We're All Growing Up

It's happening more and more like this. My son returns from an overnight band trip exuding a subtle, yet distinct new maturity. Aside from the little flush of parental pride, I search for words to capture this new person. Listening to him talk I wonder, when exactly did this latest bit of growing up happen?

Was it while sipping his first coffee in Starbucks? Maybe while playing in the hotel pool with friends, his parents wonderfully far away, with knowledge there is much more independence to come? Likely he doesn't know, the moment having fizzled into the subconscious of one who lacks context.

In good fiction, of course, these moments cannot fizzle, but must carve themselves beautifully into the highest points of the narrative. Those places where a character opens eyes to something never seen before that was there all along.

Discovering the instant a character touches glimpse of a fuller self is often the culmination of so many drafts written that seem to touch nothing at all. The writer continues to put one word in front of another, in faith that they will lead, in their own tedious and meandering way, like life itself, toward something true.

Yay ALA!

For a full, annotated list of the winners you can go here. I'm particularly happy that When You Reach Me won the Newbery Medal. I loved that book, and so admire the plotting! Now I need to get to the library and read some that I missed this year (Charlie and Emma, here I come!)

Such an exciting day!

School

I twist the paper from her small, squeezed hand. It tears.

“You did it, Idiot,” she says, testing.

I hesitate, focusing on a loss other than my authority.

“—You don’t speak to an elder that way,” someone interrupts. "You will follow her instructions. She is your teacher. Perhaps you speak to your mother that way, but it will not happen here." And on. . . .

No tears in response, but the well-played silence of a child familiar with the cadence and tone of anger.

“We’re just keeping her warm is all, she doesn’t care. . . .”

No matter. She is quiet now, unresponsive now. We are all wrong, and what I hear is the unmistakable echo of a closed door,the muffled cry of losses conveniently contained.

Book Review: The Magician's Elephant

By Kate DiCamillo
Candlewick Press, 2009
Ages 9-12


In The Magician's Elephant, Kate DiCamillo's newest novel, Peter Augustus Duchene only wants to find his missing sister and know that she lives. It opens with a fortuneteller revealing to Peter that he will find her with the help of an elephant. The same night an elephant mysteriously appears, falling through the roof of the Bliffendorf Opera House, to the astonishment of both the magician responsible, and the noblewoman who is rendered paralyzed by the incident.

The rest of the story is a boy's journey from a joyless existence with a militant and neglectful guardian, to a life full of revelation, hope and, finally, a family. Around the holidays when family and hope are in high demand, this kind of story seems especially important. The tale of motley lost souls with converging plotlines, is similar to The Tale of Despereaux and Winn Dixie. When an author like DiCamillo takes such pains to tell a story using language that is as magical as the miracles it describes, readers may not care this isn't exactly a departure. For instance, in the following passage Peter is describing the life he knew before his parents died:

[Leo Matienne] leaned back in his chair. "Begin at the beginning."

Peter started in the garden. He began his story with his father throwing him up high in the air and catching him. He began with his mother dressed all in white, laughing, her stomach round like a balloon. "The sky was purple," said Peter. "The lamps were lit."

Yoko Tanaka's black and white illustrations enhance the waifish tone, and the cover conveys a silent film quality very appropriate for a story that feels whispered in one's ear.

There are no grand plot twists or cliff-hangers here. This is not a narrative to be plowed through, but a reverie in which to be immersed. If you love near-perfect prose, and the question, "What if?" If you want a story to curl up with under your comforter that will make you feel nostalgic and hopeful about the world then read this little lullaby of a tale.

A Series of Unfortunate Events, or, Spatial Intelligence Can Save Your Life

Three months ago, while on an early morning (and dark) run with my friend Michelle, I tripped and skinned both knees. In the interest of channeling my inner Rocky Balboa, I soldiered on and practically springted the rest of our three mile route. Yay endorphins!

Two days before a December 5k race, I tripped at the bottom of my stairs and heard the snapping of a thousand tendons. No breakage--have ankle brace, will travel. My skinned knees healed and I prepared to re-enter The Land of The (mostly) Coordinated once again.

Then, while carrying my travel mug of hot tea into school Monday morning, I tripped on the rug and briefly went superman before landing on the entryway tile, cracking my mug (the tea, not my face), and giving myself carpet burn.

The saving grace: No one saw me and my day went exceptionally well thereafter.

And no one saw me.

Now I know my geometry teacher was right--spatial intelligence may save your life. I have a brand new New Year's Resolution, to somehow raise my kinetic IQ and avoid my own Darwin Award.

This is all to say if you see me coming, clear a path. I've become a one woman slapstick show. These experiences have found their way into scenes I've been writing, and physical comedy can be funny; the research, however, is a bit tedious.

Recycling

Some scenes from old, beaten down, rejected novel

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Some characters from old, beaten down, rejected novel

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Setting from old, beaten down, rejected novel (perhaps a coat of paint is in order here)

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A new storyline that tackles some of the same themes from old, beaten down, rejected novel

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Some new ideas inspired by life lived since the writing of the old, beaten down, rejected novel

EQUALS:

A new project that is not-quite-a-revision-but-more-of-a-recycling. The (very optimistic) goal is to take this barely functional thing (my old novel) and turn it into something fabulous and new-fangled and, dare I say it--Funky Fresh?

Have you seen those darling little wrist purses made from old drink pouches? Or Those fancy magazine racks constructed from bottlecaps? Or those little handbags made from old, falling apart books?

Yeah, kind of like that.