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.

December 31, 2006:

The annus horribilis went out as it came in, with me taking care of a sick relative.

OK, so it wasn't quite as bad as Dec 31, 2005!  Glen had stomach flu and threw up in the parking lot of the restaurant where we'd just had lunch. So we dumped our New Year's plans (watching her sister perform in a ballet, going to Holly and Theo Black's New Year's Eve party), went home, watched two movies, pumped hydration and very light foods, and to bed by ten.

After last year, I can truly say I have had a lot worse.

I hope for my family, friends, fans, something even better.

 

December 28-30, 2006:

Wonderful time wasters: Adam showed me how to get the first six episodes of "Lost" Season 3 from the ABC website. I have gone all the way through the big issues of the local paper that Heidi collected for me when I was in Scotland (back in August and September!) and taken out all the crossword puzzles. Am making my way through them. Filing a huge pile of stuff. Reading Tess. Going to water therapy. Buying two pair of boots on sale. Having lunch with my old friend, illustrator Bob Marstall, and catching up on our lives.

Sad moments: Adam and crew go home. No snow for the holidays. Being alone on New Year's a possibility until Glen decides to be my "date" for the evening. Since it's the anniversary (46 years) of the first real date David and I had--after he broke up with his girlfriend, Fuffy Sizlowski (not sure of the spelling, which I have done phoenetically though she always sounded like one of the Fonz's girlfriends!)

Writing: Another full revision of STONE COLD from Adam, and me back to him, more revision and chapter swapping on the fourth Pit Dragon book, and a bit of work on BAD GIRLS.

I can't wait for the New Year to be over. Am looking to 2007 as a better time.

Small note of humor: Evidently there was an alien character (one-shot I believe) on "Star Trek:Enterprise" named Yolen. I have to believe this wasn't by chance. If anyone has any information on this, I would love to hear from you about it.

 

Interstitial Moment:

“Well, vamp on to Marlott. . .”

I am reading Tess of the D'Urbervilles—rereading, really, though I have little specific memory of the book from my first time around some fifty years ago. And old John D’Urberville, has just been given the news that he comes from a long line of a grand family, though he and his immediate ones are well come down in the world. He tells a boy to run on and spread the news. He urges him to run/hike on, “vamp on” he calls it.

And I stopped reading to muse about changing language and how--though one gets “vamp on” in context--the word has gone through “vamp/sirens” in the early twentieth century, to a heavy dose of blood-sucking in the late twentieth century, and a bit of musicology as well.

What a strange web we weave with words. And yet as a writer I need to use the right word, which sometimes takes a long search. Mark Twain wrote in a letter: “The difference between the almost right word & the right word is really a large matter--it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”

I remember spending a day or so finding the word (making it up of parts, actually) “Hullaballooning” for the picture book Nocturne. How the father in Owl Moon was not much of a character until I changed his title from Daddy to Dad to Pa. And every poem I revise a dozen times proves again and again the power of a single word.

Politicians know, then forget, then rediscover how powerful a misplaced not can be. But Gordion swords at the ready, we writers should do better. After all, we are the guardians of the words, the wielders of word power, our pens mightier than the swords. So when we bury ourselves in our work, remember our secret watchword: “Vamp on to Marlott.”  Let it be whispered at workshops, sewn on banners, and sold at writers’ conferences.

 

December 25-27, 2006:

So how did the holidays go? Well, Adam sums it up pretty well here: http://www.adamstemple.com/

And I wrote this:

       Taking Your Clothes to the Sally

       Okay, not all of them, but the washed socks,

       the clean white handkerchiefs and boxer shorts

       that your sons don’t want, not the Orvis shirts

       or the hand-made scarves, or the hats

       with sweat bands that still smell like you.

       Three bags of stuff, as if the detritus

       of a well-lived life is summed up at the Sally

       where a man too roughly accepts your hand-me-ons.

       Okay, so strangers will be grateful for this,

       will wear the socks to keep their feet warm,

       blow their noses in your handkerchiefs,

       pull up the shorts, tuck in the size large sweatshirts,

       (too small for our boys, too large for our daughter)

       and bits of you will be out there, spreading joy,

       engaging in a life you no longer have.

