Eyeball To Eyeball

The Cuban Missile Crisis took place in October 1962 and bumped up against Halloween. Halloween was on a Wednesday in 1962, although people wondered if there would even be a Halloween that year, as we danced around the Russians and came within a hair's breadth of annihilating one another.

I love a homemade Halloween, and that's what my hero Franny plans for in 1962, so I'm having fun right now, writing about the Halloweens of my childhood. Since Halloween plays a central role in Franny's story, can I call it research when I stop work early today to carve a pumpkin and roast the seeds? I think yes.

That's part of my process today. Another part: I'm resisting allowing my hero to stumble, so I'm writing around the problem instead of through it. Arrrrrgh. Must stop this and plunge into that inmost cave where my hero faces her Supreme Ordeal.

I had this same trouble with Comfort in LITTLE BIRD. I didn't want her to suffer the way she did, so I wrote three different endings to LITTLE BIRD. Dismay came home, walking into Snowberger's smack in the middle of his own memorial service. Dismay didn't come home, but a "found a big black dog" poster was how I ended the book, so the reader knew that Dismay was out there, somewhere, and someone had found him. Then I wrote an ending in which Dismay was found dead. I couldn't stomach that one at all and threw it out immediately.

My editor read every one of those endings. Every time, she told me I was cheating. She was right.

In the end, I opted to be as truthful to my story as I could. Dismay could not come back, and Comfort's heart would be broken, and yet through her suffering, she would come to understand Peach's suffering, and even Declaration's suffering, and she would redeem herself and grow up. Something like that.

So today I'm reminding myself that it's okay for Franny's heart to break. She can handle it. She -- and the story -- will be the better for it. I know the resolution of my story is on Halloween and that the weekend before it is the hardest of Franny's life. I want to mirror what was happening in the country at the time, through Franny's struggle.

The weekend before that 1962 Halloween was as scary for the country as it will be for Franny, if I do my job well.

On that Saturday night, Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara said, "I thought I might never live to see another Saturday night." I want Franny to feel this way, too. I want the reader to feel this way. On that weekend before Halloween, as Russia agreed to remove Soviet missiles from Cuba, Secretary of State Dean Rusk turned to JFK's National Security Advisor McGeorge Bundy and said, "We've been eyeball to eyeball and the other fellow just blinked."

I am eyeball to eyeball with Franny right now. I can't let her blink.

Exit, Stage Left


Know who said that? I do. Here he is, in all his august glory, Snagglepuss. In my novel it's 1962, and Franny loves Saturday morning cartoons.

I did, too. I didn't know this at the time, of course, but now I see (upon rewatching the umpteen clips on YouTube) that I soaked up lots of sophisticated language, lovely turns of phrase, and some hilarious ways to make others laugh by watching Snagglepuss and his hip delivery, like something out of a Shakespeare play, crossed with Jackie Gleason and a dash of the Marx Brothers, too.

I'm exiting, stage left, this afternoon, as son Zach moves today. I am in charge of the chili/soup, which is bubbling as I type. I've fiddled with the novel, but it's hard for me to fit in fifteen uninterrupted minutes today, what with the workers who are here (more on this later), Jim and Richard going off to vote early so we have the day free, and my chopping, slicing, stirring, of a chilly-fall-day's soup. Still -- once this day falls into evening, I plan to hole up and write forward.

I've been working with my characters today, with the limited time I had to work this morning. Characters need identifiers, or tics or tags... there are different words for this. Each character I create has his or her unique ways of seeing the world and/or interacting with it. There is an inside landscape and an outside manifestation of that.. along with small things characters do or say -- Ruby saying "Good Garden of Peas!" for instance, and always pulling up her left overalls strap, always pushing her unruly red hair out of her face.

Franny loves Snagglepuss. It's part of her identity. Here's a one-minute clip featuring that sophisticated cat. It still makes me laugh... and, it helps me characterize Franny.





Heavens to Murgatroyd!

Approach To The Inmost Cave

I had another nightmare last night. Bombs exploded (with a half-muted sound) in the distance and the sky turned orange and then gray and then everything was ashen and it was hard to breathe.

I was a kid in my dream, and I had kids... you know how dreams go. There was a dog -- a black dog. Jim Williams, my contractor friend, drove his truck through the haze to my house to bring me my dog, who had been swimming in brackish water. The kids didn't understand what was happening and were soon bored. I let them play with the hose in the back yard and wash trash cans.

I'm writing about all of this right now in my novel -- isn't that weird? Or not. Franny has to do chores. There is a dog -- Jack is his name. There is a gravel pit that looks like a nuclear blast site or a crater on the moon. There is a bomb shelter, and everyone is afraid of nuclear war. Franny is a kid -- she is me. I am she. (All my characters are part of me.) And I am a grown-up, writing this story. It's all there.

I'm sure my dream is influenced, too, by Cormac McCarthy's book, THE ROAD, which I read several months ago, about a father and son trying to survive a nuclear winter. It's bleak and beautiful, painful and powerful, and I recognize the landscape of that novel in my dream.

I dreamed in color. I hope I'm writing in color, too. There is a sense of foreboding in the novel, but I hope you are laughing, too, when you read the finished book. Oh, I am trying hard to make you laugh. I'm holding both sides of Uncle Edisto's stick.

I didn't laugh in my dream, though. It was filled with a surreal, walking-under-water feeling, and this is how I feel about the novel now. Yesterday I figured out the way forward, I took long, solid strides, and I can see that I have left the stage of "Tests, Allies, and Enemies."

I am approaching the inmost cave with this revision. If you have read Chris Vogler's THE WRITER'S JOURNEY, you'll recognize that term. If you are a novel writer, or a student of story, you'll recognize the place:

"The Hero must make the preparations needed to approach the Inmost Cave that leads to the Journey's heart, or central Ordeal. Maps may be reviewed, attacks planned, a reconnaissance launched, and possibly the enemy forces whittled down before the Hero can face his greatest fear, or the supreme danger lurking in the Special World."

That's where I am. I am moving into the heart of my story -- I'm racing OUT of the middle, thank goodness. I can review everything later, but for now, I want to keep moving forward, and take Franny to the heart of her fear, and let her figure her way out. It feels good to be racing for the finish.

Just a note: As I surfed the Web this morning, looking for a suitable public-domain photo of a nuclear blast, I found this video game, "World in Conflict," with its accompanying YouTube moment of nuclear blasts, and all I can say is... really? Really? This would have so totally terrified me as a kid.

In fact... it did terrify me. I remember adults talking about the Sedan Site in Nevada, where an underground nuclear test was conducted in June 1962 (photo at right), resulting in two radioactive clouds drifting across the United States toward my home just outside of Washington, D.C.. We watched the news. We knew this cloud was invisible poison. We tracked its progress across the country, and we knew there was nothing we could do about it. We could not control our world.

Today I stick to what I can control. I suit up and show up. And now, forward, toward that inmost cave.

Changes in Latitudes


I am no Ernest Hemingway, he of the succinct sentence and travel-lust (and much more).

Still... here I sit at the Island of Panera Bread, writing away, making headway, feeling like a writer again.

Thanks to Chris B. who reminded me: sometimes, it's a good thing to run away from home and write all day from another location. That's what I'm doing today. I'm grateful for the forward motion.

Thanks also to a faithful Midwest reader who wrote, YOU ARE NOT A SLOTH.

Okay. I believe you. Thanks for that, and for all the encouragement, y'all. You are championing your own writer selves, too... you know that, right?

Right.

Construction Delays

When I was in my twenties, in the mid-seventies, I worked for a construction company building the brand-new D.C. subway system. I started out as timekeeper, in a trailer on the corner of Brandywine Street and Wisconsin Avenue, and I eventually became the office manager.

I was 22 years old when I started out, had two small children, was newly single, and scared to death. I knew so little about... anything. I was a sponge. I grew up in the 7 years I worked for Gates & Fox. I made good friends. I learned how to make my own way in the world. And I memorized the "Five Stages of a Construction Project" that graced the wall by the industrial-strength coffee makers and that we pointed to often, with a laugh, to track our progress.


