Children's Book Week

Happy Children's Book Week!

My favorite children's book store, The Red Balloon, is celebrating by hosting Rick Riordan tonight (I can't wait!).

As I'd imagine is the case with most writers, books utterly sculpted my childhood. In honor of Children's Book Week I've concocted a brew of the top ten (yee gads, the choice is painful!) texts that left an indelible mark on my soul. In light of the honorary week of kid lit, this list is exclusively children's books, though I read a lot of "adult" books as a child. I've also only listed books that I read as a child, so anything published after 1996 (I'm calling 18 years old adulthood) won't appear.

Chris Van Allsburg's oeuvre. From Jumanji to The Stranger, this genius author/illustrator's dreamscrapes made me believe in infinite worlds (im)possible.

Maurice Sendak. Be daring. Be bold. Be wild.

Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising series. Cooper's weaving of contemporary England and Wales with Arthurian legend still inspires my writing.

Lloyd Alexander. Yes, children's fantasy can be dark. And scary. And wonderful.

Louis Sachar. Sideways Stories from Wayside School. Zany, sharp humor never fails.

Walter Farley and Marguerite Henry. Because I will always, always be the girl who loves horses.

Natalie Babbit, Tuck Everlasting. Revealed the fragility of life and the pain of immortality.

C.S. Lewis. The Chronicles of Narnia. Deftly woven, intricate worlds and fantastic, profoundly moving tales. Narnia is the kind of place you long for.

L.M. Montgomery. Anne of Green Gables. Every smart, independent young woman's role model. Bonus if you've got red hair. And wouldn't we all love Gilbert Blythe (sigh)?

J.R.R. Tolkein. The Hobbit. Now I realize I'm walking a fine line here. I wouldn't list Lord of the Rings, as I think of that series as "adult," but The Hobbit always struck me as a children's book. My family owned the hardcover text illustrated by Michael Hague. Orcs, elves, dwarves, dragons. Can't get much better than that.

That's ten? Oh horror! So many books left unnamed, but I'll stick to my limit. What children's books shaped you, or are still on your shelf, yellowed and dog-eared like mine, after so many readings?

Quote of the day from my Bikram Yoga instructor: "This is Simon Says in hell."

Give and Take

I want to start this post by saying thank you to each of you for reading this blog. It's wonderful to have comments and emails about my quirky posts, rants, and scribblings (yeah, I know they're typed but I prefer to think of them as scribblings. Besides they often start as scribblings on sticky notes, napkins, or torn envelopes before ending up on the screen).

The more I write the more I discover what a collaborative process it is. Without your presence and encouragement staying the course (living a life with what feels like two full-time jobs) would be difficult.

Life is better when we listen to others (those who are sincere and wise, that is. Ignore inane, snarky babbling and general pettiness at all times.) Snippets of thought, compliments, questions, and invitations from friends and strangers bring us closer to our selves.

My friend and poet-extraordinaire, Kristin (her book comes out this fall!), invited me to try something new this morning: Bikram Yoga.

For those of you not familiar with the yoga world, Bikram Yoga is hot yoga. Really hot. The studio is heated to 105 degrees. I normally practice Vinyasa (flow) or Ashantaga (power) yoga, and I think I'm a decent practitioner.

Let me tell you, Bikram is hard.

I'm a red-haired, fair-skinned lass who takes heat about as well as a snowman. According to Eric Cartman I'm what's known as a "Daywalker."



But trying new things generally creates good outcomes, so I pushed aside my anti-heat prejudice and joined Kristin at the studio at 9:30 this morning for a 1 1/2 hour session.

About fifteen minutes in I was certain I was going to pass out. Or at least vomit. Beyond hot, my skin was slick with sweat. I became convinced my body was actually evaporating. I had started wilting and was definitely no longer "following my breath."

The air sparkled before my eyes. My muscles quaked and shook. All my yoga hubris crumbled. I didn't think I would make it.

But the hour and a half passed and I didn't lose consciousness. I completed the class. And I felt wonderful.

I signed up for more sessions.

What does this have to with writing?

It's about risks.

The writer's endeavor is all about risk-taking. No success without the potential for failure (or at least the eternal delay of seeing one's work published and lauded - if that's your goal, there are many versions of success). Writing represents an intimate part of the self made bare for everyone to see. It's scary and thrilling, horrifying and gratifying. There is nothing in the world that means more to me and nothing I have more fear of than this craft.

But it's worth the risk.

So what are the risks I'm taking this summer?

Finishing the sequel to my novel, continuing the creation of two other WIPs, and mastering toe stand pose.

