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.

September 30, 2004:

I woke up to more good news. My book, THE PERFECT WIZARD, which is a picture book biography of Hans Christian Andersen due out from Dutton in February, has been chosen as one of the official books for the HCA 200th anniversary celebration in Denmark.

And then Ruth in South Africa wrote and asked: "I often hear that there are major differences between publishing children's books in America and in the UK--other than the spelling of course! You are in the ideal situation to comment and I would love to hear what you have to say about this topic, especially regarding things of which writers need to be aware when submitting manuscripts. In my case, how would I slant a PB to fit the needs of a UK publisher? And the needs of an American publisher?"

Actually, Ruth, if I knew the answer to that, I would be selling regularly in Britain. As it is, even with over 250 books out in the US, I have only had about 20 books in the UK, most of which are now out of print. And until HOW DO DINOSAURS SAY GOODNIGHT, none of them sold particularly well. The dinos are doing splendidly, though it is interesting to note that Scholastic UK declined to publish the books though their American counterpart were regularly placing them on the bestseller lists. "The art is too American," they said. But HarperCollins UK, even agreeing that the art was "too American" took a chance and are happily reaping the benefits

.However, that brings me back to Ruth’s question. What suits the needs of British publishers rather than an American? First of all, it is a much smaller market. This means they buy fewer books, sell fewer books, and—most importantly for those who want to publish in Britain, they insist on the foreign rights because they cannot make any money without them. American publishers will let an author (with a strong-minded agent) keep those rights to sell on their own. Secondly, as far as picture books are concerned, I am told they want texts that reflect Britain rather than America (or presumably South Africa.) There is a cozy factor in British picture books that American books often lack. And a book starring a cat or dog is much easier to sell in Britain than in the States, the Brits being passionate on the subject of pets. Thirdly, it is important to remember how different national senses of humor are, something we are reminded of every time we turn on the telly in Scotland. We hardly ever get the jokes, and we have lived here over twelve years.

Other than that, I cannot really comment. As I said at the start, if I knew the answer, I’d be selling regularly to the British market. Mostly the British publishers think I am too American and the Americans think I am very British!

 

Little writing got done in the morning, as we were packing, re-arranging. The house cleaner was here for the last time till we return. (Our house sitters are on their own as far as keeping things tidy.) Slowly our thoughts turn to America, to our children and grandchildren, to the trips and book tours ahead, to our Other Life.

I did do a bit of writing early afternoon, working on revising yet again the 10th chapter of the fourth Pit Dragon book. Then I shipped it off by email to my marvelous Harcourt editor saying, "Not asking for a contract but for a reaction." I figure the book is about a third done, over 120 pages so far.

Then David and I took off into the lowering weather, first to deliver my letter of complaint about the teeny hotel room in London, then off on a small serendipity trip. We took back roads to Balmerino Abby, a hidden ruins in Fife which we discovered a couple of weeks ago but hadn’t been able to explore. As impressive as the ruins were, even more stunning was a six-seven hundred year old Spanish chestnut tree that looked, in the gray afternoon, like some sort of elderly troll turned to wood, leaning on walking sticks, gnarled and arthritic. We saw some marvelous houses along the roads and discovered a house hotel restaurant hidden in the woods behind Cupar which we’d never seen before. A lovely few hours.

Came home to find the astonishingly beautiful cover emailed to me for PAY THE PIPER though I had to adjust some of the flap copy. And then suddenly my computer screen went black. Much screaming and weeping and wringing of hands. But it turned out that the connecting plug was fried and the battery had simply run down. New connector charged the battery and—whew!—all was copecetic again. Luckily, though, we had already burned CDs of all the small stuff, Adam and Bob had copies of the latest incarnation of our co-authored books AND I’d just shipped off the 10 chapters of the dragon book to the editor. So I was covered whatever happened.

But hearts were beating rather too fast. And just as we had heard that Vioxx—the arthritis medicine which I have been on for several years—has been taken off the market because of fears of stroke and heart attack. Oh my!

As soon as the computer was up and running again, you betcha! We burned CDs of all the novels.

Whew. I will sleep well tonight.

 

September 29, 2004:

Spinning my wheels most of the morning, getting things ready for David to burn CDs of my various projects for the return home. Then going in to the travel agent to complain about my teeny room in London. (I need to write a letter.)

Then David and I had a lovely lunch out at "The Doll’s House" restaurant in St Andrews. Then home to write the letter and to learn how to put the journal articles on to the website myself so I don’t have to rely on David.

In the middle of doing journal lesson, I was interrupted by a phone call from my agent.

Yeah us! Heidi and I sold our Hibernation picture book—SLEEP, BLACK BEAR, SLEEP--to HarperCollins. Since Heidi had had a particularly hateful day—flu shot, allergies, and then the copier vomiting black dust all over her and the office—I had the agent call her directly to give her the great news. Yeah us!

With this one sale, all the frustrations of the past months of rejection letters are wiped out. Or at least the pain is eased. I guess to be strictly honest, I would have to say that the only thing to wipe out ALL the pain would be to sell ALL the manuscripts. However, I know that’s not going to happen and, in a future year, I might realize some of the pieces are really not saleable, much as I love them right now. Time and distance are great levelers.

A second Yeah us! The poem about scrapbooking tthat Heidi and I wrote for the December issue of "Nick Jr". magazine has been officially contracted for.

And my co-editor PNH and I had a long and solid conversation about the stories for our YEAR'S BEST. We have nailed down about 80% of the stories now. But we not ready to announce which ones quite yet. There are about seven we are absolutely certain of, but the rest may move up or down depending upon the next two months worth of published stories. The ones that don’t quite make the final cut will go into an Honors List.

After the phone call, I worked on the introductions to those seven stories. And—how embarrassing!—mis-typing Peter Beagle’s Fine and Private Place as Fine and Quiet Place. Of course I know the Marvel poem from which it comes. But PNH caught me out on it. Red face and all.

 

September 28, 2004:

A mild headache kept growing all day until the blue skies turned gray and rain plummeted down. Whosh. Then the headache slowly receded. It meant I could do no writing. Sometimes the body comes first. All I could manage was some fiddling with files for packing. After all, we are leaving in five days.

Unfortunately, in the middle of the headache, my dear friend Christine came over for tea. I could barely keep my eyes open. I am sure I was insulting, though I didn’t meant to be. Just that headache lowering itself over my eyes.

By mid-afternoon, when I could see properly again, I finished reading Christopher Priest’s odd little novel, The Glamour, then worked on finishing up the list of my first choices for the Year’s Best (we will add some from November/December magazines if need be.)

Then off to Bob and Deb Harris’ for dinner where the discussion were political, literary, and about Deb’s adventures and mis-adventures in Florida during hurricane season.

We came home to a message about a quickly needed letter of recommendation for one of Adam’s writing group members, which I was glad to do. Head ache entirely gone, I could settle down and write it.

September 27, 2004:

Morning began early with a knock on the door, with the landscape man arriving to look over our old pergola (arbor.) We love the old wooden structure, but after nursing it along for five years, it has become clear that it needs to be replaced. The work is to be done during the winter when the roses are no longer blooming.

After that, I sat down to work on a proposal for a new poetry collection with British poet Andrew Fusek Peters.

Then I worked on a letter to our new African granddaughter.

That will need some explaining.

For many years, David and I have wanted to do something to help children who are in desperate need around the world. Yes, send clothing, books, etc. We already do that. But something more intimate needed doing as well. We distrusted many of those high-profile groups, having heard that most of the dollars sent to them go into maintaining the organizations. We wanted our money, our stuff, to go directly to the children.

But how?

And then, this year I spoke with our ex-next door neighbor, Pam Robertson. She’s a local teacher who has been flying off on her own dime to Africa to do some teaching and helping out in a school in Uganda, the Bannule School for Orphans. This school is for a few of the 2.5 million children—2.5 million!--who have been orphaned because of war, AIDS, maleria etc. whom the Ugandan government is committed to supporting and educating.

Pam told me all about this first when we had tea at her house last year, and this year on a long walk with her dog. She and Janie Douglas—another Bannule volunteer from St Andrews—were looking for sponsors for the school leavers, those going on with their secondary education at a good boarding school in the country.
The money sent goes directly to the school for their fees, uniforms, books. Janie and her husband pay all the bank charges.

We knew we had found the way to make a difference in one special child. And we have jumped at the chance.

Our child is named Doreen. We have her photograph. She lives in a one-room house with her grandmother, mother, sister, and brother. Her mother keeps the family by selling bananas in the market. Doreen loves reading and writing, sports, music, and she wants to become a manager or an accountant in a large firm so that she can build a bigger house for her family. Modest goals, but achievable ones as long as she can continue her education.

