Journal

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.

November 25-27, 2006:

I learned a new phrase the other day from “Top Chef,” a tv cooking show. The phrase is “an amuse bouche” which is a small mouthful of something to awaken the palate. And it occurs to me that the small things I have been writing lately—poems with Pat Lewis for a book, poems with Rebbca Kai Dotlich for another book, the pages of script for the animated short based on one of my fairy tales, even the piece on Cinderella for the Playbill of “La Cenerentola” are each a kind of literary amuse bouche. I am prepping myself for the deeper, broader, more intense experience of writing the fourth Pit Dragon novel and the three other novels I have in mind.

This is not to say these smaller pieces are not done with complete passion and energy. Just that they are more limited in size, and can often been finished within weeks, rather than years, which makes them just the palate cleanser I need.

Actually, I prefer the short form. I am better at it. I began as a poet and will no doubt end as one. But right now I am reminding myself how much I love to write. Amusing, awakening, shocking my literary mouth.

Besides working on these things, Heidi and I (with Maddison in tow) had a wonderful packed signing on Sunday at a small bookstore in Stockbridge, Mass., then went to do a mammoth holiday sweep of the Lee, Mass. high-tone outlet stores for clothes for the twins, wee David, Ali and Maddison. If you missed the signing and live in the area—we left signed stock behind as well! Think Christmas/ Chanukah/Kwanza. Think putting my grandkids through school!

Now for an interesting question: JL asked, “How can a fantasy writer help innocent people dying on another continent?”

Alas, just the way anyone else does—by sending money to the Good Guys, like Doctors Without Borders, or clothing and food through recognized charities; writing your congress critters, voting your conscience.

Oh, perhaps you mean how to help using one’s writing? We fantasy writers, like all writers, are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. Our words can make people think, can change minds, can influence opinion. But our job as fiction writers--as opposed to sermon writers--is to do all this through the medium of story.

So how can you help, etc? Work hard, BIC, write characters who sing and don’t preach. Make landscapes that replicate in odd ways the underlying passion of your literary creations. Remember “May the metaphors be with you.” Don‘t be fooled into thinking you are just an entertainer. But don’t be fooled into thinking you are more than one, either.

November 14-24, 2006:

This tennight has been full of death, pain, sadness. It has been full of hope, love, creativity. It has been full of book signings and book failures. It has been full of family, friend, and memories. I suppose that's not so different from the weeks and months before, just that it has been jam-packed with everything. And punctuated by watching two seasons worth of “Lost.”

And old friend, who is a therapist, warned me that I was cycling back to some of my early grief. He said: “You are beating yourself up, one of the early grief stages, again. Take a deep breath, and another, and allow yourself some space to just be you.” However, holidays don’t allow for that. Instead, I am turning to my writing. It helps.

Death: Adam's wife's dad died, not unexpectedly, but for Betsy “losing two dads in one year is too hard.” I agree and send all my love to her at this horrible time. A friend's wife died, quite young and much too fast, of a cancer found late.

Pain: My eardrum burst when I was in Nashville for NCTE, after two wonderful days of sell-out signings. The pain began at 5 am. The hotel (Gaylord's Opreyland) had no doctor or nurse on call and the EMTs did not come on till 9am! So I got myself a taxi and headed to the closest hospital. A half hour after they gave me a shot of antibiotics, the eardrum burst, the pain ceased, and I tanked up as well on the recommended prednisone and antihistamines (which three days later my own ENT said were useless.) Slept for 16 hours, gave a speech (not a particular deep speech and not particularly well received), flew home with no further ear damage. However, it may be weeks before I can hear properly again.

Sadness: Holidays are tough. I was thankful only that David was no longer in pain. But realizing that this was to be my first Thanksgiving in 46 years without him. . .and the start of ALL my Thanksgivings without him, however many that will be. . .was devastating. We spent the actual day at the DiTerlizzi house where Angela cooked a spectacular meal. I was alternately sad and tired and feeling blessed by the friends and family I had. But not David. Not David.

Yet as chockablock full of people and tv and books (I read Gail Levine's FAIREST which I thought charming but predictable, saw the final three sell-out performances at the Eric Carle museum of A HOUSE FOR HERMIT CRAB with Maddison in the title role) I managed to get quite a bit of writing done. Worked on several pieces of BAD GIRLS, a few pages of a short movie script for my story “The Girl Who Cried Flowers,” some poems for a book Rebecca Dotlich and I are trying together, turning a folk tale from West Niger into a possible picture book for Kadir Nelson, the first chapter rewrite of the 4th Pit Dragon book. In other words--stuff.

