December 24-28, 2010

Publishing, like much of the US, is closed for the holidays which means little to report. Though Rebecca Kai Dotlich did contact me by FaceBook to say that finally–FINALLY–the contract for our co-authored book of fairy tale poems, Grumbles from the Forest, landed on her desk the day before Christmas. She will sign it and I will get it some time this week to sign and send back.

Other book news? Some nice reviews, some lovely letters, some books from publishers as Christmas gifts, and as wee David still believes in Santa, we had stockings hung by the menorah with care.

I did more work on  BUG and passed on the first eight chapters (down from ten) to Adam.

Adam&Co went to visit Boston relatives (Betsy’s aunt and uncle and cousins) in the teeth of the Noreaster, and ended up stranded near Boston. But they made it home the next day, in time to do the first round of packing. They left the next day and got home easily. Hartford had snow but was not hit with the brunt of it, like New York or Boston.

I went to see “The King’s Speech” with friends Bob, Wayne, and Lesley. It was incredibly wonderful. We made it home in the storm. Western Mass got only a small–about 4-6 inches, so nothing that would faze a New England driver.

I finished reading Wolf Hall, which has high-jumped onto my all-time fav list. Hilary Mantel is an amazing writer. Have begun reading another favorite writer of mine, Grahame Joyce. Oh yes, they have something in common. Both British writers!

And now it is incredibly quiet around here.The fridge has been emptied (ie given to Heidi) of stuff I will not eat.I am now trying juicing vegetables and fruits together for a power drink like the kind I used to make for David when he couldn’t eat much of anything because of chemo and/or radiation. I am back to my good diet instead of all that holiday food.

I hope to do some writing as well. Well, after I finish my end of the BUG revision, that is.

Here’s a poem for my readers:

Only the Women Can Hear

And this is no country for old women.

The internet chats, the movies, songs,

all sing of youth and time. Forgotten,

challenged by gravity, by memory, we long

for the past, though it is long past time when

we can recall the splendors that once rang

through us like Old Tom’s mighty knell.

We are in some strange notion of Hell.

How did we get here? Step by step

along the unforgiving path of time.

How do we leave here? Stop by stop,

along the train’s slip line, become

childish, childlike. inelegant, inept,

back to the beginning, back to the womb,

to the heartbeat, blood beat in the ear

that only the fetus and the women can hear.

©Jane Yolen 2010 all rights reserved

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