We who have so much are asked for so little to help her achieve this—400 pounds a year, less than $700.

I have written her a letter and am sending autographed books for the school, and when I get home, I will send her pictures of our family, now her family, too.

We will support her schooling for as long as she needs it. The school asks for a four year commitment. If she needs more, or wants to go further, we will support that as well. And if there are others, we will continue to do what we can.

Even a faxed rejection letter couldn’t dampen my spirits on this. As you can tell, Doreen fills this day’s journal with her round, shining face and shy smile.

 

September 26, 2004:

I had none of that post-partum depression I sometimes get at the end of a big project, probably because I have so many other big projects that I am in the midst of. So I turned my attention to reading the short stories sent to me by PNH, my co-editor, for the Years Best YA SF stories and writing intros to those stories we already are certain of using. I am making a first pass on them and then sending them on to him.

About halfway through the afternoon, I called Adam to talk to him about the revision of Troll Bridge. First I wanted to be sure he’d received it. (God bless email.) Second, to find out if he’d read any of it yet. He’s his mother’s son for sure. Or—as he likes to say—"the vegetable doesn’t fall very far from the tree." He was already hard at work on it.

He told me that this was the first time he wasn’t afraid of or depressed by a revision. "I knew the heavy-lifting was over and it was all fun now" was how he put it.

I feel that way all the time. Plot is hard. Making sure everything comes around right is hard. Characterization is hard. Theme is hard. Subtext is hard. But revision is the fun part. Chuckling over bits you have forgotten. Marveling at some business you mis-remembered. Because novels are written over time, it is often difficult even for the author to hold it all in her head. So getting to go back and re-read it as a serious editor/reader is ... well is just plain fun.

 

September 21-25, 2004:

My trip to London began with gales so strong they nearly drove me over the side of the crossing over the railroad tracks. It ended with a dead man in the train carriage three seats ahead of me. In between was a lot—I mean a LOT—of tea.

I loved going down to London by train. Almost six uninterrupted hours of reading (and crossword puzzles) punctuated by some lovely scenery. I finished an Ian Rankin novel (not Rebus), all the short stories sent to me and several magazines for my YA Years Best SF/Fantasy anthology, and started on Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. For years I have resisted Austen, having hated what I read as a teenager. But now, seduced by my friends who adore her, some good movies, and Karen Joy Fowler’s The Jane Austen Book Club, I thought it time to try her again. To no one’s surprise but my own, I absolutely loved the book. I will pick and choose my times for reading more.

Having had an absolutely awful hotel in London last year—on a noisy street with unpotable water, no air conditioning during London’s hottest August in history and the lift not working the entire time we were there, I went through a travel agent. My single turned out to be no longer than the single bed, not as wide either, overlooking a closed air shaft. At least it wasn’t noisy and the shower was strong, though it looked like the shower we used in an outback cheapie motel when we visited Australia fifteen years ago.

I stayed close to the hotel the first night, venturing out only to find a place for takeaway food. Then I settled into my tiny lair, ate my dinner, and read Austen. Damn! I should have found some chocolates, too.

22nd:

My day began with the really poor Continental breakfast and pots and pots of tea. (Back in my little room I made myself decaf tea, which I had brought along.)

Then I ventured out on my first appointment, meeting Caroline Lawrence and other children’s book writers for (yup!) Tea at the Tate. Although I had given myself almost an hour to get there, I wasted 25 minutes looking for a cab. Luckily the evening before I’d located the tube station, and so grabbed an all-day ticket and headed off. I am a born and bred New Yorker but cannot make my way around the Manhattan (nor do I want to) on the subways. But the London tube is easy-peasy. However, this time I had to change trains and things were slow and I got to the Tate almost a half hour late. No one was waiting in front as promised. But, having bought one of Caroline’s books ahead of time, I went below to the tea room and waved the book about and was instantly hailed by a group who recognized it.

We had tea and conversation writer style, meaning we complained about editors and money and admired one another’s book jackets and had a rousing good time.

Then off we went, Caroline and one of the two gentleman (I couldn’t get them straight in my head, both handsome young novelists), walked across the Vauxhall Bridge because I was meeting with my Walker UK editor at the Walker building on the other side. The gales were whipping about us, not quite as bad as in Scotland. We giggled over the vastly over-exposed MI5 building. Then headed into a café for a bit of pizza in case I wasn’t being fed at Walker. (Thanks, Caroline, for the treat.)

I left them at the café and went on to meet with Caroline Royds (I teased that it was a two-Caroline day) for we were to go over the final choices of poems for Baby’s First Poetry Book. As a special surprise, the young illustrator (Polly Dunbar) was there as well, along with their senior picture book editor and the art director. I am so bad on names, so don’t even ask. We indeed had lunch. They have a wonderful lunch service right there. Then Caroline—known as Caz—and I went back to the editorial department and spent a couple of hours going over the manuscript.

One of the things I most love doing is working closely with an editor who is as passionate and articulate about a manuscript as I am. And Caz is certainly that. We looked at each and every poem, read some out loud, discussed them, decided a few had to go or be secondary choices only (if some were impossible to get, for either monetary reasons or otherwise.) When I return to the States, one of my first and most important jobs will be to send Caz all the notes I have on the individual poems’ provenances.

Then we spoke about a small picture book made up of very young poems I had sent her which she likes a lot, though she worried one or two weren’t quite up to snuff. She seemed a bit ill at ease in asking, so I jumped in and assured her I was a dynamite reviser and never took discussions of revision amiss.

This is not a new problem. When I was a young writer, I believe it was assumed that I could be licked into shape. But now too many editors worry about hurting my feelings. Or perhaps it is that they can no longer afford to spend time with something that is not Perfect In All Dimensions. I hear this from new writers as well as from old warhorses like myself. But I find this an extraordinary turn in our literary relationships since every book can be improved. And should be!

I hurried back to the hotel, dropped off the fifteen or so books Caz had given me (what wonderful gifts for the grandkids!) and went off by train to have dinner at a Thai restaurant with Jane Stemp, a librarian and children’s book writer friend. She’d come a long way (over an hour’s train ride) just for dinner with me. Thanks, Jane!

23rd:

Tiny bed, tiny room, tiny breakfast and lots of pots of tea later, Philip Pullman came to take me out for—yep—tea! It began to sprinkle, but we found a small and undistinguished café just in time. Sat for nearly two hours gabbing about books, theater, movie-making, editors. I found out that he pronounces the "daemons" in his book as "demons" which surprised me. Then we took a taxi to HarperCollins, my next book stop where he dropped me off.

I had lunch with Sue Buswell, my picture book editor (she’s done two of the How Do Dinosaur books so far), and Stella Paskins, who has done two of my novels (the first two Young Heroes so far.) It was the best restaurant of the trip, and Sue is interested in two of my picture books to originate them in Britain. I left them both with lots of other books of mine. We had a lovely time and we were not quiet!

Do I count any of these books sold? Not until someone has spoken to my agent and made an offer. And even then—oh even then—bad things can happen to good writers. Why just last fall I got back 7 books (7!!!) that an editor had bought ten years ago and never published. Never even found illustrators for.

The Harper crew sent me back to the hotel by taxi, and I got myself ready for dinner with my young cousins. Jeff Yolen, one of my vast numbers of second cousins, is exactly one month older than my daughter, Heidi, and I have always adored him. He is married to Katrina—whom I had not met before, a lovely young woman indeed—and they have three year old Jake and a new baby girl just weeks old. They lived not far from my hotel, in a flat near Kensington High Street, so I met them for dinner. We talked about family and about job hunting in London, and about. ... life.

Then I took the tube back to the hotel and finished reading the Austen book.

24th:

And then the trip home. I was expecting another lovely, quiet time, reading Christopher Priest’s novel The Glamour. I was in first class, lots of free tea. Pots of it.

We left on time. The car was quite crowded as older people, fleeing the students going back for the opening of term, were opting for first class!

We’d just left the Newcastle station, with the great Tyne River like a huge grey serpent twisting through the city, when a man three seats ahead of me slumped partway into the aisle, making a truly terrible noise, something like a loud snore. Dead drunk, I thought, and I was half right. I could only see the back of his head, with its fifty-cent-piece bald spot.

A middle-age couple sitting across the aisle from him jumped up and tried to help him sit back up, but it became clear immediately that they couldn’t rouse him. The husband stayed with him while the wife—who was looking very distressed--ran forward for the conductor. The conductor followed her right back, bent over the man, tried to wake him, then told them to wait. He got on the intercom at once and requested any medical personnel on board the train to proceed at once to car L.

