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.

January 31, 2005:

I relearned two writing lessons today. One is never too old to learn—or to relearn.

The first lesson is about synchronicity. When something comes up that illuminates what a writer needs at just the right time, that is synchronicity. This is what happened. I was having tea with a friend at the Gateway Center, looking out the huge panoramic windows, where a succession of white, grey, black, then again white clouds scudded across the sky. I was telling her about my short story "Toads" and the research I was doing because she knows the town of St Monans well. I mentioned the North Berwick witches and how they planned to raise a great wind to sink King James’ ship. And she said, "Yes, they would tie knots in a string for the spell. Untie the first knot, and a gentle breeze. Untie the second, a gale. But no one ever dared untie the third knot."

Aha! gentle reader, if you have been perusing this Journal for awhile, you will see immediately what I mean about synchronicity. Last week I had discovered that a group of toads is called a "knot" and the story had been renamed "A Knot of Toads." With my friend’s information about tying knots for a spell (something I actually knew but had forgotten) the whole plot fell into place. Aha! Koestler describes this as "the shaking together of two previously unconnected matrices."

Of course, I have been a writer long enough to have had many synchronistic moments. But—and this is a warning—I do not rely on them. All the hard work has to be done first, or else synchronicity cannot happen. One simply must be ready for the magic.

 

The second lesson learned (or rather relearned) was a bit like synchronicity and a bit like luck. I had reworked Bob's chapter 17 of ROGUE and stuck in (God knows why) a silver cup. It was simply a throwaway bit. There is Our Hero in a cave being cared for by the Rogue who gives him water to drink out of a silver cup. Bob’s original was just a cup. I made it silver. Then I had the Rogue boast about stealing the silver cup. No more than that.

Today Bob came over and we set out to outline the next 3-4 chapters. We know the overall arching idea of the book, not the plot exactly but the thematic stuff. And suddenly that silver cup became the very thing we needed to 1. Move the plot forward 2. Delineate character and hidden relationships 3. Be a linchpin moment for the rest of the book. All this came out as we talked over coffee, tea, and two hours. No, it didn’t emerge straightaway, but was coaxed out a bit at a time.

God, I love to write.

And note, please, that in both instances, not a word had yet been set down. But it was still writing. Oh yes, it certainly was that.

 

January 30, 2005:

My body, like a beached ship in Alang,
sheds steering wheel, prow, toxic waste. . .

I write a lot of small bits like this, starts of poems. I throw most of them away. Have done so for years. Few will ever be kept long enough to turn into a real poem, though every once in a while a metaphor stays with me for enough time to become something else--a paragraph in a novel, the start of a picturebook, even an idea for an essay or speech. Or a piece of my journal! If I were a true working poet, day book and all, I would probably keep all these shards. But I see this more of a writing exercise, a priming of the pump.

The above image, by the way, comes out of an article I'd been reading in an old Atlantic Monthly about a Greenpeace effort to stop the extremely toxic dismantling of old ships on a beach in India called Alang. And of course I coupled it with thoughts about my body which daily feels as if it is falling apart, being dismantled by age. (Though today was actually a pretty good day.)

By accident (through an email from a high classmate who asked me to read a piece he'd written on a website about our old home town--Westport, Ct) I have discovered one of my old high school boyfriends. Larry Comden. He taught me a lot about modern classical music and jazz. Strange to come upon him this way. His wife has a lovely website about their lives, their travels, their work.

My writing today consisted of reworking chapter 16 of ROGUE and then taking Bob's new chapter 17 and revising it twice. It made me consider, once again, the need for time. Time between revisions, that is. Going over chapter 16, after having been away from it for a few days, means I see it with fresh eyes. And ears--because I always read my work aloud. How strange, though, to see something I thought so finished, so polished the last time around. Suddenly it reveals all its infelicities: Repeated words, passive sentences, retorts that fall flat, stunted sentences, overblown sentences, unparsable sentences. Who wrote this garbage? I ask myself as I slash and mend, mold, marble-ize the prose.

Otherwise: More time had to be taken with the fallout of the group problem. More time spent figuring out what will be in the collection (a kind of retrospective called ONCE UPON A TIME SHE WROTE) of my fairy tales and poems for a small press book out for the SF World Con in Glasgow this summer. More time finding DOG stories. More time reading through all the DANCE research which--as I suspected--turned out to be mostly useless.

But I also got to read a Ruth Rendell early Wexford novel I'd somehow missed. Comfort indeed.

 

January 29, 2005:

I worked some more on "Toads" and may have figured out the end. But not what leads up to the end. Not usually a good idea. I prefer letting a story take me by the hand to the end. The other way around often leads to an ending which is less than organic.

I finished reading the Ruth Rendell novel, just in time for our friend Nora coming to tea. David and I adore talking to Nora, who teaches in the English Department at St Andrews University. (Her husband is a professor of Medieval History, but off in Australia right now.) So we gabbed about books (Poe to Wuthering Heights to Jane Austen to Alice Hoffman, Life of Pi and beyond) and had a lovely afternoon.

Much of the rest of the day was taken up by a difficult problem with one of my professional groups. And while I don't feel at liberty to say publicly which group and which people, the mess has to do with one member being incredibly offensive at a meeting to another. And now the supposed "apology letter" is even more offensive than the original act. The whole thing has torn the group apart and, along with the original victim and her husband, I have left, waiting for the group to sort itself out. As I helped start this particular group and love the people in it, the whole thing has been terribly distasteful and distressing. But one has to stand up to bullies and not allow them to take over a meeting or one's life. And I must add, the victim and her husband have been an incredible class act, not putting blame on folks but standing aside to see what will happen.

