I have been overwhelmed lately with invitations. All my Scottish friends realize I am leaving in two weeks, and suddenly the invites are coming in thick and fast. So think of me wining and dining my way across Fife. Or perhaps it’s whining and dining as I obsess about the bustle of my return, not to mention the dreaded flights.

Why in this four days alone I have had: tea with Marianna and Pete at my house, a visit from Vanessa and kids to report on their first day of school (and more tea and biscuits, a BBQ at Ron and Ann’s with old friends and a food hangover afterwards, Afternoon Tea at Rufflets with Janie Douglas, and a long natter about the novel with Debby as well as discussing Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped and Catriona.

So, you ask, what about the important stuff? What about writing?

Well, that, too: finished and sent off Snow in Summer, reworked the two first chapters of Girls’ Bible, hacked my way into (but only half done) for a proposal for Wing Beats, a new bird book collaboration with Jason, reworked a poem I’d sent over a year ago to Terri Windling into a picture book called Oh, My Bunny Girls, finished the two speeches for the Irish SCBWI conference, fiddled on several spreads of Last Dragon because of stuff the artist has done which necessitated some changes, reworked Daddy’s Hug (a companion to Mama’s Kiss) and sent it off, received two more rejections, and worked on a couple of poems. See–I am not letting all the invitations to get in the way. Much.

But as usual two weeks from going back across the Pond, I have been dreaming about the States, getting a bit tense about the return trip and all I have to do once I land: book stuff, money stuff, speaking stuff, workshops, and a house full of paperwork to be tended to. Honestly, I like the quieter pace of Scotland and the days I have to read and to write and to think. Thinking about writing is not overrated. At least not to me.

But the nights draw in here, and the pull of a New England autumn is strong. I miss my kids and grandlings. Miss my writers’ group. Miss having dinners with Bob Marstall and others. Miss getting to go into New York and seeing my marvelous agent Elizabeth and the editors. I am truly of two souls. Montaigne spoke about “Two souls in a single breast,” and that’s me. But aren’t I lucky to have both worlds.

This from a speech I’m giving in Ireland in two weeks for SCBWI:

I seemed to have been absent from school the day plot was taught. So I will tell you in several sentences what I believe plot is all about. You may argue with me at will.

I believe there are two kinds of writers: the ones who carefully consider plot, who craft it with outlines and maps, with tending to the Gross National Product of the place of their story, and they know every thing ahead of time. And then there are the others who simply shake hands with their characters, take the measure of them, let them loose into the mist, and then spend the rest of the book plunging after the characters shouting, “Wait for me.”

I am of the latter group, a true scrambler in the mist, absolutely the wrong person to lecture you on plot.

But this I know: the only place you will ever find a plot-driven life is in the pages of a book. Donald Trump’s life? Too messy and sprawling and positively unbelievable and bad seed-ish. Richard Branson’s life? All forward motion and no place to rest. Tiger Woods? Not a tragedy. Farce maybe, except for the heartbreak imposed upon his wife. You need nobility of character for tragedy. Brangelina? Are you kidding me? Too much character, no real story. Lady Di? Don’t get me started.

and a bit later:

I –being a lover of fairy tales– knew immediately that the deeply-rooted last line in folk stories, “And they lived happily ever after,” is the core of what we think we know about endings. We hear it always in out hind brain because it’s the last line most of us in the West have grown up with. That line stops the story at the point of greatest happiness. The wedding, the homecoming, the mystery unraveled, the villain disposed of, families reunited, babies born.

If we went on in the story, that happy ending might not be deserved. “Cinderella” might be whispered about in court: after all, her manners are not impeccable, she always has smudges of ash on her nose, and no one can trace her bloodline back enough generations. Perhaps she has grown fat eating all that rich food in the castle, and the prince’s eye has strayed.

If we went on in “Three Little Pigs”, the brother who builds with bricks will have kicked the other two out of his house or hired them to run his successful company and they—angry at their lower status—plot to kill him but having little imagination do it the only way they know how, by trying to boil him in the pot that still holds the memory of the wolf’s demise, so being by far the smartest of that trio, of course he finds out.

And as for those “Twelve Dancing Princesses,” they have grown old, and are massively obese from lack of nightly exercise. They are all unmarried (except for the oldest who married beneath her, and I’m sure there’s more to that story) and they still keep on about how their disgusting father ruined their lives by hiring the soldier to find out their secret. You see—in fairy tales we know where to end. And it’s taken care of in that last line: “happily ever after.”

But modern books pose a different problem. They present harder choices. It’s no longer fairy tale endings we are talking about, but the other stuff.

And I go on for about 45 minutes along these lines. Hope they enjoy it.

This is what happens when I am head-down in a revision. Well, three revisions, really. Days and days of cutting, hacking, sawing, sanding, pasting, un-gluing, the usual.

The initial part of the revision consisted of reading through beta-reader Debby’s major comments, which were mostly about the first half of the book, and understanding the problems therein: getting rid of the father’s pieces and concentrating on the three women whose story it truly is, as well as fixing the forward motion. The second revision went step by step through the entire novel, where Debby had affixed many more notes. The third was to go over the whole thing once again, reading it as a single piece of writing instead of many fixes. And on the way, I solved a major plot problem which both Debby and I had spied but neither of us had come up with the solution until the final final draft.

