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This is an occasional journal about how my life affects my writing and my writing affects my life. This journal is not to be a classic blog, in other words it's not interactive. It will not have photos either. Or links. Nor do I expect to write in it every day. And I don't want to have to moderate the thing. However, if you read something here that you want to respond to, send me email (janeyolen@aol.com) and I will write back. Please say whether or not you agree to have your email quoted somewhere in "Telling the True." I like getting questions from my readers--whether you are a writer or a book fancier, a teacher, librarian, or child. Note that the order of the entries is most recent first. Entries from earlier days are archived. |
July 14-17, 2008:
Tom’s arrival really brought gorgeous weather. The crew went one day into Edinburgh. I stayed home and revised the BAD GIRLS comics section with editor Judy O’Malley’s cheery notes beside me for--we hope--the last time. Heidi and I went over everything first, of course.
We visited Marianna’s studio, then the troop minus me and my aching calfs went on the walk (into mammoth head and then tail winds) to see the Colessie Man Stone. They took so long--Marianna has wonderful rites that must be performed there--that I feared they’d all been slaughtered by some Children of the Corn sect.
We hosted two dinner parties. (Heidi and Tom cooked.) Watched and howled at “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” though Maddison didn’t get most of the jokes, except the fart ones.
I took them to High Tea at Rufflets on Tom’s final day, and all applauded the decision afterwards.
Writing? I fart in your general direction. (That’s a line from the Frenchman in the castle from MPATHG in case you don’t remember.)
Don't expect another journal till Tuesday at the earliest. Travel, then Heidi and Maddison go home. Then I fall over in a dead visitor-induced coma for a bit. You know the drill.
Interstitial Moment:
Lying in bed, thinking about EXCEPT THE QUEEN, I suddenly had an image of a crowd of people madly waving. Aha! I thought, I'm on to something important. And so I was. It’s called—for lack of a better phrase, “Waving the hands.”
When an author wants to keep you from looking at spots in a book where there are rather large holes, she does a lot of hand-waving. “Nothing there. Don’t look at the man behind the curtain.” That kind of thing.
I have spoken before about the old Pointing the Finger which seems as if it should be just the opposite of Hand Waving, and yet accomplishes the same thing. Here’s the set up. Our Heroine (let's call her Amelia) is alone on a dark street. There are several houses, most with one or two or three lights on. An escaped maniac is somewhere in the area. Amelia needs to make a phone call. One house is totally dark. And that’s the house she goes into and is the house, of course, where the maniac is waiting. Remember--there is no story unless Amelia goes into that house!
Pointing the finger would deal with it this way: Amelia knew that there was no real reason for her to go into that darkened house. Indeed, everything about the house almost shouted for her not to go. But her heart had its own reasons and she always trusted her heart. She mounted the steps, not at all reluctantly, turned the knob of the front door, and never once wondering why the door was unlocked, went right in.
Waving the Hands would do it this way: As Amelia walked down the darkened street, she heard the soft soughing of the wind through the trees. Some birch, some alder, even some pine. A black shape suddenly flew in front of her on silent wings. She knew its silhouette at once—a Great Horned Owl. It flew up over old Mrs. Curry’s house. There were no lights on, though every other house had at least a single light on, two of them porch lights and the rest off in the rear of the buildings. Amelia wondered, suddenly, why Mrs. Curry—a night owl herself—should be sitting in a darkened house. It nagged at her until she stopped, turned, went up the long steps and across the wide porch, her footsteps echoing solidly as she went. She knocked softly and the door opened on its own. Now she was really worried for Mrs. Curry. This was not the time to have an unlocked door. She slipped her cel phone from her pocket, ready to press the single digit that would call 911. Then, stepping into the pitch-black front hall, she called out the old woman’s name.
So in the first instance, the author tells the reader right up front that she understands this is a stupid thing for the heroine to do. Indeed, the heroine knows this as well. But for the story to work, she needs to go in. So the old “heart” trick is used.