 

January 28, 2005:

The writing I did today consisted entirely of work on "Toads", now called "A Knot of Toads." In the morning, I went over the first 4000 words, smoothing the prose, adding some research material, trying to bring St Monance (actually pronounced Si'monins) in the 1930s alive. The thing is over 4500 words now and only really getting into the story. A novella in the making? God, I hope not. But I am always the last to know. These stories, like Topsy, just grow.

I went through my various folklore volumes here (a much smaller collection than in the US) looking for dog stories and found a few, though not many, in case HarperCollins comes through with an offer for the DOG FOLKTALE ANTHOLOGY as promised.

In the afternoon we went out for errands. I spent a bit less than an hour in the University library, doing final research for the DANCE book. I carried out nine volumes, though I doubt any of them will prove really useful.

Then I met David at the local bookstore where I bought a book on Fife witches (useful research for the "Toads" story, as well as a book on the area, also a good possibility.) And a book on the Clearances, which I didn't already own, as research for the novel ROGUE'S APPRENTICE, which Bob Harris and I are chugging along on.

I received word that (at last) the money for TROLL BRIDGE is in. Adam will be happy about that! And Jonathan, the editor, sent on the wonderful jacket layout by jpeg. Ain't computers (sometimes) wonderful.

Also, Tor let me know that galleys for YEARS BEST will be arriving some time next week. No rest for the weary. Or the coughing.

But mostly I spent the afternoon reading the latest Ruth Rendell novel, which is thoroughly engaging me at the moment--THIRTEEN STEPS DOWN.

In the evening we went to a reception/farewell for the secretary of the Computational Science Department at the University, Helen Bremner. She'd been secretary there for almost twenty years and has just retired. It was Helen who found us our Scottish house, Wayside, to rent when David was on sabbatical and working with the CD department. In a very real way we owe her much of our Scottish happiness, and told her so.

 

January 27, 2005:

I was a writing fiend and finished the re-draft of the first 100 pages of the new Pit Dragon book, then shipped it off as an attachment to my agent. I truly believe it is greatly improved. But it would have been nice to have had the editorial letter that was promised and promised and promised. And now we wait. If Harcourt can't come up with a decent offer now that my editor is gone, the book goes to the back of the queue. I have four or five other novels banging at my door, and two of them are already under contract.

So then I turned my attention to the "Toads" story, which bogged down on--yup!--plot. But with nothing else on my plate for the moment, I may be able to bull my way through. I really like the opening, though it's slow and elegant and very M. R. James.

And then I started reading the latest Ruth Rendell novel. She's major comfort reading. I love her prose.

Otherwise, a quiet time at home, the weather calm. David and I talked about the possibility of taking a quick trip (next week?) to Wigtown, which is in the southwestern corner of Scotland. It is a town totally devoted to second hand books. The Scottish equivalent of Hay-on-Wye, for those in the know. Maybe next week for an overnight?

 

January 26, 2005:

Writing.

I am worked hard on the revision of the Pit Dragon chapters, about 21,000 words so far. And think I have one more day of it.

Also tidied up the "Toads" story so far. Found out that a group of toads is called a KNOT, which I love.

A writer's life can be pretty circumscribed at times. Butt in chair. Laptop on lap. Feet up. Write. Not terribly exciting.

 

Family news:

The sale of Jason and Joanne's house Jason fell through. One of the twins has pneumonia. The family is sharing pink eye. Thank God for bridge loans and antibiotics.

While we play in the 40-50 degree weather here in Scotland, Heidi and crew are up to their thighs in snow and head colds. And a happy cat.

Haven't heard from Adam in a while.

Not much else.

 

****BREAKING NEWS***

I have an offer from Charlesbridge for a short nonfiction book about women pirates. Readers who know their piratania will remember that my very first book (back in the Cretaceous--ie early '60s) was PIRATES IN PETTICOATS. This will recycle some of that old material and add some new. But is it Grinchlike for me to wish I'd sold an already-written book instead of one I still have to write? There are 25+ picture books of mine out there making the rounds.Never mind. Time for celebration. Too early for champagne. But a nice hot cuppa will do.

 

January 24-25, 2005:

Stuff: Paying bills, grocery shopping, taking laundry, buying fax machine cassettes. Nothing exciting.

Book work: No real news from publishers who all seem much too busy with other stuff (and other authors) to make any decisions on the approximately 25 things I have out. However, I did manage to go over the galleys of PAY THE PIPER on Sunday, talk to Adam about his take on them on Monday, rework chapters 1-2 of the Pit Dragon book, revise chapter 16 of the ROGUE'S APPRENTICE. In other words, I keep working, even when my editors seem. . .well. . .out to lunch.

Other items: David played golf on Monday. Tuesday, after sending email with all the changes on the galleys, we went for a lovely ride in the East Neuk. Most places are closed for winter holiday, but I got to check around St Monance for the short story I am writing. We had a long conversation with an antiques dealer in Pittenweem, which we thoroughly enjoyed. Then home for a quiet dinner. Not haggis, tatties and neaps, even though it's Burns Night. (And also a special Viking celebration up in the Shetlands.) Rather roast chicken, roasted potatoes, and a lovely spinach and lettuce salad with red peppers, goat cheese, and avacado.