Within moments, a young man and woman—possibly medical students or EMTs who were clearly traveling together--arrived and lifted the man from his seat and laid him out in the aisle. He filled the narrow aisle completely.

The young man pushed the man’s sweater up above his rather mammoth belly. The young woman knelt at the man’s head. They began CPR, she giving him the breath of life and the young man working on his chest. The sound as they pushed on him was slurpy, like a bag of mud being manipulated about. Those of us at that end of the carriage were riveted by what was going on. A couple with two small children behind me quickly took their kids into the next car.

The young woman called out, "Five minutes." Then she and the young man traded places, having to climb on to the seat and the table in order to do it. They began to work on the dying man again. Looking around for towels or napkins, they were given the head doilies from the carriage seats by the dying man’s nearest neighbors.

The conductor informed them that he’d called ahead and that we would be at the next station in little over five minutes, and that an ambulance had been summoned.

Just then a young Chinese doctor arrived in the carriage and asked for a defibrillator, but there was none. Behind him came an older woman, a nurse I think, and she took turns doing the CPR and keeping the time.

When we pulled into the little station--Morpeth was its name, which had unfortunate etymological connotations (in a novel it would seem rather heavy-handedly overdone by the author!)—it was another five minutes before the ambulance arrived. The techs in green jumpsuits came aboard with a syringe (with adrenaline, I guess?) for trying to stimulate the heart and a heart monitor in their packs. But, after the 27-minute mark, the doctor shook his head and they disconnected the monitor. The conductor brought in two white tablecloths which were put over the corpse as he lay in the aisle. The medical staff around him began to talk and then smile, and then joke. The police arrived and cleared out everyone in my part of the carriage, sending us to wait outside at the Morpeth station.

Outside, we gulped the air, traded tales of what we had just witnessed, watched the police taking notes as they interviewed the medical folks. And then they went into the carriage and brought out the corpse. The man had been bound into a sitting position in a chair gurney, but bizarrely his head was not covered. So there he was, gray and clearly dead, being wheeled past us, on his way to ... wherever.

I wondered if someone was waiting at another station for him. And if so, how they would be told he was gone. I thought about how undignified to die on the floor of a moving carriage, your sweater up around your neck while strangers stared down at you.

I feared I would dream about him all night. But when I got home, I hugged my husband tight, and called my children, spilling out the story to them. And when I went to bed, I did not dream at all.

25th:

Adam had sent the last chapters of the Troll Bridge book, and so I put my London trip entirely out of my mind by working 9 hours on the revision pass, and sent it back to him for his revisions.

Sometimes work is a good counteraction to extraordinary and difficult emotions. At least I find it so.

September 20, 2004:

More gales at night (our gift from Hurricane Ivan I think), leading to more wild dreams, including one about owning a card that could foretell the death of any person I wanted to know about. I woke up and wandered around the upper hall thinking what I would do if I actually knew. Decided I would spend time with my children and grands. Went back to sleep easily.

Got my hair cut, then I packed for the London trip. And since David finally got both our printers working (after several months!) I was able to print up stuff for London as well.

After a slow, boring afternoon—too much anticipation—I wrote about 300 words on the next dragon chapter, hoping to kick start it. All that happened was that my hero fell sleep against the flank of a large gray dragon. I need to get him moving again. I know it. He knows it. Only my fingers don’t seem to know it. They can’t type the words that say "Jakkin left."

Well, I will have four full days away from writing. Maybe when I get back he will have gotten up and gone. [Faint hope, that!]

Meanwhile—ho-hum!—another picture book rejection. I had a long talk with my agent because it’s a book we both love. When I get back to the States, I will try and find time to go down to New York, probably in November, and we will spend the day working on my list of unsold books, trying to gauge the market. And trying to think our way through this stoppage.

And finally, though it’s not April 1, I can’t help but wonder if the following isn’t a joke. This is about Kirkus, the bane of so many authors, noted for their killer reviews. (My first book, PIRATES IN PETTICOATS, nonfiction about women pirates, was panned with "more swish than swash," clearly a line they’d had in waiting for years. And this well before Johnny Depp.)

From Publisher’s Lunch:

Kirkus for Hire
"Kirkus Reviews is putting their 71 years worth of ‘credibility, integrity, and pedigree’ up for sale to "self-published, e-published and POD authors. Any publisher seeking greater exposure for a title can gain awareness through our network of influential readers and buyers."

<Wahoo, I say, sell those reviews!>

"Under a new program called Kirkus Discoveries, authors and publishers are invited to ‘commission a review,’ for $350. Those reviews will be displayed at KirkusDiscoveries.com. . ."
It also goes on to mention a "second pay-for-promo program called ‘Kirkus Reports.’ . . . ‘"a pay service, at $95/title, with opportunities for bulk rates.’"

<I’ll see their bulk rates and raise them a scam or two. Geeze.>

 

I ended the day with a telephone interview by a reporter from a Dallas paper, dealing mostly with the DINOSAUR books, but ranging over a lot of my writing. And a poem accepted for a Pioneer Valley broadside competition. I am especially chuffed by this since it’s a sonnet about Emily Dickinson and poet Robert Francis. Broadisdes will be put up in buses, etc. Wow!

And of course, I tidied up this journal piece, my last until Friday when I return from London.

September 18, 2004:

After a night of gales and bad dreams, plus someone calling us twice to breathe heavily into the phone at 2 a.m., we got up in sullen moods. David had a golf competition and it threatened rain and wind until moments before the game was to start and then the sun came out. That’s Scotland for ye!

I tried to organize stuff for my upcoming London trip (Tuesday-Friday.) But the printer is not working. Damned computers. Had to hand-write out my schedule.

So I went to do some errands in town, including buying gifts for my friend Christine’s birthday dinner, which we are hosting tomorrow. She’s a painter, a poet, a novelist, and an academic, and calls me "Swallow." So I found her an old book of Ruskin essays, a bowl with swallows on it, 4 Windsor-Newton tubes of oil, and some lavender bath salts. Plus discovered that four of my books were in the local bookstore (David had seen them the other day) so I signed them.

Then I came home and did a tiny bit of work on the pit dragon book—revising the last chapter and adding 200 words to the new chapter (10.) After lunch, I added another 300 words, burying my slain character. That’s one third of a chapter now. It would be nice to get through the entire chapter before Monday.

David had a fun time, scoring the final point for his team on a putt in match play against an R&A team. He came home crowing.

After watching a silly old Ingrid Bergman movie, and starting dinner, I sat down and wrote another 500 words on the dragon chapter. Felt good to be moving forward. Or sideward, rather, since I am not sure in what direction the book is going. Yet.

As the evening drew in, I wrote another 400 words. I think tomorrow I’ll be able to stretch it out another 1-200 words when I revise it.

Of course there was 300+ words in this journal piece as well.

 

September 17, 2004:

After a night of gales, it dawned bright, pearly, and fairly calm. Blue skies with fresh linen clouds.

I was expecting my friend Joan, another children’s book writer, to come for elevenses but she never showed up. Bob did, and we talked a bit about our new novel. After he left, I read (while waiting some more) from the Rupert Brooke bio, as well as EATS, SHOOTS, AND LEAVES which made me laugh out loud.

But the entire day seemed a waiting day—waiting for Adam’s next chapter, waiting for Bob’s, waiting for a plot for the dragon book. [Whine, whine, whine.] I thought that I’d even be grateful for a revision to find its way to me.
Then I shook myself by the metaphorical nape of the neck, and turned away from the novels for a bit. And lo! I found that I actually had other work to do. First I added a bit to the smelly animals book, about an hour’s worth of noodling. But now I have gone as far as I dare without Heidi’s input.

Then I did some of the introductions to a few of the stories in Year’s Best YA Science Fiction and Fantasy. The introductions are an attempt to 1. Define the genre and give the young reader a leg-up on critiquing the individual stories and 2. Give the readers titles of other stories or novels or novellas that might interest them if they particularly like the story. However, since we haven’t finalized our selections, I only dared to do the five at the top of my list. Haven’t got my co-editor’s xeroxed stories yet. He sent it a week and a half ago and this is the second important thing that British mail has lost! I never got a contract sent from my agent, either. And so we haven’t started the horse-trading that goes into any selection in which two editors are involved. That writing of those intros, though, used up the next two hours.

Then Joan showed up for afternoon tea. Obviously a mis-communication. But we had a lovely chat, and she had the marketing plan Puffin had sent her for her first book. My goodness, they are excited about it. And she is just bubbling with joy—as she should.

