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This is an occasional journal about how my life affects my writing and my writing affects my life. This journal is not to be a classic blog, in other words it's not interactive. It will not have photos either. Or links. Nor do I expect to write in it every day. And I don't want to have to moderate the thing.

However, if you read something here that you want to respond to, send me email (janeyolen@aol.com) and I will write back. Please say whether or not you agree to have your email quoted somewhere in "Telling the True." I like getting questions from my readers--whether you are a writer or a book fancier, a teacher, librarian, or child.

Note that the order of the entries is most recent first. Entries from earlier days are archived.

September 27-30, 2006:

I have been so overwhelmed with stuff, that I haven't had time to update the journal (or indeed the website.) A combination of working on revisions of GHOUL SCHOOL, FOILED (more on that in a minute) working at Heidi's, working at my house--and giving a speech.

Wednesday: Heidi and I spent the morning buying new bed linen and bed for Maddison's old room, and bedlinen for Glen's old room. I now have three guest rooms back. Everything not yet moved to their house is stashed, stuffed, thrown into Heidi's room. That will be the last one to get an overhaul.

I tidied my office quite a bit, helped bring stuff over to Heidi's house, took the three of us out to Osaka for Maddison's half birthday. (Her real birthday was three days after David died, so was rather. . .truncated.) You would have laughed seeing me with my bad knee and bad back trying to sit down on those tables-on-floor where one's legs dangle down. Good food, though.

Thursday: Met with the old lawyer who is doing probate on David's will (silly me, I thought it had already been done!) and have to find a bunch of stuff he needs to have in hand.

Then a solid conversation with the young editor working with me on FOILED. She didn't say anything I wasn't expecting, but talking about it helped to clarify the problems: no real set-up for the magic that happens, no real explanation about what is happening within the magic. Not a line fix here and there but some more solid underpinnings. Good, I can go with that.

Heidi had a ballet board meeting, so I got to "sit" for Maddison which I did over at their house. While she did her homework, I finished the latest SHARPE novel and began readng a Lady Jane Gray novel, one of the truly sad moments in British history.

Friday: I had an early morning phone interview, then worked some on FOILED and some on GHOUL SCHOOL and got to read over the wonderful new BABY BEAR sketch dummy. (We are still dithering about the title which had been BABY BEAR'S WISHES and then BABY BEAR'S BIG IDEAS and now is. . .I don't know.)

Dropped Maddison off at ballet school (we were wearing party clothes) and then went to Zanna's where I got new shoes and a new jacket. Picked up Maddison, and off to the ballet cocktail party for people who donated money during the capital campaign.

Saturday: Started with pancakes at Heidi's house, then I set up her pantry, finally went back home for several hours of work on FOILED.

Afterwards, around noon, I got dressed to go to Mount Holyoke's Skinner Museum to give a talk and a reading on LETTING SWIFT RIVER GO as part of a three-day celebration of the Quabbin Reservoir. The Museum is a rescued church from one of the drowned towns filled with the late Professor Joseph Skinner's oddball "collection", as eclectic a mix of Americana and other stuff as one could find. Three of the speakers had grown up in one of the small Swift River towns, and talked about their memories before they'd been forced to move because of Boston's "long thirst." Ended with a signing, and we ran out of books, always a good-news-bad-news moment.

Came home to an empty house, hung some pictures, cleaned some rooms, watched some tv, went to bed. A satisfactory day. Wish I could sleep better, though. I seem to be going in one hour snatches. Eight hours in the end, but not solidly through.

 

September 26, 2006

Heidi and I spoke about the GHOUL SCHOOL proposal and she had some very valid criticisms. Had a complete annotated mss. for me. Back to the drawing boards. She worries about voice. Well, that is something one should always worry about. Had interesting ideas about the interstitial material. Whether we can get it all right this next round, we will see.

Melissa Sweet has sent on one of the originals fom BABY BEAR'S BOOKS and it is gorgeous. Must get it framed ASAP.

Big news: At 9:30, after an inspection (finally!) Heidi got her CO and the house is now stamped habitable and she and Maddison can move in. Then sofa and bedding was delivered. As were my kitchen chairs--only they sent the wrong chairs! Sigh.

My writer's group was held outside, at C's house, at a table with an umbrella and by the end, it was so hot, we moved inside. As always, these writers astonish me.

I did a variety of errands on the way home, including buying flowers for Heidi and Maddison, and chocolates and wine for my cousin Dani. Put the flowers in Heidi's house (I have a key!) and then had a quick dinner before driving to Conway to spend some quiet time with Dani and her husband Jack, talking about our Annus Horribilus, and speaking about Cecily (Dani's mom) and how she died. She was 83, had lived a good life, married a physicist who ran the Langley Air Force Wind Tunnels and worked with NACA (NASA's predecessor), helping in the community as a social worker, was a leading light for a time in her synagogue, raised three fantastic children, had three fascinating grandkids. She had a grand sense of humor, a tart tongue, and a liberal world view. It's a fine CV. We should all be so lucky.

PS: I forgot to mention that a friend told me about the best known Ecuadorian children's book writer, his wife's cousin, who is known as Ecuador's Jane Yolen. That is WAY too funny! (Says America's Hans Christian Andersen.)

