author is still very young. And some lessons are tougher than others."

She groaned. "I'd like to make a law," she said.

"Would you now?" I said, turning the page again.

"Yes," she said, taking my book away and putting it on the shelf. She came back with another one. Guards! Guards! by Terry Pratchett. "I want to make this book required reading for ALL WRITERS ON EARTH."

"Guards! Guards!?" I asked. "Can I ask why?"

"Well, first of all, because it's hysterical."

She had a point. I agreed with that one.

"And second of all, to demonstrate that there is NO EXCUSE FOR BEING OBVIOUS." She balled her hands into fists. She punched the sky.

"Okay," I said.

"The only reason for a book to have obvious plots or dimwitted main characters is if they're trying to be funny. Terry Pratchett is funny. And he's trying to tell THE UNIVERSE that if you're being painfully obvious than people will make fun of you. If all writers on earth read Terry Pratchett and learned their lessons from him, then all the books on earth will be better."

Exhausted from her little speech, she collapsed into a puddle of worn-out girl lying next to me on the couch.

"Are you quite through," I said.

"Yes," she said.

"Do you need something new to read?"

"No," she said. "I think I need to re-read all the Terry Pratchett books in the house. I think he has a lot to teach me."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what she did for the rest of the afternoon.

Now, I know that many of you have children, and I'm sure you think they're marvelous.

Still.

That kid is pretty damn awesome. And sometimes, I'm so proud of her I can hardly speak.

Filed under: Uncategorized