I turned back to the introductions after she left, interrupted by several phone calls and newscasts. Then I shut down writing for the day. Except, of course, for this journal piece.

September 16, 2004:

No writing today, as we had visitors from 10:30 on. Americans Bobbie and Ron Pell. Ron went golfing with David and Bobbie and I had tea with my friend Christine in her sitooterie, and then we toured the St Andrews Cathedral and castle. Lots of talk about storytelling, folklore, writing. But no writing actually done.

Though I have to note that as Bobbie and I sat at lunch, I had the idea of where and how to set my TAM LIN novel, and had a break- through on an important plot point. Of course I don’t expect to get started on that novel until 2006! Still, any breakthrough is not to be despised.

Today in email I got word of special honors that two groups wanted to bestow upon me. One I had to decline (using my name for a particular award would imply that I had chosen it or at least set up the guidelines.) The other--which is Really Big--will not be announced officially until November. So any readers of this journal will have to wait until then to find out what it is. Even if you make guesses, I am sworn to secrecy. But you can bet I was seriously chuffed.

Also, the Amherst Ballet Company is going to be doing two ballets based on the ballet book Heidi and I wrote (BAREFOOT BOOK OF BALLET STORIES.) The backdrops and costumes will be based on Rebecca Guay’s gorgeous pictures in the book, and Heidi and I will do some readings from the book to accompany the dancing. This will be the end of May, plenty of time to buy your tickets!

And Franco Harris, ex Pittsburgh Steeler, is having an up-close-and-personal meeting with one of my books, see:
http://pittsburghlive.com/x/tribune-review/entertainment/books/s_251141.html

Meanwhile we have gales outside, rain and wind, luckily after all our guests had left.

And no writing. Oh—except this journal piece.

 

September 15, 2004:

By ten o’clock, I’d had three phone calls, and one cancellation. I was expecting a children’s book writer friend for tea, but she cancelled, and I had other friends calling about stuff. Yet I still managed to work on the chapter Adam had sent overnight and add my own chapter. And outline the rest. And this all before noon.

I am being smug.

Actually, we are at that bit of the novel, with four chapters to go, where everything coasts beautifully downhill. Just get on the sled and feel the wind in your hair, and glide. It is a really exhilarating time in a novel. It feels as if nothing can go wrong. This isn’t true, of course, and there is usually lots of clean-up work to do afterwards. Mostly back-threading material that you slipped in as you went down the final hill. But it’s a truly lovely time. I plan to enjoy every last bit of it.

After giving Bob Harris a ride to the grocery store (and buying a few things myself) I came home and wrote the final song lyrics for the book. I quite like them, though they need a bit of tweaking. And then I took the bit in my teeth and plunged ahead, finishing the last section of the book. I know, I know, things may change radically since we have three other chapters to complete before this end. It may all have to be rewritten. And writing the end first is something I never actually do. But there it is.

It gave me hardly any time to tinker with the Scottish article or to write this journal piece.

 

September 14, 2004:

We took Bob Harris to the train station, and then David to the staging area for the Guardbridge-boys-day-out-golfing. After leaving him there, I drove into town for some errands, then home to put my feet up and patter about the Internet and read some more in the Rupert Brooks bio and do a International Tribune crossword puzzle.

Soon the whole morning was dribbled away, and I sat happily in my sunny alcove not worrying about any real writing until nearly 2 in the afternoon.

Just when I was about to get down to work—BIC--on the dragon book (not that I had a plot, you understand, but a hope) I received an email reminding me that I had promised a 1500-2000 word article. Said article is to be about places to visit in Scotland, for the big World SF Convention of which I am a Guest of Honor next summer. They needed it for their next mailing.

Oops.

So I spent four hours on a first draft, plus a few minutes on trying (once again) to find a good title for the work song book that Adam and I have done for Abrams. No one is happy with any of the titles so far, except "Off to Work We Go" which the lawyers say we can’t use as it is Disney™. Okay—I actually spent more like an hour, going through the mss. and dictionaries of quotations, etc. I sent them 5 possibilities, none of which make me leap for joy.

And none of this is real writing, though it is work. Labour. Or however that’s spelled. Living on both sides of the Atlantic has really ruined my already small ability to spell.

Another journal reader—who wants to be called V--sent me the following questions: "If I don't want to write to make a living, but rather to publish and have things read and enjoyed by others (and to quiet the flow of characters and ideas in my head, let's be honest) -- well, would you recommend going through small houses? I don't mean self or vanity publishing, but rather the little independent houses that have more autonomy. Would it be worth the presumably limited distribution? What are the tradeoffs? It is even possible to take that route?"

I have taken that route for specific books that I knew big publishers —even if they brought the books out—would find a way to bury. My book on writing, TAKE JOY, came out with Kalmbach when they bought The Writer Magazine. And now that they have decided to go out of the writing books biz (one of the problems with small houses, by the way) I have resold the book with additional chapters to Writer’s Digest Press. My book THE RADIATION SONNETS was written when my husband had a massive skull base cancerous tumor. Rejected by five major houses as "beautiful but we don’t know how to sell cancer and poetry together. " it was taken by the small literary house, Algonquin. They bought, supported, and continue to support the book. We are talking small money, but niche publishing. Just make sure you understand the niche. And remember that smaller publishers take fewer books. Their lists are tiny and often eccentric. They reflect individual editors’ tastes, not a committee decision.

There’s nothing wrong with making money with your writing, V. And sometimes, surprisingly, a niche publishing does really well. I am thinking of a book called something like A CAJUN CHRISTMAS that came out from a New Orleans publisher. And the picture book OLD TURTLE which was the first-ever children’s book from a tiny publisher who just loved the book onto the bestseller lists. Don’t forget that J. K. Rowling tried to sell HARRY POTTER AND THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE to over twenty big publishers in Britain before settling happily for a small one. (Which is now a much bigger British publisher, thanks to Ms. Rowling’s success.)

However, one must approach smaller publishers with three things in mind: 1. If they take your book it will be because they love it and not because they have done a standard p&l (profit and loss) statement on it; 2. They will have a dedicated and fairly predictable audience in mind and a way to get the book to it; 3. They will be counting on you to be an enthusiastic part of their marketing team. And that last is because even though none of you expect to make a lot of money on the book, they really do need to at least break even to keep on publishing books. You may or may not get into big supermarkets, airports, or on Oprah by going the small publisher route. (But of course there’s no guarantee you will get any of that with a larger house, either.) But the tradeoff is that you will be involved in all the steps of the publishing process, you will know every single person at the company loves your book, and you will be convinced that they will try really hard to find readers for you.

Good luck, V—and anyone else who goes this way, which I think is the direction in which all literary endeavors are heading anyway. The big name celebrities, the best-selling superstars, the joy of sex/cooking/making money writers will soon be the only ones published by the big publishers. Such book are pre-sold to the chains. But the interesting work will be brought out more and more by the smaller, niche, regional, and family-owned companies. At least until the next turn of the wheel.

 

September 13, 2004:

Ruth from South Africa wrote: "What interests me is that you often talk about going over your work and adding xxxxx words as you add texture, re-seed it backwards etc. So many authors seem to spend their time doing the opposite- they spend hours cutting down their word count! I guess we all work differently."

Some sculptors start with an armature and work outward. Some begin with a large mass of clay or stone and work inward. Writing is the same. I am the kind of writer who begins small and adds. My friend Ann Turner writes a lot and carves away at it. Neither method is right or even best. I hate writing teachers who force one or the other on their students. We really do all work differently. And while occasionally it’s interesting to try a different technique, if it doesn’t work for you, don’t force it.

 

I worked on yesterday’s journal entry before because Dan’s early arrival and our late evening conversations had short-circuited work on that.

Then we raced off to get Dan to the train station, and I returned to finish up work on the Clearances chapter, and the first polish on it.

But having written three chapters on three different books in three days, I decided to take the rest of the day off from novel writing. Instead I fiddled about with the Clearances book by adding a Table of Contents, breaking the novel into sections like the earlier three books. I chose the Robbie Burns poem "For A’ That and A’ That" which, though written about 20 years before our book happens, nevertheless so strongly distinguishes between the lairds and the good honest poor, that it’s perfect for the section-openings. Not for a minute do I think our folk would have read it, not being able to afford books.

While reworking the sections, I discovered that we have done about a third of the book (25,500 words), if it’s to be as long as the others. In fact, as we have only discussed another two sections, it will probably be somewhat shorter.

A letter from the Dance book editor gave me some things to think about. More dance in the stories to start with.

