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.

Looking for the 300 Best YA Books is a BIG Job!

I have spent several days putting together a book list for middle and high school teachers in Orange County, CA. They will be participating in a grant and will have the enviable task of choosing between $300-500 worth of books for their classrooms. They are looking to discover if and how having a good selection of appealing and readable books close at hand will impact their students’ reading comprehension.

It’s a big job for someone not very knowledgeable about YA lit. Granted, I’ve recently read Scorpio Races, Breaking Stalin’s Nose, Age of Miracles, Moon Over Manifest, A Long Walk to Water, and Between Shades of Gray, but I can’t compare with a lot of folks out there. And I take this task seriously, so I’ve been sifting through reviews; looking at lists of award winners; trying to strike a balance between “boy books” and “girl books”; seeing how far I can help the teachers stretch their dollars (limiting wonderful HC books hurts); and considering readability (that hurts, too, but the reality is that many of these inner city kids are reading below grade level).

I’ve discovered some interesting things along the way. First, I wish I could quit working and just read. And write, of course! In looking over the Alan award winners, I’ve found dozens of books that sound wonderful and that I will try to find time to read. I’ve also seen a trend in titles of new books, where the actual title is followed by a colon and the words “:a Novel.” Examples include The Language of Flowers: A Novel, Once Upon a River: A Novel, and Alice Bliss: A Novel. Is that really necessary? Unless the book could be mistaken for nonfiction, what’s the point? Furthermore, I’ve come to a conclusion (perhaps erroneously) that all these books called “Novels” are more expensive. Why?

And finally, I’ve discovered a fabulous app for my iPad called “Teen Book Finder.” What a terrific resource! If I’m not the only person in the world who didn’t know about it, I encourage all you YA book lovers out there to download it. And it’s FREE!

Any thoughts on a YA book that MUST be on my list? It’s over 300 right now, but I’m open to suggestions.

Are You Talking About Me?

Last week a writer friend, Maria Toth, posted an author interview on her blog. It was about me! I was honored when she asked me a couple weeks ago if I would consider being the subject of her first such interview on her new blog. I am as yet still unpublished, so I was surprised and a little embarrassed, but I said yes. When I read Maria's piece on Wub2Write, I was impressed by her obvious interviewing expertise. You can tell she spent some time as a journalist. I just found it hard to believe that she was writing about me!

I also realized once again how lucky I am to have found such a great circle of fellow writers. I'm a member of three wonderful critique groups--Invincible Ink, Books Born Here, and "the Monday Group." The advice and encouragement the members offer is invaluable, and I grow every time I am with them. Together we celebrate our successes and mourn our rejections. When one person attends a conference, everyone benefits; notes are shared, updates on agents and editors are passed along, and we regularly loan new kids' books, craft books, and books on tape. Even when I have nothing of my own to read, I try not to miss a meeting, for there is much to be learned from listening to the other writers who do. Critiquing, like the act of writing itself, is a skill that takes time and effort to develop. I firmly believe that good writing doesn't happen in a vacuum. If you don't have a writers' group, join one or start one of your own. It's a critical part of the process.

Oatmeal or Cheerios?

One hot Tuesday night last July (as I sat with my critique group shivering in the sub-arctic chill of Panera Café) someone mentioned that the Cheerios picture book contest deadline was looming. General Mills sponsors a family literacy program called “Spoonfuls of Stories,” and each spring they put a miniature paperback picture book (written in both English and Spanish) inside 3 million specially-marked boxes of Cheerios. I thought, “What the heck?”

Submissions are open only to unpublished authors (I’m highly qualified in that arena!), must be 500 words or less, and have strong read-aloud appeal for young children. My favorite story I’ve written to date, Bear Cub’s Pizza, seemed to fit the criteria—short at 250 words and written in verse. So I kissed it good-bye and put it in the mail. Then the waiting began. But eventually life took over, and I forgot all about it.