Perhaps the rest of the week will be a wee bit more exciting.

 

January 23, 2005:

I buckled down to do a complete day of writing and almost did what I planned.

Rewrote (again) the first chapter of the Pit Dragon book adding even more about dragons. Then moved on to the next chapter. My major problem now is waiting. . .to find out if the Powers That Be at Harcourt are going to honor the unwritten agreement I'd had with my editor who has left for HarperCollins. And if not, do I write the book anyway, or put it back on the shelf until I have time? This is a truly hard and horrific decision, since it's taken me nearly 20 years to attempt this book and I am over 100 pages into it. I hate wasting the effort. But if effort is all I have going for the book, it's not enough. I need support and acceptance by the company.

Then I turned to chapter 16 of ROGUE'S APPRENTICE, the fourth and final Scottish book I am doing with Bob Harris. I tidied, titivated, added, subtracted the stuff that Bob had sent over. And then I started from the beginning of the chapter and went over it again. I always find myself doing several back-to-back revisions, which catches minor stuff. But when I leave more time between revision attempts, I often do whole swathes of changes. Writer becomes a different reader/editor each time.

In-between I cleansed my writer's palate by reading a few chapters (and then a few more) of Barbara Vine's mystery novel, THE BLOOD DOCTOR which has a great re-imagined Tay Bridge Disaster in the first third. For the first time ever in a BV novel, I figured out the mystery halfway through.

I was back at work on the dragon book when the doorbell rang, and our neighbor delivered the package containing galleys for PAY THE PIPER. Since I'd gotten a card from Fed Ex that said delivery had been attempted at the neighbors but that no one had been home, I hadn't even called them. Silly me. So of course everything else had to stop so I could get to work on the galleys. I got about a third of the way through before the making of dinner (lemon chicken and pasta with tricolored peppers in sherry) interrupted everything.

After dinner, I was too shattered mentally to do any of my own work so I finished reading the BV in a rush, knowing that I needed to be sharp for the galleys and, anyway, could do them in the morning.

 

January 20-22, 2005:

I got up very early to work on the possible table of contents for my book of stories and poems to be published by NESFA Press for the Glasgow World Con. This will be a limited edition, mostly of reprints, but some new poetry. I had only a small amount of time before we were off on an adventure.

We had decided suddenly and with surprising lack of forethought, to join our friends Mike and Susan Gassaway at a lovely B&B hotel on the Isle of Skye. So at 10 am, packed and ready (sort of) we left.

I tacked a sign onto our door asking FedEx to leave the expected PAY THE PIPER galleys at our next door neighbor's house and left them a note asking if they would kindly take said galleys in.

Then off we went.

Grey skies overhead, some spitting rain, some attempts at snow, warned us off the Highlands passes and we took the long way around, going to Perth and from there to Fort William, then Kyle of Lochalsh and over the Skye Bridge. The other times I'd been to Skye, we'd taken the ferry, so this was a first for me.

In fact there was only infrequent rain, and the hills were lovely, with larch and birch covered with a fine haze of burgundy buds. Deep oranges and burnt umber and green colored the hills. Groups of stags, then groups of does dotted the mountainsides, and three stags were actually right by the road. We spotted many pheasants racing across in front us or standing in the fields. There was a wild goat by the roadside finding nourishment in something that had spilled from a plastic bag. Many buzzards. But alas, no eagles.

The only discomforting thing was when I broke out in a bad case of coughing which led to a headache for about an hour of the trip.

We arrived at the B&B by 5, our friends there a couple of hours ahead of us. We had tea, then a quiet dinner. Some of the best lamb ever! We met an Edinburgh couple staying the weekend, and chatted with them, and a hunting party of Parisians who snubbed us.

After dinner, we managed to stay up to (gasp) 9 pm, then went to bed in a charming pine-paneled bedroom, one section of which was a turret. It was exceedingly quiet and we slept very well.In the morning, we had breakfast with Mike and Susan, chatted again with the couple from Edinburgh who are building a retirement home on Skye, and were again snubbed by the French party, now all attired in plus fours and shooting jackets. There were off looking for woodcock.

We had been prepared for terrible weather. Had books to read, rain gear, etc. A couple of days earlier, Skye had had 135 mph gales and the annex of the B&B, across the road, had been flooded. But the day dawned sunny and beautiful. There was hardly a wisp of breeze.

We drove through the achingly gorgeous scenery--the Cuillins all covered in snow but the rest greened out. There were some wisps of cloud, but it was a sunny day. We had a long walk, about 2 1/2 miles we were told, though Mike--with a bad knee--and I went about halfway before turning back. David and Susan continued on and came back oohing and aahing over the rest of the scenery.

We hurried back to the B&B for a late lunch (not very good alas) and then off to see if we could spot otters. However, we got to the otter place too late, and the hide was in the process of being closed, so it was another nice walk, just enjoying scenery.

Came back to a nice long soak in the tub, and a bit of reading in my Barbara Vine (Ruth Rendell) mystery.

Dinner was all fish and venison and I was not happy with my monkfish at all.

In the morning, another perfect day, we said goodbye to Mike and Susan around 10 and headed home. This time over Drumochter pass. Lunch at House of Bruar along the way, and home by 4.