Five Stages of a Construction Project:

1. Enthusiasm

2. Disillusionment

3. Search for the guilty

4. Punishment of the innocent

5. Praise and honors for the non-participants

But I am not laughing these days. My novel looks right now like the Metro map above. I've cycled back around to stage 2. I don't want to go on. I've been banging my head against the wall of this story for three days now. Well... okay... I gave myself permission to sit with the crazy-quilt of possibilities, to let my subconscious go to work, to come back to the page with Some Answers about direction... but that's not happening. There are no answers.

Maybe it's because I dragged my feet about getting to the page yesterday and when I got there, I waded around in the murky waters of the middle, dog paddling but making no progress. I was distracted yesterday, unfocused. I have suitably distracted myself today as well.

I know this place, know it well. This is the dreaded inertia. The place where I gain weight, get depressed, take to my bed, never go out, stop bathing, am non-responsive to phone calls and emails, snap at people so they will leave me alone and give me
space... no, wait... that's not me, is it?

Is it?

I looked up inertia and found this, in a pile of definitions:

"Lack of skill; Slothfulness."

Oh-I-hope-not.

I call myself a writer and yet I resist the hard work of writing. And it is hard. It is so very hard to create something new that never existed before, born completely out of your head and heart and gut and experience, and fashion it so that it is palatable -- even beloved -- by others.

A day where my characters sing to me is so quickly followed by slog, and then by rest and then... sometimes -- oh, I have to be so careful -- by the setting in of inertia which leads to grinding to a halt.

I used to feel sorry for myself (numbers 3 and 4). Maybe I still do... but mostly, I have learned to coax myself out of this place instead of beating myself up. That's where I am today. I am coaxing myself back to work. I actually think this requires grit and is a highly disciplined act, although it doesn't look like it to me or anyone else. The writer who marches to her garrett daily and grinds out narrative in snow, rain, sleet, heat, depression -- that's the writer who looks disciplined.

I maintain that it is a discipline to fight sloth and inertia with a practiced, compassionate hand, and to coax the writer back to work. So. Here I go. I hope.

The bills are paid, the lunch is eaten, the fire is warm, the room is mine alone, and the laptop sits right here in my lap, with my story open and staring at me.

I just have to agree to sit with it. I have rewards waiting for me when I do. I'm embarrassed to even list them here, so of course I will:

-- a nap
-- a long bath
-- reading my political blogs (I deleted them from my homepage, but I know where they are, yes I do)
-- reading all the Mad Men wrap-ups on the Web
-- stuff I can't tell you about because it is too silly and ridiculous for public consumption

I think it's Dorothy Parker who said "I hate writing; I love having written."

That's how I feel today.

I don't have the luxury of not writing, right now. I travel again starting November 8, and this novel needs to be off my desk and on my editor's by that date.

I love having written.

We Choose To Go To The Moon

Deep into revising the middle of this novel today. More when I come up for breath. Yesterday and today have been a slog. But I am sticking with it, staying at the page, going forward, taking a look... no-no, that doesn't feel right at all, then ripping out, starting again.

Nine-year-old Drew wants to be an astronaut. I'm also working on weaving this story thread through my revision today, making sure I don't drop any stitches.

President Kennedy made his famous "We Choose to Go to the Moon" speech in September 1962, just as my story opens.

The Subconscious Goes To Work

I have molasses. I have a peck of Staymans and Winesaps. I have a slew of pumpkin seeds, so I'm throwing them into everything. I am making humble, simple suppers, to sustain me on these cool, rainy, work-soaked days.

My favorite holiday is just around the corner, my staff is excited about it, and company comes in a few hours for supper and an overnight. I need to put sheets on Hannah's bed, clean the bathroom (finally), and start the vegetarian chili. I have committed grocery shopping and laundry.






This is how busy my novel feels right now. Suddenly, I have a new character. I have made a new (major) discovery about another character. I have unearthed a mystery as well. I am going back, layering in my new discoveries through previous chapters, planting hints and herrings and whiffs of surprise to come. I am changing this story's sheets and fluffling pillows and cleaning bathrooms. What's more, I am also considering a new tack. Ulp. Eez Too Much.





Who said (or wrote) that the process of writing a novel is basically a process of uncovering, unearthing what is already there in the subconscious? Was it I? Hahahaha.

I don't remember and can't find the quote right now -- would love to know, though, if someone has it handy.




I did find this quote, which I offer, apropos of nothing:

"Writers, like teeth, are divided into incisors and grinders."

~Walter Bagehot~

Well! Which are you?

I am punchier than I thought.





I do love this by Alice Hoffman:

"When you start writing the magic comes when the characters seem to take on a life of their own and write the words for themselves."






This is where I am right now. Characters are popping up like puppets, shouting to be heard, declaring their intentions and making their relationships to one another -- the whole shebang is threatening to become unwieldy.

I am the puppeteer, and I cannot lose control of my story. There is so much rich material here... I am bloated with it. I need to step back and think about the many layers this novel has accumulated, and what I'm going to do about this -- which ones are more prominent? Which ones really matter? However... it's too much for me to wrestle in my conscious mind.

This is not the same as not knowing what happens next and being stymied -- which is where I was not long ago. This is having so many choices that are clamoring for attention and needing to listen to them all.

I finished chapter 14 on Wednesday, revised it yesterday, and decided that so much new is happening, I need to let my subconscious, my undermind, my writing partner, go to work for a day or two. I have my notebook by my side. I'm not scribbling much at all... the subconscious is at work, and when it is ready to burp, I won't be able to keep up with what pours out.

At least that's what I'm banking on -- and baking on. I will enjoy my overnight guests and my clean house. The photos today represent what's happening on the outside, in the conscious world I live in. What's happening inside -- well, that's a whole other story.

Back to work tomorrow after breakfast and a goodbye to friends.

On This Day...

Finished chapter 13. Took a break.

John Kennedy spoke to the Nation Oct. 22, 1962, 26 years ago today, about the possibility of nuclear war with Russia, as soviet missiles were confirmed in Cuba.

This is what I'm writing about.


The Most Important Pair Of Eyes


What day is it? Wednesday, got it.

Monday I sent (via email) chapters 1 through 10 of my 1962 novel to my editor along with a letter about where the story stands now, what I think is working, my concerns and questions, and a thank-you-in-advance for her good eyes on the story. Then I started chapter 11.

Tuesday I finished chapters 11 and 12. These chapters came from mostly-known and already-written material, but they also catapulted me into a brand-new place... more on that in a minute. I sent chapters 11 and 12 to my editor with a note: the plot thickens.

Franny's mother suddenly becomes much more important than I realized. Much more. I finally figured out how to write the new character, Chris, into a scene -- how to let him make his entrance, how to get him to the gravel pit with Franny and Drew, and how to paint the beginnings of their relationship. And this is what led to a completely new scene, in chapter 12 (hence, rewriting the last half of the chapter), in which I found out that Franny's mother... well... it's complicated. Still too fragile to talk about. But good enough at this point to send off.

I need feedback now, 12 chapters into a new revision. I purposely don't have a writer's group and I share my work with only a few eyes. The eyes I trust most are my editors'.

Who knew?

My editor is new to me. We started working together in February. I was devastated by the loss of two editors at Harcourt within one year; one I had worked with for 12 years and had written all three Aurora County novels with. Would a new editor at a new house be the kind of editor I needed? Would I be the kind of author she could work well with? etc... all kinds of fears surrounded this new path, and some of them kept me from writing for a while. Fear -- a topic for another time (many other times).

I asked my editor if I could send this new novel to her in pieces. She graciously said yes. This is largely how I worked with Liz Van Doren at Harcourt, after RUBY, our first novel together, and for some reason this serves my work well -- I get feedback I need during the process, and can revise as I go, think-through, consider, have what amounts to a constant companion, critic, and champion by my side... I don't have to go through this alone. I try not to abuse this partial-sending. My editor does not hear from me frequently... but she will, in this last thirty days. We both want the best book we can make together.

I know editors (and writers) who will absolutely not do this -- they want a novel of-a-piece. That's perfectly acceptable. That's how I wrote RUBY. It was my first novel, and I had a writer's group at the time, and I used them (ad nauseum, poor things) and their generous skills to help me learn. I am still learning. And one thing I have learned over the years is that too many eyes on a story can hurt my ability to see a straight trajectory and listen for my characters' true hearts.

