how to heal

Write. But don’t engage with people who try to tell you how to feel. Write. Make sure you stick to your running regimen and hit the park every other day. Write. Don’t beat yourself up when you fall off the vegan wagon, but know that cake isn’t the answer. Write. Listen to your racing heart and know that your body is trying to tell you something. Write. Turn off the radio or the TV, close the Facebook tab so you don’t absorb all the pain that your friends and loved ones are suffering. Write. Prep for class and be glad that for an hour you can talk to kids about the wonder of books. Write. But cut yourself some slack if you don’t reach your thousand-word quota every day. I’m working on Chapter 8 and know this book only has 10 chapters, so that means I’m nearing the end. When I told my 6th graders in Queens that I was making good progress on my novel, they spontaneously started clapping. We’d only known each other about 15 minutes, but that was their response: “Good for you!” Then we gathered around the biggest table in the room and they assessed the covers of my other 22 books. Which book jumps out at you? Half said Ship of Souls or The Deep. Those books aren’t available through the First Book marketplace, but I’ll see if I can bring a copy of each for their camp library. Kids never fail to impress heal me. I haven’t done a school visit in a while, but the kids today were SO excited about the reading club—especially when we started reading aloud from The Lightning Thief. One page—that’s all we had time to read together—but the looks on their faces, especially the boys…how long will that kind of joy last?

I’m not going to go there, not tonight. I’m going to work on finishing this novel since the kids get to read the first chapter later this week. This 10K-word book will be twice as long as expected, and I’ve already started plotting the sequel. My students in Queens are Black and South Asian and the kids in this novel are Black and South Asian…when I taught for BookUP two summers ago, I started another novel in Queens. Maybe I can get back to that one this fall. A writer friend in Baton Rouge has been out in the street protesting the police murder of Alton Sterling; she finally decided to take a break and in an email called me “a machine.” I know what she meant—I churn words out like there’s a switch somewhere inside that I can just flip at will. There isn’t, of course, but writing is how I survive. I shed a few tears last week but I’m not really a weeper. I’m a writer. My stories are shaped in part by what’s happening in the world around me, and that makes them a form of testimony. I’m not untouched or unchanged by the horror show and neither is my work. But if I can bring joy to the very kids deemed least deserving by this society, then that’s what I will do…