My phone rang one morning in mid-October as I was eating breakfast (oatmeal, by the way, not Cheerios, but don’t tell anyone). The caller ID said General Mills, and my first thought was, “Now these *!#*&! solicitors are even calling at breakfast.” But I answered—reluctantly and with obvious annoyance in my voice. It was a perky young woman.

“Is this Nancy O’Connor?”

I said, “Y-e-s-s-s,” very suspiciously. How did General Mills know my name? My phone number is unlisted.

“Did you submit a story to the Cheerios contest?”

Well, you’ve never seen anyone do a faster about-face than I did at that moment. She went on to say that it was her pleasure to inform me that I was one of two runners-up (out of 8,000 entries) in the contest. Pending my completion of some legal paperwork, I would be receiving a check for $1,000, and Bear Cub’s Pizza would be posted on the Cheerios website in the spring. The grand prize winner (alas, not I) would be receiving $5,000 and a publishing contract from Simon and Schuster. Still, I was thrilled.

Then the young woman swore me to secrecy until General Mills made the public announcement in March, 2011. That’s a long time to keep such good news secret, but I promised. I only told my critique group colleagues, a few friends, and my immediate family. The check arrived just before Christmas and added to the joy of the season. In February I provided a photo for the website and was told that the press release would go out on the wire services March 22nd. Check out the contest website at http://pages.simonandschuster.com/spoonfulsofstories/author-contest. The following day, March 23rd, I posted my news on Facebook—along with the photo of the box of Cheerios (no more oatmeal for me!) containing the winning picture book from last year, How Do You Hug a Porcupine?, by Laurie Isop.

But the excitement hasn’t stopped there. The other day I received an email from a stranger who asked, “Are you the Nancy O’Connor who wrote Bear Cub’s Pizza?” I almost said, “And who wants to know?” (I’ve got to stop being so suspicious.) It was a NYC literary agent! When we talked last week, she said she loved the story, and she asked me to send her everything else I had. I did, of course, and now the waiting begins again. Will she like my stuff? Will she offer me representation? Will I one day join the ranks of published authors? I’ll keep you posted.


In the meantime, here's the little guy I hope to make famous someday, joyriding after lunch in his red Buick Skylark convertible.

Writing Historical Fiction

I’ve been hard at work for the last year and a half on an upper MG novel set in medieval Europe. The subject is the Children’s Crusade, which is thought to have occurred during the summer of 1212 A.D. I came across a reference to it while researching the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Historians have speculated that instead of a plague epidemic or a pipe-playing rat catcher—Der Rattenfänge—leading the town’s children into a mountain cave, perhaps they all marched off to the Holy Land. I became fascinated by the idea. What an adventure that would have been for a bunch of kids! Summer of the Sword and Cross was born of that research discovery.

Little did I know at that moment that I was committing myself to hours . . . and hours . . . and hours of research—reading reference books, documents, on-line websites and so much more. For months my desk has been piled with random bits of information like “12th Century Underwear” and “Some Romani proverbs and sayings.” My file cabinet is over-flowing.

I’ve read Avi, Cushman, Fleishman, Sutcliff, Gray, Grant and others, and I’ve even watched Orlando Bloom in The Kingdom of Heaven (just last night, as a matter of fact) as he attempted to defend the city of Jerusalem from Saladin. Ask me about the Sack of Constantinople or deerhounds, the Monastery at Mount Cenis or Dreikönigsschrein. I know.

I’ve pored over maps, paintings, diagrams of castles, and costume illustrations. I’ve learned about medicinal plants, the diets of medieval peasants, Catholic saints’ days, how to construct a snare, and the sound made by an angry wild boar. (Did you know you can actually listen to such things on line?)

The daunting fact, however, is that I have barely scratched the surface. In the process of all this, I’ve learned that a writer needs to be wary about becoming so caught up in the research that nothing gets written. It’s just that I know there’s a middle school librarian out there somewhere who’s also an expert on the Middle Ages and who’s waiting to pounce on me for some historical inaccuracy!