So I have taken a leap of faith with this new editor, and she with me. Months ago, I whined to anyone who would listen to me that trust was so important, that it took time and more time to establish it, that we didn't have that trust yet, my new editor and I, by virtue of the fact that we were so new to one another, and how was I going to write this next book on this tight schedule and yadda yadda yadda, and then... then. It came:

A trust born of real professionalism, a willingness to plunge in on both our parts (I dragged my feet but finally did it), and to be honest about what works and what doesn't, in a totally smart way. When my editor told me in September that the new beginning I had written really took off in chapter 3, I could hear her.

"If Tom West didn't exist, would you miss him?" I asked.

She answered with a quick and unequivocal "No."

Well... I wasn't all that wild about Tom myself, I discovered. I was using him to set up a new chapter one, a fresh start, and a canvas for Franny to showcase her personality. It wasn't working and it set up the reader falsely, as Tom was too prominent.

"It's very high energy," my editor said about chapters one and two. I heard her. Chapters one and two stole good energy from chapter three, which is where the story took off.

I ditched chapters one and two. Then I sat here for a solid month trying to move ahead with the story and not able to -- slogging mightily, keeping to myself, and seeming to get nowhere. I needed that beginning. A solid beginning tells me I am okay with a story.

On October 8, that new beginning came to me... I consider it a gift of the slog. I pulled up this beginning from a long-forgotten memory of my school days, for I had decided to start this novel in school, in Franny's 5th-grade classroom, and then segue home -- something I've never done before (if you look, you'll see that I have never written school scenes -- they don't exist in any of my books).

I took this old memory that just "appeared" out of nowhere (process, slog) and put it on the page. I started with that line I've already shared with you: I am invisible. I wrote chapter one. I didn't wait or sit on it or even let it cool off. I sent chapter one to my editor (and cc'd it to my agent). "I think this is better," I wrote.

My new editor called me. On the telephone. Within minutes. I could hear the excitement in her voice. We were both excited -- we fairly squealed like little kids about this new beginning. Instinctively my editor knew how to strengthen even this new beginning by suggesting a cutting of the first paragraph and moving other stuff around -- what did I think? I think YES! I said. It's perfect! Yes, the new first line: I am eleven years old and I am invisible.

The entire conversation lasted less than two minutes. It included tons of rah-rah-this-is-it! and a hefty dollop of critical thinking. It was a display of trust on both our sides. Only there aren't sides... there is one side, and it's the side of the story. What will best serve this story? We are partners in this endeavor, my editor and I.

I trust her.

Armed with her enthusiasm and constructive criticism, I went back to face the page. Thirteen days later, I have written more new material for a new beginning, and have worked hard to tie my middle to this new beginning -- I think I have finally done that. I have tossed scenes that are dear to my heart -- I have, and it still pains me to think of it. But the story is stronger. And I am writing forward.

Tuesday, yesterday, I sent my editor chapters 11 and 12. I sketched out chapter 13 so that when I start in this morning, Wednesday, I know my direction, as much as it can be known -- the lovely, wondrous thing about creation, about art, is that it has a mind and heart of its own, and at some point, if we are lucky, we tap into that alternate mind and heart and race to keep up... yesterday was something like that for me.

Today's challenges:

1. Write a completely new chapter 13.

2. Sketch out 14, which will also be completely new.

3. Try to keep from freaking out as I realize that most of the rest of the book is going to end up being new material for one reason or another.

Be still my heart and pass the salts. Although... why should I be surprised? The entire second half of RUBY and LITTLE BIRD was rewritten at this stage, this far into the process, and this close to needing to be done-done. Still. I am always surprised.

My desk is a mess. I need to clean it up so I can find things (I write at the pink chair on my laptop these days), answer mail, pay bills. I will take some time to do that today.

The notebook pages you see above are the notes I took on the drive into the mountains on Sunday. Taking that day to stay away from All Things Electronic helped shake loose some caked-on stuff. On Monday I used these notes to help me begin -- I lined out chapters in my notebook, but I didn't follow my notes when I got down to the actual writing -- but the ideas, that's what I needed, those ideas. If that makes sense. You'll see that I use my notebook for everything. On the right side of a page are my notes on how to vote early, where to go, and where Richard should go to get a permit to serve beer and wine at his new restaurant job.

It all goes into the notebook -- but I have said this before. I'll stop now except to say thank you so much for your wonderful mail about these 30 days of process. I'm hoping I'm answering much of it in these posts since I'm not very present on email right now. I appreciate the comments and the questions.

It's good to know I'm not alone, that everyone struggles with wrestling Story to the mat, and that each story is different, each writer's process is different, and yet the most magical thing every writer can do is sit down and be present -- suit up and show up -- and write. Just write.

Fried Pies and Plotless Novels

Two things especially bring me comfort this morning as I start back in to work on this novel.

Yesterday, Jim and I drove into the foothills of the North Georgia mountains. Bliss. We encountered pumpkins, blueberry cider, hoop cheese, hayrides, apple slingshots, old-fashioned Coke machines, a long line for peach ice cream, and a waterfall. And fried pies. Lots of fried pies. I brought you pictures. You can see them here, on my Picasa web album page.

The second thing comforting me this morning is this article in my beloved Washington Post about Marilynne Robinson and her new novel, Home, which is a finalist for the National Book Award.

I loved Gilead so much I read it twice, slowly, savoring its every carefully-chosen word. Then I went to Iowa City for a week and worked in Iowa City schools (hey, y'all!) last November and squelched my impulse to fangeek in Robinson's neighborhood. (Thank you, Barb Stein -- I still remember you offering to do a drive-by!) Now I have Home to read and can't wait.

Here is one of my favorite lines from the Washington Post feature:

"Plot. Not a word I use," she says. "Some people think it's not a concept I have."




Hahaha. I so identify with this feeling! And here I study plot, right and left, up and down, backwards and forwards. I want to learn from Marilynne Robinson. I want to study how she does it. She makes it seem effortless, and I know it's not.

Yesterday was just what my soul ordered. I'm facing an intense week of writing. My mind is clear, my spirit is willing.

In the car yesterday, I scribbled four pages of notes in my notebook. Thoughts re-arranged themselves as the mountains appeared, the blue sky rolled out in front of me, and the wide autumn sunshine washed over everything. I think the boiled peanuts helped, too.

Saturday I slept. Yesterday, I got outta town. Today --
I've got my notes, my laptop, my coffee and a freshly-swept mind. I am rested. Back to work.

Keeping the Home Fires Burning

I make a mean biscuit, even if I say so myself, and yesterday I wasn't good for much more than making biscuits.

There comes a time, I suppose, when mental, physical and emotional energy grinds to a halt, and that day was yesterday, for me.

And, instead of push-push-pushing through a wall of non-performance (or whatever it was), I gave in to lethargy on a crisp fall day, and I... slept. And slept. And slept.

When I was finally alive again, it was 5:3opm and I found I had the house to myself. I started a fire, sat in the pink chair, looked at my novel, and decided that today wasn't the day, even though my deadline is breathing its own fire across my brow these days.


I didn't even try to write yesterday. Yesterday I recovered. From... I dunno what. Working too hard? Concentrating too much? Not enough balance? A cold coming on? Change of seasons? Inability to move forward with my story after two days of wrestling with chapter nine and going down dead-end roads?

Chapter Nine is written -- has been written for years. I know it's a solid chapter for this book -- I am having trouble connecting it to chapter eight now, because chapter eight is another new chapter, and there needs to be a transition here -- a new character has appeared, just as Dove appeared in RUBY at about this spot, and I need to figure out who he is. I have options. None of them has worked well so far. I have wearied of figuring it out. I'm not good at jumping ahead and coming back. I need to know what's going on -- at least the bones of it -- before I can move forward.

I have an overall arc for the story, and I have been following it. But when a new character appears with so much rich possibility (and a huge A-HA!), it throws a kink in the works, even as it adds a layer of meaning and heft. I have to remind myself that it was four entire revisions through RUBY before her grandfather showed up -- can you believe that? There was no grandfather until my fifth revision of RUBY, and what would that book be without a grandfather for Ruby to mourn and a secret for her to share with Melba Jane?


