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.