Will I continue? Only time will tell. And it ain't talking yet.

Interstitial Moment:

Two very different questions came in this week and I want to deal with them before doing a catch up on NCTE and my burst ear drum. Ah yes, another Jane-in-hospital-instead-of-hotel story.

C. writes: “I've written and published several books now for the school library and reference market and want to publish fiction (especially) and nonfiction with more mainstream publishers. Would you say the best way to make this shift is to write a novel and shop it around to agents?"

Quick answer—yes. Certainly your publishing credits will stand you in good stead. . .to a degree. And any short fiction that has been published even more so. Editors like to know that you understand the editing/ publishing process. However, they are often leery of a nonfiction writer truly making the change from nonfiction to fiction, especially if their previous books have been either very academic-oriented or dry. So showing them a complete (or nearly complete with a good outline or preferably synopsis for the rest) doubles or even triples your chances for a sale.

Of course, if you are a celebrity nonfiction writer, this advice is useless and you can sell your book(s) on a single line. As in Alan Greenspan’s roman a clef of life in the monied classes. Or Laura Bush’s White House mysteries in which the First Lady figures out whodunnit. Or Dr. Phil’s rollicking ChickLit in which the girl has a hot affair with her therapist. Or Madonna writes children’s books with morals. Oh wait—that last actually happened.

M writes: “I was hoping you could offer your opinion regarding critique groups. You've said in the past that you are all in favor of writers belonging to a good group, which I think mine is... My dilemma is this -- I'm making a first attempt at writing a middle grade novel. I'm just sort of stumbling forward and feeling in over my head most of the time. Beneath this uncertainty lies a deeper belief that I'm onto "something" and that if I keep plugging, I will be able to make it work. . . eventually.

“In the mean time, our group meets every two weeks and I've been feeling pressure to bring something to share. The truth is that I don't feel ready to share, I'm only doing it to uphold my end of the bargain. Now that I've gotten feedback on the story, I find myself with all the critique comments swirling around in my head and it's making it hard to write without feeling like I've got a committee to please. What do you think about sharing works in progress? Good idea or bad idea?”

The only person who should make the decision as to whether you share or do not share is you. In my writing group, I often go months without reading. Sometimes it’s because I am already into the editing process with an actual editor. Sometimes because I am moving too quickly (or too slowly) in a novel for the group. Sometimes I don't want feedback at certain emotional crossroads. And sometimes. . .just because.

Other times I desire as much feedback as I can get. And that's when I bring work to the group. But all the time I am very present as a critiquer and am totally invested in my friends’ work.

The sign of a group that is working well is that each member can make that decision for herself —that difficult decision—of reading aloud or sharing pages or otherwise offering up work for comment. There should never be pressure to share when the writer is not ready or simply doesn’t want to read. We have enough stuff in out heads as we write, enough censors and editors already in there, that it can be a burden to feel there’s a committee of well-meaning friends in there as well.

November 10-13, 2006:

Still not much ability to concentrate, though I have been writing some poetry:

First Fall

This is my first fall without,

The leaves redder than I remember.

Not the color of blood, which dries dark

.........But something vibrant in its dying.

This is my first fall without,

The mornings so cold, I wear

One of your old sweaters over my nightgown

And turn up the heat till the house

Breaks out in a sweat.

This is my first fall without,

The horse chestnuts—conkers you called them—

Banging down on the roof like mad raindrops

All night long, pocking the car.

This is my first fall without,

The geese in their anarchic vees

That sometimes read like an L or M,

Head to where Connecticut and Massachusetts

Huddle together for warmth.

This is my first fall without.

You have gone before me into winter,

Into spring, into summer, somehow

A consummate time traveler

I can never catch up to,

Always a season ahead.

And I have (alas) discovered the tv show “Lost.” Heidi was given the first season by her friends Tony and Angela, and she told me I had to watch. I am halfway through the umpteen dozen shows and am thoroughly hooked.

Book news: Heidi and I drove to UConn at Storrs, Ct. to sign at their annual bookfair and though we were due to sign at 12:15 and after giving a presentation (the power point didn’t work, so we winged it) to sign for another hour and a half after. But we actually started at 10, and signed straight through till our presentation, stopping only for a 15 minutes lunch and several potty breaks. After we signed until 5:30. Whosh. My thumb is still numb! Before the formal dinner, we went to Susannah Reich’s house for an hour. It is a marvelous book-laden historical house in Storrs, and we felt immediately at home.