So maybe the introduction of this new character is whomping me over the head, maybe I need to integrate it psychologically for a day or so, in my subconscious, so I can sail on ahead. Whatever it is, I decided to take good care of myself yesterday. I slept and then I made a nourishing supper -- chicken soup, of course, and those biscuits, a winter salad, and a cold glass of milk. I worked slowly, enjoying each step. Jim stepped through the door just as I was finishing, Richard came home from work, and we ate in front of the fire, sharing our days.

I switched gears for a while yesterday. I didn't write at all, but I did watch, after supper, part one of the History Channel documentary about JFK. Fascinating! I took notes as I watched. My story takes place in fall 1962 and this documentary is a perfect accompaniment to what I'm writing about -- the Cold War, the building of the Berlin Wall, the Cuban Missile Crisis... and so much about JFK and Jackie and Camelot and the collective American Dream... so this was my "writing" yesterday.

Today we are tending fires again, keeping the home fires burning while the story sifts and settles, while our family sifts and settles and sifts again. Zach is moving (he'll be nearby). Richard and the puppy are waiting for Hannah to be home from Ohio (we all long for this), the story is waiting for my attention, and I am waiting to fill up a little more before moving forward again.

So. An easy day today. It's Sunday. I can already feel a tug to open that file and take a look and see how I feel about my latest forward motion in chapter nine. Something happens here that I can't see yet... and haven't captured yet. Maybe today, but certainly tomorrow.

Sustenance and New Characters

Rain-rain-rain today, the soft, sturdy rain that falls in autumn, the rain that soaks the parched summer earth (which has been waiting, waiting for it) in such an even, steady, and welcoming way that it makes me wonder how I ever lived without this rain for so many months.

On this rainy day, lunch (our dinner) becomes a communal affair. The rain draws us together: Zach drops by, the puppy hangs in, and the story I'm working on wafts over and around everything, asking for attention. Jim concocts a cabbage/onion/potato/black bean soup, and we eat together in Irene, our newly screened-in carport that serves as our dining room. We are almost outside and the moment is delicious.

Many years ago, my Pittsburgh-raised friend MikeM taught me how to make a potato-cabbage soup and preached to me its benefits. "When times were tough at my house," he said, "Mom cut up a cabbage and potatoes and threw them in the pot with onions, salt, and pepper and that was dinner... it was nourishing, filling, and good."

I have made Mike's soup recipe countless times over the past thirty years in countless variations, both for Mike and for my family. Today, Jim made a variation that included black beans and a generous dollop of cracked black pepper, and we sidelined the soup with pocket bread and glasses of cider or milk. This meal was the perfect accompaniment to a drizzly fall day, and it felt just-right to eat it outside (almost), in Irene, the rain thrumming on the tin roof, the puppy waiting for crumbs beneath our feet, the garden soaking up this most-welcome, most-needed drencher.

Yesterday, I finally, finally felt that I had been successful in tying the Great Middle of my novel to the New Beginning, after weeks of purging and stealing and finagling with the middle of the plot. I felt a surge of forward movement, like a sailboat that finally picks up wind and tacks starboard -- finally-finally! -- I am moving into familiar waters and can make time -- I hope.

A new chapter 7 is done. A new chapter 8, likewise. Chapter 9... almost, almost done -- it is brand new, and it will lead me into a chapter ten that picks up solidly with my last revision, please God.

And guess what? A new character is born in this revision. His name is Chris Cavas. He is so new to me, so fragile... I am not yet sure he will survive this revision.

Times have been tough. Resources have felt tight. I have chopped a cabbage and many potatoes into this pot of story, I have added water and salt and pepper, even some black beans. I have stirred, and -- voila! -- into this story has swaggered Chris Cavas. What a rush. What riches. And yet... I know from past experience that I am not out of the woods.

I am nurturing Chris Cavas. I am nurturing this story. I am bottle-feeding both, fervently hoping that Chris will prove to be the catalyst my heroine Franny needs, now that I have decided that her brother Drew is NOT that catalyst. It is complicated... and oh-so-delicate.

Oh, what decisions. Oh, what work. Oh, what joy. And, truth to tell, here's a little bit of ecstasy, finally, as I wade deep into the middle of this novel, chapter ten, with a solid beginning (my editor confirms it), a new-found catalyst for change (my gut tells me so), and a sure-fire, years-ago written scene ahead of me that begs for my attention in a way that the rain and the soup ask me to be present.

I want to be on the right track. I want to be heading in the right direction. Whatever that means.

Up Early

Had a nightmare about my dog, Sandy, who was the model for Dismay in EACH LITTLE BIRD THAT SINGS. She died in 2004, shortly after I moved to Atlanta.

In my dream, I was encouraging Sandy to get up, even though I knew she was hurt badly, sick, something... and I was trying to "push" her down the road in my dream, toward some unknown destination we needed to get to, asking her to get up, over and over.

We passed dead dogs by the side of the road, some in the middle of the road, it was something out of a horror film, and finally -- I couldn't believe it -- Sandy did get up. She never looked at me. She staggered to her feet, and began to trudge in front of me, slowly and unsteadily, and I could see how hurt she was, how wounded she was, and I wanted to call to her to stop, to just stop and don't worry about it, stop, it's okay, it's too much... but she kept going, just out of my reach, toward an unknown place, and I kept following her. She was in pain, suffering, and I was walking behind her, unsure of what to do next. And then I woke up.

I wonder if I am dreaming about my novel.

Or (I watched last night's debate), maybe it's the political season I'm dreaming about, or the economy. Or something I ate. Or maybe I just miss my dog. We were talking about her at dinner last night. Still, it is 3:43 am and I am awake. And going to work.

Laughing at Myself

Rule #62: Don't take yourself too seriously.

As soon I finished yesterday's process entry, so serious, all about hunkering down to just write-write-write, I got up from my pink chair, walked to the kitchen, and began making a dee-luxe tuna fish salad. Well!

While the boiled eggs cooled, Richard and I went to Home Depot for the last of the 2x4x8s that we need to stack the last of the firewood, and we bought three trash cans and some autumn beauty.

After lunch on the front porch, I moved the last of the firewood with Jim. Now there is just the driveway clean-up to do.


And then I came back inside, sat down in the pink Star Trek chair, and rewrote chapter six. Finished it. It took two more hours, but it is done. This is the first chapter of the old revision that I'm linking to the new beginning.

I have been struggling with chapter six for two days. It wasn't working with this new beginning, but I thought I could keep it if I figured out how to make it work, because there's great good story stuff in there and I've already thrown out so much, and I would toss this if I had to, but maybe, just maybe --

And, after a couple of hours disconnected from the story -- making a meal, running some errands, stacking some wood, bringing home some natural beauty, dining al fresco... my mind cleared, and I could see what to do.


Why do I always forget this part? I can tell myself I need to move, but I won't do it when I get into that trench. And there is deep, good work done there (one of the reasons I won't move, I'm sure).

But I can't stay there too long, or I coagulate. (Thank you, Word Wealth Junior, as Franny says in this novel.) My story lumps up and won't let me stir it, won't let me ... all right, all right, enough with the puny metaphorical stuff.

I like to think I have an inner-barometer that gets me up and out of the chair when I need to re-engage with the world around me, when I need to clear the cobwebs. While it's freeing to know that I get to choose whether or not I'm hunkered in for the duration or practicing that balance beam of in-and-out, it's scary, too, because it requires that I know myself well, know my needs, and know my limitations.

It's scary, too, because I do not always pull out of this trench well. As I finished ALL-STARS in December 2006, I was so deeply, deeply in the trench, not even seeing the world around me, squirreled away for the duration, that I almost buried myself there forever. I don't want to do that again. But this is a story for another time.

Back to work this morning. I figured out how to keep the core of chapter six yesterday and move my story forward by stealing from discarded chapters and sticking with it long enough to discover more of who Jo Ellen really is, and what her relationship with Franny is like. Today, more of same. Another Big Middle chapter from the previous revision is going to require the same work today.

I'm not sure I'm putting it in the right place -- does it come later? I won't know until I hitch it to the tail of chapter six and see where it takes me.