I had no book galleys. The neighbors had not been home for the delivery. A lot of email from my agent, with nothing concrete happening. But good news: PRINCE ACROSS THE WATER was named one of the 87 Young Adult Best Books of the year. Surprising since it had no starred reviews. (And I remembered how the year THE DEVIL'S ARITHMETIC came out and everyone was touting it for a Newbery, it didn't even get a Notable or a YABB. Proving, once again, that awards are unpredictable and are, at best, all fairy dust.)

 

January 18-19, 2005:

I seem to have segued back into writing with a vengeance. And does it feel great. It means little else happens in my life, but who cares?

First, on Tuesday, I worked early morning on more of the new first chapter for the dragon book, bringing everything up to date, placing it securely in the now. No more flashbacks. Thank goodness those are gone!

Then we took off in a small snow storm (more a squall than an actual storm, though everyone here was scared to death of all that white stuff. As New Englanders we had to laugh.) Went on some wonderful back roads to the home of the Count and Countess of Dundee--Birkhill--where a small fete was in progress. One of my publishers, Barefoot Books, had a stall and I autographed the 8 copies they had. Everything was so cheap (and in aid of Cystic Fibrosis) we bought a few things, including a fleece vest for me, a hat, some handmade trousers for the twins, a handmade pocketbook for Maddison, and an autographed cookbook. We also got to poke about the ground floor of the mammoth country house (which needs much work) and had quite a bit of house envy.

Then back through St Andrews, lunch at the Byre, and home.There I did another couple of hours on the dragon chapter, realizing that I needed to add more dragons in the beginning.

After that, I did two complete versions of a new HOW DO DINOSAURS. . . book, one I have been thinking about for several months. The editor wanted a GO TO SCHOOL and so I came up with two very different versions. The three things I had to keep in mind while working on it were 1. how it dovetailed with the other four books, both in rhythm and in subject 2. how to keep it illustratable for Mark Teague and 3. how to make it different enough from the other books. I couldn't use the word class, because of the immediate rhyme word! And certainly a child who would read this book would be slightly older than one for GOODNIGHT.

 

Wednesday, I got up and did a third and then a fourth revision of a combination of the two versions of the DINOSAUR book, sending it on to my agent for comments.

Reread the last two chapters done on ROGUE'S APPRENTICE, the last Scottish novel with Bob Harris, because he was coming over at 1:30 to discuss the rest of the book. Of course I am incapable of reading without revising, and so two hours later I had titivated those ten pages. When Bob arrived, we discussed what was to happen next. He went home with the plot for at least the next two chapters, and we solved a truly major plot problem for the end of the book.

After that, I sat down and worked some more on the Pit Dragon book, adding dragons (again) to the first chapter. I hope that when we get home from three days on Skye with our friends Mike and Susan, I will be ready to tackle the next chapters.

Out for dinner with friends Ron and Ann, once again at the Byre.

January 17, 2005:

Heidi told me the rest of the Kitty Return story this morning.

Evidently Heidi had just come downstairs and saw (in a two second blink) something walking in the snow on the deck. At first she thought it was a skunk--all black and white. Then she registered the purple collar. Running to the sliding doors, she opened them, stepped out in her socks, without a coat, up to her ankles in icy snow. The cat turned, fluffed up, freaked, and ran away. Heidi ran back inside and grabbed some kitty treats and headed out again--still in her socks--onto the snowy deck. She tracked the cat down the stairs into the brush where Sammy had gotten herself trapped. Throwing some of the treats to the kitty to entice it toward her, she grabbed it by the head when it came close, and stuffed it inside her sweatshirt where the poor thing shivered and purred at the same time. Then she stomped back through the snow into the house and only then screamed into the intercom for Maddison to come downstairs.

When Maddison saw the cat, she burst into tears.

The cat is thin, eating and drinking but not gorging, and follows them around from room to room, not daring to let them out of sight. Tomorrow she goes to the vet's for a good check up.

Whew.

Except for thinking about the cat, reading three sf magazines, and finishing a Barbara Vine novel, I rewrote the first chapter of the Pit Dragon book and now realize I have more work to do. Got to get dragons in there somehow.

I also worked on some more stuff on the "Toads" story.

Also making plans to go to Skye with friends for three days, and have dinner plans for Wednesday night with other friends here in town.

This was Newbery/Caldecott announcement time which is always a difficult day for many children's book writers and illustrators. I was calm this year as I really didn't have anything that seemed to be in the running. I have to admit that I've read none of the Newbery books and in fact had only heard of one of them. I felt terrible for Nancy Farmer, whose SEA OF TROLLS had been highly touted for a prize, and she didn't get a thing, not an honor book or a Printz. Having been in that same position with THE DEVIL'S ARITHMETIC, I am pretty sure I know how she's feeling. I also know how a number of writer friends (no names) are feeling given that once again the Newbery has gone to a difficult, the-mother-dies-and-everyone-has-problems novel. It is hard for a lighter novel, with humor and/or child-friendly to win. But it has been done--HOLES is certainly a Newbery book that kids love, has humor and a kind of antic bizarreness. And while not a favorite of mine, shows that the committees sometime find interesting choices.

 

January 16, 2005:

I was sitting working on the "Toads" story, having made a plot breakthrough because of one of the books David and I purchased yesterday at the antique store, when the phone rang.