More book news: The new printing of FAIRY TALE FEASTS is out this week, I finished writing the talk for NCTE right before my computer’s mouse died. So I couldn’t print it. Panic time. Heidi (my hero!) eventually figured it out. RTFM.

Even more book news: I went over the very few changes for SHAPE ME A RHYME which I am doing with son Jason’s photographs for Boyds Mills. My editor, Joan Hyman, is always clear and precise about what she feels a manuscript needs. I have always loved working with her. I also heard from the editor of FOILED, Mark Siegel, that it has maybe one more small go-round, but he’s very pleased with how I have deepened and sharpened the graphic novel. I am pleased, too.

On Friday we went to an auction where we picked up some wonderful Vienna bronze miniature birds (two tiny owls for Heidi’s Owl Cottage, a painted kingfisher for me, and two gorgeous small ducks. It was Maddison’s first real auction and I asked if she wanted to bid, but she got suddenly shy.

Maddison went to the first of her middle school visits and loved the place, the teachers, the courses. I had a lunch with the UMass folk about their children’s conference, trying to figure out a way for it not to end. And Monday, before water therapy, I started on the YMCA’s stationary bike (only 6 minutes, and boy did I feel that after!)

So little out of the ordinary. And precious little writing. But one reader of “Telling the True,” Francesca, asked me “Have you ever had any single transformative experience (like what would be called a spirit-journey in shamanic tradition), after which you were never the same? If so, is that something you would like to share with your readers? If not, is that something you have sought?

Well, Francesca. I have had editors tell me some things that were aha's , but no Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus moments otherwise. One said, “Trust your readers to go where you want to take them.” Another said, “You have great facility, don’t let it beguile you.” Don’t know if that is what you mean, but they were transformative comments for me. And my husband always said—and it has become our family motto—“Just because I made it up doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

November 4-9, 2006:

Well, I have a confession. I am on a new (to me) cholesterol drug--Zocor. The others have either given me leg cramps, stomach heaves, hives, or left me throwing up for hours. This one, however, seems to be making me unable to concentrate for long. I am hardly reading, not writing at all (except for two small revisions on picture books and a speech) in the last couple of weeks. I am watching movies, calling friends, reading stuff on the internet on and off, and watching "Top Chef" reruns. I am trying this drug out for a month to see if it has affected my Very High cholesterol at all before making any decisions.

So what have I been doing instead? Racing off to Salem with Heidi for a book signing. (A dud.) Off to the Eric Carle Museum to sign BABY BEAR books with Melissa Sweet who give a delicious presentation. Signed with Adam, Heidi, and 30 other authors and illustrators at the Smith College Campus School.

I also took Heidi, Maddison and three of our friends to hear Battlefield Band and then hosted the boyz here for overnight. They polished off the dregs of five bottles of single malt, and made a hefty dent in some of the others. (They decided to start with A for Aberlour, and proceed alphabetically. I went to bed before they finished H for Highland Park.) I had a big breakfast ready for them the next morning, though all they seemed to want was cereal and fruit or yoghurt and fruit. The Scots have certainly become vegan or at least they are so on their American tour.

Adam flew in Monday, stayed till Wednesday night, drove David's car back to Minnesota by way of NY City to see his agent, then Syracuse to visit friends. He will probably be home in another two days.

My speech, to be given next week at NCTE in Nashville, begins this way:

My granddaughter, Maddison, age 11, is a truly great reader. But when her mother or I hand her a new book, she asks: “Does the dog die? Does the mother die? Does the sister die? Does the SPIDER die?” Unlike her mother and me, she doesn’t like books that trade in death.

As a writer I know it’s easy to make readers cry. Maddison is right. Kill the dog or the mother or the sister, or--God forbid the spider--and you turn the reader faucets on. I remember weeping buckets at the middle of LITTLE WOMEN and at the end of CHARLOTTE’S WEB.

My father came home and found my mother and me sobbing, the book CHARLOTTE’S WEB in mother’s lap. “What’s happened?” he asked.

We muttered, “Charlotte died. . .” (I hope this isn’t a spoiler for any of you.)

“That’s terrible,” he said. Then he looked puzzled. “Charlotte? Charlotte? Do we know someone named Charlotte?”