Rule #62.

On Not Feeling Guilty

Here's what's going on at my house while I write. I'm in a good writing place -- a place that doesn't like interruptions even to move firewood. I can easily look up and an hour has passed, two. And I do take breaks. But I'm conserving energy now, even physical energy -- it's all going into the story at this point.

I am eating a lot of eggs. (I know.)

I have to make myself get out of the house now. I don't want to. I don't want to walk or move firewood or even read the news (this is big). I am no longer tempted by distractions, in this white-heat place, and I'm trying to ride this heatwave for as long as I can, even though it also feels somewhat destructive -- do you know what I mean?


This always worries me some, so I make myself dash to the store for milk, stopping in the aisle to scribble a new story-thought. I check on the guys as they contemplate where-in-the-world to put this last bit of firewood and I say out loud my latest story thread (see their excitement?). I meet with my staff at the end of the driveway and beg off after a few precious minutes, "to keep working." I make myself take a shower. I make myself go to bed.

When I'm writing like this, I get very still for very long periods of time. I work long hours, stretching into the night. I don't go to dinner with my Monday night dinner friends. I don't go sit meditation. I don't worry about feeding anyone.

And you know what? After thirty years of apologizing for how I work and who I am, I am done with all that.

I don't make excuses. I don't apologize.

I know you know what I'm talking about.

After what feels like a lifetime of apology, I finally live with people who don't require excuses or apologies. Likewise, I don't demand reasons, apologies or justifications from them. Ours is a peaceful, gentle household -- a good place to live, love, and work.

I don't make apologies or excuses to myself, either. I have stopped feeling guilty for not participating in the life all around me while I work in a white heat to finish this novel, even if I look, for a while, like something the cat dragged in. Even if I can hardly make conversation. Even if I don't answer the phone and nap in the middle of the day, and let one more day go by that I haven't answered a mountain of email or paid bills. It will get done.

I understand the way I work, finally, and I accept it. I've tried changing it, I've tried beating myself up over it, I've tried all the books and all the therapy and all the well-meaning suggestions of friends and fellow writers. I have wasted time on trying to be what I think I'm supposed to be instead of honoring what and who I am and how I work. I've tried guilt -- the gift that keeps on giving. I have given it back.

Writing works like this for me. It's easier to accept how I work and work with it, than try to make it be something it's not. I have friends in my life who don't require a check-in or a reason for my silence. I extend to them the same respect and courtesy. And I work. Long and hard. I have a headache. I stop. I eat an egg. I sleep. I get up and work again.

It's trench-time. I am not fully present, except to my story. I am depending on my family for steadfast support, protein sustenance, and kind understanding. Also a dollop of naked enthusiasm. I know I have these things.

Thank you, family.

Not Doing Research and Facing Realities... Maybe

I'm resisting the temptation (barely) to research today instead of write forward, although I *am* writing, and the story is crackling with new bits that I'm capturing in a computer file I call "notes." First these bits are scribbled on purple Post-it notes, for some reason unknown to me, slapped into my notebook, then transcribed later, during a break, to the computer file.

There are so many research questions coming up as I uncover the next layers of this story. When did Howard Zinn write A PEOPLE'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES? When was the single "Green Onions" by Booker T and the M.G.'s first available for purchase? Were there night classes at the University of Maryland in 1962? What were the cartoons on Saturday morning television and what was on television on Friday nights in 1962? Were Dixie Cup dispensers invented by 1962 or was that later in the Sixties?

Etc.

I have stopped to look up some answers, but mostly I'm trying hard to stick to the page and make notes about my questions -- none of these answers will change a storyline, and I can just move forward, if I allow myself to. I neeeed to keep moving forward with the narrative.

So I keep a running list beside me at all times. It's all over the place, with questions and ideas both, revelations, too, falling like the leaves outside my window today. Later, when I transcribe my notes to the computer file, I'll look upon them as an archive of the day that helps me see these puzzle pieces in the order they appeared, and I'll be able to see how I integrated them into the storyline. Or pitched them.

I'm trying to tie the original Big Middle to the New Beginning today. Gaaaaaaaaaaa. I can see how much sheer, mundane, muddy work there is to do now, to clean up this middle. And some of it will need to be completely jettisoned, and this just kills me, because I love love love these scenes. And yet... they are no longer serving the story.

Some writers I know spend time writing character sketches and whole imagined scenes that they know they'll never use, that explain backstory for them, or character, or plot. I don't do that, but I do overwrite (in every context) in a first draft. I write much more than I need to write -- I'm particulary a "directional writer." You know the type: she walked to the door, she reached for the handle, she turned it, she opened the door, she stepped across the threshhold, she turned right down the hallway... oy and oy vey, save me.

But I don't worry about this right now -- cutting this sort of directional writing is a task for smaller revision and it doesn't bother me a bit to lose it -- I depend on seeing this stuff and yanking it out of there at some point.

But this is large revision I'm into now, and I need to make every scene count. WHY is it there? What does it matter? If it's just there because I loved painting the relationship between Franny and her brother Drew and the lovely fall day -- well, it's gotta go. That scene needs to impart vital information, needs to move the story forward -- does it? No? Then make it work or let it go and move on -- what do you need and what can you let go? This is how I'm talking to myself today.

I know so much more today than I knew even a week ago, it's almost scary. It makes me think that I've got a Whole Lot More To Do than I bargained for, in this revision.

Help.

What's really scaring me, if I'm honest, is that I may have to throw out the entire second half of this novel. Excuse me while I sink onto the couch and call for a cold cloth for my forehead.

Big Wind and Bones

Here is Elvis-Andy-Bebop, or Elvis-Bebop-Andy, I'm not sure which. He is spending as much time with my son Jason these days -- more -- than he is with me, so I guess I have become a grandma, but I don't mind. I love being a grandma, actually, and I am spoiling ol' Bebop for all he's worth. Sorry, Jason.

Here stands Elvis, attentive at the red screen door, gazing intently out at the whoosh of activity in the front yard brought on by the Big Wind that's blowing through Atlanta today.

It's gorgeous here. Overcast, because a front is coming through. The wind crescendos up up up and high high high and every tree sways in a thousand frenetic directions, giving up leaves to the loud dance of the wind, and the leaves swirl everywhere, up and down and about, falling, falling, and the birds SING OUT! and the chipmunks call to one another, and the squirrels skitter up the trees, and the wind comes down again, like an out-breath, an exhale, and the birds dash to the feeders, Cleebo the cat gets ready to pounce unsuccessfully once again, and the puppy watches all this from his position just inside the front screen door.

He has been out many, many times already this morning and has exhausted himself. Soon, I predict he will collapse in a heap on the old quilt he sleeps on and snore himself into a two-hour nap. Then I will get some real work done. Or not.

It appears I am a Big Wind, a "sound and fury signifying nothing" these days. Yesterday I blithely detailed for you what my Saturday would be like, and it was nothing like that, nothing at all like that. I did not make gingersnaps for Belinda. I did not work in the yard. I did not epitomize that model of the working writer that I aspire to... ...

... but I did write. I did discover. I did ... nap. Big time. The big wind was half the size of today's wind, but still, with the doors open and the outside coming in, I was too tempted to crawl between the covers and snooze myself through a Saturday afternoon. So I did. Oh, the deliciousness!


Not so long ago, early October Saturday afternoons were for soccer games and kids with friends over at the house and a thousand peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and yard work and shopping for shoes or back-to-school. Delicious as well, just a different taste.

My life has changed. My writing and writing habits have changed, too.

The last years that I lived in the house in Frederick, Maryland, I used to rise, without fail, at 4am and write. Now it's more like six, and even seven and eight... but I have the day ahead of me in a way I never had it before. I have had children since I was 18 years old. I am 55 and still have children, but they are all grown, and most are on their own. I wrote with children underfoot for 25 years, and now I write with the ever-changing tides of my household surrounding me.

I can nap on a Saturday afternoon, too, for which I am profoundly grateful. Last night I finished a new chapter four. Today I am entering known territory -- I have a good chunk of the previous revision in front of me, and I am going to see how well I can tie these well-known and loved pages into the new chapters I have written, and vice versa.

