The Maine Book Fairy Needs Your Help

I'm posting this for a friend, Toni Buzzeo, who is a children's author living in the rural Maine town of Buxton. Each year, Buxton Toy Box registers financially challenged families and children in these families receive Christmas gifts through the program. Toni is the book fairy who ensures that all of these children (birth through 18) receive books! Toni is looking for author copies of any of your books or audiobooks you might want to donate. She will gladly reimburse your postage! (No ARCS, please.)

Please contact Toni at tonibuzzeo@tonibuzzeo.com

Thanks!

Over 200 Movies about the literary life

I've been building this list for a long time and thought I would share it with friends. It's a list of over 200 movies about authors, poets, editors, screenwriters - basically anything to do with the writing business. I don't claim it as a complete or perfect list so please feel free to add titles or corrections in the comments. The links will take you to IMDB.

WRITERS
84 Charring Cross Road (1987)
A Murder of Crows (1998)
Agatha (1979)
Alex & Emma (2003)
Almost Famous (2000)
American Dreamer (1984)
The Answer Man (2009)
As Good As It Gets (1997)
Ayn Rand -- A Sense of Life (1997)
Balzac: A Life of Passion (1999)
Basic Instinct (1992)
Becoming Colette (1991)
Becoming Jane (2007)
The Best Man (1999)
Best Seller (1987)
Big Bad Love (2001)
Boy Meets Girl (1998)
Breakfast of Champions (1999)
Carrington (1995)
Celebrity (1998)
Celeste (1981)
Chapter Two (1978)
Cheaper By the Dozen (2003)
Children of the Century (1995)
Cross Creek (1983)
Croupier (1998)
The Dark Half (1993)
Deconstructing Harry (1997)
Devotion (1946)
Door in the Floor (2004)
Double Take (1998)
DreamChild (1985)
The End of the Affair (1999)
Eternity and a Day (1998)
Factotum (2005)
Father's Day (1997)
Fiction and Other Truths: A Film About Jane Rule (1995)
Finding Forrester (2000)
Finding Neverland (2004)
The Flower of My Secret (1995)
Freedom Writers (2007)
The Front (1976)
Gaby: A True Story (1987)
Get Bruce! (1999)
Gothic (1986)
Hamsun (1996)
Harriet the Spy (1996)
Haunted Summer (1988)
Hav Plenty (1997)
Heartburn (1986)
Henry & June (1990)
Her Alibi (1989)
The Hours (2002)
Impromptu (1991)
Infamous (2006)
In Love and War (1996)
In the Mouth of Madness (1994)
Iris (2001)
Isn't She Great (2000)
Jack London (1943)
Jane Austen in Manhattan (1980)
Jewel of the Nile (1985)
Joe Gould's Secret (2000)
Joshua Then and Now (1985)
Julia (1977)
Julie and Julia (2009)
Kissing a Fool (1998)
The Last Time I Committed Suicide (1997)
Let It Come Down: The Life of Paul Bowles (1998)
The Libertine (2004)
The Life of Emile Zola (1937)
Long Day's Journey Into Night (1962)
The Lost Weekend (1945)
Love and Death on Long Island (1997)
Making of Daniel Boone (2003)
The Man From Elysian Fields (2001)
Margot at the Wedding (2007)
Mark Twain Tonight (1967)
Melinda and Melinda (2004)
Misery (1990)
Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters (1985)
Miss Potter (2006)
Morvern Callar (2002)
Mother (1996)
My Brilliant Career (1979)
My Dear Secretary (1949)
My Left Foot (1989)
The Mystery of Rampo (1994)
Naked Jane (1995)
The Night and the Moment (1995)
Nora (2000)
Paperback Romance (1994)
Pola X (1999)
The Prize (1963)
The Proprietor (1996)
Purple Violets (2007)
Quills (2000)
The Raven (2006)
Reprise (2006)
Romancing the stone (1984)
Rowing With the Wind (1988)
Sade (2000)
Saint-Ex (1996)
Secret Window (2004)
Shadowlands (1993)
The Shadow Dancer (2005)
Shakespeare in Love (1998)
Shining (1980)
The Singing Detective (2003)
The Squid and the Whale (2005)
Stone Reader (2002)
Storytelling (2001)
Stranger Than Fiction (2006)
Surburban Girl (2007)
Swann (1996)
Swimming Pool (2003)
The Technical Writer (2003)
The Snows of Kilimanjaro (1952)
Theodora Goes Wild (1936)
The Third Man (1949)
Throw Momma from the Train (1987)
Time Regained (1999)
Todo sobre mi madre (1999)
The Trip (2002)
Where Sleeping Dogs Lie (1991)
The Whole Wild World (1996)
Wild in the Country (1961)
Winter Passing (2005)
Wonder Boys (2000)
Wonderful World of the Brothers Grimm (1962)
World According to Garp (1982)
World's Greatest Dad (2009)