So these days, as I fret about the care and feeding of my blog, I also worry about the care and feeding of my young characters on their journey to the Holy Land. Perhaps I’m at the point where I just need to tell my story, get them to their final destination, and then go back at a later time to power-up the authenticity factor. Any advice, fellow writers?

Day 2 of My Redemption

The other big writing event of the fall was the picture book contest I entered. It was sponsored by the Tallahassee Writers’ Association. They produce a literary magazine called the Seven Hills Review, which merged last year with Penumbra. The two magazines have been in existence fifteen and twenty-two years respectively. I wasn’t sure I was even eligible, not being from Florida, but I checked out the list of past winners and was reassured to see that residency was not a requirement.

Although they accept multiple adult genres each year—flash fiction, poetry, short stories and creative nonfiction—they also invite writers of a particular children’s genre to submit their work. This year they were looking for picture books, so I submitted three of mine—just text, no illustrations.

The first was Cub’s Lunch, a book written in terse verse and based on a news article about marauding bear cub in Lake Tahoe. It seems the cub climbed into a camper’s classic convertible and ate his smoked chicken and jalapeno pizza. No, he didn’t carjack the vehicle, but he did considerable damage to the camper’s pride and joy before wandering back into the woods.

The second entry was The Small Smudger. In this contemporary coming-of-age story, a small boy wants to help his father in the citrus groves during a winter cold snap. Tomás stows away in the back of his father’s pickup in the middle of the night, only to discover that filling and refilling the smoking smudge pots with crude oil in the freezing dark is not the adventure he’d expected. But he earns his father’s respect (and his gloves) through his diligence. Tomás also shares a special moment with his father when the man points out una uña de gato, a cat’s claw moon.



My final entry was Tap Tap Mishap, an animal tale set in Haiti. Tap taps are a Haitian art form—outrageously-painted converted buses, vans and pickups used as communal taxis. They are often dangerously overcrowded, as the one in this story is. The driver, a goat named Mr. Kabrit, is overly proud of his beautiful tap tap and succumbs to the flattery of his friends in need of rides to le marché. Crammed to the rooftop, the brakes fail, the tap tap careens out of control, and it flies off the road. But even a crash on the beach doesn’t spoil the day. Mr Kabrit’s friends come through for him, as friends do.

I am delighted to say that just before Christmas I received an email from Donna Meredith, the chairperson of the Seven Hills Review. She announced that I had been awarded first prize for Tap Tap Mishap and second prize for The Small Smudger. It has been a thrill to see my stories in print. The prize money was icing on the cake. Now if I could just find a publisher who was interested in Tap Tap, I would contribute some of the proceeds of the book to rebuilding schools in Haiti. Does anyone have a suggestion?

First Birthday

May 19th will be the first birthday of my blog, and I've come to some realizations over the past twelve months. Having a blog is like having a child, or even just a goldfish. They all take care and tending. If my blog was a child, I’d long ago have been turned in to the folks at Child Protective Services for neglect. If it was a goldfish, it would have been found floating belly-up in its bowl last October and been flushed down the toilet.

Oh, I have the best of excuses and lots of them. The main one is that I’ve been writing other stuff. But I’ve also been away at conferences, wrapped up in family matters, dealing with a few health issues, housing overnight guests in my writing room, trying to run a business, pruning my roses and feeding my two cats. But those are many of the same issues a bazillion other responsible blog parents are also dealing with! I am regularly awed by how dedicated they are about sharing their wisdom and their beautiful words. I don’t know how they do it, but I wish I could be more like them.

I even made responsible blog parenting one of my New Year’s resolutions, and look at me. Tomorrow is the first of May! But it's never too late to turn over a new leaf (or page, as it were), so in an attempt to redeem myself, over the next several weeks I’m going to blog about some of the writing highlights of the past seven months.

