Reflections on a 50-year-old Rejection Letter

Today I found a rejection letter wrapped around a poem I wrote in 1968. It was from the staff of “The Source,” the literary magazine at Whittier College. I didn’t know then that it would be just the first of many I would receive on my journey to becoming published.

Although I know it dates me, the poem was written during my love affair with Rod McKuen. I was obviously channeling him—his angst, his loneliness, his unrequited love. All his books still stand on my bookshelves today. One, Listen to the Warm, was autographed by him after a concert  he did in L.A. I found the flyer and the ticket stub in the book—March 10, 1968, Hilltop Theater, Tujunga—marking the place of one of my favorite poems. I can still recite it from memory. 

The poem was about his cat, Sloopy, who disappeared from his apartment one night when Rod didn’t come home. He wrote, “I’d like to think a golden cowboy snatched her from the window sill, and safely saddle-bagged, she rode to Arizona. She’s stalking lizards in the cactus now perhaps, bitter but free.” I've often thought of my beloved cats I've said goodbye to, that they were also snatched by that golden cowboy and are stalking lizards in the cactus--not bitter, but free.

Writer and literary critic, Nora Ephron, once said, “For the most part, McKuen’s poems are superficial and platitudinous and frequently silly.” I guess I'm in good company, then, although no one will ever recite my poem from memory, even me. But here it is, in all its superficial, platitudinous, silly, and amateurish glory:

The Corridor

You move down the concrete tunnel alone

in a crowd of faces,

seeing only emptiness in eyes

that strip you of your individuality

and make you, too,

one of the poster-on-the-wall,

superficial,

hung-up

personalities around you.

Then a stranger brushes elbows with you

in the crowded corridor

and is suddenly

no longer a stranger.

The touch is all you share

but it seems a prelude to much more.

The hall no longer is

quite so impersonal

now that you have a non-stranger

to stand with for a moment—

within, yet outside, time,

elbow-to-elbow,

mind-to-mind.

Alone together

you watch the tide of faces

surging around you

sweeping you along.

Parted by the crowd

you lose touch

and are alone again,

alone in the expressionless.

But that elbow-touch

of that non-stranger

remains

as does the mind-bruise

he left,

and the corridor no longer seems

quite so long,

so empty,

so dark.

I’m not sure why I saved it, but it certainly is a testimony to the fact that I’ve always wanted to be a writer. So now I’ll tuck it back into that scrapbook where I found it. Someday, when my writer daughter is cleaning out my house, she hopefully will get a chuckle out of it.

What Are You Afraid Of?

I'm currently researching a new book about a man who launched his career (at the age of 12) by scaring people.  He's gone on to also delight and amaze audiences on a grand scale, but my research has gotten me thinking about scary stuff.

I had a conversation recently with my friend, who also happens to be an artist and my acupuncturist, about fears. As a writer, I often consider what things in my stories children might consider frightening, so I'm interested in what other people are afraid of. Sometimes feeling just a bit scared is fun. Kids love Mercer Mayer's monster in the closet and whatever lurks in the dark, dark wood. The fascination with vampires, zombies, and other denizens of the night is appealing to ever younger audiences. I was chided once by a seven-year-old that zombie movies aren't scary, that "it's all just special effects, you know." And that thrilling, slightly scared feeling is one of the things that has made the subject of my new project so successful. But what about the times when the fear is more than a "bit," or when we feel really threatened by that scary thing? That's when our skin crawls, our hearts race, and we scream. Suddenly, it's not fun any more. Where's that tipping point?

There seems to be a general (and usually reasonable) list of common fears. Spiders are up there near the top, certainly for me, since I was bitten on the ankle by a black widow the night before my daughter was born. Forty years later, I still feel the only effective tool for defending myself from a black widow is a really
l-o-o-o-n-g broom handle! My friend said big, scary dogs top her list. Umm. . . not so for me, but then, I've never been attacked by one. She has.

One of my writer friends has a rather unique fear--of sock monkeys. She can't even really explain where it came from. Sock monkeys look pretty innocuous to me. Granted, that grin is a bit much, but they don't strike me as fear-worthy. But that's the thing about fears. They are very personal and often without logic. And while I don't consider myself a mean person, some peculiar perversity in my character tempts me to buy every one I see, just to give to that writer friend. Those Christmas ornaments, pillows, tee shirts, book marks all strike me as so cute.

 Another friend refused to visit the Redwoods when she was in northern California, convinced that one of those giant trees was just waiting for her to arrive so it could fall on her. Most of them have been standing for centuries, so what are the odds? But logic doesn't apply here, either. She's equally fearful of cities like New York because she's sure a skyscraper will crush her. When's the last time you read about something like that happening? To her, it doesn't matter. And that's what matters.