 

September 25, 2006:

A good day wrapped around a really AWFUL day.

Having Milbre here was fun. We don't get to see each other very often. She's a hoot and a hollar, smart, fascinating, and the best storytelling interpereter of my tales ever.

So Milbre and Heidi and I were walking the 2 1.2 mile circle down to the dike by the Connecticut River and around, when Heidi's cell phone rang. It was Betsy to tell us that Mike Ford, that amazing polymath, astonishing writer, and good friend had just died. I'd last seen him when he and partner Elise, TNH and PNH, and Beth Meacham had come to say their goodbyes to David.

I am writing this for Locus magazine about Mike: "Mike Ford did not expect to live very long. Those of us who loved him, hoped he would live forever. We were all confounded. Yes, he lived past his body’s sell-by date. Thank God for transplants. But he didn’t live long enough for all the books, poems, Dr. Mike shows, stories, ripostes, encyclopedic answers, charming re-histories, and solid friendships we wanted from him. How much poorer we all are for that.

"I can’t remember where or when I first met Mike, but I can remember getting on his Christmas list and receiving his incredibly brilliant hand-printed pieces instead of cards. The best of presents. “Winer Solstice, Camelot Station” blew me away. I insisted that Pete Godwin, who was just then putting together an Arthurian book, read it. He published the poem in his anthology. That poem won the World Fantasy Award for short fiction, though it was a narrative poem. One of many firsts for Mike.

"Some people knew him just for his books. The coruscating brilliance of  The Last Hot Time,  the serious playfulness of How Much for Just the Planet, the shining language of  his strangely wonderful vampire-cum British history novel, The Dragon Waiting which won the  World Fantasy Award. Some were also  great fans of his poetry. <Raises hand> Some only knew him as Dr. Mike, when in his white lab coat, he held forth at Minicon and answered questions about anything and everything with such bizarre connectivity and wit, that soon it was impossible to schedule anything against his performance.

"The last time I saw Mike, he and his partner Elise, Beth Meacham, Patrick and Theresa Nielsen Hayden all came to bid goodbye to my dying husband, David. We sat at the kitchen table—the place we always seemed to spend most of our together times—and everyone traded stories, jokes, barbs, especially Mike who looked quite well at the time. I will never forget that kindness.

"I hope that Mike and David are sitting somewhere in Not-Heaven, drinking single malt, laughing, exchanging witty remarks about everything in the universe. I hope they are both healthy and happy. They were the two most brilliant men I knew and they deserve that little gift of Light. In very different ways, I will miss them both forever."

By the time Milbre, Heidi and I got home, and I went online, I learned that my wonderful, cynical, smart-talking Aunt Cecily Garrick had just died as well. Also not unexpected. She was my mother's little sister and had outlived her by 36 years. I liked Cecily a lot, and to my shame got to see her rarely (she lived in Newport News.) My love goes out to her children: Dani, Mike, and Linda. And to her remaining sibling, my astonishing Uncle Gerry Berlin.

A number of difficult phone calls later, I took Milbre out for a day of sightseeing and shopping. We wandered through Smith College, went to both Artisan's Gallery and the Chocolate Emporium (naughty us!) in Northampton, then to the old bookstore WABC (Whatley Antiquarian Book Center) in Whatley.Yes, dear readers, we bought some books. Ended up at Green Street Cafe for one of their glorious dinners where I solved a plot point and a title for Milbre's newest short story Well, novella, actually.

Oh yes, the inspector never made it to the house. He promises it for tomorrow. Sigh.

 

Interstital Moment:

"As an addendum, a friend who is a real publishing insider, sent me this to add to my authorial take on publishing. My friend is more cynical than I--and better placed! Hold on to your authorial hats.

"If I might beg to differ (slightly) with your conclusion in your interstitial musings--

"In the tradition of Bob's Country Bunker, we have both kinds here: overwhelming piles of slush AND decreased respect for authors. Unfortunately, it's a positive feedback loop. I see this every single day in both my general counsel and my litigator roles.

"I could tell you horror stories about slush in legal publishing. In fact, I have put a description in my blawg, which concludes:
Raw sewage--and, as noted, there's no excuse for much of it coming from purported professionals with the written word. Now imagine that process at a commercial publisher considering unsolicited manuscripts from authors without even as much skill in English (on average) as lawyers (on average). But don't do so alone, at night, in a bad neighborhood; very few horror
movies could possibly be that frightening. I can almost hear the creepy music as the mail is delivered to the overworked editorial assistant... especially the POD-printed-and-bound manuscript arrogantly masquerading as ready for publication as is... it's picking up the chainsaw... No! Don't look under the desk! "Reading Raw Sewage" (09 Dec 2003) http://tinyurl.com/p6sry

"On the other hand, there is a great deal less respect for authors from the corporate masters. That is reflected in two trends: The increasing proportion of management that has no publishing background, and insists upon forcing duties on editors that would be better performed by corporate drones (thereby reducing the already limited attention available for the slush
pile); and the increasing emphasis on forcing each book to "earn its way" instead of evaluating an editor's list as a whole... and worse, defining "earn its way" as a marginal comparison to other parts of the corporate structure without any considerations of synergy.

