How to Be the Best

I admit it, I have a competitive streak.  When I check out my friends at iStockphoto, I get a bit perturbed if their downloads outpace mine. When I read a particularly banal Disney princess adaptation to Mud Pie, I think, "Good lord, a monkey could do better!" More often than not, however, I am my own prime competitor. Which is a lose-lose situation; I can never measure up to my own ideals.

As a writer, I once believed to be Real I had to face unflinchingly the dark, shadowy things on the edge of existence. There was no backing down, no escape. Happy sunshine and cute little bunnies, well, that's what those other writers did. The sentimental ones, the ones stuck on believing their childhood was happy. I saw it as my mission to stare down the darkness and make it retreat.

There's a certain similarity between winter and summer in Michigan. In winter we have a landscape of white and white and white and gray and black. Summer, it's all green. Green is lovely. Warm and shady. But it's still green.

Autumn is creeping through the forest now. For the first time all year I can see the maple trees springing out from the landscape, their sprawling arms reaching as far as they can to spread orange and yellow. The stately oak, rich brown, towers now over the goldenrod fields. An aspen, each leaf twinkling like a golden coin, glitters against the backdrop of color.

The sweetness of life is not tripe, not childishness or sentimentality. It provides contrast. Without contrast all detail is lost; sameness and boredom drift in. Four or so years ago much of my thinking had a sameness to it. Brooding, dark, cynical. Not that I wasn't "happy," but joy came in a more self-satisfied way, a feeling that I was more Real because I faced the ugly truths of the world without those abhorrent rose-colored glasses. Yet I didn't experience a joy or celebration of life and the world. On the contrary, if I happened to notice the quaking aspen, offering me its golden gift, I felt squeamish, unworthy. I didn't trust it, this fleeting beauty. With so much darkness, I should work to face it, to fight it, extinguish it! Shouldn't I?

A righteous calling, but impossible. Like trying to distinguish the maple in a forest from the oak - from two miles away. In summer, as in winter, it's hard to do. Darkness won't retreat unless I bring a little light in with me.

Dewitt Jones said in a video I watched Sunday, "if you celebrate what's right with the world, you will find the energy to fix what is wrong."

Slowly, over years, I've changed my emphasis. I no longer want to be the Best In The World, competing and losing against my scathing inner critic, judge, hangman. I now want to be the best for the world. This new way of thinking is liberating, healing.

During the MFA we talked a lot about the aboutness of a story. The central thrust, the take-home, the gravitas. The story I began in my mind several years ago, the one that became my creative thesis for the MFA, was once about abuse of authority, cruelty, intergenerational evil. But through re-envisioning and revision, I found a different aboutness: hope, innocence, and the triumphant power of the human spirit. The darkness is balanced by light, and the contrast makes both more meaningful.

A Visual MFA - Hamline University, 2009-2011

I ran across all my Hamline pictures as I was organizing my photos ... why not share? A few are posted already (look under the MFA category over in the cloud for the rest of the Hamline University MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults posts), but these, for whatever reason, never made it up. Hmmm. Can't imagine why.

We partake in public transportation:

We have tornado drills!

We talk and stuff:

We maintain a standard of personal hygiene:

We sit around sometimes:

We listen to folktales:

We play "So Big!" with Marsha Qualey:

We play with chickens:

We play dress-up:

We plot our books:

Sometimes we yell:

We partake in musical entertainment:

We walk around a lot:

We go places:

When we come back, we relax:

We work hard! Really!

And we shake a little booty:

P.S. This is what writers do when we think no one is looking.

Fun on the Run!

It was raining when I got out of the shower (at noon! Ah, love these lazy mornings). I'd promised the kiddos I would show up for the Fund Racer. But I was tired, hadn't had lunch, and it was raining.

Did I mention it was raining?

To go, not to go. I was leaning toward Not. This Fund Racer - a healthy alternative to selling candy and other fundraisers - was an unknown. I'd not been to the track neighboring the field. Where would I park?

My agoraphobia has been up a bit lately. Maybe pregnancy hormones, or fatigue (also hormones?). Whatever the reason, I'd given in on Monday and skipped the rug hooking group. Too far away, I told myself. I'd squeaked by on a phone call, sending an email instead. And I've been avoiding thinking about my prenatal visit and the always-fun glucose test ...

I realized what was going on, and got my tushie in the car. So what if it was raining? I'd just plan on getting wet.

Well. Can I just say I'm glad I went? (Oh, and the rain stopped before I pulled into the parking lot.)

I stayed all afternoon. Until my memory card filled up and I realized I was about to faint from hunger.