It didn’t stop our spate of crying.. If anything, it increased the tears. How could he be so insensitive, so cruel, so. . .so. . .illiterate?

And me—I have killed off many characters—creatures and human folk alike—in my 280+ books, from the killing fields of the concentration camps in DEVIL’S ARITHMETIC and BRIAR ROSE, to the dog and the bad guys in SWORD OF THE RIGHTFUL KING (only the dog would have made Maddison cry), from the wonderful Uncle Neil in GIRL IN A CAGE to the poor troll boy in TROLL BRIDGE, from my favorite dragon in the Pit Dragon books (alas, all these may be spoilers) to almost killing off a favorite character just to get her out of the hero’s way in the SISTER LIGHT books. Though in the end I just wounded her sore.

But making readers laugh—especially in fantasy novels, which we tend to elevate, both the language and the sensibilities—is a much much harder thing to do.

PS.

My friend Mary has reminded me that I make this cry--about having nothing new to say--about every ten years. Besides, I forgot to mention that I got a standing O after my speech (without being in a wheelchair) so perhaps I do still have stuff to say. Maybe I am the only one bored with me!

November 2-3, 2006:

Heidi and I drove off to Cromwell Ct. to speak at the Connecticut Reading Assn conference. I was a Friday morning keynoter, and then she and I did a breakout session for about 130 people. We arrived Thursday at dinner time, then went to our connecting rooms and watched "The Devil Wears Prada" before going to sleep early.

Breakfast at 6:30, and then at 8:30 (after setting up stuff with the bookstore folk) I gave my keynote address. Honestly, I have run out of things to say. I mean, the anecdotes from my life are what they are, and immutable. Or at least they have already mutated as much as they are going to. And since I have been on the speaking circuit for 40 years, I can't imagine my speeches are going to get. . .much different. I suppose I should just shut up and sit down and not accept any more speaking engagements. But people still seem to enjoy what I have to say even though it is repetitive. Either they have never heard me before--or they have very short memories!

The breakout session was lead by the power point that Heidi had put together and we both reacted to it--and to one an other. So things ranged from family stories to attempts at defining a writer's process as distinct from writing partnership process. Again, nothing new here, but people seemed to enjoy it and to learn something from it.

I worry, though, about over-exposure, though to be honest, I am doing about half the speaking I used to do.

We sold out of most of the books there. What was left were six copies of TROLL BRIDGE, 2 copies of STREET RHYMES and 6 copies of Heidi's ONE IF BY LAND. Everything else was gone, gone, gone. And there had been quite a lot of it, including 12 copies of the BABY BEAR books, 11 FAIRY TALE FEASTS, lots of OWL MOON, SALEM WITCH TRIALS, WOLF GIRLS, DEAR MOTHER/DEAR DAUGHTER, a variety of the Dino books and books with Jason's photos, and other stuff. So we were pleased by that. And we sold 12 adult aprons and 4 children's aprons.

Came home through a bad traffic snarl in Northampton to a wonderful two full page review of FAIRY TALE FEASTS in Hampshire Life, the local insert to the Friday paper. (And no copies of the book available, sigh. Though it should be back in print in about a week now.)

I am hoping that now that my desk is clean--except for signing about 500 bookplates for Chinaberry and some books for Jan, I can turn to the 4th Pit Dragon books. I think I am ready for it. At last.

Interstitial Moment:

My friend K wrote: “Two books ago I had the Editor From Hell...bless the woman, she had no clue what she was doing, and it showed. When she tried to blame others, longtime members in the organization who DID know what they were doing, well...I'd had all I could take.

"This was the first time I remember running away from home and breaking into tears--in public--because I was so frustrated with a book and its editor! Never again that bad, please God! (I understand she has since left and found a job she loves and is actually capable of doing--I try to refrain from wondering if part of it entails the classic 'you want fries with that?'"

I asked K if I could use her experience as a jumping-off place to remind us all—authors, illustrators, editors, art directors, marketing folk--who owns the book anyhow.

Very few authors who have published more than one book professionally can boast about a life of perfect publishing. The gremlins who plague the publishing process are legion, from lost manuscripts to clueless editors to art directors who want their own way to illustrators who set the book in the wrong era to the copy editor from Hades to. . .you name it, and it can go wrong.