And a possible/probable acceptance of a retold Arthurian legend plus commentary for Parabola Magazine. Of course this provisional acceptance can still go south, but it’s the best news I have had in weeks. Especially since the weather has also been droochit, which as you can tell, is a Scottish onomatopoeic word for bucketing-down spells of rain. There was even some coming down while the sun was brightly shining overhead.

Rain spells aside, we walked over to a friend’s house for dessert. She is an American, married to a Brit, and in the University’s English department. (He is in the medieval history department.) Over lemon cake, homemade vanilla ice cream, and chocolates (we brought the chocolates) we talked about books, movies, phantom pains, propriosensitivity, suicide and depression, Opus Dei, "The Passion of the Christ," and Sylvia Plath. I know it’s hard to tell from the topics, but we actually had a very funny and up conversation.

I came home to find a brewing fooforah about several signings at NEBA in October to which I have been invited.

 

September 12, 2004:

What a slow start to the day. After yesterday’s wordage, I didn’t feel a great need to hop right to the computer. So I read a bit of the Donoghue, a short story by Ellen Klages, and my email. I also surfed a bit on Holly Black’s journal, before having breakfast and taking my shower.

Since I couldn’t think of anything else to delay the inevitable, I came downstairs fresh and clean, to go over my journal entry of yesterday and get it online. And then I turned my attention to the dragon chapter.

I am always trepidatious about re-reading something I wrote. I am a good writer and a nasty editor. Nothing I do ever quite satisfies. This gulf between what I hoped I managed and what I actually find on the page seems to widen as I get older. Of course, I am just as hard on other people’s manuscripts. And other people’s published books. Reading books is sometimes a painful experience as I want to edit as I read.

So I turned to the dragon chapter. It was basically sound, but each individual sentence needed work. I polished, cut, reworded, smoothed out, pumped up. . .there was not a paragraph left untouched. I wish I could write elegantly the first time through, but maybe that’s why the stupid thing is called a "rough" draft.

After lunch, I turned to the chapter for the Scottish book that Bob Harris had sent over. I had to go back several chapters, reading it aloud to get into the voice of that book. (Very different from either the troll book or dragon book.) And of course I couldn’t leave those old chapters alone, but began revising them as I went. Had my scouring brush handy! I knew I had about four hours before our overnight guest was to arrive.

But as I was knee-deep into the chapter, the phone suddenly rang. Our visitor was already at the train station two hours early. So we hopped into the car and picked him up. (Train station being twelve minutes away by car.)

Our guest was Professor Dan Hade of Penn State’s Education department, a children’s literature expert, and someone I have known for a number of years. But it had been a convention acquaintanceship, meaning we were sometimes on panels together, often passed a few words in the halls, had a lunch or dinner or two, and some emails. I had also been a speaker at his children’s lit conference a number of years ago. However, this was the first time we’d had any real time together. He’d been in Edinburgh for a conference on myth, and so we’d invited him to stay. He had to train out for Newcastle the very next morning, so it was to be a short visit.

We gave him the Compressed Tour of Fife™, driving through St Andrews, then several of the East Neuk Villages. I made a simple dinner for the three of us, and we yakked at one another until well after 10 pm. It’s always wonderful to talk shop with a knowledgeable person, so we were delighted to have him visit.

Of course that meant I couldn’t finish this journal piece till the next day.

 

September 11, 2004:

This is a tough memorial day for us all. One of my late agent’s assistants, whom I was quite close to, had a sister who died in one of the Towers. So in her honor, I thought I’d start with some gems I have recently gleaned from friends online.

The Japanese have a phrase: "tanakara botamochi." This means: Sitting under a shelf while expecting the sweet rice cake on top to fall off into your open mouth.

Then, from an article in ByLine Magazine, June 2002 "The Courage of the Gift" by Janet Lee Carey , which says that one bit of courage an author needs is the courage to carve out writing time. She says: "We write, swimming against the tide of constant responsibilities, and the tide is unceasing."

Then there's a Buddhist parable authors should take to heart, especially those hoping to win the Pulitzer or the Newbery or get on the New York Times bestseller list:

  Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.
  After enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.

In other words, writing is hard work, hard work, hard work.

 

Speaking of hard work, I wrote the first draft of the new troll chapter--over 1300 words--from 9-11:30 am. Realizing that I needed to re-seed some stuff backwards, I spent half an hour doing that as well. And I had to make a folder of Troll Stuff, reminding myself what had already been said about each of the Griffson brothers, each of the troll wives, and each of their sons. Too much to carry about in my feeble old brain. Best to have it in a folder where I can find it quickly when needed. Things like names: you try to remember that the wives are Selvi, Trigvi and Botvi; that their sons are Arri, Buri, and Oddi; and that the oldest of the Griffson brothers, Galen, has a dark fall of hair and high cheekbones. This last was especially difficult since the last time we saw him was twelve chapters ago and he was being carried off for dinner by a troll.

Early afternoon I went over the chapter again, adding another 350 words. And then I went over it a third time, polishing, polishing. At last it went off to Adam.

I took time for lunch and a bit of tv, and a bit of reading (I am into a Rupert Brooke biography and the new Emma Donoghue novel, which is fascinating history but very slow going.)

Then I started to work on the dragon book chapter. It was difficult compared to the troll, partly because we are on the downslide of the troll book and I am only on the early upswing of the dragon book. But I got about 500 words down quickly, then stretched, made some tea, and a few phone calls.

Today is the local RAF airshow and overhead we have super jets flying in formation and one nearly buzzed our high fir tree. But I ignored the noise, and turned my attention back to the new dragon chapter, adding yet another 500 words, until the sun shining into the alcove drove me (with my laptop) into the Great Hall. There I added a final 1000 words. Tomorrow I will go over it for a polish.

And yes—I killed off the character.

That’s over 3300 words, and my brain feels scrubbed. Dinner and tv and sleep. I am incapable of anything more. Except this journal entry, of course.

September 10, 2004:

As I thought (worried, feared, hoped) Adam sent on the next chapter of the troll book and Bob brought over the next chapters (note plural) of the Clearances book today. And I had the rest of the chapter on the dragon book to finish. Never rains but it pours, as they don’t say in Scotland but should, since August was a complete washout.

Also I received several lovely emails from fans of the journal urging me to keep it up. I think that as I am (actually) enjoying writing it, I will. But once I begin my October travel schedule of book tour and speaking engagement stuff, the journal will become rather condensed.

Sometimes I am bothered by all the business aspects of being a successful writer. Two hours on email, an hour or more on travel arrangements or contracts or updating my lists—and this practically daily. Then I write speeches, talk (or write) to my agent, re- configure manuscripts, talk to visiting groups or travel to far-flung cities for conventions and conferences. I go over galleys, page proofs, f&gs. Read research materials and haunt libraries and old bookstores, I mentor my old workshop students. In the States I have weekly writers group meetings of 2 1/2-3 hours length. I check writing magazines. Sign bookplates. Etc. And all I really want to do is write.

And then I metaphorically slap myself. I think about my friends Tony DiTerlizzi and Holly Black who are on book tour for two whole months. And yes, they’d rather be painting and writing. But--the alternative is to be unsuccessful at what we do. What am I thinking!!!! We are the lucky ones.

Now to the writing. What a feast. Last evening, before shutting down the computer, I had a thought. I’m going to kill someone tomorrow. Meaning, of course, killing a character. And I nibbled at that idea before I fell asleep and again when I woke up. Sometimes killing a character comes easily. A big battle scene—a lot of someones will be killed. Sometimes it is hard—a major character bites the dust. Sometimes I have thought about killing a major character and could not bring myself to do it, so only wound them sorely and move them off scene. (I did that with the girl, Pynt, in SISTER LIGHT/SISTER DARK.) But sometimes—as in this decision—it is a minor character who must be made a bit more sympathetic in order for the death to do its proper work. What work? In this case, to remind the readers what a dangerous world we are in, and not to take it easy, thinking one is safe here. And to bring a section of the book to a trembling, emotional close.

I finished the chapter I had started the day before, spending a lot of time back-filling as well to create more sympathy for the character. Two-and-a-half solid hours of writing and still I didn’t get to the death scene. I realized as I wrote that it needed two chapters, not one.

I have learned over the years to trust that feeling. A long time ago, when I wrote my first character-driven novel, THE GIFT OF SARAH BARKER, an historical novel about the Shakers, I made everything in the book happen in three days. And my editor (blessed Linda Zuckerman) told me that I needed to trust my readers more. To take my time. That there was no reason, other than authorial dictate, to make everything happen in three days. "Let the book breathe," is how she put it. What a sensible instruction.