David got it. I heard him say, "The cat is back!" and I ran to the phone to hear the news from Heidi. Evidently the kitty was walking in the icy snow on the deck, half its previous size and shivering, but alive. Alive!
It took Heidi a while to call her in, for she was disoriented and skittish. But now she's even starting to play with her toys and is purring and eating slowly (the vet said to give her only a little bit of food at a time.) A miracle, truly. My eyes are filling up as I write this.

Heidi showed Maddison the openings in the walls after that. I think they had a good laugh. I will report more when I hear it.

 

January 15, 2005:

Some twiddling with the dragon book got me to thinking. Now stay with me. This is a twisty path.

I started the Pit Dragon trilogy (DRAGON'S BLOOD, HEART'S BLOOD, A SENDING OF DRAGONS) over twenty years ago, in the 1980s. I thought it was finished, with my young heroes coming back to the dragon nursery where the story had begun. Yes, there were loose ends, but I had no more interest in the story. Besides, the original publisher--Dell/Delacorte--was uninterested in me and tried to let the three books languish, alternately putting one of the three out of stock for months.

Yet over the years, my young readers would not let the series die. I have gotten hundreds and hundreds of letters asking what comes next.

Actually, I don't haven a clue, except that Jakkin and Akki have to find some way to give all the people of Austar IV the ability to see and hear like dragons (as they now can) and withstand the brutal cold of Dark After, the planet's nightly sub-sub zero weather.

Fast forward to the 1990s. After I started Jane Yolen Books for Harcourt, and invented the Magic Carpet paperback line for fantasy and sf, among the first reprints were the Pit Dragon books. And they took off again. And the letters doubled and tripled, emails, too. What happens next?

(I told you this was going to be a long, twisty story.)

Well, my imprint was put to rest after nine successful years and my young, handsome, smart, hardworking assistant Michael Stearns took over the Magic Carpet line among others. (He also inherited a lot of the Jane Yolen Imprint authors, like Bruce Coville, Patricia Wrede, Vivian Vande Velde, Caroline Stevermer.) And he, too, kept asking for a fourth Pit Dragon book. The family joke became: "A fourth book in a trilogy? What next?" And I kept saying I was done, or at least I had no plot. But Michael and I must have spoken about a new dragon book four or five times a year.

Then, sneakily, about a year ago, Michael asked me to write--for a new printing (and new covers) of the trilogy no more than a chapter teaser for the fourth book. And I did. Called it DRAGON'S HEART.

These days I get letters and emails on a daily basis asking where the d*** book is. And of course it is only 125 pages along (out of possible 300) and still with no real plot in sight. But Michael said he'd publish it and even named a figure which is double and triple what I usually get. Said he'd put the first three in a boxed edition (my first ever!) I was tempted, but refused a contract because I wanted to know first from him whether he thought I was on the right track. It's hard--harder than even I imagined, and I have a pretty good imagination--writing the sequel to a trilogy twenty years later.

Now things get really difficult.

In October I sent Michael the first 125 pages. No use doing it unless I am doing it right. And he was going to get right back to me. Well, October turned into November and then December. He said, informally, notes would be coming, but he missed my "gorgeous prose", citing the work in SWORD OF THE RIGHTFUL KING. However, that's an Arthurian high fantasy and I was trying to match the prose of the first three books, which are more science fictional, which (at least to me) makes sense.

The end of December, I heard from Michael that he was leaving Harcourt and moving to HarperCollins, a major shift for him. He's always been at Harcourt. But in publishing, often the only way young editors can move up is to move away.

However, that leaves me with an orphaned book ("orphan" in publishing terms means the editor who loved, nourished, tended a book is not there and the step-editor might not be anywhere near as excited about it.) And it's a book that is not even under contract, can't go elsewhere because it's part of a popular series, and with no YA editor at Harcourt who knows and loves fantasy the way Michael did.

At last, we come to my decision of the day. I have asked my agent to speak with the head of Harcourt. I will send them the first (revised) 125 pages and if they are unwilling or unable to give me a contract, an editor, and the sum of money Michael had offered, the mss. will go back on the shelf. I have other books--novels and picture books and collections--under contract or in my heart. With apologies to all my young fans.

I did not take this decision lightly.

After that difficult decision, we went off for an afternoon of antiquing. Came home with an Edwardian dust pan and brush, and a variety of research books. Had dinner at our friends Marianne and Pete's (she's a fabric artist, and author of an excellent book on Pictish stones, he's a birder and painter.)

Monday I should hear from my agent as to next steps.

 

January 14, 2005:

I began writing again. Gosh, that feels good!

Of course I didn't start right away. The doorbell kept ringing because our next door neighbor, Susan, was having a coffee hour for the parents of her children's school friends in aid of a children's charity. And they kept coming to the wrong door. Since our door has a brass plaque with our names on it, as does the neighbors', it makes one wonder about reading skills. So after the coffee hours, Susan came over after to apologize, to bring us some goodies, and just to talk.

Then I settled in to write. First I did a couple of hours on the fourth Pit Dragon book. Not that the editor has ever gotten back to me (before moving on to another company and another job.) I had decided on my own, though, that beginning the book with a flashback was the wrong way to start. The action needs to be immediate and onstage, not just Our Hero Remembering with His Back Against a Dragon's Flank. So I did about six pages before we decided we had all sorts of errands to do in town--banking, checking up on a friend who owns a store (and is newly pregnant), going to the pharmacy, the deli, the St A version of Blockbusters.)