I pray that the old stuff doesn't have to go, but I can already see that much of it will. I have already killed one darling, and more may be advancing toward the guillotine. Still, the bones of my novel feel intact, growing. I need to make sure, at this juncture, that all my current story sinews connect to the bones of my novel.

I look at Elvis-Bebop-Andy this way. He is All Leg. Growing, connecting, discovering, figuring out his world, and all the while those bones are stretching and lengthening and growing, in their natural progression. I want my novel to feel just that organic... I want it feel just-so, just-right, and totally, completely of-a-piece.

So today will be about the bones. Structure. How's it coming together as a whole, this novel? I'm going to spend time with the novel in a big-picture way today. I may not write forward (revising, shaping, adding, cutting), but I will understand what I've got, I hope. I will look at my overall arc, and it will be like standing back, taking a breath, seeing where I am at this point, after adding this new material right to the front (and having ripped out the old).

It's Sunday. Jim and I have an undeclared but official date-day on Sunday afternoons. We will likely go... out. Or maybe we'll nap. It's the one afternoon we usually have at home together where neither of us gigs. We actively nurture our relationship on Sundays. I will passively nurture this novel, as we get out and about in the Big Wind that is Atlanta today.

Maybe I'll make those gingersnaps, too.

Balance Beam

So. Last night, I had had enough! I pushed hard with the novel all week, and last night I let go, I Just Quit. Enough already. I ordered takeout Thai food, vegged in front of an old movie (A Man For All Seasons), and slept the sleep of the dead.

I have not worked yet today and it's almost noon. I drank coffee on the porch this morning and visited with my neighbors (including my staff), I played with the puppy, who is currently named Elvis Andy Bebop (don't ask -- his sister (not with us) is named Charlie Liza Pickle Olive, so there), and I read the news (shouldn't have).

I am about to read over the chapters I worked on all week. I'll fiddle with them as I go, and I'll likely have more to scribble in my notebook. If I feel led to work ahead, I will. If not, I'll put this laptop down and go outside and work in my yard, start putting the gardens to bed, mow grass, rake leaves, pick up sticks, start a wee fire in the chiminea, feed it the pinecones I pick up. I'll do that anyway, at some point today.


I know I'll be processing the entire time, working away at this novel.

When I come inside, I'll write for at least 15 uninterrupted minutes. I might get 15 more (everyone is home today), and 15 more. If I'm seized by something and if the household tides are too strong, I'll take myself to Mighty Joe Espresso up the road and work for a while there.

I'll come home and make gingersnaps for my friend and neighbor Belinda who gave me four tickets to see the Braves play recently -- I haven't thanked her properly yet. And I'll write some more, if I can.

In and out. I'll dip in and out today, but I won't feel pressured. It's Saturday, I have worked well all week, and now my yard and home -- and family -- need tending. So does my story, of course, as I am on deadline.

It's time for balance. Balance. I'm on a balance beam today, feeling pretty centered, stepping forward and back, turning and stepping again, and I'm fairly grounded, all things considered, with 26 days to go.

The Story Gives Up Its Secrets

Back to work in a real way this morning. Last night I had several breakthroughs while on my walk (exercise is part of process!), which catapulted me out of bed this morning, eager to get to work.

Breakfast on the porch this morning while I contemplate my progress so far this month. It never fails to amaze me how the slog slog slog of days turns into a white-heat for me. I know it's different strokes for different folks. Some writers must write every day. Some go for weeks without writing a word, while soaking up whatever it is for the next story, or coaxing it to the surface.

I am more in the latter camp. Unless I am on deadline, I go for days without writing the actual story at my laptop, but I don't let a day go by without scribbling in my notebook. Of course, right now, during this white-heat, deadline time, I am writing/revising the story, at my laptop, every day.

I use my notebook daily -- even if it's for a to-do list or a grocery list and that's it -- even when I'm traveling (esp. when I'm traveling -- I write on airplanes this way, in the interminable waits on takeoffs and landings, and then I transcribe to my laptop). The physical act of writing in my notebook keeps my writing pump primed.

Here is some of what I have scribbled in my notebook about the novel in the past three days. I haven't corrected spelling or grammar, as this is stream of consciousness, and also quick-recording. Here it is, just as I wrote it.

You can see, there is lots of personal narrative in here -- I am taking my life -- my ten-year-old life -- and turning it into story, a totally made-up story.
----------------------------------
Word assoc. with CMC ­ what?
Fear
Invisible
Drill
Tie the explorers and fifth-grade exploration unit, note taking, etc., into the narrative.
Note-taking ­ some of the letters, memos? Franny writes like that?
Explorers discovering new lands, vs lands about to be annihilated with atomic war.

MAKERS OF THE AMERICAS has balboa and also cuba in it. Copyright 1947
What about textbooks having incorrect information? Howard Zinn, the people’s history of the united states, etc.
A kid will move in across the street who brings Franny down a notch and teaches her that she is special without being special. Deflates her ego but shows her the truth. No.
JoEllen is a mentor. Magician, whatever.
LOSING BATTLES, no exposition. Can I do this?
Absolutely true diary ­ remember that novel. What I am writing is highly autobiographical.Just found out Franny is the new kid.
My weekly reader, current events
Guns of navarrone
War of the worlds
Franny will be 11 and in fifth grade, and it will be 1962. I’ll start in Sept.
Was trying to make her 12 in 1962 and in sixth grade, but it’s not going to happen, this feels better.
Oct. 9 2008
On my trip to kudzu
HALLOWEEEEEN! Was talking with meg at kudzu this afternoon about Halloween and our childhoods and I told stories about my children’s childhood and the fire at the end of the driveway and everything… what about Franny and Halloweeen might be impt. I have had this thought before but abandoned it. Now it feels just right.
On my walk tonight:
GALE is not a bad girl, although Franny’s mother thinks she is… and Franny will find this out… hmmm… defy her mother? Gravel pit? What? So maybe franny and Margie don’t break up, but they have a tough time of it over gale and Margie growing up faster, gale already grown up a lot
Halloween: noisemakers from the fifties/early sixties, costumes, card table and old woman (work this in somehow with fear)Halloween party at school?

Maybe gale’s mother DIDN’T allow her out on beggars night, maybe Gale’s mother works nights and Gale just went out on her own. Gale can be racy but not bad… risky but not ridiculously so. Maybe her mother is separated or divorced… a no-noin the early sixties.
Mom, can I sleep with you tonight? Dad’s out of town on a trip. Mom will pick him up at Friendship and JoEllen will babysit. What about uncle otts?
Franny’s mother, Nadine, is Miss Mattie’s daughter. So she is Evelyn Lavender’s sister and Ruby’s aunt. That makes Franny and Ruby cousins. Ha!
Drew wants to sleep with mom, too, but it’s franny’s turn. Does she hear him sniveling in bed and how does she feel about that? Does she go into his room and comfort him? Sleep with him in a twin bed? Army men are everywhere? They can still fight later.Oh, I should use those caterpillars! And locking drew out of the house/shed thingie! Can be little flashbacks… to first snow, and etc. the way I did Uncle Edisto and Aunt Florentine flashbacks. This can be a good story.
Oct 10
New kid moves in across the street ­ woody with raccoon ­ goads drew? Gravel pit? Now drew has a friend his age in the neighborhood?
Is gale jewish? Does she not show up for school for rosh Hashanah and yom kippur?
------------------------------------
Finish notebook entry.

This is my process now. The story is revealing itself to me, bit by leap. I am scooping it up. My notebook goes with me everywhere, to record what is being revealed, to ask questions, to practice what-if, to capture tiny fragments as they present themselves.

And yes, this far into this novel (years worth!), I am still uncovering layers of meaning and structure. This is the way it is with every novel, for me. I've come to believe that I push a novel at my peril. In some ways, I don't believe I can push it to reveal to me its secrets. I just have to keep showing up at the page, whether it's the laptop or the notebook, the slog or the white-heat. (I like white-heats a lot better.... insert hollow laughter here.)

Nothing is too small to note. Nothing that doesn't work out is wasted. It is all necessary to the whole and to the finished project. This is why I tell my students, keep a notebook. Put everything in it. Everything. You never know when you may need it. Paste leaves in it and photographs. Clip recipes to it and letters. Draw pictures, scribble, pour your heart out, and you will see:

There it is, on the page: your voice.