About that "authorial dictate"—it is very dangerous. Characters need life, need to live their lives (or die their deaths) and not just do it because the author dictates it. What happens to them must be organic. If in fact I get my young character up a tree and he doesn’t fall to his death, so be it. I think he’s going to die and that moves my story forward. But I haven’t written it yet. No gravestone until that happens.

Then I turned to the chapter that Adam had sent, tidying it up. Took about two hours. (Thought it was basically terrific.) But I am a gem-polisher by trade. Of course I needed to speak to Adam about where we are going next. We have about four separate threads we need to tie up and about that many chapters to go. So we had to discuss this thoroughly. Working with another author is not as simple as deciding whose name goes first and who gets the final pass on the manuscript—though both of those are important. But shaping a novel with two people takes quite a bit of talking and quite a bit of tact. The two authors can argue, but they need to remember to praise one another’s ideas, too. And often the two writers can seem to be far apart on the direction that needs to be taken, but when the ideas are shaken down, they can often be combined for a stronger plot, a deeper and better story.

I went over Adam’s chapter again, laughed out loud at the ending again.

Now here’s a nice note I got from my agent in email. The Harper editor looking at Heidi’s and my hibernation book loves it. But of course, it has to go through the Dreaded Committee. I have been this route before. Publishers are getting to be more and more like Hollywood: "I love you, I love you, let’s do lunch some day soon." I can no longer count the number of times an editor has loved a manuscript of mine, only to have it shot down by members of the Pub Committee. Some PCs not only have editors on board, but marketing and sales force folk, too, all making decisions on what to publish. (And some on the adult book side of the Force, send out mss. to Barnes and Noble or to Costco to see if they like something before the publisher makes the decision to buy it.) We’re not in Kansas anymore, folks. Not in Oz either. Some foggy, mire south of the River Styx methinks.

 

Then I turned my attention to the barbeque we were hosting for Bob Harris, his boys, and our friend Anne Morrison. (Her husband was off at a black-tie golf dinner!) Of course after five gloriously sunny days, the clouds have drawn in and threaten rain. Sigh. (But that’s what you get when you choose Scotland.) A typical barbie—with sausages, hamburgers, boiled potatoes, green beans, and a salad. We had a grand time and, for a while, I forgot (or ignored) all my novel problems. And plots.

September 9, 2004:

Jannie wrote: "Saw this in your journal. . . ‘I've always said that while I can work on several poems or several picture books or several nonfictional pieces at a time, that doing more than one major novel at a time is beyond me.’ ... and don't know if there's any point commenting just to agree, but I've never been able to work on more than one novel at a time, either, though I can have numerous non-fiction articles and sometimes even a short story or two going at the same time. I've begun thinking of it as a voice thing--voice of the story and voice of the main character, both. For me, getting deeply enough into a story to instinctively hear both takes some work, and I can't really focus on more than one set of voices at a time--they jangle against each other, and I'm not deeply enough into either, and neither one comes out right or true."

Well, I can certainly agree with Janni, but sometimes things just happen. And this summer three novels have landed on my plate. I am doing what I can to make them distinct. Certainly having two co-authors helps! And of course just when I thought I had them sorted, they unsorted themselves.

And Nancy sent me this wonderful quote which she keeps close by. I think I will, too: "When nothing seems to help, I go and look at a stonecutter hammering away at his rock perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not that blow that did it. . .but all that had gone before. - Jacob Riis"

Okay—yesterday was a holiday from writing. Determined to work today, I turned my attention to the dragon book because neither Adam nor Bob had come through with stuff for me to work on. And—quite frankly—it was their turns. (I expect to get stuff from them both at the same time, which will make things even more complicated than they are now.)

So, before lunch, I got a third of a chapter (about 530 words) done, then turned my attention to a new poem, "Beating Michael Phelps," for an anthology. Don’t know if the latter will be accepted. Given my latest rash of rejections, probably not. But it felt good to be writing again. I sent the poem and three other unpublished poems (including one by my daughter, Heidi) to the anthology editor by email.

Early afternoon I managed another 500 words on the dragon chapter.

But it was such a beautiful day outside—and in Scotland one has to take advantage of any beautiful day—I talked David into another outing. We went to the Fife coast, stopping at Fife Ness to look at birds. There was a fascinating heron showing off, and lots of other shore birds. Then one of our friends wandered by and we had a hug and talked of birds for a bit.

On to visit friends Christine and John in Anstruther where we sat in their Sitooterie (isn’t that a great word, meaning a place to sit out [or oot] in) and had chocolates and tea overlooking the North Sea. Heard all about politics in their small fishing town. Like all small town politics, they are vicious and mindless.

Then back to less exciting email and catching up with Stuff. (Note capital S!) And a quick revision of the dragon chapter which I hope to finish in the morning.

September 8, 2004:

A bit overwhelmed this morning, I sat and watched the news, thought about writing, about how much work I have added by writing a (mostly) daily journal. Wondered whether I had—once again—taken on more than I could manage. And then I got this from Mary in my email: "(I)t's helped me to have read your views on drafts, that the texture (half missing so far) and the fleshing out of the characters (mostly missing--I thought I knew these people, but now I'm not sure) can be added later. The Plot Must Go On."

That’s when I remembered that a good part of being a professional is paying forward. (A term I heard long before that dreadful tear-jerking movie.) It has always been a part of my life—workshops, teaching, writing essays on children’s literature, or writing, or storying. No sense in changing that now. Never fear—wind or rain or too many book ideas battling in my head—the journal will go on. It also helps me sort through my own thoughts about works-in-progress. I read Mary’s words and turned to looking over the Clearances book, with a fresh eye to detail which is being added later!

However, this was not a writing day. Except for a couple of blurbs to go with books in my website, I wrote nothing of interest. Organized most of my upcoming London trip, though.

At three we went off to spend the afternoon with our artist friend Marianna, a Georgian who has spent the last 20 years in Scotland, doing paintings and hangings of Pictish stone art. She took us out across several fields (yes, my knee carried me easily all the way) to the Collessie Man, a standing stone with several severely worn-away Pictish symbols carved on it. On the way back, I stumbled upon a small perfume bottle that the farmer’s harrow had kicked up. Not sure of the age. Maybe 1920s? Certainly not too much earlier.

Then we picked up Marianna’s partner, Pete, as strong a birder as David. And off we went for a fine meal at the Sanford Inn, though in the bar rather than in the restaurant. I think we drove several Republicans out with our loud denouncements of the president. David was the most voluble though Pete, a Brit, held his own. We also talked about art, Bob Dylan, Pictish stones, health matters, cranes, weasels, Greenwich Village in the 60s, and magical creatures. However, politics took center (or centre) stage.

Sept 7, 2004:

Worried about the last chapter I wrote for TROLL BRIDGE, I hopped out of bed first thing in the morning and went right to work. I was pleased that it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought (and was, in fact, quite good once I’d seriously run it through the wringer.) Of course now that it’s gone off to Adam for his look-see, I am worried about it all over again.

Never mind. It will sort itself out. Though I have a new worry. I’ve always said that while I can work on several poems or several picture books or several nonfictional pieces at a time, that doing more than one major novel at a time is beyond me. And yet this summer I found myself committed to three—the troll book with Adam, the Clearances book with Bob Harris, and the my solo Pit Dragon novel. But I had a sneaking suspicion that once one of the three caught fire, I would have time only for it. And so it was proving. Adam and I have been whizzing along on the troll book. Bob has been busy with other projects (as well as single-fathering his three boys while his wife is in Florida, tending her ailing mother.) As for the dragon book—once more I have gotten stuck in Plot Problems.

As I explained to my husband--who never shows an ounce of boredom as I whinge on about my writing, bless him—I guessed three novels at a time really is beyond me. Or even two.

So, after working hard all morning, and then spending time paying bills, I whined until David agreed we could go out antiquing. Found a wonderful small wooden display box. Of course we have nothing to display in it really. But the box itself is quite lovely.

And when we got home? A message on the phone from Bob. He will be coming over tomorrow with several new chapters of the Clearances novel. I am back to my worry again.

Another thought: No rejections today. SO far. It’s dinner time here, but only 1 o’clock New York time as I write this, so I could still have another disaster on my hands.

Of course, disaster is a purely relative term. Next to the Russian tragedy, the American political mess, the horrors in Iraq and Darfur, there is nothing disastrous about my rejection letters. Nothing has been hurt except my pride. No lives lost. No children brutalized. No women raped or fathers/brothers/uncles/grandfathers annihilated. Just a few editors making judgements with which I disagree. So I promise to be more careful about the use of the word "disaster" when it comes to publishing. Even if I never sell another book, it amounts to little in the greater world, or for the greater good. I have already cut down more than my allotted share of trees.