POETS
A Fine Madness (1966)
An Angel at My Table (1990)
Barfly (1987)
Beat (2000)
Beautiful Dreamers (1990)
Before Night Falls (2000)
The Belle of Amherst (1976)
Between the Lines (1977)
Blood In, Blood Out (1993)
Blue Car (2002)
The Business of Fancydancing (2002)
Byron (2003) (poet)
Color of Pomegranates, The (1968)
The Dark Side of the Heart (1992)
Dead Man (1995)
Dead Poet's Society (1989)
The Edge of Love (2008)
Fighting Words (2007)
Gu cheng bielian (The Poet) (1998)
Heart Beat (1980)
Henry Fool (1997)
I, the Worst of All (1990)
Il Postino (1994)
In Custody (1994)
Keats and His Nightingale: A Blind Date (1985)
Love Jones (1997)
Mindwalk (1990)
Mirage (2004)
Moulin Rouge (2001)
Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle (1994)
Nostalghia (1983)
Pandaemonium (2000)
Pinero (2001)
Poetic Justice (1993)
Regeneration (1997)
Runoilija ja muusa (1978)
Satan's Brew (1976)
Slam (1998)
So I Married An Axe Murderer (1993)
Sylvia (2003)
Tom & Viv (1994)
Total Eclipse (1995)
West of Brooklyn (2006)
Xiang ji mao yi yang fei (2002)


SCREENWRITERS
Adaptation (2002)
Bullets Over Broadway (1994)
Cabin by the Lake (2000)
French Exit (1995)
Hit and Runway (1999)
In a Lonely Place (1950)
The Lonely Lady (1983)
Midnight (2006)
The Muse (1999)
Out of Order (2003)
Paris When It Sizzles (1964)
The Player (1992)
Sunset Boulevard (1950)


PLAYWRIGHTS
Author! Author! (1982)
Barton Fink (1991)
Beaumarchais, the Scoundrel (1996)
Deathtrap (1982)
How to Kill Your Neighbor's Dog (2000)
Prick up Your Ears (1987)
The Producers (1968)
The Savages (2007)
Tema (1979)
Wilde (1997)



NEWSPAPERS & JOURNALISTS
Absence of Malice (1981)
Ace in the Hole (1951)
All the President´s Men (1976)
Call Northside 777 (1948)
Citizen Kane (1941)
City in Fear (1980)
Continental Divide (1981)
Deadline U.S.A. (1952)
Down With Love (2003)
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998)
The Front Page (1974)
Funny Farm (1988)
His Girl Friday (1940)
It Happened One Night (1934)
La Dolce Vita (1960)
Libeled Lady (1936)
Meet John Doe (1941)
The Paper (1994)
The Parallax View (1974)
The Pelican Brief (1993)
The Philadelphia Story (1940)
Platinum Blonde (1931)
Reds (1981)
Roman Holiday (1953)
Salvador (1986)
Shattered Glass (2003)
Saving Sarah Cain (2007)
Street Smart (1987)
Sweet Smell of Success (1957)
Teacher’s Pet (1958)
Welcome to Sarajevo (1997)
Year of Living Dangerously (1982)


I haven't seen all of these movies (not even half) so I can't vouch for quality, only subject matter. :) In many cases there are multiple versions of the film. I've only linked to one. Enjoy!