Trade-Offs and Confessions

I shared my pink chair for a moment with Jack Bryant from Russell Middle School in Winder, Georgia last night. Jack came over about 6:30, at the end of my work day, and interviewed me (video was involved; help) for a school project he is working on. He sat in the green chair, I sat in the pink chair and Jack's father, Kerry, made sure the camera kept working.

How is this story part of 30 days of process? Keep reading.

This past May, Scholastic Book Fairs hosted a tea for teachers in nearby Hall County. I was their guest author, and I participated by talking for a few minutes and reading from my novels, and signing books afterward, meeting teachers, which is always a pleasure.

As I got to know these teachers, I noticed one, Robin Blan, was wearing a fantastic artsy jacket and I asked her about it. One thing led to another, and I arranged to meet her in July in Dawsonville for her folk-art reunion -- Robin is a folk-art dealer as well -- AND to meet there her student, Jack, who had just read EACH LITTLE BIRD THAT SINGS, and who loved it ferociously... Robin had me sign a copy of ALL-STARS for Jack, and we parted with the assurance that Jack and I would meet in July. "He is special," said Robin. "You'll see."

When Jim and I arrived at the folk-art reunion in July, we had just missed Jack and his mother. Disappointment all around. When school started in August, I heard from Jack, a fantastic, articulate, respectful, earnest letter -- would I be willing to be interviewed for his school project?

But no, no, I had no time, I was on deadline for this novel, and... wait. I would be at the Decatur Book Festival over Labor Day Weekend, presenting... could he meet me there? With bells on, he said. But it didn't happen. A death in the family meant that Jack was attending a funeral that weekend, armed with Comfort's Top Ten Tips for First Rate Funeral Behavior.

By now I was deep into Revision-Land and could not bear to think about giving up a day for even my own children. Well... you know how it is... and you know what I mean. It's so hard to keep the momentum going, and it's so important to keep moving, for me, as I tend to write best in white-heats.

I wondered what had happened to Jack and his project, so I wrote him and his mother three weeks later and offered to answer some questions on email, to do a Skype interview, something else, if we still had time. I offered the photos on my website and blog for Jack to use in his PowerPoint presentation.

Back came an email from Jack that his parents would take him anywhere, anytime, take him out of school, take time on a weekend, whatever, to drive the 30 miles from Winder to Atlanta, for this interview, if I could find time. His deadline was October 18.

And I said no. Kindly. Firmly. And Jack wrote back the most respectful, kind, firm acquiescence. Case closed. Jack would send me some email questions. I would get my book done. And I would make one trip, one trip long on my schedule, to Birmingham with my Scholastic Book Fairs friends, to the Alabama Library Expo.

Which I did. I rode to Birmingham and back with the fabulous Beverly Williams. We regaled one another with stories. I told her about Jack, and how this request had grown out of the Scholastic Book Fairs tea in Gainesville, and how polite, erudite, earnest Jack was, how his parents -- both of whom had written me -- seemed so supportive and wonderful, and yet and yet and YET, how I had to finish this novel -- FOR SCHOLASTIC, no less -- and how my deadline was so tight... and Scholastic needed the novel in order to start design, art, marketing, who knows what else -- buzz, one hopes... I needed to keep my end of the bargain so others could do their jobs, too.

And Beverly said, into the quiet that my insistence left in its wake, "Could you maybe do the interview in the evening, after work?"

Now is the part where I am supposed to say that she completely changed my mind, that I saw it differently suddenly and that the earth stood still, but that is not the case.

Immediately I said NO. No, no, I have to keep my momentum going, I can't be distracted by these things, I'd have to completely rearrange my train of thought, go into author-mode, I'd have to GET DRESSED, PUT ON MAKE UP, BE "ON" and I would lose a day, really -- at least -- by doing this... it's about PROCESS... I have to stick with the process, and stay with the story, keep the faith with myself... that's how it will get done, and I am so far behind...

Beverly was quiet. Then, softly, "Wow. I didn't realize that. I see what you're saying, but I'll bet most folks don't get it. I wouldn't have gotten it without your explanation..." and it was clear that Beverly still didn't *really* get it... and I had to let that go, and so did she, and we changed the subject, and it was good. We are friends. Each to her own. (Hey there, Beverly, friend.)

Here is the part where we writers try to explain that what appears to be quirkiness and stubborn-ness and maybe just-plain-arrogance is not about being special, it's not. It's a job, this writing gig, this writing life, and this is how it works. It's not about saying we're more important than someone (anyone) else is, it's about getting the job done. And it's a weird job, constructing stories out of thin air, creating something tangible that never existed before -- it's hard. That's the nature of work, however. It's hard. And rewarding, and all those things that work can be... but it needs tending to, in its way.

And, along the way, we do other things that we construe as part of our jobs. We travel to schools and libraries and conferences to work as partners in literacy efforts, we write articles and give interviews and teach and volunteer and we sometimes run into misunderstanding or misconception. We walk such a fine line...

We know we're going to be misunderstood when we say, for instance, to schools, "I'm sorry, I can't do five sessions in a day, I lose my voice and stamina and I'm no good for my writing day tomorrow (or the next day)... and in any event I won't have a writing day because I'll be recovering from a school visit.

"Please understand -- we are going to have a wonderful day and I'm going to love being with you, but I need to put into place some boundaries that will work within your schedule as well. Please. You know your students and your school's particular needs and quirks and politics. I am coming to your teachers and students -- all 500 or 1500 of them -- for the first time and it will take all my energy to be present and effective for you -- I want you to have a wonderful day and take away so many good things that you can use in the classroom and put in your teaching and literacy toolboxes."

We know we're going to be misunderstood by some when we state honorariums and watch conference organizers or school budgets blanch, and we swoon right along with you, we do, because we understand the savaging of school, library and conference budgets, but honestly, at the same time we work with you to make a visit happen professionally, practically and financially, we stand for ourselves because we know we are not prima donas, it's just that we know what it costs us to take the day away from the writing, which is really three days at least (and we know this isn't understood, either), and we know what our expertise is, we know how important this day will be to students, to teachers, and to us, yes, we are excited to be with you, and we hear you when you say this is "just a day" (or "just a half-day" which is even harder) but it is also so much more, in so many ways.

We know it is exhausting for you, as well, and I'm quite sure that we cannot begin to comprehend all that you do behind the scenes to make the day a success -- it is a labor of love entirely, we know that.

When we stay away from our desks, we know we have no assistants who will answer the phone and email and do all the administrivia for us, so there's that work to make up as well when we change-up our routines, and there are the subsequent emails to the organizers waiting on us, saying "I'm sorry, I'm here, I'm buried, I'm getting to it..."

Then, too, it takes time to sink back into the story at hand, the family that needs tending to, the life that needs shepherding, the community that we participate in. The distraction of travel and break of routine is difficult... but welcome, if that makes sense. Very welcome. I have made good friends on the road. I consider these days and these schools and conferences sacred good work. I am lucky to be able to do it, and I know that, I do. So it's a paradox.

More than book sales will ever likely do for most writers, working in schools and at conferences pays our bills and allows us to keep writing. It's not only good work; in a day when there is no effective NEA or NEH funding for children's book writers and illustrators, in a day when arts and humanities are so devalued and yet more important than ever to a civil and humane society, in a day when there are no personal benefactors for children's writers and illustrators (unless you have a satisfactory day job which is another challenging story in itself, or a willing and well-healed spou$e or parent$, etc.), schools and libraries and conferences are our patrons. And we work hard to make it worthwhile for those patrons to invest in us, and to make sure they receive a good return for their investment.

Few jobs bring with them the particular wide-ranging, always-changing, multi-layered and platformed, personal, political, administrative, creative possibilities along with the sharply defined challenges, breathtaking privileges, and sacred trusts that being a children's author/illustrator does. You had better love the work.

You will not be rich or famous. You will not write in your pajamas all day and eat bon bons on the couch and whip up little stories for the little ones that everyone loves, purchases, and turns into classics.