In the second instance, the author is waving her hands so hard they nearly break off at the wrist: we get wind and owls and lights on and off, we get the cel phone at the ready and the old woman possibly in danger. No mention—or at least no re-mention—of danger to the girl herself.
And just the same, I found myself waving my hands a whole bit in the opening sections of EXCEPT THE QUEEN as I step over the potholes. Only I now see we need to slow down and actually fix all those potholes. In the original novella, all written in a letters format, our two characters are fairy sisters who have been kicked out by the queen for some unknown reason. They have both ended up in American cities, far apart, and have manage to get themselves apartments and are sending letters to one another by means of doves. Well, birds, but mostly doves. And then the real adventure starts. But all that backstory—the angry queen, how they get from Faerie to the American cities, how they (for God’s sake) get apartments and money to buy food and work permits; how they pay taxes and the water bill and learn to ride on buses (cold iron?) etc. is just a given. We start the novella long after all that has been done. But in the novel, we have to lead up to it. And the lead -up can be dull without a bit of hand-waving. But it will definitely be a huge mistake not to world-build with care because we need to make the magic real.
Remember Gary Wolfe’s astute : “. . .some disbelief can be willingly suspended, and some has to be beaten down with a stick.” Well, it's stick time, friends.
July 9-13, 2008:
We have been mammothly busy. Lots of wonderful touristy moments. Alas, a lot of bad weather at first, and then the sun came out.So several really brilliant days. Heidi's friend, Tom, arrived for a week on the 11th.
Some of the best moments: Climbing the 180 steps down to the entrance to Dunotter, the ruined castle on the headlands near Stonehaven. (My calves are still aching, a day later.) The ruins of Arbroath Abby, birthplace of the Scottish Independence movement. Kellie Castle and the gardens. Walking in PIttenweem. The rocks and tidepools of Fife Ness outside of Crail. A wild ride through the Highlands, with sheep and kamikazi rabbits, brilliant mountains, some gorgeous early bloom of heather, and Tom trying desperately to remember that the name of the purple-flamed roadside flowers is “Rose Bay Willow Herb.” And many photos of Maddison (the ballet dancer) doing a wonderful arabesque in front of castles, abbeys, ruins, etc.
Not much writing, besides a bit more of “Trash Mountain.” As far as book news, a small check for the on-completion of SLEEPING MONSTERS, and a couple of nice reviews of SEA QUEENS. It’s post ALA and summer vacation time. Many editors are not around to make decisions until September.
July 6, 2008:
Sue is being buried today. Jewish funerals are almost always quite quickly managed. I spent a lot of the morning thinking about her. Holding her—and her family—in the Light. Remembering the good, funny times.
And then I wrote a bit on “Trash Mountain” though, after rereading the call from the editor, I think it’s not really what they want for the anthology. They are looking for zombie raccoons and killer rabbits. Mine is a squirrel story, and the change doesn’t occur until the very last sentence (I think—though I am not there yet.) However, if it doesn’t sell to the anthology, I may be able to retrofit it to a children’s chapter book.
Also worked on a duck poem for t he FARM BOOK. And another chapter for EXCEPT THE QUEEN that leads into the first letter from the novella.
I also went to a lecture by Christopher Rush on Shakespeare, because his new novel WILL-- about Shakespeare’s last days--is newly out. The book had been turned down by 17 British and international publishers before it found a brand new, small publisher in London. And when the book came out, he got calls from Kevin Spacey for theatrical rights and Ben Kingsley for movie rights. He read from a bit of it and it was wonderfully dense and not for the faint-hearted. (Especially the bit about the treatment for syphilis which, in the 17th century, was by using heavy doses of mercury.)
RIP: Sue Alexander, Good writer, dear friend
I got this July 4, early morning, email, from Lin Oliver, president of SCBWI:
"It’s with a heavy heart that we bring you this news. Sue Alexander passed away suddenly this evening. She was sitting and talking with her husband Joel around dinnertime, and suddenly, she said, “Oh My God” and was gone. Steve and I learned of her death from Sue’s dear friend Betsy James, just minutes after her passing.