Poetry Friday - An Original Poem

I had hoped to have a new poem up today but I didn't quite finish it. So I went looking through my archive for something to share and came across some poems that were cut from my book Hugging the Rock. If you've read the book you may remember a pivotal time for Rachel, the main character, when she goes grocery shopping with her dad. In an early version of the book I had this poem of Rachel shopping with her mom to show the differences. But in the end it was too much of a flashback and didn't add anything new to the story.


GROCERY SHOPPING WITH MOM

At the grocery store
mom stops to talk to everyone.

She scoops up new babies
sings them lullabies
nuzzles their peach fuzz heads.

In the produce aisle she spouts advice
races off to give her coupons to the old man in the wheelchair
then slips a quarter into the rocket ship
for a skinny kid in a baseball cap.

She tosses boxes of cereal
into the cart
then dances away
chasing a guy blowing a harmonica.

I put four boxes back on the shelf
and trail after her.

In the pet food aisle
mom talks fast
her hands pointing everywhere
and nowhere
until the guy smiles
cups the harmonica
close to his mouth
and plays a sweet tune.

The guy tucks a bag of dog food
under one arm
and they both walk off
still talking.

My mom marches beside him
right through the checkout stand
and out the door
and never once looks back at me.

I wait over an hour
watching the ice cream melt
and drip onto the loaf of bread
and a jar of pickles
wondering what is
in me
that makes me
so invisible
to her.

--- Susan Taylor Brown
All Rights Reserved

The round-up is at Becky's Book Reviews today.

Giving Thanks

I am thankful for a great many things today - family, friends, health, ability to be home writing - but I wanted to speak specifically to a single recent experience.

Earlier this week I went on a retreat with a few writer friends and a few writer/artists strangers who are now friends. We gathered at the beach mostly with solitary intentions and yet, it seemed, the magic of where we were and the creative energy of those gathered had other ideas.

We came with no agenda, no speakers, nothing that absolutely had to be done.

Groups of two and three started to form. Individual work turned into freeform group writing fun. Books and art were shared. Gifts were acknowledged, praised. We were validated as professional creatives. Meals stretched for several hours as we lingered over coffee and tea. We sat by the fire and talked long into the night. We laughed (and some of us cried) and took a great many pictures.

Our backgrounds, our journeys to be writers, were of course very different.
Our passion however, was very much the same.

I am so grateful for the time spent with these fabulous and talented women. You have to understand that it isn't because someone took me aside and said a particular thing to me. It isn't because of anything we saw or ate or did. I think it might be because of what they didn't do.

They didn't say "do this." They didn't say "don't do that." They just listened. And accepted.

It rocked my world from the inside out.

Happy Thanksgiving to each of you. Thank you for all the times you read my blog. May your bellies and hearts be full of everything you need.

Time is running out - $1000 book trailer contest!

Time is running out for teens 13-18 to enter the $1000 book trailer contest! Please help spread the word to teens and teachers and librarians. The deadline for submissions is December 15th.

Please feel free to copy and paste from this post or if you want to link directly to the FreshBrain sign-up page, you can use this tiny url: http://tinyurl.com/rocktrailer

Download a reproducible flyer to post
in your library, bookstore, classroom. PDF Word



VIDEO BOOK TRAILER SCHOLARSHIP CONTEST
OPEN TO KIDS 13-18

Create a video book trailer for the novel "Hugging the Rock" by Susan Taylor Brown.

Put together a cast and act it out, create an animation, or use photos with text set to music - it's up to you. Be creative. Have fun. Make people want to read the book.

More details can be found at the Freshbrain.org website: http://tinyurl.com/rocktrailer

SUMMARY OF RULES
- U.S resident only between 13 and 18 years of age (as of the close of the contest)
- 30 seconds to 2 minutes in length and in a standard video format (.wmv, .mov, .avi, .mp4)
- Your own creation, NO copyrighted material
- Include a brief description of the process you followed
- Deadline for entries is 12/15/09

JUDGING
Judging will be based on the following criteria. Please see the official rules for more details.
- Creativity (50%)
- Consistency with the book (25%)
- Fit and finish (25%)

AWARDS
- The winner will receive a $1000 scholarship!