Driving through town the other day, I was startled by one of those wacky, inflatable, arm-flailing tube men at a used car dealership. It occurred to me at that moment that I was afraid of them, and I didn't even know what they were called. So I googled it today and learned that there is a registered, trademarked name for them—Airdancers. That is way too pleasant a name for something that startles the holy heck out of me every time I see one. I'm surprised they aren't responsible for numerous car accidents. Do you think they have ever enticed someone to buy a car? Maybe as replacements for the ones totaled in nearby crashes?

But my artist/acupuncturist friend and I both agreed that a great writer can conjure up a scary creature made entirely of words that can haunt your dreams forever. No one is more adept at creating such characters than Stephen King. Right up there on our list of mutual fears are sewer clowns. I've never much liked clowns, but ever since King created Pennywise, I shy away from sidewalk grates and sewer drains. I just know a white-gloved hand is going to reach out, grab me by the ankle, and pull me down into the darkness. Unreasonable? Yes. A real fear? Yes. But it seems to be human nature to get off on scary stuff. I still read Stephen King.

In case you're interested in learning more about fears, check out the website at phobialist.com. If you're afraid of chickens, you may suffer from alektorophobia. If going to school frightens you, you might have didaskaleinophobia. If it's vegetables you fear, you've got lachanophobia. If teenagers frighten you, your illness is ephebiphobia. Unfortunately, the list is alphabetical by phobia name, so with just a cursory glance, I didn't find sock monkeys, airdancers, or sewer clowns.

What are you afraid of? (And, yeah, I know that sentence ends in a preposition. But it sure sounds better than "Of what are you afraid?") If you're a writer, what's the scariest situation or character you've written into one of your stories?

Now back to work on my new project.

Norse Mythology and Midnight Sun

I have just finished listening to Neil Gaiman's newest book, Norse Mythology. It's a great collection of stories about Odin, Thor, and Loki in the land of Asgard, made all the more wonderful by Gaiman's lovely voice and accent. He could probably read the phone book aloud, and I'd listen, mesmerized.

A few years ago, I was offered a chance to tag along with two travel professional friends of mine on a trip to Scandinavia. If anyone had asked me if I urgently desired to see the Shetland Islands or bathe in Reykjavik’s Blue Lagoon, I would have said, “Hmm. . . , they aren’t high on my bucket list.” But I am a person who is easily led, so I went along. I considered it a visit to the "mother land," since I'm part Danish, and the itinerary was labeled “the Route of the Vikings.” It seemed  a perfect opportunity to retrace my roots and enjoy some smorrebrod, trolls, fjords, and cool weather with great traveling companions.

This is what people are talking about when they say "The Land of the Midnight Sun." This photo was taken at midnight from our cruise ship balcony. I didn’t stay up to watch the sun set—or rise again—but it boggles my mind to consider exactly where it went. West? East? Both? The phenomenon of nearly 24 hours of daylight is said to cause irritability and hyperactivity. Couldn’t prove it by me, though. Maybe the lemon drop martinis counteracted the effect.





We were lucky our visit coincided with the Kristiansand Sandskulptur Symposium. Here is a portrait of one of our cruise companions. Like us, he ate and drank to excess but had a great time doing it!










Orange, pea green, red, pink, and purple—don’t ya love it? Blanketed in snow several months of the year, and limited to only a few hours of sunlight, residents of Kristiansand know how grab color and run with it. I’m not surprised someone in that house rides a turquoise bike!



As much as I love fish markets, I nearly gagged when I discovered that a sample I’d just eaten was smoked Minke whale. I saw one of those lovely creatures in Alaska once. The Norwegian government closely regulates hunting them for consumption, but still . . .



These colorful wooden houses are located in an area called Bryggen (Norwegian for wharf), the portside shopping area of Bergen. Destroyed by fire for the umpteenth time in 1955, the area was faithfully reconstructed, down to the crooked doorways and leaning walls! It’s now a UNESCO World Heritage site and is filled with restaurants, art galleries, and craft shops.

What I remember most vividly is the countryside near the Norwegian fjord town of Flom—lush green forests, billowing clouds of mist, and thundering waterfalls. It looked like something right out of "Lord of the Rings" or a Norwegian fairytale. It turns out it really is troll country. A family of trolls lives in this house, but they were away for the afternoon the day we stopped by.

Did you know trolls have only four fingers and toes? That's a great piece of cocktail party conversation trivia! They also have really long noses which troll wives use to stir their porridge while it cooks. If you ever eat porridge that's a bit too salty, blame it on some troll's runny nose. (I feel a picture book coming on!)

I wish now that Gaiman had written the book before I took this trip. It would have brought to life all the Norse tales we heard there. I highly recommend Norse Mythology, even if you don't have a trip to Scandinavia planned anytime soon.

Rock Snot, You Ask?

A little more on my recent fascination with nonfiction:

My latest submission to my educational publisher was one I wrote on spec—a  book about invasive species. My curiosity first was piqued when I saw a full-page chart of alien flora and fauna in my local newspaper. It featured something called “rock snot.” My initial thought was, “Ah, there’s a name that would tickle a bunch of fourth graders.” But as I read, I discovered this nasty algae is choking streams and lakes all over the world. 