"All of that said, one other problem that undermines publisher credibility is the absolute crap that DOES manage to make it into print. And I mean "objectively crap", not just "bad because it's beneath me"; that is, I mean M. Scott Peck, MD, and Joan and Jackie Collins, not John Grisham and Terry Brooks. Given the low standards for what actually does get published
(admittedly, this really isn't that much different from historically--it's just a bit more obvious), I completely understand the frustration of the author who believe he/she can write something "better than that"--and then writes something that is at least comparable, only to have it languish."

 

 

September 23-24, 2006:

I began Saturday with an interview about my book LETTING SWIFT RIVER GO since I am doing a reading at Mount Holyoke College as part of a big Quabbin celebration. The rest of the day I worked on cleaning up my writing room a bit. Only a bit, mind you. Things are pretty. . .um. . .overwhelming around here.

Took Heidi and Maddison out for a quick Chinese dinner. Fell into bed imediately afterward and nodded off while reading SHARPE'S FURY, which doesn't happen often.

Sunday we did a lot of packing up Heidi''s kitchen stuff and pantry stuff. Slowly my house is becoming. . .well. . .my house. Of course she can't really move into her new house till she gets the CO which should be tomorrow if we are lucky,.

My friend Milbre Burch, a great storyteller, arrived at dinner time. Back for another Chinese dinner as we were all wiped ou

 

Interstitial Moment:

Rhenee asks: “I recently heard an editor state Knopf's new policy regarding slush submissions: no acknowledgment of receipt, no SASE return, and no rejection letter. She said, 'If you don't hear back from us in six months, we're not interested.'

"I felt as though her hand had popped from her wrist, flown across the room and smacked me silly.

"I did pull it together enough to ask the editor if the new policy allowed Knopf to work through the slush quicker. Evidently not. Has Knopf taken disrespectful treatment of writers to a new low?”

Rhenee—it feels that way, doesn’t it. And in my (rather long) answer, I am not being an apologist for publishers, but a realist.  In no way am I pointing a finger at you since I don’t know you personally or your work. What I am saying now is a general statement, using your question as a jumping off place.

If you have never read the slush pile, you do not know what a soul deadening experience it is. To try and find a jewel in the compost heap, the needle in the haystack—any slogging metaphor you wish—pales beside that task. Indeed, 85% of the material sent to the slush pile is from people with little talent, less understanding of grammar, or crazy. Really, truly off-whatever-available-wall crazy. Of the 15% left, about ten can write a sentence or two, but have no understanding of plot, theme, characterization, or appropriateness of the material to the story being told. And of the 5 % after that, 4 ¾ can write, can tell a story, and are certainly publishable (and some of them do get published) but lack that final OOOMPH. Which leaves, perhaps, in the 1/4 of a percent --if the gods are willing and the cricks don’t rise--those who become published authors. And of those who are published, a much smaller percent actually get noticed by the public. Yeah—it’s a tough life.

But it’s been made tougher by several things. Access to computers, multiple submissions, and a passion for American Idol success.

We live in a world of growing “entitlement” issues. Kids (and adults) feel entitled to good grades, fame, and fortune. Yet few people want to put in the actual  work to make it to the artistic top. They just want to be famous. Ironic isn’t it, when now more than ever, there are workshops, courses, mentors, groups like SCBWI etc. who are willing to help would-be authors learn the ropes. I cannot tell you how often someone shoves a mss. in my face and wants the name of my editor or agent, regardless of whether it is an appropriate venue (at my husband’s funeral!) and regardless of my long-standing policy not to read mss. outside of workshops.

Owning a computer and being a writer are two very separate issues. (Best sf writer I know, Joe Haldeman, composes on a yellow pad with a pen! Harlan Ellison works on an old typwriter.) Broadcasting your mss. to twenty publishers in a multiple submission really doesn’t get it read faster, just put in the “multiple submission pile.” And while there are always stories of overnight successes, if you actually parse those stories, you will see the trail to the top is individual and usually involves (yes!) a lot of slogging.

That said, your question was “Has Knopf taken disrespectful treatment of writers to a new low?”” And my answer is: I think Knopf —and other publishers who may not answer as openly to your queries—are simply responding to an already difficult situation concerning unsolicited manuscripts. They are overwhelmed and understaffed. They are owned by multi-national corporations that demand bigger and bigger bestsellers.

Has the world of publishing changed? Absolutely. But what makes you think it hasn’t changed before? I have been in the business over forty years and change is to be expected. When I first began in children’s publishing, most authors stayed with one editor and one house because that editor stayed at one house. Books remained in print for decades, not nano-seconds. We wrote by hand or on typewriters with carbon paper copies. The only students who took typing were those in the commercial courses, not the college course. 85-90% of children’s books sold went to schools and libraries (it’s now down in the 30-40%.) There were no online venues like Amazon, no big mega stores like B&N, no multiple submissions. There was also no SCBWI, only ALA for children’s books meetings Illustrators had to do color separations, a laborious task, because there weren’t laser printers or copiers. And book advances ranged from $250 (my first) to about $1500. Well that last at least, hasn‘t changed all that much!