But having assuaged my conscience with the above, I know that I would love to hear a "yes" from an editor somewhere on down the line. Even as much as a new writer. Yes, even as much. The hunger for publication never really goes away. We write to be read. That is the bottom line.

 

Sept 6, 2004:

Charline wrote to me: "Knowing that YOU still receive numerous rejection letters was another eye-opener! One of my favorite quotes on the subject is from Barbara Kingsolver: "This manuscript of yours that has just come back from another editor is a precious package. Don't consider it rejected. Consider that you've addressed it 'to the editor who can appreciate my work' and it has simply come back stamped 'not at this address.' Just keep looking for the right address." I keep this posted by my keyboard!"

Actually, the largest number of emails I have been getting about the journal have had similar comments. My rejections seem to buoy people up. However, even in the interest of helping the entire writing community feel better, I think I’d rather be selling. <G> I do hope everyone will rejoice with me when/if I ever sell a manuscript again.

This Monday was a slow one, after a three-day busy trip. (And because all of the USA was on holiday.) David played golf with a neighbor, I lay in bed for far too long and woke slowly. Being self-employed and/or retired allows for such luxury.

When I finally got myself up and washed and dressed, I tidied the house, finished reading Alice Hoffman’s THE PROBABLE FUTURE (I love her work), then answered the door to the postman. Ah—something to revel in: the complete color layouts of my 2005 collection for small children and their parents: TROT, TROT TO BOSTON. (The British edition will be called THIS LITTLE PIGGIE.) As its subtitle announces, it is full of lap songs, finger plays, clapping games, and pantomime rhymes for babies and toddlers. The pictures by Will Hillenbrand are absolutely delicious. Going over it word for word when I just wanted to enjoy it was a bit tedious, but—of course—necessary.

Then our honeymooners returned to say goodbye and sign the Wayside guest book.

And finally—FINALLY!—I got to work. Adam had sent on the next chapter of our Troll book, which I tidied a bit. Because we are on the downward slide toward the end and things have heated up plotwise, I found it necessary to go back through the earlier chapters seeding a lot of stuff: emphasizing certain character tics and flaws which will be important later on, adding bits of foreshadowing, etc.. This kind of threading-backwards is always necessary but being a consummate reviser (flower-arranger, gem-polisher), I couldn’t help tidying up as I went. Then I added a new chapter myself which may turn out to be way too silly for the place it finds itself. I will revise it in the morning, and then wait to hear what Adam thinks.

Light dinner, early to bed. Actually, a lovely day.

 

Sept. 3-5, 2004:

We had a wonderful long weekend, punctuated by the horror that was the school massacre in Russia. Everything we saw that filled us with awe—lush landscapes, castles both lived-in and ruins, blue skies, silver seas, a crane amongst hundreds of shore birds, a trio of weasels—was all set within the news which was on every newscast and blaring out from every newspaper.

So I will dwell on what was wonderful, since there is little I can do but brood about what those children—especially those children—felt during the long, hot, appalling hours in the school while being brutalized by the Chechyan murderers. I chose my words carefully. I do not consider those hostage-takers as rebels, or as freedom fighters. If they had targeted soldiers I might have been persuaded that they were fighting for their own lives. They chose instead a "soft" target, butchering children, ages 2-15, killing 150+ of them.

Enough politics.

Our weekend began Friday morning with the doorbell ringing and the delivery of a package with four double-page spreads for the BABY’S FIRST POEMS book. This was the artist’s sketches—full color and absolutely delicious.

We ran about town first for last-minute errands. Then off we went, north, with the warning of rain for the weekend which never quite materialized. I say "quite" because we had some droplets on the windshield for a bit outside of Dundee and that was it.

We stopped in Alyth and checked around a small junque shop. I bought a second-hand Christopher Priest novel. Then in Meigle we found a wonderful import craft shop and bought something for our girls as "We’re Home!" presents. We took minor minor roads— meaning so small, they didn’t show on the map. That’s how we love to travel.

Arrived around 4 o’clock at the house and art gallery of our friends Mike and Susan. Mike and I had gone to Staples High School in Westport, Ct. together. Though he and I weren’t friends there, we have since discovered we have much in common now, and David and I count the two of them as dear friends.

We spent the evening gabbling about life, art—and of course the Chechnyan situation. As we are all parents and grandparents (with a mixture of adoptions, step-children, and every combination in-between) we were glued to the news much of the time. There was a lovely soft wind blowing, the sunset put a glow on the Aberdeenshire hills. We slept hard, dreaming of disasters.

In the morning, after a full breakfast which Susan served up from her new kitchen, we left, having bought a painting from the gallery to give as a present to one of our children for Christmas. Then off on more of our serendipity trip.

Again we went on the small blue roads heading toward the north coast and then around the north east coast. Sue and Mike had told us about Slains Castle south of Peterborough which was the impetus for Bram Stoker’s DRACULA. How could we resist?

Along the way, we fell over Leith Hall, a lovely mansion house now in the hands of the National Trust, part of the Leith Hay family holdings. It was given to the Trust after the last Earl died and his son died four months later in a motorcycle accident. The dowager Lady Leith Hay (the young man’s mum) lived on in an apartment in the place for another twenty years while the Trust showed it off to visitors. The grounds were especially lovely, and we had fun letting two local boys use our field glasses to see a heron they were stalking. They became our good guides for a bit, showing us where the bird hide was, overlooking the pond. Had a nice conversation in the hide with a British couple who were soon to be off to Florida bird watching. David gave them many pointers. My favorite things at the Hall were a round rent table with four marked drawers for the alphabetical rent ledgers and a center hollow where the money was placed, a variety of jewelry made from hair, and a bizarre sporran made from a badger hide.

Then on we went, making a pilgrimage to the bizarre little seaside town of Pennan, the place where most of "Local Hero" was filmed, our second time there. The single track road is so steep, it feels as if you are falling off the end of the world. We drove to the end of the town (less than a block long says this NYCity girl), then turned around and went back up the road, our little Peugeot chugging its heart out.

We’d hoped then to find a seaside town with a café where we could have tea overlooking the water—but no such luck. Everything from Peterborough on east was pretty dismal. So then we began looking out for a B&B. We thought that we’d have a choice of them. After all, this was a major corridor between Peterborough and Aberdeen. But except for some shady-looking hotels, we found nothing.

We did locate Slains Castle. It stood out a brooding shadow on the horizon, stretched out along a headland, which would necessitate a 2-3 mile round trip walk. Neither of us wanted to try that walk at 5 in the evening after having traveled all day. We just wanted to find a B&B and rest, have dinner, go to bed early. Surely, we thought, near a major golf course—as Cruden Bay is—there would be plenty of places to stay.

Finally, at the far end of the town, we found one, beating out another car by three minutes to get the last available bedroom. It turned out to be (by the owner’s reckoning) the only B&B between Peterborough and Aberdeen. Not sure of that—but it was a charming old school house turned into a B&B and our room was both cheap and with a lovely view.

After dinner (at a hotel pub, and not to be recommended) we went for a drive and discovered some lovely landscapes and two houses and a church we adored.

Then to bed early, and bad dreams about hostage-takers.

A nice big breakfast and off we went to Slains at 8:30 am, the home of the Earls of Errol, the second castle of that name as the first had been destroyed. This one dated from the 17th century with additions all the way through Victorian times. Now just a ruin on a headland.

We parked and started to walk the rough, occasionally muddy, track. There was some movement in the stone wall, David stopped to look at meadow pipits. But I saw a different movement. What luck! We had a long, leisurely look at a family (mother, two babies) of weasels. They leaped about over the rocks, in and out of hidey-holes, adorable and pound for pound one of the fiercest predators around.

Eventually, we set off again towards the castle on the horizon. When we got there, we were all alone. The blind eyes of the empty windows stared out at us on one side, and over the grey North Sea on the other. The place was a shell, without a roof or floors, but the rooms were still blocked out and several turrets had climbable stairs though I felt a bit like the boy in GREAT EXPECTATIONS when the stairs suddenly ended in a sheer drop.

This castle, hovering on the edge of a precipice that falls away onto rocks jutting out like razored teeth in the sea, was—from all accounts—Bram Stoker’s inspiration for DRACULA. And I tried, really tried, as I walked around the stark ruins, to find that Transylvanian forest-girt castle in the stones. But his inspiration was clearly not mine.