You WILL go into schools where -- this does happen -- no one knows why you are there or who you are. You will show up to book signings and be the store's only customer. You will speak at conferences where your time slot is up against the giants of children's literature and 13 people sit in your ballroom and two of them are crying babies. You will study your royalty statement and see that your books STILL have not earned out, despite the buzz and hoorah surrounding them. You will fight for shelf space -- ANY space -- in bookstores and libraries. You will read reviews of your work that make you cringe and inspire you to send hate mail. You won't do it.

You will market and promote yourself to the public and you will run yourself ragged doing so. You will be misunderstood by those who don't understand the brutality of the publishing business or the nuances of the writing desk, or the art of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, personal narrative. Some will label you inconsiderate, arrogant, selfish, picky, difficult. You aren't.

But you will have to suffer these misunderstandings and you will. And you will have to understand, yourself, that you cannot explain to anyone who has not done this job why you cannot rent a car in Hoboken and drive to three schools in one day, or do a 45 minute session with pre-kindergartners or sleep for a week in a weekly-rental motel in the middle of nowhere that has a parking lot full of 18-wheelers, rooms the size of a cereal box, and sheets made of sandpaper. Likewise, you cannot stay in the PTA president's home and hang with the family all evening, even though you would at any other time love the conversation -- in this context, it is just too hard and you are too exhausted after a day on your feet, you are so sorry, but this is a boundary you must put in place, please understand... or not. Sigh.

There is the flip side of this misunderstanding, of course. There are the dream visits and teachers and conferences and conversations and understandings and memories and experiences and long-standing friendships that develop, fantastic teaching and learning that happens, meaningful moments that are treasured, there is that sense of making a difference in the world, the notion of being of service, the surety of doing great good work, and there is love everywhere -- literacy everywhere, too. There is that flip side. Truth to tell, there is lots of it.

And, there is a common, shared goal -- many goals -- and the assurance (hard earned) that all stories, even the difficult ones, end with hope and the secure knowledge that we still have lots to learn, all of us. We are in this together. We are stronger together than we are apart. And we have good work to do, together.

You will walk a fine line, however, as you learn what works for you and what doesn't, how you want to be in the world, and how your work is best served -- for that is what you have control over -- your story, the work in front of you. We have not begun to talk about the writing itself, the product and the process, although all of this falls into process, of course.

And my process this week, yesterday, included an interview by Jack Bryant that I said yes to last week. I thought about what Beverly had asked me, I slept on it for a few days. I read Jack's emails and thought about our history -- even though we'd never met. I was curious, I wanted to do this, and that both surprised me and felt just right. So I wrote Jack again and asked, "could you meet in the evening? I could do that."

And we did. Jack and his dad arrived at the tail end of a stupendous storm. I had run to the post office earlier and had come home literally soaked to the skin. My hair was still wet. I dressed in my work clothes (meaning I was out of my usual funky-but-comfortable rags), I put on lipstick and we laughed about that, and I greeted my guests.

I was bowled over by Jack's sense of self, by his questions, his intelligence, his humility. He and his dad had made an evening of it, had gone to dinner, then had come to see me. I know they each made concessions and changed-up their schedules, just as I had.

And you know what? I had a great time -- a wonderful time. I think Jack did, too. He's going to give me a copy of his presentation and I can't wait to see it. When I visit Barrow Elementary School in Athens next March (which is near Winder), I plan to have supper with Jack and his family on the way home, after a teacher workshop after school. Jack is going to cook his famous risotto and bake bread. Jack's dad will tell me more about HIS dad, who was one of the federal marshalls who held Ruby Bridges' hand and walked her into school. (HOW COOL IS THAT?) I feel a Story coming on...

And yet... this morning, I could not for the life of me get up at four. Or five. Or six. Or seven. It was 8am before I rolled out of bed, and I have piddled with my novel today, but mostly my head has been fuzzy, has lost that thread of process with the novel, and I have spent the morning recovering from being very present last night, working hard, and having a lot of fun.

So today, I'm going to break for lunch and then take myself to my locally-owned coffee shop for an afternoon writing session. I will not try to catch up; I will focus on the process. It is what it is, and I will just keep going. I can write well into the evening if I want to. Nothing else is required of me today. The book will get written. My family of choice has expanded. All is as it should be. All will be well.

I am lucky.

Forward Motion

This morning's breakfast, at 6am: homemade oatmeal topped with a few cranberries and walnuts, with a bit of Fage yogurt on the side, and a copy of the 1947 textbook MAKERS OF THE AMERICAS.

This book broke it open for me yesterday... I am cautiously saying this, because who knows (I know you know what I mean), I have a new chapter one (for the third time in as many years) and I think it may be The One. But I've thought this before.

Yesterday, as I committed to my 15 uninterrupted minutes and then another and another 15, I did indeed sink right down into story... and you know, that break every 15 minutes (or hour, or however it works for you/me each day -- and each day is different)... that break makes all the difference.

In my breaks I toted some of our two cords of firewood to the various covered resting places it will occupy this winter. (We did not beat the rain, but we're over halfway done, and everything is tarped... and the rain on my tin roof sounds like drizzle this morning, not a downpour, which would seriously impede our efforts.)

I made pumpkin muffins for Hannah (her request) and will try to box them up and send them to Ohio today, where she is putting in long hours working for the Obama campaign (oh, the stories!). I'll include something Halloweenish in the box, and I'll stick her mail in there, too, and a surprise.

I stuck close to home and close to story yesterday, and my reward for those focused writing times followed by the release of the puppy-mind to go play/exercise was the magical gift of a new beginning for this novel. I read through my pitiful "what does Franny want?" list that I posted yesterday, I wrestled with how to put something to represent that in the first chapter in a real-life, action-oriented way, and as I sat there, word-wrestling, a phrase came to me: I am invisible. I wrote it down. It came to me in the way that Comfort's words in LITTLE BIRD came: I come from a family with a lot of dead people.

From that sentence came the rest of the chapter. Where did it come from? I wrote for two hours with every window and door around me open. The muffins cooled, the firewood waited, the tiny morning fire died, and the October breeze set up a whooshing through the trees and around my shoulders with a clear sign of a front coming in.

When I looked up, I had to put myself back in 2008. I had sunk deep down into 1962 and I had a brand-new scene, a brand-new beginning, and a way to look ahead. I took a break -- moved wood for an hour and figured out next steps in my head... was excited to get back to the page.

Here's how the rest of the day went:

Read the new chapter out loud, heard the holes. Revised. Took a break. Read the chapter out loud, saw how this new first chapter is really chapters one and three. I can use my current (as of the last revision) chapter two between the brand-new chapters one and three. Shuffle. Revise. I think this will work.

I ate little supper (leftovers)-- my mind is not in my stomach. Called it a day and watched the debate (save me -- us). Couldn't resist one more read-through, so read the new material out loud, in bed, to Jim (very romantic - not). He asked great questions and gave wonderful encouragement, which I need so much right now. Slept on everything.

When I woke at 5:30, I was eager to get back to it -- this hasn't happened in so very long. For so long this novel has been a complete and utter slog, and today, voila, it's a pleasure, a real pleasure. I began reading yesterday's new chapter before the coffee was ready, and I made my oatmeal (I'm finding that carbs in the morning help) while scribbling in my notebook all my new discoveries, my new questions, my wonderings... because that's what I do best -- wonder. And then explore.


Heavens to Murgatroyd, I think I may be finally moving forward again. So, so much to do in this month ahead. I can't look at that. I need to keep blinders on and just move forward. Trust. Make a mess if I have to -- remember the rules of The Magic Schoolbus? I put them, front and center, at the top of my syllabus for ECED422, "Writing Techniques for Teachers" when I taught at Towson University:

Take Chances.
Make Mistakes.
Get Messy.

Yep.

C'mon -- let's write today.

I'm so eager to be back in Franny's world again this morning and I'm psyched about moving forward -- what will I discover? I hope you'll indulge me and wait on my post about the new picture book... it's coming, I promise. I need to ride the white heat I'm in with this novel -- who knew it would come? I try to trust the process, I do, but probably, deep down, I'm not sure I truly believe a story will crack open again for me, I'm never sure the white heat will be here again, and then... voila.

And I never know how long it will last. To work.