In October I had the awesome experience of attending the Rutgers One-on-One Conference in New Jersey. I rendezvoused with three colleagues from Spalding University (where we all received our MFAs in Writing for Children) and traveled with them from the Newark airport to Piscataway the afternoon before the conference. (A word of advice if you go—consider renting a car with a GPS!)

On Saturday we were part of a group of eighty aspiring writers who were matched up with eighty agents, editors and illustrators for some up-close-and-personal mentoring. After lunch we gathered with four other mentor/mentee pairs for a five-on-five session in which we had the opportunity to ask questions about publishing trends, submission processes and what they each were looking for.

At the end of the day we all went home with contact information on all eighty professionals and permission to submit to them. I can’t recommend the conference enough to anyone who has a finished manuscript they are prepared to pitch. I also recommend that you be assertive (but nice), as some participants tended to monopolize the mentors unfairly.

The cost of the conference is $195 and the date is October 16, 2010. Applications are due by June 15th , and you are notified of your acceptance by the end of the summer. Don’t miss this terrific opportunity!

Memories of Libya

I returned this week to my memoir writing class after being away for about two months. I'd forgotten what a delight it is to hear creative people tell their stories and share their memories. An Australian educator once said, "All reading and writing float on a sea of talk," and nothing is more true. He was encouraging teachers to see the importance of conversation in their classrooms if children were going to become engaged readers and accomplished writers. Hearing those people yesterday inspired me anew. Our assignment was to revisit George Ella Lyon's poem I Am From, and I have done so here, reflecting on the years I spent in North Africa.

I Am From

I am from burkas and henna,
from couscous and shwarma
and the labyrinthine alleys
of the old souk.
I’m from the muezzin’s calls to prayer
from the mosque across the street
and the ancient ruins of Sabratha.

I’m from date palms and camels,
Mercedes and Beemers.
I’m from sand dunes and scorpions
and hot ghibli winds
that scorch my skin
and dry my eyes.

I’m from fragrant spices in the bazaar—
cinnamon,
curry,
harrisa—
and long strings of dried brown figs.
I’m from sweet blood oranges
dripping red in my hands,
and the salty tang of fish, fresh-caught.

I’m from scalding glasses
of strong mint chai
held gingerly by finger tips,
syrupy with sugar and lies
told by Ali, the rug merchant,
for surely Aladdin himself
was once a customer.

I’m from Fuad,
the nine-fingered butcher
who speaks five languages
and hangs his naked chickens
from hooks above the counter.
No extra charge for the flies—
or the finger.

I’m from desert oases like Ghadames
made of blinding light
on white-washed walls
and the deep cool shadows
of artesian springs
and from hotels where you bring your own sheets.

I am from inta imshi to the urchins
and shukran to the houseboy.
I am from a villa by the sea
and scarlet sunsets over Cyrenaica
Will I return one day to where I’m from?
Na am, I will, insh ‘allah.

Still Life with Pears

Today I was reminded how lucky I am and how truly good my life is. Why this revelation? I bought some pears at the 99 Cent Store. Pears, you say? Yep, pears—small, rosy, and almost honey-flavored. They took me back to the summer of 1970. My brother and I spent nine weeks backpacking through Europe together. In an orchard along the Rhine we filched some pears, and they tasted unlike anything we’d ever eaten—so sweet the juice dripped off our chins. We agreed it must’ve been a pear tree in Eden, not an apple tree. So special is that memory that I’d already written it into my historical novel-in-progress, and then I found these pears (and in such an unlikely place) and enjoyed them all over again.

Further sweetness: Karen Cushman, whom I met at the SCBWI Conference in LA last weekend, actually emailed me three times this week with recommendations for research on my novel. What a wonderful lady. And in Friday’s mail I found an acceptance letter from the Rutgers One-on-One Conference in October. Granted, I still haven’t heard back from the agent, but I sent her an email “Status Check,” so I expect I’ll hear one way or another in the next day or so. But even if she declines my project, life is sweet.