Book Slob

No, I mean the book, Slob, by Ellen Potter. Philomel Books, 2009.

I snagged this book from the library almost entirely by random. I spotted a blue "Mystery" sticker on the spine, saw it was published within the past few years, and tossed it in the Home bag. See, I'm doing research on Middle Grade mysteries, so what better way to shop than the wonderful little blue "Mystery" sticker?

Except Slob is not really a mystery. And it's not really Middle Grade. What it is: the fabulous story of Owen Birnbaum and his struggle to make it through seventh grade faced with obesity, personal tragedy, and bullying. This kid has everything stacked against him. He's the fattest kid in school, his PE teacher hates him, and his one solace - his daily allotment of Oreo cookies - is being stolen. A bit of mystery comes in as Owen tries to smoke out the thief, but he's also hoping his new invention, Nemesis, can act as a visual time machine and show him who murdered his parents.

Yet both of these fascinating mysteries are secondary to Owen's personal struggles. He doesn't fit in, and he's still suffering from the loss of his parents. There's no strong emphasis on finding the Oreo thief or on the murder, rather the driving forces in the story are the Evil PE Teacher and the diabolical, scar-faced Mason Ragg. Will Owen be humiliated beyond endurance (the first chapter had me in tears when Mr. Wooly, the PE teacher, put Owen in a dog harness and made him flop around the mat like a beached whale)? Will Mason break out the switchblade he's rumored to carry in his sock?

The sophistication of the problems: switchblades, murder, abuse/cruelty made this book feel older than middle grade, as did the clarity with which these problems were shown. I had a hard time imagining St. Nick (5th grade) reading it, for example, and not finding it emotionally overwhelming. Goodness, even I found it overwhelming at times. Poignant, gripping, moving ... and overwhelming.

In short, for the mature middle grade reader, or teen/adult, this book is a treasure. The characters ring with authenticity, the plot moves swiftly and directly, and the outcome is fully satisfying. I wanted to adopt sweet Owen and his independent little sister (Jeremy) too. Did reading it push my understanding of MG mystery? Not really, but it made me a better, more thoughtful person, which I think is a superior outcome, don't you?

PS. I will pass it on to St. Nick, and see what happens.

Beyond the First Right Answer

This morning I saw a video about creativity by National Geographic photographer Dewitt Jones. I have a page of scribbled-in-colored-pencil notes with countless lessons, all applicable to my work and life. But one lessons stands out:

There's more than one right answer.

Obvious enough. I can write a poem in free verse or as a sestina; both can be good, or "right." But what struck me was the quote,

"Anybody can come up with one right answer." The key is to look for the next right answer ...

I don't have as much trouble doing this with writing. Particularly after finishing the MFA. Perhaps it's the confidence that comes from training in technique (another point Jones made) that leads to freedom and desire to experiment. I'm more playful in writing than I ever was pre-MFA. My picture book isn't working in prose? Try it in rhyme! Let's make the characters centipedes, set it on Mars.

In other arts, however - poetry, photography, rugs - I have a harder time. Photography is the easiest example.

Jones shared a bland snapshot of his daughter. The sort of picture we all have crowding albums and memory cards. Blown-out highlights, crowded frame, random use of color. He pointed out that if he judged himself on that shot, he'd put his camera away forever. But he didn't stop there. He pushed on, and the next image was tighter, more sensitive and evocative. Ahh, he'd found the Right Answer.

That's where I usually stop in picture making (and poetry and rugs). "Oh, good! I got it!" I think, and the terror at having to put away my camera or hang up my rug hook subsides. For a while. Because who knows if there will be another great shot? What if there's not? Then it's proof I'm a hack, I can't do it, I don't have the gift, my "right answer" was just a fluke, luck.

Jones urges us to look harder, to shift perspective, trust instinct, slow down. To look for the next right answer not in terror, but knowing it will be there. The next shot of this same subject was a close-up of his daughter's face. Sensitive, full of texture and mood. Breathtaking. Another right answer.

This is what I need to do, to let go of the fear, the frantic judging of my self-worth by the image on the LCD screen. I need to let myself fall in love with the world. Because that's what creativity is.

I assumed Jones's glorious images were moments of inspiration, a gift. But he said that it takes him fourteen-thousand "answers" to get those thirty or so "right answers" that end up in a National Geographic story. Just as I read somewhere else that your first hundred thousand photographs are practice.

Dewitt Jones doesn't stop at the first right answer, and neither can I.