Buy a book, help raise money for young writers contest

Help the Mt. Diablo branch of California Writers Club raise money for their Young Writers Contest for middle grade students. If you shop at ANY Barnes and Noble Bookstore from Nov. 28 through Dec. 4th and present their voucher (http://tinyurl.com/yf3ypfx) they will receive 10 - 25% of the amount of your purchase to help fund their yearly writing contest for middle grade students.

For the first time this year, you can also use the ID on the voucher to shop online at the Barnes and Noble web site or any other B&N store in the nation.

Of Dogs and Writing - What did you bring me?

Whenever I come back from being away from home, (whether it's hours or days doesn't matter) Cassie has to give me the one over with her nose, gathering up all the scents from where I've been. Usually it's a quick sniff because I haven't been gone too long. And of course anything that comes in the house with me needs to be sniffed out as well. Sometimes I'll take an old toy with me and put it in my purse so she can sniff it out and be reunited with an old friend.

She'll be doing her sniffing routine and suddenly smell something that she knows, without a doubt, belongs to her. There's such joy for her those moments. She races to her rug with little yips of excitment and then waits, tail wagging like crazy, for me to give her the toy. Once she has it, whatever it is, she runs off to the library to toss it in the air a few times then pounce on it, pinning it to the ground with her paws.

I have something that belongs to her and she wants it back. She doesn't wonder if it is hers. She KNOWS. And once she has that toy back she gives it all of her attention, lavishes it with loving enthusiasm and then, once that reconnection is confirmed, she gives a loud sigh of contentment, dropping her head to the floor to rest upon the toy.

I just got home from a few days away at an informal writing retreat with a group of woman that have had a tremendous impact on my life. Some of that impact was apparent right away. Other pieces will make themselves known over time. And that's as it should be. Not all gold is mined from veins close to the surface. Sometimes you have to put in the effort to dig it out.

When I came home I had a plush toy waiting to be "reunited" with Cassie. I tucked in the pocket of my sweatshirt before I got out of the car. My husband let Cassie out front to meet me and she did her normal Cassie inspection, sniffing me up and down and all around. Then suddenly, she found the toy in my pocket. When I told her she could have it she gently tugged it free and then carried it back toward the house, her tail held high with pride, as if she had just scored a great kill in the forest.

And I guess she had.

By the time I got into the house she was contentedly resting in the library, one paw over the stuffed toy, the other tucked under her chin. She raised her head as I came in the room and then, in that way that big dogs do, she smiled her thanks to me.

Over the years, pieces of me have gone missing. Confidence has faded around the edges of my dreams. Chunks of self-esteem have been lost on the road to survival. My sense of self has been buried under a mountain of "would-ofs," "could-ofs," and "should-ofs."

I want these pieces of myself back.

But I can't expect to pull them out of my pocket unless I promise that I will accept these pieces of me, (however battered they might be,) with joy, that I will lavish them with love and kindness, that I will believe again, in my right to claim what's mine.

I want to smooth the jagged edges and polish them until they shine. That's where the real joy comes from - taking something not so pretty and believing in it enough that suddenly, it transforms right before your eyes, into a thing of beauty.

Of Dogs and Writing - waiting for lightbulbs

In addition to her basic commands Cassie knows a few tricks like shake, crawl, take a nap, tell me a secret, wave goodbye and peek-a-boo. The fact that she can do these things doesn't make me a brilliant trainer. It just makes me a good waiter.

Teaching a dog a trick requires a lot of patience. One you figure out what you want to teach the dog to do you have to break it down into steps and then link it together. And then you use up a lot of treats and a lot of time waiting for the light bulb to click on. Even with smart dogs like Cassie it takes time to get consistent results.

When teaching her something new I start off filled with proud mama enthusiasm about how wonderful it is going to be to show off the trick to my firends and how smart Cassie is so of course she'll pick it up really quickly. And then the training starts. Suddenly I'm thinking, "She's never going to get this. She's never going to make the connection between the words take a nap and the fact that I want her to sit, then lay down, then lay on her side, then put her down and close her eyes until I tell her she can wake up. Not going to happen."