Does this feel as we have moved into an anti-author mode. Yes. Even for those of us who have made it, there are times when I rail at the system, wave my cane around. Point to my gray hairs. Cry foul. But that takes too damned much time. So I adjust where I can, sneak about where I can, and keep on writing. The only thing I can control is my writing. So I work at getting better and better so that no one—NO ONE—can ever turn down any of my books again.

Oh yes—get an agent. It helps. But beware of scam agents. Check them out at a website called Prededitor and Editor. Check out publishers, too. It’s a scary world out there. As Jim Macdonald says, “Money should flow toward the author, not away.”

September 22, 2006:

Six months. Six months since David's death. None of us in the family has ever been away from him this long. I still have trouble believing it. Wrote this poem to memorialize the day. Actually I wrote it several days ago, read it to my poetry group, rewrote it because of their suggestions today.

And yet, even with mourning, it was a busy day. Heidi and I met with the lawyer and money management guy, putting together the team that will create the family trust. I went to a lunch gathering of local writers. Then came home and finished the revisions for LOST BOY since Heidi and Maddison were gone until after dinner. Or rather Heidi came back, Maddison stayed at a friend's house overnight.

I dreamed that David had left me for another woman. And he has--for Lady Death.

 

September 20-21, 2006:

More days filled with STUFF. Not like Scotland where I had 6-10 hour writing days.

Wednesday: A phone call from editor Karen Berger at DC comics about LAST DRAGON, who loves what I have done but (of course, and expected) wants me to do a bit more work. She will be sending me her actual comments, but this was a kind of wonderful love fest.

Then off to my poetry writers group, all three of us reading and commenting on the work. I love this small, intimate group because we have no real expectation of "selling" the poems, only of mking them better, honing our skills both as writers and critiquers.

Afterwards I went to swim therapy, an entirely different feeling, concentrating not on head-stuff but body-stuff. Bought flowers for David's grave, and set them down with a spate of weeping.

But of course by then the day was effctively gone. So I watched the last four episodes of a Project Runway that I'd never seen.

Thursday: The same.

First we stopped at Pacific Printing to order aprons with a FAIRY TALE FEAST logo for the many readings and speaking stuff we are doing. Afterwards, Heidi and I went housewares shopping. Mattresses for her bedroom and Maddison's, which is how they will sleep until Heidi's check for the Spy book comes in and she can buy the actual beds. Also a sofa and stuffed chair. And for my kitchen, six chairs. At last! We got great deals on all of them, too. Heidi is a great shopper.

I came home and worked quite a bit--maybe three hours--on the revision of LOST BOY and cracked it. Still needs another day's worth at least. God knows when I will get the time for it! Also sent along to the "Be Careful What You Wish For" short story editor the revisions that Heidi and I agreed on.

 

Interstitial Moment:

Questions, we got questions. . .

From Apryl: “I was wondering, is it true that if it takes a long time to get a reply from a publisher, that maybe they like your book?  I sent a book to Charlesbridge and they've had my manuscript since May, but I still have not gotten a response yet.”


Especially if you are an unpublished writer, it can take up to six months for some response. (Sometimes if you are a published writer with a top agent it can STILL take that amount of time.) If you haven’t heard by then, give them a call. There is--alas--always the possibility that the manuscript got lost. This happens more often than you might think.

Apryl also asked: “Also, where do you get ideas?  If there are so many books in the world, how do we make it original enough so that it won't sound like someone else's?  Sometimes I'll start to write something, and then I'll hear about a book that is similar to my idea even though I have not read the book before.”

Ideas are common coin. We all share them. What an author does with the idea is what counts. A few years ago, I was approached by a well-known children’s book writer who was putting together an anthology of stories about a child who gets an empty box for his/her birthday. There were ten or twelve stories in the finished book, among them my “Birthday Box.” Every single one of those stories was different. VERY different. But we all started with the exact same idea.

 

September 18-19, 2006:

So Ruth Sanderson came over on Monday instead. The dummy for HUSH LITTLE HORSIE is adorable. Horses, good night book--how can it miss? Well, I have said that before and taken fifteen years to sell a sure-winner. As I have learned painfully the last few years, I know less about selling books now than I did twenty years ago. The market is so volatile and particular now, and just when I think I have it sussed, it changes again.

I'd hoped to go to water therapy but my car's battery had died, so instead I worked on more MOTHER GOOSE stuff and revisions for LOST BOYS. About the latter--the trip to Kirremuir gave me two new scenes for the book, which meant major revamping. But I think the book is better for it. I had to drop out some serious stuff, but it was material (about the death of Barrie's older brother) that I had gone on too long about anyway, making the editor nervous. It needs a couple more long days before I can send it back to editor Steve Meltzer. (Who is smart and patient and reasonably quick.)

Tuesday, Talk Like A Pirate Day (no--really!) I spent the morning voting for Duval Patrick among others, then on to tidying more of my writing room (a dumpster would help!) before going off to my writing group. What a treasure they are. They are brilliant, funny, caring women whose work I admire enormously. I read nothing myself, but made some (I hope) good comments on works by Barbara Goldin and Ann Turner, the only two to read this day.