And then I thought about how I had so recently spoken to the book tour ladies about our Scottish house, and how it was the inspiration for both the grandmother’s house (and gardens) in the Tartan Magic books and the house in THE WILD HUNT. I had said to them: "You may not be able to see it, but I know this is the house. . ." Writers do not make one-for-one maps. Inspiration is not an equals sign.

It was enough to walk where Stoker walked as he dreamed up Dracula’s castle. Just as several years ago it was enough to walk around Hawick trying to feel the way the Bronte sisters had felt. Or around Emily Dickinson’s beloved home, trying to conjure her ghost. I failed in all cases to be inspired as they were, but it was a good failure, and an honest one.

As we drove away, we stopped at a river where there were many shore birds. David cursed at his telescope which suddenly developed a hiccup and wouldn't let him take the cap off the eyepiece. However another birder was parked there and he set up his own telescope when David discovered--among the more common birds--a large bird that the other man had dismissed at first as a heron. It turned out to be a crane, a life bird for David, which is extremely rare for him in Europe. We all had lovely lingering looks at it through the telescope and even I could see its red cap.

We drove off again, stopping only for lunch at Brechin Castle Center, and then came home to lots of email, several phone calls, and dinner out with friends.

A wonderful gathering time. I already want to put the Leith Hall rent table in my new Scottish novel, and the weasels somewhere as well. The idea of writing about inspiration as a possible essay or speech is cooking away as well. And who knows what else. It all stuffs the writer’s head. Like the bad dreams of hostage-taking. It will come out when it wills, not when I will it.

Sept. 2, 2004:

Our 42nd anniversary, meaning we have been married much much longer than either one of us was ever single. Also, with David’s massive skull-base cancer two years ago, we never expected to see this day. He went out joyously to play golf. I got the house in order for the visiting book tour group later in the day. We will be celebrating the day tomorrow with friends near Aberdeen.

One of my online groups (this one full of children’s book academics) is having a grand time bashing certain canonical books of English literature. The books on the diss list range from MOBY-DICK (which I loved) to Jane Austen (I am not a fan) to THE GREAT GATSBY (which I hated.) All going to prove once again that literary criticism is personal and nowhere near a science.

I remember how eagerly I began graduate work in English literature at Columbia, back in 1962. And how quickly I dropped out, propelled by a professor who taught the MABINOGION with such deadly dullness, it became an exercise just to stay awake. And once I was out (I was newly married, with a new job, and my first book contract, so already too much on my plate!) I read the book on my own and adored it. It became a touchstone book for me thereafter. What does this prove? <I shrug.> Maybe that for some of us Constant Readers there is a need to discover and love a book first before ripping it apart. I bet I could take that course now and enjoy it. I always borrow Gordon Dickson’s felicitous phrase, that we must "fall through the words into the story" when I speak of reading to teachers.

After racing into town for cakes (Gateaux R Us) I stopped by Bob Harris’ house in order to borrow his copy of PRINCE ACROSS THE WATER. I haven’t gotten mine—it went to Massachusetts—and I was dying to see it. To hold it. To stroke and smell and. . .you get the picture. With its gorgeous Trina Schart Hyman cover and maps showing where Bonnie Prince Charlie raced across the Highlands with our young hero, it is a lovely looking piece of bookmaking. What about the story, you ask? What about the words one must fall through into the story? Well, you buy it, read it, and then you tell me!

At 3:30 a small tour bus pulled up and fifteen women—teachers, librarians, readers—came into Wayside. We gave them tea and cakes and I talked about writing and publishing, read some of the sonnets, answered many questions, gave them a tour of the garden. They were lovely and happy to be at Wayside. The leader had brought us flowers for our anniversary, and many of the women left cards behind for us, which tickled us enormously.

As they left, we had a big shock. The front patio was covered with . . . something horrible. Our toilets were blocked and had overflowed. Ugh.

Not a nice exit at all. Some anniversary present!

A plumber finally arrived, announced it a job for the Council and called them for us. They arrived, managed to unblock things, as well as sanitize and wash away the overflow. All by 8 o’clock. And they (unlike the plumber) were free. The main Council worker said today was his birthday so I gave him some of the leftover cake and we felt much relieved.

Forty-two years ago such problems were not on our horizon.

 

September 1, 2004:

A well-published writer friend—we’ll call her A--emailed me today: "Have to start research on my Susan B. Anthony book now--due in March--ha! Anna's book for Scholastic, using the painting as a framework for the story, is due in December. What in the world are these people thinking of? Do they have ANY idea of what it takes to write a story? This smacks of Henry Ford in the 20's speeding up the production time to get more cars, and denying bathroom breaks to his workers. I truly think this is a workers' right issue, and I can't believe we aren't hearing more about it. What do you think?"

I think these are terrific questions and they come up often in my weekly writer’s group. There are seven of us, all well-established children’s book writers at various stages in our careers. But these are questions that have dogged all of us in one form or another and, recently, the pressure has been growing.

When I asked A if I could quote her, she wrote back: "I think it is a pressing issue, and one I am very concerned about. It moves us further forward into the--"writers as producers of a product" category, and whenever that happens, we lose our footing, we lose our commitment to something finer, deeper, and more lasting."

I think there are two parts to the question, really. First, why are the publishers/editors demanding this kind of cookie-cutter work. Second, why are writers like A and Anna (and me) accepting it?
The answers are money, the necessity of riding out a fad, and being in the dreaded midlist.

Money comes into it at the very beginning. Publishers, now owned by enormous conglomerates, are being held to ever-increasing bottom line estimates and ever-faster schedules. They are shelling out their own money (advances) slower than before, waiting until the very last minute to pay out so they can have a quicker payback once a book starts selling. But authors are crushed by this slow-down, especially authors who live from advance to advance. (Those of us who have popular back-list titles have it a bit easier, as we also get good royalties.) Editors are also being pushed to guarantee super sales, a faster and bigger initial return on their monies.

How do they do all this? By getting books written by—or fronted by—celebrities. What—you thought all celebrities actually wrote their own books? Silly reader! Also editors in their pub committee meetings are more and more often coming up with ideas which they shop to favorite authors. I may be having trouble (see rejections over the last few weeks!) selling my own stories, but by golly I am overwhelmed by editors asking me to write this book or that as it has already been passed by the committee. And in case you missed it, Great Ormond Street Hospital in London, which owns the copyright for Peter Pan, is looking around for a writer, preferably a Big Name, to write a new Peter Pan book. They’ve already been turned down by Philip Pullman, among others. My guess is that they won’t get around to me, given my Nebula-winning story "Lost Girls" which posits Peter as an old misogynist in boy’s clothing.

The real problem is, of course, the dreaded midlist where most writers dwell. Yes, I am now called "a New York Times Bestselling author" because my dinosaur books have each spent some time there. But most of my books are solidly midlist. The other 249 of them! That means they sell, but don’t break records. One doesn’t have to be J. K. Rowling to be a bestseller. 100,000 copies of one book will do. Most children’s books sell in the 4,000-40,000 range.

To get back to A’s questions:
1. What in the world are these people thinking of? They are thinking of making money for their company, hitting the profit margin as preannounced in their p&l statement, and keeping their jobs. Oh yes, the best of them are thinking about books, not products. But often they can do nothing about that in today’s climate.

2. Do they have ANY idea of what it takes to write a story? The good editors do, but they are between a rockheaded CEO and a hard manager. They know that some of us are faster than others, so they ask us. They built a lot of slop into those deadlines. They push the art and production departments mercilessly. And their knees are callused from so much praying.

3. I truly think this is a workers' right issue, and I can't believe we aren't hearing more about it. What do you think? Actually, the writing workshops, the conferences, and the internet writing circles have been abuzz with just these questions for several years now. Of course, unlike factory workers who know their rights, book writers all live with the hope of becoming the next Stephen King or J. K. Rowling. The National Writer’s Union is really meant for newspaper and magazine writers. No one has yet been able to take a bunch of book writers out on strike. We may write about the workers’ movement, but you would be hard pressed to find ten authors willing to move on this kind of action.

At least that’s what I think.

As far as work is concerned—the publisher who turned down four books yesterday said they cannot find the other stuff that was sent to them. So we have resent it.

My agent called to commiserate and to make sure I am not too downhearted about all the rejections. We mutually assured one another. What a terrific person she is!

And I reread the stories I have so far pulled out as my favorites for YEARS BEST YA/SF SHORT STORIES and put them in order. Now I am waiting for my co-editor’s choices.

All this, of course, pales in the face of the news from Moscow and the Chechnyan rebels who have taken a school hostage. As much as I write about people’s motifs, and have tackled at least three major books about wars, I continue to be baffled by human beings.