But because many of my decisions in life are fueled by enthusiasm, I go ahead and try. I lure her with treats. I give command words. More treats. More waiting. A lot of near misses. And then...then I start to see the light bulbs going on. The first time I give the command "take a nap" and she goes through all the motions correctly I get all excited and scream YES! so loudly that she pops up and starts jumping on me. So I slow down again. And eventually she gets it. When she does it correctly she gets a treat. We race into my husband's office and she performs again. And again. And now it's a regular part of her routine.

I recently finished an eight week workshop that I used to jumpstart some stalled places in Flyboy. Once a week I turned in ten pages of my WIP to be workshopped by the editor, Jill Sanatpolo, who was leading the class, as well as fourteen other classmates. Once a week I read fourteen other stories. Once a week I got tons of feedback on my book. Now that the class is over I'm faced with trying to assimilate all that feedback. These were smart writers and smart critiquers and a smart editor so I have of questions they've asked me about the story, suggestions for improvements and brainstorms that I had asked for around certain plot issues.

I spent yesterday looking at all the feedback and feeling overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of it all. First I merged everything into one giant file. Bad idea. All those comments in the margins made me feel even worse. Finally I decided to just break it down, week by week again. I created a new master file and took just one person's feedback, merged it and then went step by step through every comment. Then I took a second person's feedback and did the same thing. I know there are people who could read all the feedback, make a few notes, and then boom, move forward, but I don't work that way. I have to see it all, touch it all. I have to comb through the sentences again and again and again until finally the light bulbs start to click on and I can feel myself begin to "get" it. By the time I got to the third person's feedback I was starting to feel that little tingle that tells me something is connecting. The comment from one person and the question from another person trigged a different idea for me. I jotted down a few sentences. Then another. Then another. When I looked up again I'd written a few new paragraphs.

This is my process. A lot of trying. A lot of waiting. Waiting for light bulbs to turn on and shine a light on the path I need to take.

Of Dogs and Writing - Get a Little Closer

Cassie goes almost everywhere with us but depending on which car we take it's like traveling with two different dogs. In my car, a Honda coupe, she sits directly behind me on the back seat. She's happy as can be, looking out the back window or just laying down to wait for us to get wherever it is we need to go. But when the three of us go out, like on our 45 minute drives to Santa Cruz, we usually take my husband's car, a Toyota Four-Runner. We have a doggy gate in the back and Cassie races to the car and jumps in, always anxious to go along, until the car starts and we move down the road.

Then she turns into a barking machine, non-stop from San Jose to Los Gatos to Santa Cruz. Constant barking. Loud barking. Frantic barking.

It's been over a year that she's lived with us and nothing seemed to make a difference. Recently, after a long trip filled with barking in the Toyota I took her on a short trip in the Honda and noticed again how I didn't have any problems with her. I suggested to my husband that we take out the doggy gate and put down the seats so she could come up closer to where we were.

Filled with hope, we invited Cassie to go for a ride. She jumped in the backseat and then walked all the way up to the front and sat down. We started the car and headed down the road.

Silence. Total silence.

This past week we've done several more short trips, around the block a few miles downtown, and each one is just the same. A quiet dog happily going along for a ride. It's not a permanent solution but I think now that we know what the problem was, we'll be able to work on acclimating her to riding in the back. Heck, the view's better back there anyway with more windows. But for now, it's all about getting up close and personal on our family outings.

Some stories are like that, staying in the background, barking at you, begging for attention. They're never satisfied until you bring them up front with you, as close as they can get. But sometimes we're afraid to bring the stories too close. Afraid of what the story might show the world about us or perhaps afraid of the story might show us something we don't want to see.

I never expect that kind of writing to come easily to me. I scream at the computer and throw a few barking fits of my own. I've finally learned that I can't do that kind of deep, emotionally honest writing in one sitting. But I can do it in short bursts, like a trip around the block.

The best stories, the ones that stick in our hearts and minds, are the ones that reflect life as it is, not as we wish it were. The ones that bring us up close and personal.

Finding My Father

If you've read my blog for any length of time you've probably learned a few things about me.