Came home to do more tidying, going through old magazines (PW and Newsweek) and cleaning out the fridge and re-arranging the pantry cupboards. A lot of Heidi's stuff is already over in her new kitchen though, without any furniture and no CO (certificate of occupancy) she and Maddison are still living here with me. Boxes, boxes, bags, baskets full of stuff EVERYWHERE. We are hoping that in the next week they will be able to actually move. Of course they have no beds or chairs or sofas. So it make take even longer.

This was reported in PW Online and sent to me by dozens of folk: "Finally, Siegel says he's also signed legendary children's author Jane Yolen to create a graphic novel called Foiled, the story of a girl fencer and her first love. Siegel has not yet signed an artist to illustrate the work." Leaving out the fact that I am real and not legendary (a particular locution bugaboo of mine), it's nice that my editor thinks enough of me to mention the new book. Though I wish he'd mentioned the fantasy elements. I was worried enough about the contract which said the final mss was due Oct 1 since I have NOT gotten a revision letter yet. But he assured me that he has confidence in (the legendary) me, and besides I really have till the END of October. Arrrgh--he should see my October tour schedule!

Other book news: I received the delicious BABY BEAR'S BOOKS poster from Harcourt. Do try and score a copy or three. They are adorable. And my agent and I have been talking to Auryn prodictions about licensing some of my short stories to them. Their animation is cutting edge and wonderfully literate. But with all movie stuff, I do not expect it till it actually happens.

I have been dreaming emormous amounts of bizarre things and none of those dreams contain David or even a reasonable facsimile. It makes me very sad that I cannot even have him in dreams. When I wake in the middle of the night, I try to set myself the task of dreaming about him, then fall asleep, and he is not there. Why is he avoiding me in my dreams, who so fills my waking moments with longing and memory? A puzzle I shall never figure out, I'm afraid.

September 17, 2006:

Sunday I went through LOTS of back mail (several weeks worth) and bills. I sorted magazines and I tore up bits of paper. (We have no shredder.) I made lots of piles.

I also read some of Joyce Carol Oates' selections for YEARS BEST MYSTERY STORIES and the begining of SHARPE'S FURY.

I did laundry and I put away my clothes from our trip.

Ruth Sanderson forgot she was coming over to discuss her book dummy of HUSH LITTLE HORSIE and my friend Jan came over for half an hour just to play catch-up from the month I've been away. Maddison and Heidi were off at a ballet picnic so I had the house to myself. So I did mindless work.

That kind of day.

 

Interstitial moments:

Patty MacLachlan sent me this and said I could post it: "I was thinking about you and David the week of your anniversary. I
was out on the deck, the door left open during the nice days of early fall. When I came back in there was, in the pantry, a lovely yellow throated warbler sitting there--so beautiful, so tiny, so perfect. Just sitting there on the shelf next to the coffee and cups. See? Many of us have moments that remind us of you and of David."

Then Beth asked me this: "I have several journals that amount to the fits and starts of writing. Ideas for a plot here, the beginnings of a idea there, maybe a few notes on a character I think would be cool etc. I have sat down with these pieces many times and tried to make something out of one or two of them but it never seems to get me any where. I keep expecting the "frying pan of inspiration to smack me on the head". How do you deal with this?"

The only one who can wield that frying pan is you, Beth. Don't expect Ms. Muse in her Birkenstocks to sneak up behind you. She's already been there, giving you those fits and starts. Now you are in for the tough slogging part of writing. Maybe it's the white paper or the blank screen that's scaring you. Get out a tape recorder, read the first bits in and. . .just keep talking. Don't bother editing, just talk yourself through it. Pretend you are telling the story to someone else. See if that helps

 

September 13-16, 2006:

Wednesday: So much mail, so little time. Tried to help Heidi pick out knobs for her kitchen cabinets. Do you know how many ugly knobs there are in the world? And besides that, Steve and Claire from the computer science department came over so Steve could give me a lesson on how to do stuff on my website. It is terrifying. So much to learn. Old dog that I am, I may be out of tricks. I wrote down everything he told me. I will try it out on Sunday. We will see. . .

Thursday: Meeting with the money manager in the morning, hair appointment in the afternoon. Cleaned up at the house as best we could given that there are boxes--empty and full--everywhere in preparation for Heidi's move. Even worked a bit on BROTHER BEAST. Packed for the weekend in Rhode Island.

Friday: We dropped Maddison off at school (she was staying over at a friend's and going to see "Mama Mia" in Hartford) and headed out on the road. It's about 1 1/2 hours from Northampton to the Westin/Convention Center in Providence where the New England Booksellers Convention was being held. We got there in plenty of time to unpack in our separate rooms (down the hall from one another) and then get to the awards luncheon where I was one of four people to win a NEBA Award for body of work. I was also the only woman. Awards were in fiction, nonfiction, publishing, and children's books, the latter mine. We each gave a ten minute speech. Heidi told me mine was best, but then why wouldn't she! Everyone was give a signed copy of HOW DO DNOSAURS GET WELL SOON.

