Make Your Own Weather

I was given this advice today:

Make your own weather.

It struck me.  Our ability to choose the way we see a situation, to decide how we walk through a day. A choice to simply react to our worlds or be proactive. I'm trying to make this the blue I walk under.  I want to feel this sun. I want to experience the way the land opened up to give me this morning in Spain.

Say Yes To Puppetry

Yesterday, I attended a Puppetry workshop with John Tartaglia (of Avenue Q fame.)

When I signed up through the Children's Media Association (CMA) I did not expect to be thrown into a situation where I had to stand alone before a group of twenty strangers, in front of a television monitor, with a mop of rags on my arm.

But there was no time to think. I had to come up with a voice (I took a cue from many of the cooking shows I watch: low and slow) and a character (I decided, in the 30 seconds I had, that his name was Mo) and just...go.

Many of you know I write at a snail's pace. I wait for words that never come. I sigh. I stare at blank pages. I dream.  This is not to say I don't finish things. I do.  But, while everything else in my working life is now, NOW, or yesterday, my writing life is much, much slower.

All this to say, when it comes to imagining words and character, I am not accustomed to improvisation, to winging it.  This was a stretch for me. I stumbled and sweat and worried.  And when my minutes of 'fame' were over, I couldn't even tell you what I said.

But there's something about not thinking or over-analyzing.  I had to remain unedited and both undone and done at the very same time. It was the most fun I've had in a long time.  I don't think I stopped smiling for the two hours I was there.

If ever in your life you are faced with the question: Should I take this puppetry class?  Say yes.  I know you're thinking you will never be faced with this question. But you never know. I was.  And I'm thrilled I answered correctly.

Really Writer

I've written of this before, how the word writer feels strange on the tongue. I am, I have discovered, after all these years, a children's writer, because I write for children every day.  My written work is not always visible, it is more often audible, through toys and games, inside ebooks and mobile apps.

For years, I have tacked on the role of producer to my title.  I am a writer and producer, I will say, at dinner parties and networking events.  It is what you see in the sidebar of this blog and in the lines of my business card.  Because producer is more marketable. It is easier explained.

At a doctor's visit a few weeks ago (just an annual checkup), my new doctor asked me what I did for a living.  Perhaps it was because I sat naked under a gown that wouldn't stay closed, perhaps it was because she held tight to a needle and would soon draw blood, but I did not, could not, hide. I'm a writer, I said. Not a producer in sight.

She asked me what I write and I rattled off the list of preschool brands, the toys and games, and all the etceteras. Again, perhaps it was because she'd just weighed me naked, then plunked me down on that  papery mat, but I went on to tell her something I rarely tell anyone. I told her I really write books.

I'm not sure what made me say this.  What I really do.  And what it even means to really do anything at all.

I knew what questions would come.  I knew I would have to explain myself out of that hole. I would have to share awkwardly rehearsed plot synopses. I would have to answer the genre questions and the labels, explain my way through the success of Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey.  Then I would have to say the words I hate saying, that, no, I am not published, and, no, you can not read my work anywhere. And my head spun thinking, Why, why, did I dig this deep? Why did I place myself here?

I wish I could say that our conversation did not go there.  I wish I could say it ended and I knew what it meant to really write, that calling myself a writer is the first step in a journey of self discovery and satisfaction.

But she asked me all of those questions.  I answered dutifully. She made me say ahh.  She listened to my heart beat.

Amid All the Noise

Lately I feel there's a lot of noise out there. I'm browsing through my twitter feed and it seems that everyone is up in arms about, well, everything.  I don't want to perpetuate the ugly sound by lamenting my frustration here but I just wondered...do you hear it too?

I'm trying to maintain an almost meditative focus these days -- on the words I'm writing and the words I'm reading. I'm reimagining my days. 

On Sunday night, I sat on the subway.  Having already finished a book, I was involved in a children's math game on my phone  (I was multiplying.  For real.) A young man stepped on the train to ask for money and food for his daughters, his grandmother, himself.  Unlike the many panhandlers I see and hear each day, he was well-spoken and well-dressed, his speech rehearsed but sincere.  A middle-aged woman, who sat across from me, said to him, When you're finished collecting money, come speak to me.

I'll admit.  I was curious.  I strained to listen while I multiplied but their conversation was intimate, thoughtful, the depth and concentration of it, almost mystical.  When I got off, they got off, and as I waited to transfer to my next train, they stood beneath the stairs in the heat of this conversation.