After lunch, I worked some more on the first chapter. Then because I'd been invited into a Scottish short story anthology, I twiddled a bit with something called "Toad" which I have been working on for about four years. It is an M. R. James type story set in St Monans in the 1930s. I love the six pages of opening, just haven't had a plot idea yet. (This is a constant problem with me. I don't worry about it. Plots come when they will.)

So about three and a half hours of writing in all.

I also had a lovely conversation with one of the heads of SCBWI in Scotland, arranging a meeting here at Wayside in February for Fife children's book writers and illustrators. Also arranged with a Fife-based Barefoot Books bookseller who will have a stall at a local country house fete where I will go and sign next Tuesday.

Now some snarky nonsense: I am getting emails from kids in two separate classes, who are halfway through reading THE DEVIL'S ARITHMETIC. And in one class, they get extra credit if the author writes back to them. Arrrrgh!

And then there is the assistant at Tor who just sent the galleys for PAY THE PIPER to Massachusetts, and needs them back by Jan 17. Hello!

And the fact that Barefoot Books has run out of the British edition of the BALLET STORIES book which is a kind of good news/bad news. They are busy reprinting.

Now for something more interesting:

Joanne from Canada asked (slightly modified for length): "I've been following your journal for a short while and I'm intrigued by something you recently said: 'There are some books which I will work on and then put in the drawer because the market is so changed.'

Considering the impressive length of your career as a children's author, what changes have you observed in both the business of publishing and the audience you write for? What sort of books have you shelved because of this changed market? Do you think some of your earliest stories (now unavailable) would still be published today in this market?

Perhaps I am biased. I believe many of your books and stories are so well written (i.e., Owl Moon) they should and will survive this changing market. Children know quality when they hear it."

Well, Joanne--lots of questions all revolving around the dreaded changed market problem. When I began, children's books and libraries went hand-in-hand. The largest sales for any book (85-90%) was to the institutional market: libraries and schools. So books were often ones that had a strong informational or educational element, and with curriculum ties.

Wonderful fiction also had a heyday in the '40s-'60s, but it was a gentler, sweeter, less edgy kind of fiction. And of course, it paid no attention to societal problems. Certain groups of people--African-Americans, Native peoples, in fact all people of color, were virtually invisible in children's books. (I wrote a picture book with a black family, had black characters in several of my novels, wrote a number of folk tales with Asian themes, but that was not the norm.)

Still, it was the quiet, gentle books--like A TREE IS NICE or WHITE SNOW/BRIGHT SNOW, SWIMMY and the like--that were winning awards, selling well. Picture books had varied texts, from concept books to folk tales to realistic walks through snowy woods. Those texts were often quite long.

Today, of course, it is the edgy novel that is king. The sarcastic picture book or the tv tie-in with minimal text crowns all lists. And then there are the celebrity written (or ghost written) books which use up all the available publishing oxygen (as well as the entire ad budget.)

Many well-published veterans of the field are in despair and putting significant manuscripts in a file drawer. I am not alone here. If it were just that we haven't moved with the times, I could understand that. But unless I get myself a pointy bra and go up on stage shaking my bootie (not something you would want to see, mind you) and become a Madonna clone, I can't sell a book like the ones she has. (And mine would be better written by an astronomical amount!)

As to OWL MOON, when I first sent it around, in 1984-5, five editors turned it down as being too quiet, too gentle. The sixth editor, Patricia Gauch, bought it as her first book at Philomel. She was old school, as am I. The rest is history. But could that book (or would that book) be bought today and published successfully? I doubt it. I have much bouncier books being turned back as too quiet. I think if I sent it around now, I would pile up even more rejections. And if I were lucky, maybe a small house might take it on. But the houses that originally turned it down--like Viking and Harcourt--would still turn it down today. As would their big sisters. In a heartbeat.

 

January 12-13, 2005:

The problem with trying to write in a different house is 1. Set up time (in this case three days) and 2. Not everything being brought along (today's email invited me to write a short story for a Scottish anthology and I hadn't brought along the three Scottish story starts with me) 3. A different research collection. (I worked on my home research library in Massachusetts for 40 years. The one here in Scotland is less than 10 years old.) But I think I am prepared to start writing tomorrow. Just as well, as my top is about to blow with all those suppressed words!

I wandered in our garden, marveling at the yellow buttons of aconite, the white stars of the Snowflakes, related to the Snowdrops of our Massachusetts garden which won't be poking out their heads for another two to three months. Everything here is greener, warmer, softer, though the sun isn't rising before 8:30, going down around 4:30.

We had our friend Christine over for elevenses which turned into lunch. Then drove her back home to Anstruther. Standing at her sitooterie (sit-out-place) overlooking the Forth of Firth and the Bass Rock, the tide was high, dark, moody, lapping at the sea wall, still agitated from the gales of the day before. The clouds scudded across a sky that was a washed out blue. It was brilliant weather, if cold. I loved the wind in my hair.

Then David and I went to the garden center to pay for our new pergola, though the bill wasn't ready. And also to hire them to fix the part of the back fence blown down by the gales. As we drove home, it was already turning into evening, with a red sky at 4:30.