What has gone wrong with my book life? Here are a few. THE GIRL WHO CRIED FLOWERS was bound in with THINK METIC. DOVE ISABEAU had a whole paragraph set in the wrong typeface. HARK: A CHRISTMAS SAMPLER was out of stock eight weeks before Christmas. with the new printing not due till mid January FAIRY TALE FEASTS was sold out before seven major signings. And so forth.

And yet when it goes right and the book is gorgeous and even Kirkus likes it and you win a major award or three, everything seems wonderful. (Until some ijit on Amazon trashes the book or you get a letter in email that calls you names or you make the mistake of reading the book and discover a typo in the first paragraph, or. . .You know the drill.)

The thing is, it’s the author’s name up there on the book jacket and spine. And the illustrator’s, too, if there are pictures. Not the editor’s or AD or marketing specialist. Not a reviewer at Kirkus or the owner of Barnes & Noble. We get both the kudos and the kicks, whether it is our fault or not. An editor who screws up moves somewhere else, in publishing or outside of it. But the book suffers and the author suffers even more.

What do we authors do? Whine. Cry. Fall on the floor, hold our breath until we turn blue. Threaten to sue (but hardly ever do.) Complain. Suck it up. Write another book (if we still have the strength.) Or, as in some cases with wonderful authors I know, we, too, leave publishing. And that, Dear Readers, is the worst case scenario of all because then it is a loss to every one of us.

October 23-November 1, 2006:

This round-up is a necessary evil. I have been mammothly busy, augmented with a head cold (or perhaps an allergy attack), Heidi has strep, Maddison and I have hung out a bit, and while nothing has gone terribly wrong, and a few things have gone right, there is little to talk about.

Let’s see—three picture books rejected, a poem accepted for a Hospice Journal (I am pleased about that), sent off one of the new BABY BEAR mss. Ed Young made a dummy for TIGER ROSE while turning it down, saying he really wants to do more books with me. And I finished going over the copyedits for ROGUE’S APPRENTICE. Ask me sometime about why I choose to use the spelling grey and not gray!

Am reading Christopher Priest’s THE PRESTIGE. I sat out on the porch swing Halloween night reading it between visits from goblins and ghoulies and fairy princesses to whom I made ritual offerings of candy. Am also reading a book about the life of Laurence Housman.

Got a haircut, played boggle with my friend Andrew Sigel (he won), had a mammogram, eye exam, and full physical. Turns out my cholesterol is entirely out of whack so am trying a new cholesterol pill and so far it’s the only one that hasn’t sent me into awful side-effects. Yet.

I spoke at the Norwich Free School—senior high school--at a massive assembly and then after for townfolk about BRIAR ROSE which was one of three books chosen for their “One (3?) Book One Region” celebration. Since they’d bought something like 1500 copies, it was the least I could do!

Maddison performed in the Hermit Crab ballet again at the Eric Carle Museum and saved the day twice when one prop and one puppet had problems. Not missing a dancing step, she fixed them!

I took Maddison and Heidi to a wonderful local performance of “La Boheme.” Of course I was awash from the beginning. (David and I met in Greenwich Village and I’d lived in a garret when we started dating.) Maddison loves the musical “Rent” and so was fascinated to finally understand what it’s based on.

Oh yes—I went to a pumpkin-carving party with Heidi and Maddison. Hadn’t carved a pumpkin since my kids were little. It’s easier these days. The pumpkins were already hollowed out (no more slick seeds sliding between fingers) and there are all these wonderful little serrated-edge tools. Plus—if you want to use them but I am a purist and so didn’t—tack on guides to making super-duper-professional-looking jack o-lanterns. I made a free hand, eye-ball-popping vampire-fanged j-o-l, thank you very much.

Oh, writing? Several poems, and a lot of tidying of stuff. I know, I know—write the damn book! Well, sometimes Life overtrumps. I will have to live with that.

Interstitial Moment:

Because I have been too dang busy to catch up in my journal, I have this poem, one of the things I have been working on recently:

First Frost

How crisp the leaves underfoot,

This first real frost,

Crimping the edges of maple,

Discoloring the chestnut.

The hem of my heart wears the same frost

As I go into my first winter without you.

I hope you are not cold in all the places

I have sown your ashes,

Hoping for resurrection in the spring.

This is a year of farewells.

Every month carries old memories.

This week a year ago, the battle lines

Had been clearly drawn.

You were winning, but at a horrid cost.

Would I have had you pay

Knowing then what I know now?

Another year another frost,

I imagine the time,

How hard and cold my heart will be,

Leafmold beneath the rime.