I wasn't meant to hear their words but I overheard snippets, the work of her rehabilitation, the daughters he loved, an education somehow lost and then found, for both of them.  And in the end, an exchange of information between them.  

In all of my years living in New York, of the thousands of people (it has to be thousands, after all these years) I see begging on the train and in the streets, I have never in my life witnessed anyone reach out in this way. To tell a story.  To listen to one.  I see something in you, I heard her say.

I wondered what the gift of this moment could mean. For both of them. For me.

Purple

It's time I admit I look for purple everywhere.  I found these dreaming leaves and a tempting mushroom in Cockaponset State Forest this weekend (the photos are untreated.) In stores, I scan clothing racks and my gaze snaps to shades of purple.  If I have to choose game pieces, accessories, or cell phone covers, purple is my default.

My college application essay was about 'being purple' and I recall my advisor reading the first paragraph out loud to me just before graduation, in my final week at Cornell, because he thought it would be amusing to look back. I promptly ripped the pages from his hands in embarrassment.  When I left the office, I tossed the essay in the garbage.  I'm a little disappointed I didn't keep it because I have forgotten its contents and now I don't know what it means to be purple.  I'd like to know.

Despite all this, I don't think of purple as being my color.  I actually think of it as being my grandmother's.  Maybe that's why I look for it wherever I go.

Banned Books Week and blocking the 'Exchange of Souls'

In honor of Banned Books Week, I point you to this essay by Haruki Murakami (translated to English by RocketNews24.)

This essay is a response to the controversy surrounding the Senkaku Islands and rising tension between Taiwan, China, and Japan.  It's about how we set boundaries and the way we draw lines and borders.  Murakami compares the anger swelling from territory disputes to getting drunk on cheap liquor. He warns us of the resulting hangover. 

While not the focus of the essay, it is worth noting that, in protest of Japan, some Chinese booksellers have removed books by Japanese authors (including Murakami) as well as books about Japan from their shelves.

Murakami's final words, his plea, are powerful.  I urge you to read the essay in it's entirety.

But we should not block the exchange of souls that is cultural communication. We should not destroy the paths that so many have given so much to establish. So from now on, however we may be wounded, we must seek to maintain this path and to continue to leave it open.

I love the idea that sharing books is an exchange of souls.  I don't like building walls.

The Next Big Thing

The fabulously talented Janet Sumner Johnson tagged me in this blog game: The Next Big Thing.

What is the working title of your book?
Rabbit Island (Yes, I'm still working on Rabbit Island. No, I can't believe it either.)

Where did the idea come from for the book?
After learning about the historic Dreamland fire in Coney Island, I started to wonder what it means for a place called Dreamland to go up in flames.

What genre does your book fall under?
Oh the dreaded label. Contemporary YA.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Seeing how long it is taking to write the book, never mind get it published, never mind sell the film rights, I am hopeful that a young, amazingly talented friend I work with in children's media will be old enough, by that time, to play the lead role.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
When Rabbit Island's glittering amusement park, Dreamland, burns to the ground, sixteen year old Adelaine Cross searches for new life in her broken world.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
Represented by an agency.  I am hopeful.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript? May we see an intro?
The first, first draft took four months. The second first draft (yes, you're reading this right) is taking about the same.  Revisions are endless...

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I don't like to compare books to one another.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?
Wandering through Coney Island in winter.  The ocean. Judy Garland.

What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?
There are underground canals, swan boats, kissing in concrete meadows, old theaters, midnight swims, a Bridge of Laughs, music (Nirvana meets Gershwin), and Luna Lovelorn, who you do not know, but who you will want to know.  

I am tagging some of the next big things:
Sharon Mayhew
Angela Cothran
Amy Mackechnie
Meredith @ Fairy Tales and Cappuccino
Jennifer Pickrell

Rules of The Next Big Thing:

*Use this format for your post
*Answer the ten questions about your current WIP (work in progress)
*Tag five other writers/bloggers and add their links so we can hop over and meet them.

Ten Interview Questions for the Next Big Thing:

What is your working title of your book?
Where did the idea come from for the book?
What genre does your book fall under?
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript? May we see an intro?
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

Include the link of who tagged you and this explanation for the people you have tagged. Be sure to line up your five people in advance.