       I should be happy for that bit of recycling,

      but I would be happier still to have you, naked,

       in our bed, warming you with my body, my love, my life.

 

We had a lot of presents, though wee David kept asking, “Where are my other presents?” So we made him the mailman, delivering things to everyone and helping them open their gifts, which helped. Everyone seems satisfied with what they got, but are also painfully aware of what we were missing. Don Kroodsma sent over a recording and a chapter of his new book about going birding with David which reduced me to tears.  I expect next year and the year after will be easier. Easier, but not the same.

We had a big roast beef and Yorkshire pud dinner here that I cooked, several big dinners at Heidi’s (Moroccan chicken was one, a pork roast another. Adam and Betsy cooked a salmon dinner.) The kids and grandkids went to see “At Night in the Museum” and I entertained Katie Davis and her family here on their way back from skiing in Vermont.

Amazingly, I got some writing done: three poems for the fairy tale collection with Rebecca Dotlich, some revisions on the first chapters of the new Pit Dragon book, revising the proposal for the noir graphic novel with Adam. I liked the poems (as did Rebecca), was disappointed in the dragon book (need to do some serious chapter moving about), and modestly pleased with the noir proposal which is still missing some important bits.

Much as I adore my kids and grandkids, I am ready to get down to some serious writing and rewriting before the spring book tour stuff starts in earnest. If that makes me a bad grandmother, I bow my head in sorrow. But I don't take it back.

 

December 23-24, 2006:

Pre-holiday buying, especially wine and cheese, house-cleaning, getting rooms ready for everyone to mess up, giving out extra presents BEFORE the holiday, visits from friends and neighbors, dinners at Heidi's house, extra pounds loaded on, phone calls from relatives, friends.

Yes, we have seen it all before.

I did, however, write three poems about David and the holidays, and revised (twice) the talk I am giving at SCBWI New York. Since the speech is on revision, that is exactly what needs to be done! Ending it with a poem about revision that I am working on. Oh yes, and massively revising that!

Outside it looks like early November. Rain, no snow. The sky the color of recently-erased slate. The walk between Heidi's house and mine like the peat bogs of northern Scotland. I am sure the peat hags wait to pull us down should we set a foot awry. Too grey for a holiday, so we make our own sunshine--singing, bad jokes, family puns. If one of us gets teary (usually me) there is always a family hug, a squirmy child in the lap, a snuggle, a reminiscence that makes us smile. What do people do who have no close family at the holidays?

Still we are all waiting for the new year. Letting go of 2006 will be an easy thing to do.

 

December 21-22, 2006:

More cleaning, more fluffing, got an estimate on re-roofing the house (ugh), picked up (sort of) the rest of the house and kid-proofed it, had dinner with Heidi and the kids both nights, sat with Maddison, opened early Xmas presents, did the last two nights of Chanukah, tidied up a lot of my desk but not enough.

Have I mentioned before how I love writing and hate the business stuff of being a writer.  All that filing (even with Heidi’s help) and letters to be answered (ditto) and travel arrangements (double ditto) and the rest is stone boring. I have an agent, a publicist, and a PA (Heidi) and I still have lots of NON-writing that has to get done by me. None of it engaging. And all of it getting in the way of the best part of the writing, which is sitting at the desk and setting down words, meeting new characters, hearing a line sing in my head, and then rewrite, rewrite, rewrite.

Of course, that clear conscience voice, my little Jimminy, points out—and absolutely right, too—that I would have a lot fewer of these intrusions were I less successful. So maybe I need to make DON’T WHINE ABOUT SUCCESS my number one New Year’s Resolution.

Adam and crew arrived well past midnight on the 22nd. I managed (just) to stay up. Fell asleep by 1 am and knew I would be spending the next day in a fog. But they had an easy trip from Minneapolis, a direct flight, which, three days before Christmas, given all the weather problems in London, Denver, O’Hare etc, was pretty danged amazing.

Happy Holidays to all.