 

January 10-11, 2005:

Everything packed, we headed off to Scotland for five weeks. The only problem--the planes were so overloaded, we couldn't sit together except on the short hop to Newark. So from Newark-Amsterdam we were a row apart, and in middle seats.(David was able to talk them into giving us seats together from Amsterdam to Edinburgh, but that was another short hop.) David at least slept a bit. I didn't get a wink. The flight was very calm, though, and I read some magazines for the next YEAR'S BEST, watched a truly stupid movie about the president's 18-year college daughter dating a secret service man, and thought a lot about various writing projects.

When we landed in Scotland, we were surprised at how green everything was. Lots of standing water, too, from some previous horrific downpours. With winds being forecast.

Winds! They were gales of 90 mph, blowing David's glasses off his nose and across the Safeway parking lot when we went to get groceries after first taking a three hour nap.

Had dinner with the Harrises, then home for twelve hours of sleep.

 

Eric wrote to me, asking: How do you know when what you’ve written is ready for submission? Reading your writing journal, these thoughts often come to my mind: "Is she sacrificing quality in her writing? Or has natural ability and years of experience made her a very efficient writer?" Also, I assume your efficiency has increased since you first started out writing. How much so?

Here's my answer, Eric--I have always been a white heat writer then slowing down to revise and revise and revise some more. I don't even remember what I write during the heat period. But I polish forever.

I expect that my 40+ years of writing have made me not necessarily efficient but certainly crafty. By that I mean that I make a canny guess at what I can and cannot do. I know better how to prioritize, how to select what I have time and talent to work on. There are some books I may never write because I don't have enough years left to develop my skills for them. (It took me about twenty years from the idea for ARMAGEDDON SUMMER till I had the skills to write it, the same with SWORD OF THE RIGHTFUL KING. I have five novels I want to work on now, and one--GOBLIN MARKET, a pre-Raphaelite adult novel--I may never write because I am not A. S. Byatt!) There are some books I may never write because though they would make money, they no longer interest me. There are some books which I will work on and then put in the drawer because the market is so changed.

The question of knowing when something is ready for submission is a tricky one. I am not sure I have ever been completely happy with what I send out, and even less happy when I re-read the manuscript when it has come back, either rejected or accepted with revision letter. But there does come a time when I realize I am no longer polishing that particular piece, but am thinking about (and dreaming about) a different story. Time to let it go on its way.

 

January 8-9, 2005:

Tidying up time, in anticipation of leaving Monday for Scotland. That meant cleaning up the desktop, both my actually desk and my computers. It meant sorting through what work I am going to take with me, and what I am leaving behind. It meant finding some last minute stuff (details) for the YEAR'S BEST collection, finalizing the last (we hope) permissions on the song book AN APPLE FOR THE TEACHER, etc., paying bills--including the last quarterly taxes. None of this interesting.

I am having a running conversation with folks on the blog Electrolite. I seem to be the only person there who feels that an author should have copyright in her own work for 50 years after death. My analogy that this is my family farm that I want to pass it on to my children has fallen on the deaf ears of the information-should-be-free folks. Ah well, if you are feeling masochistic, find the whole thread. I am through.

As far as family news: Jason and Joanne sold their house for full price but have to get out by January 25th, which is fast upon us. Maddison is doing a bit better viz the lost kitty, but we are all still quite saddened about the whole event. Adam is starting a publicity splurge for his first two novels out this summer. David is home from St Lucia and we have been listening to the cacaphony of sounds from the dawn chorus.

And two more friends--sf fan Anna Vargo and publisher Peter Bedrick--have died. Anna was in an apa (a letter zine, a kind of invitation only pre-internet blog) with me for a number of years and I always found her letters interesting. Peter published my TALES OF WONDER in hard cover when he was at Schocken as well as the paperbacks of GIRL WHO CRIED FLOWERS and MOON RIBBON and HUNDREDTH DOVE. I hadn't seen him but in passing briefly at conferences for the last few years, but was always very fond of him, his sweetness, his enthusiasm, his intelligence and wit.

 

January 7, 2005:

An up-and-down sort of day.

I spent much of the morning working on clearing my desk, dealing with a difficult March engagement in the Seattle area, cleaning up my desktop, paying bills. In the middle of this, a shriek from the cleaning lady, Regina. While cleaning the bathroom, she'd heard a cat meowing in the walls.

We called friends--workmen--who came over at once and they tore the walls open. They checked the duct work, one even bellying through the truly horrific crawl space under the house. Alas--to no avail. I am sure Regina heard something. But it might have been the sound of the bird clock, or mice in the walls, or who knows what. We did not find the cat and now we have two massive holes in the bathroom walls under the sink. Only good thing about this was that Maddison was at school at the time.

After we got back or at least tried to get back to normal, I heard from my agent about another book being rejected. Sort of. The publisher is rearranging one of its imprints and might be willing to take another look at the mss. when everything settles down. If we haven't sold it elsewhere first. That's what we are going to try. No use having it sit on the shelf.

No writing. But payment forthcoming this week for the latest dinosaur book, so the Smith College tuition and Smith College Campus School tuition are guaranteed at least.

Dinner out with friends. Some sanity in the world.

 

January 6, 2005:

Finished the TROLL BRIDGE first pass revisions and sent them off to Adam.