Sounds of the Seasons

Are there songs or albums you can only listen to at certain times of the year?

I'm not talking "Silver Bells" at Christmas or "Monster Mash" at Halloween here. The weather's gone all summer-like in Minneapolis and I'm suddenly itching for tunes that match the heat of the day. Why are certain sounds tied to seasons?

I always want to listen to Beck's Guero in the summer. And it feels wrong to listen to Bjork's Vespertine if there isn't at least frost on the ground.

I've written in the past about the diverse places from which my stories derive, but I've yet to mention the preeminence of music in my writing.

My books all have soundtracks - not just playlists, but actual soundtracks for the scenes that occurs. My characters also have what I'd dub "theme songs" that reflect their major traits and/or life situation.

One of the things I love most about music is the way a song can catapult me into a scene I've been writing or conjure up an entirely new scene or character.

Or sometimes, an entire book.

Like today, when I was driving home, windows down enjoying the gorgeous, sun-drenched afternoon when "Fresh Blood" from the Eels forthcoming album Hombre Lobo (June 2) came on the radio.

And I was immediately in the sequel to my novel. I've never heard this song before this afternoon and yet it encapsulates the spirit of the book and I was thrilled.

On a related note, sometimes I imagine how lovely it would be to have a book with a cover. Here are a couple dreamings of that ilk.

Sky Watcher

Driving across the city this afternoon, I was mired in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I didn't mind because of the clouds.

Spring's first thunderstorm rolled through today. Sporadic booms and lightning flashes peppered the afternoon. Globular missiles of rain pelted the ground. I find it intriguing that raindrops have diverse sizes.

I anticipate thunderstorms, even long for them. Unlike many people I know, I've never been frightened by them.

While I sat with an idling engine, I watched a jet liner climb into the sky heading straight for a massive, steel-grey nimbus cloudbank. It was like seeing a sparrow fly into a dragon's gaping maw.

I actually enjoy flying through storms, despite the discomfort of turbulence. I've wished for a long time for some means by which I could make the clouds my home. I love the shape of clouds, their constant fluidity and movement, the endless varieties in which they manifest. I feel a new story coming on.

My brother and I have shared many conversations about the different forms of flying dreams we have. Mine always require that I have a running start for take off. Sometimes in the dreams I'm me, human yet capable of flight, at others I'm a bird. Once I was a swan, in another dream a seagull.

Flying dreams have been among my most profound and I leave them waking into a state of bemused contentment, as if through the dream I've touched something profound.

What do dreams do for you?

The Derby

I was a girl who dreamt of horses.
Every Christmas and birthday that came around would find me leaving a carefully-folded sheaf of paper (or two) atop my parents' pillows. (Yes, I was destined to be a writer, without doubt.)


I held my breath and waited for them to find the letter that oh-so-pleadingly detailed the reasons I needed a horse of my own.

My parents never caved.

The gods smiled on me though and I ended up working summers on a ranch from age ten through high school. For someone who never had her own horse, I've spent more time riding than most.

I don't ride much anymore, and I always feel a bit of a loss because of it. I usually can tell when I've gone too long without spending time around horses because the dreams come back. They are always the same. I'm back at the ranch, helping saddle and bridle horses, prepping for a trek out into the forest, but obstacle after obstacle arises - each delaying our departure - and inevitably I don't ever get to ride.

On this day, each year without fail, horses fill my mind.

It's Derby Day.

That young girl who loved horses, loved everything about them. I followed the two-year-old racing circuit closely, awaiting its culmination on the first Saturday in May. And I was convinced that some divine symbol rested in the fact that the last Triple Crown Winner appeared in the year I was born. On the list I kept of things I wanted to do in life, a trip to the Kentucky Derby numbered among them.

I made it to the Derby - twice. It was not what I expected.

I'd always thought of the Kentucky Derby as something of a horse lover's Holy Grail. It's not.

The first trip I made was with a friend from Louisville. We were in our early twenties, and she took me to the infield.













For anyone not indoctrinated into the revelries associated with the Derby, the infield is something of a gathering point for the common folk. A heavily-inebriated crowd partakes in what resembles a mixture of Mardi Gras and spring break. My maiden voyage to Churchill Downs presented me with more flashed breasts than thoroughbreds.

Having recently gone through college life, I took it in stride. But the tiny horse-obsessed girl inside of me felt as though the inner sanctum of horse heaven had been violated.

The second trip I made to the Derby happened the following year. The corporate honchos I worked for had two extra tickets to the Grand Stand, and offered them to me. And I thought my redemptive Derby trip had arrived.