Now SNOW IN SUMMER is off to the publisher’s editor (who is off on a vacation) so it will be a while till I have to tackle this again. Just as well. I am plumb tired of the book.

Along the way, I also read a bunch of son Jason’s book proposals, worked on Bob Harris’ short story and helped him turn it into a picture book, diddled with a poem or two, and thought about other writing I need to do.

Oh–and two more rejections. As I said above–the usual.

Read Stevenson’s “Kidnapped” for the first time since I was a kid and realized it’s an absolute textbook teaching tool for how to write a brilliant short novel. Have begun the sequel, “Catriona” because I want to know how David Balfour’s story ends and actually never read it before. It isn’t a patch on the first book. Some day I ust write an Interstitial Moment for this journal on writing sequels and following books. Also read Gregory’s “White Queen,” an interesting potboiling historical with a lot of bodice-ripping elements. Good bathtub reading.

Oh, and I had some fun, too, including but not limited to: Another trip to the Pittenweem festival, this time with Christine, to pick up my purchase; two days of touristing around with friend Susannah Richards who stayed over three nights; dinner out with Elaine; dinner in at Debby and Bob’s; a wild day at the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh with friends Elizabeth and Steven that culminated in a performance by Battlefield Band; dinner over at Vanessa’s with her family and an Italian colleague of Ifor’s; tea in Janie Douglas’ in-laws garden while her wonderful husband Tom cut-and-slashed his way through the undergrowth (reminding me of the work on my novel, actually, though sweatier!); and plenty of tea and comforting emails as well as Skype visits with Heidi and my brother Steve who lives in Brazil.

Not a bad life, actually.

I have been busy with guests and stuff since finishing the novel. Things like tea with a friend and neighbor who’s moving back to the States, old Hitchcock movie with  Nora, one evening at the Pittenweem Arts Festival with Bob and Deb, their son Matthew, and their friend Steve, and then again the next day with Pam. I actually bought a piece which is a first for me!

I had six YA fantasy writers over for lunch on Sunday, and one–Lisa Tuttle–stayed overnight. We called it the First Annual Scottish YA Fantasy Writer’s Summit: Lisa, me, Bob and Debby, Elizabeth Wein, Elizabeth Kerner, and Annemarie Allen.

Friend Connie Kirk, who had taken a workshop on writing picture books with me and was over as an Emily Dickinson scholar giving a paper at a conference, came for an overnight with her husband and son.

Mike Swanwick, one of my favorite fantasy writers, his lovely wife, and a pair of their friends came for a long tea that morphed into dinner.

So I have been a butterfly after weeks of being a bee.

Oh and suffered from a pinched nerve and really bad reflux all on the same day. Well, better to have it all it once than dribbling over days and weeks.

And there is book news: In less than an hour, friend Debby will be over to discuss her close reading of Snow in Summer and what it still needs.

I sold Grumbles from the Forest, a book of fairy tale poems I wrote with Rebecca Kai Dotlich to Boyds Mills after a very long wait.

Accepted the offer from Holy Cow Press in Minneapolis, a small but well-thought-of literary publisher, for my book of poems about David’s death–Things to Say to a Dying Man.

Contracts came for A Bear Sat On My Porch Today, a picture book.

Starred review for Elsie’s Bird and 4th printing for Not All Princesses Dress in Pink and also a special sale to the Hallmark stores.

Wrote a short story “Andersen’s Witch” for an anthology, though my guess is that it’s not quite what the editor wants. Wrote How Do Dinosaurs Celebrate Christmas and How Do Dinosaurs Celebrate Chanukah, which the editor and the illustrator like.

And got three rejections.

Good few weeks.

This is a poem about the gull George that I fed and took care of in the garden till he was ready to fly off.

Goodbye to the Gulls

For two weeks, down the flue,

from their nest on the chimney pots,

the black-backed gulls cackled and called,

spitting out bird words—food, flight, danger.

When the baby slipped down the slant

of the canted roof and landed in the patio,

Aal fluff and legs, screaming for food,

his beak wide open for hours at a time,

I thought I’d go mad with the noise.

Yet for three long weeks I fed him,

named him George or possibly Georgette,

with baby gulls it’s hard to tell.

I ducked when Mama Gull dived down at me,

crying out danger, food, flight, all of the above.

For three long weeks I watched over George

feeding him crackers., cooked chicken, bread.

He always demanded more, in that insistent

creak of a voice., and well-trained, I supplied it.

Four days ago, fully fledged, he flew

over the garden hedge, into the town

where gulls scream all day and all night long,

and the residents complain, their voices

louder, trilling their Scottish r’s

like kettles on the boil.

As for me, strangely, I miss the gulls

who all flew off after George,

carrying their cacophony with them.

The silence is worse than the cries.

© 2010 Jane Yolen All Rights Reserved

Boy, have I been head down and working on Snow in Summer, writing about 1500 words every two days, setting the words down the first day, revising the next, dreaming of the chapter to come, figuring out the ending. And yes, Dear Readers, I did get the complete draft down, just a bit over 40,000 words, right on target.