 

December 17-20, 2006:

Turned to writing a lot these four days knowing that Christmas/Hanukah will soon destroy any free time once Adam and family get here.

What did I work on? Two poems about the Bird Count which we workshopped at the Wednesday morning group. Finished the fluffing etc. of the screenplay and sent it off. Rewrote a couple of verses for my HIPPO board books.

Actually finished the SCBWI New York talk I am giving on revision. One of the things I say at the beginning is: "You have heard about writing, but I am into rewriting. I remember long ago Phyllis Whitney wrote that 'Books are not written; they are rewritten.' It is important to remember this. We are not like children in class who whine every time the teacher makes them rewrite. We should look at a new draft as if we are unwrapping a gift."

I also worked some on my Wilmington, Ohio talk(s). And started turning a longer picture books into a short graphic novel, TRAVELER'S ROSE, to see if it could be done. Got about ten pages done and am still not certain it will work.

I also did a lot of wrapping of presents, cleaning the kitchen and living room, had lunch with a college friend, went to the Illustrator's Guild Xmas party, kidsat for Heidi one night and watched "Court Jester" with the kids, finished reading Linda Mannheim's RISK, and made lists with Heidi of dinners etc. for the next week when Adam and crew would be here. Did about five crossword puzzles, read three back issues of Newsweek.

In other words, a typical if not terribly exciting time.

 

 

December 16, 2006 night time:

This has been the most difficult and emotional night for me since David's memorial service almost nine months ago. It is the night of the Christmas bird count, which begins at midnight tonight. And every year for the past thirty years or so, David would do the owl census in Hatfield starting at midnight. Various friends--sometimes Heidi or the boys as well--would take turns but only David lasted the whole night. Yes, he was Pa in OWL MOON entirely.

Last year, as a surprise, guessing it would be David's last, Adam flew in arriving at 11:30 pm. Heidi and he had plotted the whole thing. Don Kroodsma (of THE SINGING LIFE OF BIRDS) and Jan Grenzke were on hand, too. Heidi relieved Adam at 3. And David, sick as he was and unable to get out of the car on his own, still stayed up owling the entire night. They got a record number of screech owls, and five great horned owls as well, all in Hatfield. It was Don's first owl count and as he remarked at the funeral service, it was as if all the birds were coming out to count David one last time.

Yet Heidi and Don and Jan managed quite a showing in David’s honor this year.  As Heidi just emailed the boys and me “Jan and Don picked me up here at the house at midnight where we started the night calling up a screech owl from my back porch.  We spent the next 7 hours calling up 24 screech and 3 great horned--quite respectable.  The first year I was home, Daddy and I shattered the record with 21 screech.  The next year it snowed so hard we gave up pretty early with, I believe, 19.  The following year, we blew everyone away with 34 (the guys from Hadley had 26 or so and were gloating thinking they would FINALLY beat Daddy's numbers... ha!).  The next year, we had another snow mishap and last year I cannot remember, so our 24 today is much better than respectable. . . We will deliver our numbers at the dinner tonight in honor of Daddy. I think I did him proud.”

More than proud, my darling girl!

This year the local Hampshire bird count is dedicated to David.

And I have been sobbing in my bed.

 

December 8-15, 2006:

A week of writing, reading, travel, and quite a few tears as we remember how David was around this time last year.

Visit: I flew down to stay with Jason, Joanne and the twins, now bubbly 3 1/2 year olds who love to be read to, love to sing along with their favorite songs, and are quite irrepressible. I took them out to eat several times, we ate in twice, saw two young bucks outside Jason's office and a dolphin on the way there. We exchanged gifts, and they gave me wonderful photos (and a calendar of photos) of the girls.

On the plane I read an astonishing historical novel cum mystery--THE GREAT STINK--that takes place in nineteenth century London with the building of the modern sewer system. The prose was corruscatingly brilliant and I loved it. Now am well into Linda Mannheim's novel RISK, a wonderful love story/mystery that travels between pre- and post Apartheid South Africa, Miami, and the borough of Queens. Linda was one of my first PA's, and she writes a marvelous prose, handling difficult (and politically nasty) storyline with great ease.