1. I love writing poetry and books for kids, my dog, my native plant garden, Santa Cruz, and chocolate.

2. A little over a year ago I was laid off from my day job and have spent the last year adjusting and enjoying being a full-time writer.

3. I'm filled with all kinds of doubts and insecurities about who I am, what kind of a writer I'm supposed to be, and if I am ever good enough whatever task is waiting right in front of me. (In other words, I worry a lot about things I should quit worrying about.)

But probably the single thing that tells you the most about me is that I have never known my father. His name, yes, but that's all. I've never met him or anyone in his family. The only pictures I've ever seen were of him as a gawky young man in a white suit at their wedding. He was gone before I was born.

As I kid I used to bug my mom all the time for information about him but she never really said much. No one in the family talked about him and when they did, they never painted the prettiest picture. But here's the thing, I didn't want them to tell me whether the picture was any good or not. I wanted to see for myself. Still families do what they can to protect what they feel needs protecting and by the time I was in the 4th grade and someone asked me if I was Tommy Webb's daughter I said no, without hesitation. I had been trained well.

When you have a hole like that in your life it's like a scab you can't let heal. And people who don't have the same kind of hole often find it difficult to understand why just can't leave it all alone and move on. I can't explain the why. I can only claim the hole. It's grown smaller over the years but it's still there.

Last week I wrote about the distance we need between real life and our stories before we can write about them. In the past I've written about feeling safe enough to write the truth of your story. I believe we should always strive to write with emotional honesty, even when (or especially when) that seems like an impossible task.

That's where Flyboy comes in. Every question I've ever had about my father, about my worth as a person, about how I felt something missing when there was no reason to feel that way because my life was just fine the way it was....all of that has been pouring into Flyboy for, well, over 25 years now.

Characters and plot, I've got them. But to take that emotional plunge into the ice water of my past...I just couldn't make myself do it. I give myself a lot of sleep suggestions about my books, hoping my subconscious will take me where I need to go.

Four years ago I had a dream about my father. In my dream I went to answer the front door and there was a man there, kind of old, his short beard was gray but he had some black hair on his head. He wore a suit that had seen better days. He handed me a box, a white box, like one you might get clothes in or a little bigger. It was tied with string, not a ribbon. I asked him what was in the box. He shook his head. I asked him again to please tell me what was in the box. Nothing. I don't know why I didn't just open it myself but I didn't. Then he walked away. I asked him to wait. He kept walking. Then I asked him who he was. He turned around and said, "I am your father." And then I woke up without opening the box.

Last week for some random reason I decided to check for my father on Classmates.com. I knew where he had gone to high school so I kept hoping that he might show up there. It was a far-fetched hope since people in his generation aren't as into the Internet as I am. Once I had gone there and found nothing I went through my normal little routine, putting in his name, the town he went to school in and the state where he was born. I'd never gotten anything back with that combo before but it was a familiar search I had done many, many times.

This time was different. This time an obituary popped up. I read it and burst into tears then almost as quickly I chastised myself for crying over someone who had never wanted me.

I've pieced together a story from my mom over the years. My father Tommy Webb was born in Arkansas and went to high school in Vallejo, California. His family eventually moved to Concord, to Bonifacio Street, into the little duplex across the street from where my mom lived. He worked at a service station in Walnut Creek, back when they had guys who pumped the gas for you. My grandmother's name was Tina. She was pregnant with my uncle Robert at the same time my mom was pregnant with me. I had an aunt Kitty who was two years older than I am. There was another aunt Janette. That's about it. Except for the not so pretty stories that I'll keep to myself because, as my mom told me today. He could have changed. Turned his life around. People do it all the time.

My father died in Missouri. In January. This year.

In January I was still recovering from being laid off, trying to piece my new life together, trying to figure out how to create a life that nourished my creative soul. I was whole but with rough edges that still needed smoothing. I think if I had found him then it would have been too much. Much too much. Sometimes distance is a good thing. Even if it means we never get the chance to say goodbye.

His obituary mentions my aunts and my uncle. Where they live. It also says he has two sons and a daughter. My half-siblings. And lots of grandchildren. Aunts and Uncles. Bothers and Sisters. Nieces and Nephews. Family or not. It all depends on your point of view. The kind of picture you want to paint.