The next week I read about a badly damaged boat that had washed up on the Oregon coast—flotsam from the tsunami in Japan in 2011. The boat was filled with millions of sea creatures—mussels, oysters, starfish, crabs, and fish—never before seen in our waters. They had hitchhiked 4,800 miles! That marine life is now quarantined in an Oregon aquarium, considered by Northwest environmentalists to be potential invasive species.

Then I remembered a TV news report last fall about the flooding in Houston. It showed huge rafts of fire ants floating in the floodwaters. I was bitten by fire ants when I lived in Texas, and their bites hurt like hell. Where had the fire ants come from? Ah ha, another invasive species.

As I began to dig, I learned about cane toads and kudzu, Burmese pythons and feral goats. A book began to take shape, one filled with creepy creatures and amazing statistics. Did you know that a bicycle leaning against a fence in the south can disappear in four days, covered by kudzu!

All I can say is, I’ve changed my mind about nonfiction. It’s all in the telling. I have to remember that.

Truth is Stranger than Fiction

The quote,"Truth is stranger than fiction," is often attributed to Mark Twain, but he borrowed it from Byron. Regardless, these days I couldn't agree more. If anyone had ever told me I’d be writing nonfiction children's books in my retirement, I would’ve called them crazy. I have always preferred a good story to a factual account. As a primary teacher, my classroom library was (sadly, as I see now) eighty percent fiction and twenty percent nonfiction. When I read aloud to my kids, it was always a story—Pippi Longstocking, Charlotte’s Web, My Father’s Dragon. (I know, I’m dating myself, but they’re still good books.)

The nonfiction books I had in my room were mostly about space, animals, sports, and biographies of famous men. (Very few women made the list in those days.) However, I can’t recall ever reading any of those books aloud to my students. Nor to my daughter, once she came along.

And yet, here I am, writing nonfiction for kids--eight books so far. And on my personal list of recently read adult books are Radium Girls, Devil in the White City, The Soul of an Octopus, and Killers of the Flower Moon—all fascinating nonfiction. Heck, I may even tackle Astrophysics for People in a Hurry! What has changed? The world? School standards? My tastes? Whatever it is, there's no denying the growing popularity and diversity of creative nonfiction--for both children and adults.

True stories that read like fiction can be eye-opening. In recent months, I've learned about an arctic explorer whose toes broke off from frostbite and about the  deplorable working conditions of children in our mines and mills at the turn of the last century. Then there was the serial killer who used the 1893 Chicago World's Fair as his hunting ground, and the factory girls who naively painted their lips and eyebrows with radium paint so they could glow when they went out for the night. These "stories" are every bit as amazing or horrifying as any imaginary tale.

I once was asked to write a book for second graders about some of the peculiar things animals do. The editors said, "Like about mating behavior, BUT without mentioning mating!" Well, I discovered a few things while doing my research. First, sex is the motivation for probably 99% of the strange things animals do. Secondly, many of those behaviors are X-rated, like porcupines urinating on the female they choose as their mate and how garter snakes have orgies. But I also learned some fascinating facts that were more PG. The male bower bird, for example, builds a "seduction parlor" (I call it a nest in the book) on the ground and then decorates the area in front of it. Usually, these decorations are all the same color--flowers, pebbles, bottle caps, even plastic drinking straws. Female bower birds choose as their mates the male they think has the most attractive front yard! (This book became Animal Show-offs.)

The secret seems to be in finding a remarkable true story to tell and capitalizing on drama of that reality.

Have you read any riveting nonfiction lately?

Resurrection on the Playground

Many years ago, my first teaching job was in a small Catholic school. It only had an asphalt play area, so the children in the primary grades had permission to spend their recesses in the shady, green back garden of the convent next door. The garden had been the location of a somber funeral service the first graders had performed in early December for their classroom turtle. It seemed that he had died, so under the supervision of the rather naïve young nun who taught them, they dug a hole in the convent flowerbed and buried him. Then they all held hands and prayed and sang together for the soul of their beloved pet. 

One warm spring day, several months later, a group of little ones came tearing around the corner of the school building during recess, screaming and shouting. “He’s come back to life, just like Jesus,” they cried. As they gathered around me, lo and behold, one was holding the classroom turtle in his hand, and the creature truly was alive. “He’s been resurrected!” they all rejoiced. It was time for a science lesson on hibernation.

Long story short, that’s what my blog has been doing—hibernating. But unlike the little turtle, it’s been in that mode for much longer than a few months. Rather than suggesting that, like Jesus, it’s been resurrected, I prefer to picture myself doing some mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on it. Maybe along with a few chest compressions. The blog is now gasping, choking a bit, and sucking in big lungfuls of fresh, 2018 air.

I once heard an agent at a writer’s conference say that a blog that wasn’t current was “just plain creepy, like a ghost town.” Well, people have moved back in, and the place is under renovation. I invite you to stick around or come back often to see what’s going on. Lots of things have happened while my creepy ghost town was hibernating.