Steve and I are at the office late, reeling from this shocking and sad news. We all know what a vital life force Sue was, and her contribution to the creation of SCBWI was imme asurable. Through all the years, she helped create, sustain and guide the organization, and took justifiable pride in what we have created together. Just this week, we all witnessed on the list serve her fierce dedication to what she believed was right. There was never any doubt either about her opinions or about her commitment to doing what she thought best for this organization that she so lovingly nurtured from its inception.
This is a sad evening here at the SCBWI office, however, we can all take comfort in the fact that Sue died without the pain or suffering that she dreaded, and that up until her very last breath, she was full of ideas and joy and fight.
Sue’s children, Stacy, Marc and Glenn, are on their way to Los Angeles to be with Joel. At present, the family is still making plans. The SCBWI will hold a celebration of Sue’s life at the August conference, and perhaps sometime earlier as well, if her family would like. The Sue Alexander Award exists and will continue her legacy.
The address at Sue’s home is: 6846 McLaren Ave., West Hills, CA. 91307."
This is what I wrote to Lin:
"Oh Lin, oh everybody, this is the first thing I read this morning here in Scotland, my hands over my mouth, tears running down my cheeks. Sue was one of my oldest, dearest friends. We first met at a conference at Colorado Women's College (I was teaching, she was attending) and she told me a bout these two young writers named Lin and Steve who were thinking about starting a new organization. She had just joined. I was the second.
Sue hadn't sold any books yet, though had been getting published in magazines like Humpty Dumpty. And she had with her to show to her teachers (Frances Keene, Uri Shulevitz, and me) about 40 (I kid you not) manuscripts. They all had a spark, but were still too much like the stories she admired by Sendak and others. But we stayed in close touch (by mail, this was back in the Pleistocene, no email yet) through the years. I went through her first and subsequent publications with her, got her to her beloved agent Marilyn, joyed when things went well with her, sorrowed when they didn't. It was a long distance friendship, emphasis on long.
Sue was feisty, overwhelmingly warm-hearted, hardworking (for years she turned over one room in her house to collecting the books for the Golden Kite judges), funny, dear, opinionated, tender. . .I could go on and on.
What a hole in my heart. What a hole in our organization. She was so tiny and is leaving such a big space."
We have sent flowers. But it being a holiday weekend, nothing will be delivered until the 8th, and since she was Jewish, she is being buried on Sunday.
July 2-5, 2008:
Sorry—we are having more problems with the journal. Doncha just love computers. Come on—it’s been well over a week s ince I have complained about modern technology. For someone who is basically a technophobe, that’s not bad.
So Wednesday, working on the revision (again, still) of the comix section of BAD GIRLS. Rewrote a poem for the farm book.
And then I went to see Prince Caspian with Nora and Rob. I nicknamed the movie “Pagans 1, Romans 0.” My favorite CGI? The Neptune character, though Tilda Swinton with maybe ten words and a long hand stretch almost walked away with the picture. Still, I enjoyed it. Always wanted to write REEPICHEEP’S LAST ADVENTURE. In fact, years ago, when asked by Harper to do a new Narnia novel, I proposed that. But that was vetoed by Douglas Gresham (C. S. Lewis’ stepson) who said that when the mouseketeer sails off in the Dawn Treader, he has died and is going to Heaven. OK. Gresham is the vestal of the copyright, not me. But it would have been a terrific book.
Thursday: More and more BAD GIRLS revision (while watching Wimbledon.)
First copies of JOHNNY APPLESEED (Harper) showed up. It is a handsome book, Jim Burke’s artwork quite gorgeous. Appleseed himself was one of those peculiarly American eccentrics, like Bronson Alcott and Thoreau. What most people don’t know was that he died quite well-off. He SOLD those apple trees, didn’t just give them away! Had quite a nursery business going.