Writing: Finished a draft on the animated short screenplay. Now it needs to be timed, smoothed a bit, fluffed up. Also Jason and I worked on a proposal for a new environmental picture book (possibly the first of a series) while I was down there visiting. It's something we had spoken about before, but this visit we got out his photographs and really saw how the book could work.

Book Stuff:  Was sent by email the adorable sketches for the first of my HIPPO board books, ONE HIPPO HOPS. Also got the German edition of the Pit Dragon trilogy, the cover of BABY BEAR'S BIG DREAMS (Wow! Melissa Sweet outdoes herself!) And a rejection (well, really five in one) from a favorite editor of mine.

Did holiday shopping by myself, then with Maddison, next with Jason, and finally home again with Glendon who has moved back (for now) from Hawaii and we are so happy to have her here.Usually I am done with holiday shopping by summer time. Not this year of course.

So happy holidays to all. The Chanukah candles are lit. So is the Christmas tree in this family of mixed blessings. And we also have special glasses that--when we put them on and look at the tree--allows us to see either dreidels or Jewish stars in every light.

 

Interstitial Moment:

I thought it might be instructive to look at a poem as it unfolds in four drafts ove two days. As Jason and I begin work on a book called AN EGRET’S DAY, and I am looking at his gorgeous photographs of egrets (both Great and Snowy) I begin to jot down notes on a poem.With pen I write:

 

What is so great

About this snow white bird?

His wings, like fresh linen

Hung on a line.

His beak as sharp

As a fisherman’s knife.

His legs sprung like wires,

Stalks, iron skewers,

Carrying him through the shallows

And home.

Clearly I am beginning to define the bird in terms of how the camera sees it, using both metaphor (“legs spring wires”) and simile (“wings like fresh linen.”) I am playing with the fact that we have chosen to follow a Great Egret, not a Snowy. But the poems seems limp—and it limps along.

 

My next draft in pen is equally draughty:

What is so great

About this white bird? [Deleting “snow”, as confusing, also cliché.]

His wings, like fresh sheets  [Linen too generalized.]

Hung on a line.

His beak as sharp

As a fisherman’s knife.

His legs sprung like wires,

Dark stalks, iron skewers,  [Need adjective for stalks:rhythm & sense.]

Carrying him through the shallows

And onward toward home.  [Rhythm seemed bizarre, not effective.]

 

I wrote the first two drafts in son Jason’s office in South Carolina. When I got home to Massachusetts the next two drafts were done on the computer. The poem is to accompany a photograph of a Great Egret striding in the sand right above the waterline. I spoke the poem aloud and some changes were dictated by sound. Some by sense. Some by the idea of the picture (as it is one of three or four Jason hasn’t taken yet.)

What is so great

About this white bird?

His wings, like fresh sheets

Hung on a line.

His beak as sharp

As a fisherman’s gutting knife.  [What kind of knife? The sharpest!]

His legs, sprung wires,

Dark stalks, steel skewers,  [Most skewers are steel, not iron.]

Carrying him through the shallows,

Along the humped and sandy shore, [Picture, picture, picture.]

And onward towards home.

 

The following may not (probably will not) be the last attempt at this poem, but it is the latest:

What is so great

About this white bird?

His wings like fresh sheets  [Get rid of unnecessary comma.]

Hung on a line.

His neck a telescope.  [So obvious in pictures, needs to be mentioned.]

His beak as sharp

As a fisherman’s gutting knife.

His legs dark stalks,  [Needed to put the vegetative metaphor first.]

Sprung wires, steel skewers,

Carrying him through the shallows,

Along the humped and sandy shore.  [He isn’t going home now, so why say it?]

Working on a poem means paying attention to sound, to sense, to rhythm, to punctuation, to the arc of the poem, to its meaning. And please, please, please to its metaphor(s).