Then I sat in the Tor booth and signed about 100 books for them to give away. Afterwards, Heidi and I made our first attack on the free books and ARCs, (Advanced Reading Copies) collecting two bags full, some for ourselves and some as presents and/or auction objects for literary and ballet associations.

There is a mall attached to the Westin, so we went afterwards and did some Christmas/Chanukah shopping as well as getting me new glasses from Barrel & Crate, because when Heidi moves and takes all hers I will; be down to two. (Mine were mostly broken.)

At the children's book dinner in the evening and we had a riotous time with friends like Judy O'Malley, the Scholastic group, and others. Speakers were Jennifer Armstrong, T.E. Barron, and Judith Schachner of Skippyjon Jones fame who was one of the funniest speakers I have ever heard. We were so exhausted after the dinner, we went right up to bed.

Saturday: I had three official signings (for FAIRY TALE FEASTS, THIS LITTLE PIGGY, and BABY BEAR'S BOOKS) as well as sitting in the Tor booth and signing books for them. Heidi did the same for the Sleeping Bear booth where she signed ONE IF BY LAND, her Massachusetts Number book. Then we went several times around the hall and got in total about four more bags of new books and ARCs, plus a special autographed copy of a book by Senator William Cohen, because he scammed a DINOSAUR book for one of his grandkids and wanted it signed!

By 3, exhausted, footsore, we headed for home, only getting lost twice getting out of Providence, one time my mistake, one time Heidi's. A new world's record. Usually we get more lost than that. Still web made it home in under two hours, picked up Maddison in Springfield where she was hanging out with her dad, and then we drove home to look at all our goodies. We were all in bed well before 9.

 

September 11-12, 2006:

Monday: I went a half dozen times around the house, making sure I had everything packed that was mine, so any guests do not trip over my trinkets. And then Bob showed up for a two hour plotting session for our graphic novel, BROTHER BEAST. It began the way all our plotting sessions begin--coffee for him, tea for me. We sat in the Great Hall and soon we were batting around ideas for the story, which rose finally to concensus. He took notes and will write out a draft of about 2-3 pages to add to the first 12 pages I have done in graphic novel format. And then I will go over what he has done, and send it on.

I had a surprise visit from the little girl I'd left a book for down the road, and her mother. Showed them around the house and garden. And then went off to Ann and Ron's for a lovely farewell dinner.

Tuesday: Slept badly, of course. I always do before getting an early morning plane. Debbie drove me to the Edinburgh airport. We discussed the BROTHER BEAST plot and she hadsome wonderful questions.

The airport was full, the plane ride--though a half hour late--in leaving, was smooth and I even napped a bit. Read a Mary Higgins Clark novel (silly but goes down easy on a plane.) Then did five crossword puzzles, and started a Rebus mystery I hadn't yet read. The plane made up the half hour, only to lose it again on the tarmac in Newark before we were allowed out. And then I whizzed through passport control, only to have my bag be the very last one out, another half hour gone. And that gave me a little over 20 minutes to get to my other plane. Should have been a snap BUT the way Newark airport is configured, a traveler from outside the US has to go through the whole search proceedure again. I finally found a guard who put me in the fast lane and I got to my plane with moments to spare becaue it was ten minutes late!

Again--an easy flight, though I had to wait a half hour before Brandon came to pick me up. Home to a tour of Heidi's house. Almost ready! And a bite to eat. And then I went to bed at 7 pm, only to wake at 2:30-4:30, before falling asleep for another two hours.

Ah jetlag! It only gets worse as I get older.

 

September 9-10, 2006:

I really am ready to go. All packed (except for toothbrush and hairbrush and toilet kit) and champing at the bit.

Saturday I had a very social day—lunch with Christine at the Byre Theater, then tea with Nora at her house, then dinner with the Harrises. A bit sentimental and occasionally valedictory. But fun.

I had a full day out on Sunday with my friend Kathy and off we went for a visit with her son Roger, wife Jane (there was a name I could remember) and 2-year-old grandbaby Eve who was as adorable a little blonde, blue-eyed mite as could be found. Extra treat was Kathy’s youngest son, Luke, who I knew from earlier visits.

Roger and Jane have a new house in Errol, between Dundee and Perth. Or rather it’s a 150 year old house with a wonderful garden with three apple trees, a sloe, a pear, a plum, a cherry, etc. We ate in the garden, took Eve to the park, had a lovely day of conversation and excellent food. What could be better, except for missing David who would have loved our time there.

And I realized again how really sociable I am in Scotland and how, well, family-and-work centered I am in the States. Most of my social time is either with my children and grandchildren, or has to do with writer’s meetings or book tours, or giving speeches. Especially now that I am living alone. (Or will be in a couple of weeks—Heidi’s house is almost ready.) So I have determined that I must work harder at making dates with friends in the US, as I do here in Scotland. And I will say yes to invitations to lunch or tea or dinner or theater or. . .whatever. Otherwise I co easily become a stale, bitter-mouthed, sad-eyed late-night tv watcher. Someone I wouldn't like myself.