"What I Did on My Summer Vacation"

Talk about a major hiatus! I was away for a lovely vacation in Victoria, BC--enjoying the flowers, the wildlife (the raccoon-and-deer variety, not the party kind), the farm-fresh vegetables and cheeses, the weather, the water, my family, and old and new friends. But now it is time to get back to the work of writing.

For those of you who have been dying to hear about the process of acquiring an agent, rest assured, I’ve been dying right along with you. The attached cartoon could hardly be more appropriate. A fellow writer was contacted this week by a publisher who said, “Please forgive me for not getting back to you for nearly two years. If you’ve not lost patience with me, I’d like to pass your ms along to my editors.” This business is, indeed, a mystery and not for the easily-discouraged.

The Sweet Life

I’ve been writing a nonfiction picture book on a topic I consider myself an expert on (sorry for the misplaced preposition for all you grammar Nazis out there). The book is about candy. I confess that I have a terrible sweet tooth. Combine my love of candy with my love of travel, and over the years I’ve become something of an international connoisseur of sweets.

The salty licorice of Amsterdam, the marzipan fruits of Scandinavia, crack seed in Hawaii, Turkish delight in the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul—I’ve tried them all. But a new candy variety came to my attention last fall when my daughter, Jennifer, was in Italy. She stayed with a couple in their 16th century house in Bugnara, a small village east of Rome in an area called Abruzzo. Not far away was a town famous for its candy (and, incidentally, for the fact that Ovid was born there). Sulmona has been producing an Italian delight called "confetti" for centuries. The rest of the world knows this candy as Jordan almonds. The photo attached to this post is not of baskets of flowers outside a shop. Those are baskets of confetti!

I’ve not come across many candies that are too pretty to eat, but these certainly are. A few of these beautiful flowers sit in a vase on my desk, just providing inspiration for my writing. (Okay, so I ate one petal off!) I’ll keep you all posted on the manuscript, which I’ve submitted for critique at the August SCBWI Conference in L.A.

Waiting for the Mail

I'm not the only one who's ever waited for the mail. This spring I had the pleasure of taking a memoir-writing class, even though business demands forced to me to drop out before the end of the semester. It was taught by a friend, Marilyn Donahue, well-published children’s author, local SCBWI Schmooze coordinator, past co-director of the Inland Writing Project and writing instructor-extraordinaire. One of our assignments was to find an old family photo and write about it. While digging through shoeboxes of old pictures several years ago, in preparation for creating scrapbooks for my two brothers and me, I found one I especially liked. I’ve posted it here, along with the memoir piece it inspired. Those ladies knew what waiting was all about.

Waiting for the Mail

Every afternoon the women gathered in the yard of the housing project. With hair done up in bobby pins and wearing flowered house coats, they shared gossip and recipes for casseroles the kids would eat. Children played lazy games of kickball in the dust. Les Brown’s music drifted down from an open upstairs kitchen window. Washing could wait; so could the ironing. Babies were napping, but still the women listened with only one ear while they chatted. Some rubbed their lower backs, standing with that unique posture of the pregnant—the backward lean to counter the baby weight. Others had grimy toddlers tugging on their skirts. They were more than friends; they were sisters. And so they waited together.

No men were there. The husbands were in Italy, France, North Africa, or somewhere in the Pacific. Some were pilots, some were cavalry. Others were foot soldiers sleeping in foxholes across Europe or sailors on battleships off the shores of Iwo or Saipan.

Well, it’s not entirely true that there were no men. There was one, and every afternoon he became the most important one in the world. He was the mailman, and when he arrived on his bicycle, there was always a hopeful, smiling welcome committee. Each woman desperately prayed he’d have a letter with her name on it.