The obituary does not, of course, mention me.

I keep thinking about that dream I had. How odd to think that my father, who never paid a dime of child support, might give me a gift I've always wanted. Answers to questions that have haunted me for years.

The Internet makes things easy sometimes. Really it took no more than a few hours of searching to locate most of the family. They're not active online. No websites or blogs or Facebook profiles. But mailing addresses. Phone numbers. I have some of them now.

It's a chance. A chance to see at least part of the picture for myself.

Friday Five - A random link edition

Friday Five

1. Tara Lazar had a great idea for the month of November - help picture book authors come up with one new idea per day. She's invited some friends to come help with PiBoldMo with guest blogs. Today it's my turn. Pop on over and take a peek at where I get some of my ideas.

2. Becky Levine has a thoughtful post on her first attempt to write a picture book. I think it's worth you stopping by.

3. Sherwood Smith (aka ) has a great post on Writers and Creativity.Her posts are the sort I always have to read several times because they make me think.

4. Have you been following the fun of the Exquisite Corpse Adventure? You might be surprised to see which top tier kidlit authors are a part of this online writing project.

5. Over at you can read about Author Debby Dahl Edwardson and her approach to writing with sensory details. Debby's new book, Blessing's Bead, an artic tale that will take your breath away, will be released by Farrar, Straus and Giroux next week. Spend some time over at the TollBooth. They've been talking about sensory details all week.

The distance between real life and story

There have been some things going on in my life lately. Some things that have me thinking those deep, dark thoughts that keep you up at night. I found this old post from a few years ago that touches on it somewhat and I thought I'd share it again, (with some editing) because it explains a lot of where my mind is at of late . . . though it helps if you can read between the lines.

* * *
Hemingway said, and I can't remember the exact quote so I'll try to paraphrase it, he said that he couldn't write about Paris when he lived there. He had to leave Paris before he could put the words on the page that would describe his experiences. While living there it was too much, too intense, too something and it skewed his vision. He needed distance and the passage of time before he could tell his story.

Some stories, while not easy, can still be written while you are in the midst of living them. When my kids were little I wrote about events within weeks or months of them happening. It was fun, like putting things in their baby scrapbooks. I recorded their awkward moments, their growth, and many of our special family memories. I told stories about our family and I got paid for it. Now I can go back and reread those old articles and it's like picking up an old teddy bear and paging through a scrapbook of their childhood.

But other stories, perhaps those that touch the most painful parts of us, lay fallow for many years before the words begin to venture forth. I believe our emotions go into self-preservation mode and give us time to heal before we're strong enough to attempt share a piece of ourselves through the telling of a story. My first picture book, Can I Pray With My Eyes Open? rested deep beneath the surface for over 25 years before it burst forth, near fully formed in one sitting. I can tie that story to an exact moment in time, when I was 10 years old, and I know that the book was an answer to a question asked long ago. Another picture book, Oliver's Must-do List , seems, at first, to be a simple story about a mother and a child have a playday together but I can tell you now that it was born of guilt - immense guilt that my children were grown and I couldn't go back and spend more time with them. Hugging the Rock is a novel about fathers and daughters, but more than that, it is about making peace with things you cannot change. I never knew my father and I wondered about him for many years. I can't remember when I finally stopped searching but when I did, I realized that my own story was inching closer to the surface, closer to being ready to be heard.

Hugging the Rock is also about picking up the pieces after a divorce. Though many friends advised me to, I couldn't write about my own divorce in the years immediately after it happened. The pain was too immense, the emotions too raw. But time was a helpful balm. Eventually my emotions bubbled to the surface telling me when it was time to write the story. In the process of the writing there were still some deep and painful moments but because I had waited, I was strong enough to go to the dark places and still come out alive. Enough time had passed that I could accept the blame for what was mine and let go of the blame for anything else. I could see the details through the tears.

There are other childhood events I want to write about someday but they're still simmering and I'm still healing. Those stories will have to wait a bit longer. It's been almost a dozen years but I know I am not yet ready to write about my time in New Orleans. I don't know how long it will take before I am brave enough to face those demons head on. Not all my writing is tied to a piece of my past but I am making an effort to mine the treasures I have within because I do believe that's where the juiciest stories wait to be told.