 

 

Interstitial Moment:

Okay, so if you have read this journal more than once or twice--and ignoring all the past year's horror and despair--you have noticed that I work on more than one thing at a time. Well, to be honest, many more than one thing at a time. And perhaps you have wondered about that. Or marveled. Or though it odd, intriguing, or downright disgusting.

Here's the major scoop: it is simply the way I work. I can't envision writing any other way.

But how do I do it without 1. Getting confused. 2. Losing track of things like voice and plot.  3. Becoming facile (well that's a critical judgment call, isn’t it?)  4. Missing deadlines.  5. Repeating characters/dialogue/ lines.

Here's how.

       *I read everything aloud, which is easier now that I am in the house alone. It makes for strange looks when I am sharing a household.

       *Everything is in a folder. Both a desktop computer folder AND (usually)  a print out. I go back over what I have done previously (if small enough) or just the last chapter (if a novel) before beginning that day.

       *If a project or piece of writing is being balky, threatening to block up, or otherwise shut itself down, this is what I do: I stand up, walk about, eat a chocolate chip cookie, have a cup of tea, watch a rerun        of TOP CHEF, check email, read blogs like Miss Snark or Fuse # 8 or BlueJo or Making Light, read magazines like Newsweek or Style 1900 or Smithsonian. If none of those distractions work, I turn to a different writing project. Since there are plenty of them around, I never have to worry. Notice, I  never settle into reading a novel. If I do, it will be many hours or days before I resurface, my own projects forgot, and the beat of the novelist’s language in my head instead of my own voice.

       *I try not to work on two similar things at the same time.  So I can be deep into a picture book, a book of poems, novel, short story, graphic novel, movie script, speech, and the latest Telling the True in the same day or week without confusion. But doubling up on any of these and even I run into trouble.  Please note, I will be in very different places with each of these (first paragraph, proposal, mid section, etc.), and not everything gets completed at the same time. Sometimes they are days, weeks,  months, years apart. And some have STILL not been finished.

       *There are actually many projects I will never complete: THE EMILY SONNETS is a prime example. These are sonnets about Emily Dickinson's life. And while a few have been published (in Horn Book, in the Dickinson bulletin, elsewhere) I am pretty certain the book is something I will be working on forever. (Though it goes months without my hauling it back into the light.) There are many other projects that will go really bad/sour/septic along the way. I simply stow them. Maybe I will pull one or two of them out again in the future.  Maybe not. I may be able to turn a thwarted short story into a graphic novel. This happened with FOILED. Or a failed collection of poems into a picture book. If I am lucky that happens. Usually it doesn't come that easily. My filing cabinets and computer desktop are quite the archeological dig.

       *Of course I have repeated lines, even repeated character traits. (For example, I believe I have at least three minor characters in novels and stories tagged with a wandering left eye, something an editor friend who has a wandering eye once pointed out to me.)  With 287 published books out there, not to mention many uncollected stories, poems, essays, it would be more surprising if I never repeated myself.

       *I love what I do, so being at my desk writing is a pleasure. There is nothing else quite like it in my life. But remember—writing on many projects in the same day is simply what I do. I don’t advise others to    follow that path, but I don’t discourage them either. One person may spend years on a single brilliant novel  (Pynchon), others (Shakespeare, Dickens, Sir Walter Scott) may spend six weeks, and their novels or stories or plays are just as brilliant. If you take any one thing away from this minor screed, it has to be this: Writing rhythms differ. Don’t sweat it that you do not write the way I write. Do it your own way.

 

December 2-7, 2006:

The bad luck year continues. My darling favorite cousin Fred Yolen died without ever regaining consciousness on Sunday. Heidi gave me the news at the Eric Carle Museum as she'd gotten an email abut it while I was busy listening to the four illustrators presenting at the ECM: Mo Willems, Betsy Lewin, Brian Selznick, Kadir Nelson.