When he did, she was jubilant. When he didn’t, it was impossible not to ache with loneliness. Those fragile, papery sheets of scrawled handwriting were all she had to hold onto, all that connected her to the man she loved. Parts of those letters were shared with her sisters over late-afternoon cups of weak coffee, sweetened with rationed sugar. But other parts were saved till later, tucked into housecoat pockets. Those parts would be savored over and over again in the dim light of the bedroom during the long solitary nights.

And tomorrow she and her sisters would wait again for the mailman.

Jacarandas

The calendar says it’s the 11th of June, but I’ve just turned the heat back on. It’s gray and in the low 60s outside. I know that when summer arrives, it will do so with a vengeance, so I am trying to appreciate the fact that spring is lingering. One delight I have is in the abundance of blooming jacaranda trees in town right now. God must have been celebrating something special the day he created jacaranda trees. Their airy branches and clouds of purple blossoms take my breath away. The carpet of purple strewn beneath the trees must be a bother for the owners, but it makes me think of confetti left along a parade route after the bands and floats have passed by and the flag-waving spectators have gone home.

Just get out of the way. . .

I recently discovered a documentary on DVD called “Bird by Bird with Annie: A Film Portrait of Writer Anne Lamott." Yeah, I know that it came out in 1998, but ten years ago I hadn’t yet realized I was meant to be a writer, so this recent discovery was both timely and exciting. I sat down to view it last night, and as I watched the life story of this incredibly talented and funny writer unfold, I was reminded of a tee shirt I once saw at a writer’s conference. Across the chest, it read: “Thanks a lot, Mom & Dad, for my happy childhood. Now I’ll NEVER be a writer!”

This woman who has inspired many beginning writers with her book, Bird by Bird, has been down the road a piece. An odd looking child who always felt she didn’t belong, she began drinking at the age of thirteen. By nineteen she was a raging alcoholic, as well as a drug user. She had a “come-to-Jesus” turn-around in her thirties, had a beautiful little boy out-of-wedlock, and has gone on to become a productive writer and sought-after public speaker. Hell, what excuse do I have? I guess I can always blame my happy childhood.

But thanks to Annie, I came away from the documentary with a little prayer I should offer up to God and my muse on a daily basis. She says “Just let me get out of the way and write what wants to be written.” Great advice for any writer. And I swear, no more extension cord excuses.

What books are on my nightstand?

I recently finished Kathi Appelt’s The Underneath, last year's Newbery Honor book. I've read a number of Kathi's picture books, and her YA short story collection, Kissing Tennessee is great. I was struck from the opening line of The Underneath by her beautiful language: “There is nothing lonelier than a cat who has been loved, at least for a while, and then abandoned on the side of the road.”

But this is a complex and heavy story, filled with some pretty scary characters and told from multiple points of view. I found myself wondering about the criteria for Newbery awards. Is it more about style and literary merit and less about kid-appeal? The story moved slowly, and I doubt it would keep the attention of any but the most sophisticated fourth or fifth grade readers.

Perhaps I also was misled by the illustration on the cover (as would be the case with most young readers, too). It looks “cute,” but the story certainly isn’t. The antagonist is a sadistic drunk. He keeps his hound chained night and day to his front porch and punishes the dog for befriending a cat and her two kittens by beating the dog with a board. Then he stuffs the cats in a gunny sack and throws them into the bayou. Yes, the story has a happy ending, but it’s a disturbing journey getting there. I remember all too well the soggy tissues every time my elementary-aged daughter read a tragic animal story—Stone Fox, Incident at Hawk’s Hill, Old Yeller. She would have been upset by this book, too, in spite of the lyrical language, the interesting symbolism and the Caddo Indian lore.

As an aside, Kathi teaches in the Vermont College’s MFA program, where my first Spalding mentor, Candice Ransom, got her degree. It was with pleasure that I saw Kathi mention Candice in her acknowledgments. This writing world is smaller than it first appears.