Interstitial Moment:

Mary asked: "Do you ever dream your stories or problems in them? Do you keep a notebook by the bedside for such events?"

Short answer: Yes and yes.

Long answer: Only four times have I actually dreamed something, and two of those were the openings chapters of novels: WIZARD’S HALL and THE WILD HUNT. One was about the characters and an opening few lines— UNCLE LEMON’S SPRING, though the main character in the dream, and indeed in the first several versions of the novel, was a boy. Only in the last (and published) version he has become a she. The fourth time was a complete picture book. I dreamed I was turning the pages and that the book had been illustrated by Robin Spowart, an illustrator whose work I liked a lot but had never met. That book—FEVER DREAM—sold to Harper and then after five years was returned without an illustrator and without my having to return the money.

I have, however, dreamed many poems, especially during my husband’s illness, and I always keep a notebook or loose papers by the bedside. And this because I get a lot of ideas right BEFORE falling asleep or right AFTER waking up. Most—but not all—make as much sense as a dream. But a few—see the long paragraph above—are certainly useful, saleable, and one (WILD HUNT) turned out to be one of the most interesting books I have ever written. At least to me.

One writer’s take on the dream question. Your mileage may vary.

 

September 8, 2006:

Ah, I must learn never to say I am done with writing. I continued working on the SNOW IN SUMMER graphic novel proposal and then segued right into a BROTHER BEAST graphic novel proposal that Bob Harris and I want to write. Got down the first 10 or so pages and then wrote on the bottom: BOB: FIND US A PLOT!

And all this happened when I had (of course) too many things to do. Things like finishing the Lisa Tuttle books because I want to recommend them to American editors. And things like paying last-minute bills. And shopping. And having tea in the garden with Marianna. And bringing a book over to a new friend for her daughter. And running Christine’s birthday dinner (just four of us—Christine, husband John, and friend Alex) at the Grange Inn.

I guess I do best when there is too much to do.

Must reconsider: I have been thinking about going off to a writer’s retreat, like the McDowell Colony this fall or next spring. But perhaps in order to write I require noise, visitors, and frequent breaks rather than silence, stillness, and solitude. Perhaps I need a full refrigerator and boxes of chocolates. Perhaps I need deadlines and drop deadlines, not lifelines and baskets of lunch at the door.

Wait—I know what I need: a comfortable house and a wife. Someone to do the cleaning and the meals, and to listen to my stories about writing. No, that’s not true. I have a cleaning lady who remembers to come occasionally, there is always take out, and besides Heidi loves to cook when she’s not hauling Maddison to ballet or book club or fencing or. . .And all of you reading this journal listen to my stories and never complain. Well, not often. Though it’s about time you started asking questions again so I can write more about process, or at least the more that you want to know.

 

September 6-7, 2006:

More house tidyings, more final bill paying, last minute shopping, last minute laundry and cleaners. The guy from the Concept group came back for another 4-hour session to try and get the printer working, and again—no dice. I really need an upgrade on this computer or a new computer, but that’s not going to happen right away. Maybe next summer.

I went to the Hepburn Garden Association meeting at one of the grand old Edwardian houses up the road. Fascinating place, though furnished in late Edwardian and not brought up to date since, I would guess. I loved it and the elderly lady who lives in that mammoth pile alone. Met another American who is living here in St Andrews, Robin who has a daughter, Olivia, who is a fan of my books. Wow! I plan to call on them before I leave and bring another book to such a smart kid.

I thought I was done with writing, but I began a proposal for a new graphic novel based on my short story "Snow in Summer." And also began a long correspondence with Umesh Shukla, an animator who wants to do several of my short stories as 6-10 minute animated shorts. I like his work a lot.

Mostly, I am saying a goodbye to things Scottish since I will be off on Tuesday and not back again till some time in May at the earliest. That’s a full nine months, though friends will be staying and working at the Scottish house while I am gone.

 

Interstitial Moment:

I often wonder what I would do if I could not write. Or rather, if I hadn't been published early and often. I was being published (poetry and journalism) in college and sold my first (nonfiction) book on my 22nd birthday. My first picture book was sold before I had finished writing the nonfiction book.

My writing teacher at the time was ML at the New School. She had my editor boss (though not my editor because Knopf frowned upon its employees publishing at home) over to dinner and complained about young whippersnappers getting published so young. And with so little to say. And she meant me. Actually named me. And this after I dedicated my second book to her!

Now that I am well past the age Ms. ML was when she complained about me, I hear myself occasionally making growling noises at young and successful writers. At which point I find myself having to laugh at this old me. Of course there will always be bright young things getting published. Many of them are writers I have taught. Or I have taught the writers who have taught them. (I really AM that old!) And this has nothing to do with my career or my abilities to write. They are not crowding me out of the field. I may be an old dog, but I am learning new tricks every day--like writing graphic novels and finding plot.

But what would I have done if I'd never been published? There is no way to answer that. Publishing has been my occupation, my vocation, and my life for the past 46 or more years. And if along the way I also taught, diapered babies, cuddled grandkids, edited, critiqued books, did professional storytelling--it all went into my stories.