And then I went to hear the Eroica Quartet playing Beethoven and Mendels sohn in a church in the East Neuk town of Crail. I had a front row seat, which was—alas—behind the cello. If I’d been a soprano this might not have been as distracting to me as it was. As a low alto, I tend to hear the low line in any piece before I hear the higher sounds anyway. This from years of choral work in both high school and college. Still the music was wonderful. As their website states: “The Quartet was formed in 1993 by four of Britain’s leading period instrumentalists, committed to performing music of the Romantic period and to rediscovering the style of its performance.”
Friday: I was devastated by the news about Sue Alexander (see above). It was the first thing that greeted me as I got online, cup of tea in hand. The tea got very very cold as I sat, weeping.
I had a hard time turning to work, so went out for a 25 minute Wolfstone Walk, remembering all the good times with Sue, and there were so many. Most---obviously--were around SCBW and then SCBWI events, but they made me smile, in recollection. One in particular: Sue and I are at the SCBWI Los Angeles national conference, probably the third or fourth year, but Sue is already showing what a fireball she is, as well as a nurturer. A man with a thick European accent wants to talk about writing children's books in an Esperanto-type made-up language of his own. We give him a slot during one lunch time and he speaks with charts and (alas) makes lit tle sense. But he becomes our very own stalker, giving us chocolates and wanting to sit with us. I finally throw Sue to the wolf, and scuttle away. I have small patience with this. But she--with with her typical no-nonsense approach, tries to make him understand why his project is not going to get very far. She kept at it for the entire conference.
By the time I got home, sweaty and a bit achy, I looked at email again, and awfully enough, there was news that Marcia, who had been the chef and hospitality person for the Highlights picture book workshop I ran, had been in an car accident and had broken her back.
So I wrote to Sue’s husband Joel, and then Marcia, had Heidi send flowers, and finally, with some kind of measured relief, I was able to finish BAD GIRLS. Though of course I imagine whenever I look at that section, I will always think of Sue.
In the afternoon, I found my way (not an easy thing as the map was unclear) to Cameron Kirk by the side of Cameron loch (where 5-8 years ago David and I had a fantastic badger encounter.) As part of the East Neuk Festival where a rather splendid actress read “The Ash Tree”, one of M. R. James’ chillers. I know the story, of course. Not my favorite of his stories, which are “Whistle, and I’ll Come to You” and that chiller of chillers, “The Mezzotint,” but gorgeously performed.
Afterwards, had dinner at friends C laire's and Lucy’s house, and then the three of us walked to the Byre Theater for a lovely evening of Celtic music with the Anna Massie Band, an award-winning Scottish group that consisted of fiddle, guitar, and accordion (the accordionist also played one piece on the sma’ pipes.)
Saturday, after the one day of St Andrews’ summer, we were back to cold, grey, and threatening rain. I walked into town because there was a farmer’s market in the town parking lot. Got many wonderful sausages and some garlic-stuffed olives (these for Heidi who will be here Tuesday with Maddison.) Managed to get back before any rain.
Worked for several hours on a prototype map of The Rokk to give the artist for the Pit Dragon book. I can’t really draw, this is just to show things that absolutely need to be there. I sketched it once, realized I’d made a mistake in the actual book text, fixed that. Then redrew it and will wait until Monday to fax it.
Watched the French movie, “Brotherhood of the Wolf,”, basically a silly historical costume piece taking place about thirty years before the French Revolution but with a kind of afterward ending there. It pretended to be a werewolf movie but was actually not. I called this “Last of the Mohicans meets A Tale of Two Cities by way of Romeo and Juliet.” The bad guy was easy to spot long before he was unmasked (literally.) Hated the female lead whom I couldn’t i magine the hero falling for, but never mind. My favorite character was the “Indian” played by a king fu master actor of Chinese, Japanese and Hawaiian descent. Oh, those droll French movie makers!
And finaIly, I learned that a piece I wrote about SEA QUEENS is posted on the Charlesbridge site: http://charlesbridge.blogspot.com/
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