Along the way several interesting things happened. The trolls (bad guys) and the Fossegrim (seemingly good guy but shown eventually to be a trickster) spoke almost identically. And it occurred to me on this pass that not only their actions needed to distinguish them, but the way they spoke needed to as well. So Foss continued in his elegant, elliptical, never-quite-answering-the-question way. But now the trolls sound like 19th century Geordie peasants, and their language is always in the present. "We be eating dinner" instead of "We will be eating dinner." Makes them smash-and-grab types. not fore-thinkers and planners. Even if the kids (and critics) don't get understand what we are doing, I believe they will get it viscerally.

The distinction between our main girl, a concert musician and the main boy Jakob a pop star are more finely drawn. (I hope.) But their response to music is similar because we want to show that they have more in common than not.

And finally, I cleaned up the language throughout, getting rid of all (I hope) the passive constructions, the extra "seeing" "looking" and "nodding/grinning" stuff. Sometimes a writer needs distance--and several months offers such distance--to understand how much more work needs doing. And I was blessed with a strong editorial eye. (Even though at first I was appalled by all the editor's notes.)

 

On the homefront--ie not writing--Heidi and I braved the snow and ice storm to go down to meet with a Springfield lawyer about getting a zoning variance to build an apartment in our barn for Heidi and the girls. Along the way, we saw five spin outs, with cars nosed into the median snow, and a two car crash. It was not a pretty drive. What normally takes 25 minutes, took fifty. But we did it safely, which is what counts.

No cat. Alas.

And the Z pack of antibiotics don't seem to be helping. Sigh.

 

January 5, 2005:

No cat.

No sales.

No money.

I went to the doctor about the nasal infection (again) and was given a Z pack of antibiotics.

"Boys Life," which had asked to see some of my stories for reprint, turned them down.

I also walked our fourteen acres of farmland looking for the cat. There was a lightly-falling snow, and I sank through some ice and lost my sneaker. I must have looked stupid, standing in the middle of the field, with my bad back and bad knee, trying to get the wet sneaker back on.

We left out food in the mud room with the door slightly cracked open, hoping if Sammy is around, she'd find it. But we only attracted several neighborhood cats and one old opossum. I called vets, animal shelters. 4-8 inches of snow is predicted.

Any good news? I managed to get within 40 pages of the end of the TROLL BRIDGE revision.

 

January 2-4, 2005:

David flew off Sunday very early to St Lucia for six days of bird recording.

Not me--I had work to do on the revisions of TROLL BRIDGE, cursing myself for letting us make too many passive sentences, too many people nodding and grinning and "looking" at things. I still like the basic story, but the writing now seems shoddy, unprofessional, unpolished.

I stopped working for two hours while we went to Corinne and Matt's for a party. Then came home to work on two more chapters.

Afterwards, I watched "Hero." The photography was splendid, the storytelling that strange Chinese kung fu fantasy stylization.

Monday, again I revised some three hours, until it was time to go back to the dentist for the final work on the two crowns. Since my car had died and been taken to the car doctor, (am hoping it's not terminal) I walked a half mile or more, meeting Heidi half way to the pharmacy where I picked up my meds. Then back for another round on the revisions.

Dinner out with the neighbors, the Daytons.

Tuesday, I worked on the revisions some more and received my first rejection of 2005, from Walker UK, but hard on its heels a possible acceptance of a different book by HarperCollins. Possible--but not final. On the balance, still bad cess in the publishing world.

Held the writers' meeting here, with five of us in attendance. Anna read the prologue of a YA historical novel which was a sensational prose poem. Corinne read a chapter of an adult novel which had a few problems but is tootling along nicely, full of secrets and winding ways which I love.

Then back to the revision.

But a major disaster has struck. Maddison's kitten is missing. We think she got out of the house somehow. This is fox/coyote/owl territory. I am terrified that poor little mite is gone for good. And Maddison will be devastated forever. She takes things very very hard. Like her mom. We have searched the house top to bottom and I went out with a flashlight and called all around the house and land, finding only one very scared opposum.

Maddison was hysterical, Heidi worked hard at calming her but got no sleep all night, and then we walked the house and the perimeter outside with flashlights, trying to find the cat, all to no avail.

 

January 1, 2005:

Annual New Year's Day Recovery Party.

Weather: Clear, sunny, low 50s. Unbelievable for New England.

Food: Heidi made sweet-and-sour meatballs, spinach crepes, finger sandwiches, salads, We also had cheese platters, fruit platters, veggie platters with a variety of dips and chips. Eight different cakes (from truffle cake to riccota cake to an apple strudel) and four dozen mini-cannoli. Drinks of all kinds, from seltzer, wines, beer, to a fabulous collection of single malts. Friends brought more stuff, like home made chocolate chip cookies, Godiva chocolates, gingerbread. There was almost nothing left by party's end.

Time: Invite said 1-5. Last guests left around 9.

Who was here? Heidi's friends, Glen's friends, Maddison's friends, some past colleagues of David's, at least two doctors (always good at a party just in case), a ballet mistress, a variety of writers, illustrators (including Ruth Sanderson, who had Maddison model for her Mother Goose book dressed in a nightgown and sitting on Heidi's windowseat) plus a ton of just plain wonderful friends. There were babies just weeks old and toddlers, and tweens and teens running around upstairs and doing art in Maddison's art room. The grownups gathered in clumps all over the house to chat, gossip, make new acquaintances.

We did a pass around the house and some desperate cleanup before going to bed. The real wash-up will be in the morning.

It was a great party, lovely time to visit, but no writing got done, of course--and I am exhausted.