As many of you know, I'm working on Flyboy's story right now. This project began over 25 years ago when my then-husband and I spent weekends out on the tarmac, our necks straining as we watched the sky at the air shows the way film buffs watch the movies.

What part of my life is like Flyboy's? Where's the connection? What makes it so hard to write? I don't fly planes. I'm not adopted. My dad wasn't famous. But I know what it's like for the main character to obsess about planes the way I obsess about writing. I know what it's like to wonder where you came from and how that might affect where you're going. I know what it's like to feel lonely even in the midst of a family.

When you've been working on a book for over 25 years, like I have with this one, the story becomes so wrapped up in your own life that sometimes it's hard to remember what happened to me and what happened to Flyboy. Was it Flyboy or was it me that found the box that held so many secrets? Was it Flyboy or was it me that met someone who knew their father and answered questions held silent for so long? Was it Flyboy or was it me that finally realized the true meaning of family?

I hope it is both. I hope I can tell that kind of a story, one that feels like it happened to you.

I hope that helping Flyboy find his answers will help me decide what to do with some questions of my own.
 

Of Dogs and Writing - Are you ready?

Sunday night we went to dinner with friends. We don't go out much and most of the places we go, we take Cassie with us. But this time that wasn't possible. We knew we'd be gone about three hours so the big question that came up was, is she ready to be left alone in the house?

She's never been a destructive dog. Never counter surfs. Never gets into the garbage. Except for a fondness for my favorite pens and plastic water bottles, we've been pretty lucky. But she's a needy, nervous dog who came to us with severe separation anxiety. I used to spray myself with DAP every time my husband left the house just so she would whine at a lower decible.

She's almost two years old and there's no reason she shouldn't be able to stay alone in the house. Dogs all over the world do it every day while their owners are off to work. But still, I worried. We practiced leaving her for short bursts of time, an hour here, a half hour there. Sunday night we got ready to go and Cassie went through her typical frenzied routine. As soon as she saw me with the brush for my hair she started barking and prancing around the house. She worked up so so much excitement at the thought of going out that I expected her to make herself sick.

I moved the bully sticks into the laundry room and shoved the leftover Halloween candy inside the microwave. Garbage was emptied. Pens put out of reach. I unwrapped a brand new bone and put it on the floor in the library. Normally that's enough to take all of her attention but that night, she just didn't care. She ran over and sniffed it once and then raced back to the front door. We kept postponing the leaving, giving her a treat if she went to her rug and stayed quiet. Petting her and then finally, rushing out the door before we could change our mind and stay home.

I waited on the porch, expecting to hear some frantic barking. Nothing. I glanced at the front window, waiting for her to fling herself against the glass. Nothing.

We went off to have an enjoyable evening of adult conversation without the tangle of a leash underfoot (or patio seating) and I didn't start to worry again until we were on the way home. I told myself as long as she hadn't trashed one of our antique pieces of furniture it would be okay.

Normally when she hears one of our cars in the driveway she gets excited and dances around on her rug near the door. But not this night. We stood on the porch and peered in the sidelight window. I saw her, on the floor in the library, next to her bone. She slowly stretched and walked over to her rug and sat down. When we came inside she wagged her tail a few times and then went back to her bone. She hadn't chewed it at all while we were gone but now that we were home I guess she decided it was okay to let herself enjoy it.

There was no barking. No frantic jumping. No racing around the house because we came back.

Many times I'll have a writing project that I want to do but I put off doing because I'm afraid I won't do it well. I procrastinate, ask my husband a million questions, email friends, and play a zillion games of Lexulous on Facebook. Eventually the time comes when I can't put it off any longer and I dive in. And when I finally knuckle down and do the work it isn't suddenly easy but I do eventually remember that hey, I've been at this writing thing a while and I've worked up some skills. And I remember how much I love this crazy business I'm in. I always forget all that when I'm about to start something new or difficult or different.

What are you not doing because you don't think you're ready?

I bet you're more ready than you think.

I know I am.