Nesting Instincts Gone Awry: or Making Your Own Cloth Diapers

Six years ago when I was expecting Mud Pie, I was all out of nesting opportunities. We had a nursery (from Fish and St. Nick), diapers, clothes (we didn't know Pie would be a girl), car seats, dishes, toys, everything. So what did I do?

I tie-dyed all my prefold diapers. And a heap of onsies. And some t-shirts for the boys.

This time around we had nothing for Baby, but instead of setting up a nursery or shopping baby clothes and accessories (we're trying to do it all with as little expense possible), I started sewing. I've mentioned my, ahem, love of sewing previously, yes?

Here are a couple of samples using all recycled material (except the velcro and elastic, and thread - duh):

Given how long each little diaper takes me to make, and how much profanity I mutter in the making, I wonder if I'm actually saving money and/or sanity. But they sure are cute!

One is made from a t-shirt from the Acton Institute where Dr. D works. 

The quote: "Power tends to corrupt; absolute power corrupts absolutely." Indeed, power corrupts, even the youngest bottoms.

I'd give step-by-step instructions for making your own cloth diapers, but why reinvent the wheel? Here are some resources:

• A how-to on making a cute fitted (especially useful for inserting the elastic!).
• And in case prefolds are on the menu, a how-to I've yet to use. 

Mine have fold-back tabs for the velcro and I searched online for common measurements - rise, length, waist, etc. - for various sizes. I cut a pattern out of ugly wrapping paper, and I've made a dozen or so out of various materials: old flannel pajamas, t-shirts, cotton towels. The nice thing with terry, I don't need velcro, just a Snappi. Oh-so frugal!

The TMI Birthday Song

Happy birthday to me,

every hour I go pee,

my ankles are tree trunks,

and I can't see my feet!

I treated myself to a Birthday Morning walk in the woods: majestic oak, red maple, white pine, a shagbark hickory as big around as, well, me. Ahhh. The best gift ever.

Of course, I also plan to bake an orange layer cake with butter-cream frosting. I told Dr. D and the kiddos, "No matter how strange you think my cake is, you're not allowed to complain!" I'm craving orange these days, so what?

I Wanna Be a Rodeo Queen!

Kylie Jean: Rodeo Queen by Marci Peschke (illus. by Tuesday Mourning). Picture Window Books, 2011.

I'll admit I was a bit skeptical when Pie pulled this off the shelf. It's very pink. But Pie Had to Have it, so into the Library Bag it went.

Somehow it was tossed in with my books by mistake and ended up in my office, amidst books on palmistry and auras (research! for a MG I have going. Even I have my limits.).

The voice of Kylie Jean captured me immediately. A first person, sweet as can be that rings with Texas Twang.

"The sky is as baby blue as a robin's egg, and there is a cool breeze jiggling the new green leaves on the trees. Bright yellow flowers that look like tiny stars are popping up everywhere. Yup, it's springtime all right!"(11)

Who could resist that voice?

Plus, the plotting is tight. Kylie wants something, to become a beauty queen, but she'll settle for Rodeo Queen this time. She faces challenges, and with support from those around her, she succeeds. Three cheers for Kylie Jean!

This book is perfect for little girls; it reinforces a try and try again attitude, practice and persistence, positive everything. Plus the characters are all warm, safe - a reader would feel nurtured and loved in Kylie's community. Not to mention the to-die-for-cute illustrations.

Pie started reading it over breakfast. A few minutes into it she started laughing.

"You like it?" I asked.

"Mom! Ugly Brother is a DOG!" and she proceeded to read the next few pages aloud to me.

Now if that's not sign of a fabulous book, I don't know what is.

On Fairies and Frogs and Such

Rainbow Magic: The Party Fairies, Cherry the Cake Fairy by Daisy Meadows. Rainbow Magic Ltd., 2005.

In my quest to understand early chapter books, I read a handful of the Rainbow Magic series. I enjoyed discovering that strict "logic" isn't so much of a concern for this sort of book. No one is asking in this first chapter how a little frog-man gets in an envelope, or about the origin of little frog-men or why frog-men are involved with the fairy world at all (slaves? A fairy-world underclass?).

In this particular story, the "problem" is fairly small: a ruined cake. But in Ramona the Pest fashion, it quickly escalated. All the cakes in the world will be destroyed! Every birthday party will be ruined! Unlike Ramona, however, the reader's attention is split among different characters with point of view shifts galore. I found myself never quite developing an emotional attachment to any character, although I did worry for poor little frog man.

Interestingly, there's a larger plot thread that unites the series (unlike, say, Babysitter's Club where each volume could stand alone) and a smaller thread for each individual book.