So Tuesday, Heidi and I went first to our cousin Malerie's house in Stamford for lunch and a cousin gab. Then on to the synagogue in Port Chester. It was a lovely service and a moving graveside ceremony both led by a woman rabbi, plus a nice shiva at a friend's house. The family held up well, though I wanted to just sit with my arms around all of them. And the whole day's mood of sorrow and comfort was spoiled by the worst travel day in years. Glare ice going down, and dropping my car off for Brandon in Springfield where we were lost for half an hour looking for his new place so he could take Maddison to ballet. Coming home, we were on the Merritt, and because 95 was closed to Bridgeport --a tractor-trailer jacknife and chemical spill--everyone was shoved onto the Merritt and so we were bumper to bumper. A 2 1/2 hour trip took over 5 hours to get home.

What complicated everything was that I was hosting the marvelous Debbie Miller, a wonderful Alaskan nonfiction writer from Saturday to Tuesday. She did storytelling at the Eric Carle Sunday after the artists' panel, then that evening we went on to Arcadia, the Audubon sanctuary in Easthampton where she spoke and gave a slide show to about 25 people. Luckily she was leaving on Tuesday after doing two Springfield schools, so I didn't have to worry about her as we traveled down to the funeral.

Two good things happened in my health and book land. My cholesterol has dropped from over 400 to 261 in a month on zocor. Now, folks, I know 261 is still too high, but in comparison. . .And my hearing is slowly coming back in the left ear.

As far as books: I have been writing like crazy: got the gargoyle detective graphic novel's proposed plot from Adam, worked on it, sent it back. Finished the revisions on FOILED. (I hope they are the last. I sure tried to do all the things the editor wanted, though in my own inimitable way!) And I worked on the book of poems with J. Patrick Lewis till we were both happy with it--and sent it off to our agents (who luckily both work at Curtis Brown.) And then I did some work on the script for the animated movie for Aureyn.

Now the bad news. After almost a full year in which we were constantly encouraged--Tor has turned down Adam's and my third Rock 'n Roll Fairy Tale book saying that the first two hadn't sold well enough for them to acquire another. Of course the first one was on several major lists and won the Locus award, and the second one is garnering solid reviews even as we speak. But publishers these days assign their own arbitrary (at least in this author's eyes) numbers to the sales record. I understand why they have said no from their perspective. But, except for a book under contract that I owe them, this effectively puts paid to my literary life there. Oh, I still love individual Tor editors. My BRIAR ROSE keeps selling and selling for them. But I guess I am not their cup of tea, midlist as I am. It makes me very sad. It has been one of my favorite houses for some time.

However, putting that bad news up against Fred's death--well, there's no comparison. After all, it's just a book I wanted to write with Adam. And I hope I still will, though for someone else. The proposed book is a Golem novel set in today's Connecticut, with a garage klezmer band. Nobody can accuse me (and Adam) of not-stretching!

 

November 28-December 1, 2006:

I continued a run with my poetry, working on the poems for possible books with Pat Lewis and Rebecca Kai Dotlich, as well as turning to a few pages more on the screenplay. Then after discussing things with the freelance editor of FOILED, I have begun making my final attempt to Get It Right. I am still having trouble linking (and foreshadowing) the real world and the magical worlds. So that is my big problem for the next few weeks.

I am reading the Jame Triptree biography which is fascinating if a bit troubling. (See Farah Mendelsohn’s take on this at: http://www.strangehorizons.com/reviews/2006/11/james_tiptree_j.shtml  which gets to the interesting heart of what I am feeling. I am also watching “Word Play” at night before falling asleep.

In between I had writer’s group, kept an eye on Maddison one evening while Heidi had a board meeting, hosted the poets at my house, had a fasting blood test.

Then Thursday a new disaster hit. I headed out to New London where my favorite cousin, Fred Yolen, is in ICU with a bleeding ulcer and pancreatic cancer. It was a 2 hour trip there, 2 hours at the hospital, 2 hours home. All the while I am thinking that 2006 has been an emotional train wreck for our poor family. David dead, two of my Berlin cousins losing their husbands right after David‘s death, one to heart attack, one to cancer. Daughter-in-law Betsy's dad dying. Right before that, two young writing friends from different continents dying. The wife of another friend dead of cancer, much too young. And now Fred. . .

My ear drum bursting was almost comic in comparison. Pardon me for not laughing.