Am I writing better than I did 46 years ago? Do I have more to say? Good, God, I hope so. Otherwise, why keep going on?

September 4-5, 2006:

It’s odd that after those weeks of pure saturation in writing, I can’t seem to settle into anything at all except this journal. Of course I don’t have anything left to do that is not enormous, and perhaps I am leery of starting on a big novel with only a week left in Scotland. Or anything (like BAD GIRLS or the revision of LOST BOY) that needs the research materials that are back home.

Perhaps I am skiving, that wonderful British word that means to laze about when one should be working, or taking off at a run from everything that smells of work, homework, or school.

Or perhaps I am giving myself some vacation time.

Although I often say that writers get no vacations, I think I am at least on down time. I am "gathering". . .looking at the way the heavy clouds grey out everything in the garden. Watching how raindrops splat onto paving stone but soak into grass. Savoring the salty taste of lamb chops cooked by an old friend. Listening to the flap-flap-flapping of the cushie doos (the pigeons) as they fight/mate/defend territory in the firs.

I am seeing all my friends for a last visit before leaving next Tuesday. So I had Chinese food at Bob and Debby’s house on Monday. Tea with Janie Douglas on Tuesday. Dinner with Edgar and Maggi Tuesday night. I have two more teas, three dinners, and a meeting of the Hepburn Garden Association, plus a full day with friend Kathy on Sunday. Lots of goodbyes.

And I am packing, writing up the customs list, sending myself the pieces I worked on here in Scotland, tidying the house for any visitors (plenty expected.)

But no work.

Though I did hear that Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling have accepted my story "Troll" for their anthology. Whew! I reread it upon hearing. I think it has charm. I don’t remember writing all of it! That happens when I work at a white hot speed.

I finished reading SHARPE’S ESCAPE (I adore he Sharpe novels set in the Napoleonic Wars) and read Lisa Tuttle’s YA novel PANTHER IN ARGYLL, which has a shape-shifting heroine and a troubled family. That makes for a quick and delicious read which seems to promise a sequel—if only she can get an American publisher. So I am going to try and help.

And am into the second series of the "Irish RM." Beautifully mounted, and sometimes riotously funny, about a naïve Englishman in Edwardian England sent to Ireland to serve as a resident magistrate. But I am constantly troubled by the portrayal of the Irish people as feckless liars, silly drunks, and constant thieves and poachers. Even though they always get the best of the hapless though sweet RM and the preening Lady Knox, a displaced English woman who tries to uphold overrated English customs. Am I being to PC about this? Ah well, I am just reporting how I feel.

But I miss that passionate rush of words when I am writing and I can't wait to get back to it. Though the first thing I shall need to write upon getting home is a short thank you speech for an award I am getting in October in Connecticut.

September 1-3, 2006:

This was a difficult weekend, made easier by good friends. September 2, David and I would have been married 44 years. I thought a lot about our wedding, a riotous affair. We were married at my parents New Rochelle home, supposedly outside, but it was raining. My mother insisted, "Happy is the bride the rain falls upon." And she was right.

The judge said he’d be there if he got his teeth in time. David’s brother Bill took David out first thing in the morning for several stiff whiskeys. We were married in the living room, with Andrew Boelcskevy as David’s best man, and Janet Adelman as my maid of honor.(Both academics now!) The judge got there in time, and David stumbled on the words "Plight thee my troth." Whether it was the whisky, the olde English, or the situation, I was never to know.

My brother and a friend played folk music and I sang, "I Wish I was Single Again" though I didn’t. My male Yolen cousins all showed up with fake beards in honor of David’s real one. It stopped raining long enough for us to have a whopping good party outside.

We went down to West Virginia for our honeymoon, calling it the Two Dying Grandmothers’ trip, though his grandmother actually took another eight years to die, dying the day before Jason was born.

What I did to celebrate this date, and honor it, was to go up to our friends Mike and Sue Gassaway in Aberdeenshire, We’d spent the last 7 or 8 anniversaries (though not last year of course) with them on September 2. They were so welcoming and so caring. . .we had a great cook-out Friday, after Susan and I had a couple of hours in a serendipity trip near their home, which included a wonderful old beech tree drive up to a castle, hiking up to a stone circle, and finding an almost hidden antique store.

On the day itself, the three of us drove into Aberdeen and I got the full tour. We saw Old Aberdeen, the harbor, St Macher Cathedral, another fine church where excavation was going on, and a splendid Belgian Chocolate shop! When feeling blue, find chocolate! On the way home we stopped at several antique stores, though the only thing I bought was a volume of McGonagall poems for 2 pounds.

The next morning, you would have all laughed, but the three of us sat silently reading the Sunday papers like a trio who had lived together for years. Then off I went, by way of Kerrimuir, where J. M. Barrie had been born. I had a picture taken of me before the wash-house which was the prototype for Wendy’s House. I hope it comes out so we can use it on my Barrie book’s back page.

Home again, a bit sad, but knowing I can do this on my own. And there were two presents from Lisa Tuttle—three of her children’s books, and an old Scottish touring book. What fun! And news that Sammy cat, home at last, was doing pretty well.