But lo, disappointment once again.

Instead of a drunken, hot press of half-naked bodies in the infield, I was surrounded by a drunken, hot press of starched-linen bodies topped with silly hats. And still no horses.


(I present "Kentucky Derby Barbie," and yeah, it really was kinda like that...sigh)





You wouldn't believe how hard it is to actually watch the race if you attend the Kentucky Derby.

But I did it. I made my long-envisioned pilgrimage to the Kentucky Derby, twice. Neither experience lived up to the sacred horse-worshipping experience that I had wanted to partake in.

It made me wonder about the way we create ideals as children, pin our hopes on far-reaching expeditions that will somehow make us the human beings we long to be. How often does the reality bear pale resemblance to the beauty of our dreams?

Turning Days

May 1.

It's interesting that a single day can hold significance for so many different groups, in diverse ways. It's Beltane, May Day, Lei Day (Hawa'ii), and National Love Day (Czech Republic).

I love the month of May, for some reason I tend to become very hopeful in May. The weather is perfect, not too hot, but no longer cold. Leaves begin to unravel and flowers bloom.

When I'm full of goodwill I find it easier to speak more honestly about life's challenges. A number of my favorite blogs have recently discussed the struggles that writers face in life. I'm particularly indebted to their posts.

As someone who struggles with severe, chronic depression it helps to speak with others who face similar challenges, and that this particular malady plagues those of the writing kind all too often.
It's vital to know that others understand your own pain, and that you needn't "suffer for art."

One of my favorite books on writing is Betsy's Lerner's The Forest for the Trees: An Editor's Advice to Writers. This text addresses not the nitty-gritty of technical aspects of writing, but instead the life and spirit of those who write. The chapter "Touching Fire" struck a nerve as Lerner speaks to the ways in which so many writers are lost to depression and substance abuse. Nathan Bransford recently raised the subject of sacrifice and self-abuse for writers, and I think the topic deserves reflection.

While it can be wonderful to lose oneself in writing, it's too easy to also lose one's self entirely. I'm fortunate to have a wonderful husband, family, and friends who help keep me anchored, but at times I still find myself staring into the abyss.

The blogging community of writers offers yet another space in which to ground ideas and experiences and make me feel less like I'm stranded on a desert island. Thank you to all beacons of hope out there. You know who you are.

Sister Christian

I'm going to branch out from a lovely blog tree-trunk that's been growing today; that is, what is writing to you?

Fantastic topic, so to push it a bit further I want to know what moves you into a writing mindset?

For me, it's a challenge to ever turn off the writing mindset. One of my favorite tales of the writer's life is from James Thurber:

I never quite know when I'm not writing. Sometimes my wife comes up to me at a party and says, "Damnit, Thurber, stop writing." She usually catches me in the middle of a paragraph. Or my daughter will look up from the dinner table and ask, "Is he sick?" "No," my wife says, "he's writing something."
(Interview with George Plimpton and Max Steele. Paris Review, Fall 1955)

The first time I came across this story I blinked and reread it, all the while thinking "Hey, that's me!" (And my husband rolls his eyes and nods).

I am always writing, it takes very little to push me into story-crafting, imagined dialogues, and scene painting. Tearing myself out of the writing world is much, much harder and quite painful.

This process (lifestyle?) came to mind when I arrived at Target yesterday. I passed through the sliding doors at precisely the same moment as an elderly nun.

Now, as the daughter of a Protestant minister I haven't had a lot of quality nun time in my life.



(Looks like I might have missed out on all the fun)

These days most nuns have eschewed the traditional habit, so they move through the world garbed like the rest of us civilians. Invisible saints.

But this nun was fully bedecked in meditative black and long wimple. I'd guess she was in her eighties. I immediately began to muse about her life and the reason for her visit to Target.

After gathering my Target goods and heading to the check out. I was rather startled when the nun turned up in line right behind me. Her shopping cart contained just a few items...three or four packages. All clothing for an infant.

Moments like these bulldoze me into a writing mindset, as if the universe is channeling a story my way. I've never believed in coincidences.

Questions ballooned in my mind. Why would a nun buy baby clothes and only baby clothes? Orphanage? Relief work? Grand nieces or nephews? Her own grandchildren from a life prior to getting to a nunnery?

The entire scenario struck me as incredibly bizarre.

Stories manifest all around me; from snippets of conversation I overhear, to the way shadows wrap around a tree, to nuns at Target.

Where do your stories come from? How do they evolve?