Now the book is with my beta reader, Deborah (Debby) Turner Harris.(She’s my plot guru, too.) So I am hoping what she has to say won’t be too onerous. I have the next two weeks with multiple guests to get the revisions done, and then off to the editor whom–I am certain–will have MUCH to say.

Do I like it? Parts. But the whole? It’s too new to know. Still at the “just words” stage.

I also worked on the 3-5th revisions of the How Do Dinosaurs Celebrate Christmas and How Do Dinosaurs Celebrate Chanukah. This was the editor’s brainstorm and I am waiting to see what she thinks of what I sent. Heidi sent me great notes on it, and I reworked it and sent THAT on to the editor. I’ve heard from illustrator Mark Teague who is itching to start. After all, he has to do two complete books instead of one. But we need the editor on board.

And I have a bunch of short stories partially written, trying to decide which one is a good idea for one of the anthologies I’ve been invited to.

As to playing:

I went with friend Claire to the Cheese Farm where we had a great natter about life, studying (at 50 she’s going for a doctorate), books, music, & everything.

Nora and I took in “Inception” at the movies. An interesting combination/gloss/redaction of “Matrix” and several other movies as well as a couple of Phil Dick short stories. First time I ever heard an entire audience gasp at an ending before.

Several dinners at Bob and Debby’s and watching the new Sherlock Holmes series with them. Lucky that Bob taped it because he fell asleep!

I have been watching the first of the Swedish “Wallender” mysteries  now out on CDs which a friend lent me.

Walked around town and did some gallery hopping with Christine one day.

Had Janie and her builder husband over for tea and we discussed three possible projects for the house, one of which he helped me dismiss. One of which I hope to get going on for next summer.

And getting ready for the onslaught of friends this weekend and next week. Thank goodness the book is done.

A very busy six days, both personally and book-wise.

Books:

I was mostly head down in the novel–Snow in Summer–and went from the 22,000 words of the last report here to 32,000 and heading toward the ending which will probably be about 5-10,000 more words. Along the way, I have twice upped the age of the main character and may need to do it again. That turns out to mean  quite a lot of juggling but I see that I cannot (for the plot’s sake) let my main character remain with the miners for two years as the villain will have already killed her father if that happens, which spoils the happy ending of the book. So it has to be days, not years before the wicked Stepmama makes her move.

I also received 7 (count ‘em) rejections on one day as editors were cleaning out their in-boxes. To be fair, that was only two editors, both of whom had a number of manuscripts and these were long-shots anyway. But I am truly tired of people saying how well I write.  implying that the market doesn’t support well-written books any more.

Some grand reviews of books. And also the producers who wanted to make a musical of Hippolyta paid up with real money, so maybe it will happen. (I never believe these things until they’re actually on stage!)

Personal:

George the gull’s health and happiness have been consuming much of my emotional time. I have fed him, been driven away from him by his watchful mum, and after seeing a baby gull killed by a driver on Market Street by the mercat cross in St Andrews, I have been taking rather good care of him. I know the residents of the seacoast villages consider all gulls flying vermin, but they are a protected species now. George is beginning to fly a bit and soon he will leave (like all teens) but I will be glad he is okay on his own.

An old friend’s wife has died after a long and lingering and terrible illness. And when I heard, I wrote a poem for him because that was the only thing I could do. I know all too well he has a long and awful road ahead.

A Friend’s Late Wife

She looks out of the photo,

past her husband, past the viewer,

as if her eyes, those lovely eyes,

are set on a farther shore.

She is not late but early,

the first to go,

all left behind forgotten:

bags, houses, clothes, books,

dog, children,  grandchildren,

you.

In her eagerness to  leave,

she has left love as well,

not needing it where she is going,

though you need it most of all.

On the 22nd, I walked a part of the Fife Coastal Path with my friends Janie Douglas and Pam Robertson, a six mile round trip up and over a long hill. It was a gorgeous day and the coastal views were phenomenal. We enjoyed ourselves immensely, though I could feel it in my shins for two days after.

I went to see Toy Story 3 with Nora which was delightful, and the next evening met Claire G at the Byre Theater for a quick dinner and then to see the play “The Importance of Being Oscar,” which was an interesting one-man play about Oscar Wilde. And of course had at least one dinner at Debby and Bob’s.

Read another Anita Shreve novel and now am deep into the Philippa Gregory novel  The White Queen (about the Lancaster/York wars.)

Finis.

P.S. If you want me to do some Interstitial Moments question-answering, you need to send me questions I can expand on. Thanks!

I was determined with the house empty to return in depth to the revision of the first 20 chapters of Snow in Summer. And  did (more about that later), but I also had a lot of other work to tidy up, including revising for a last time the short story “Dog Boy Remembers” which is based on a character in Except the Queen, dealing with last revisions on Last Laughs and on Last Dragon (boy I hope they don’t come out in the same season!), and on Twinspiration. There was the pdf of the new book with Jason to deal with as well–Birds of a Feather. And a final small pass to answer about a half-dozen copyeditor questions on Bad Girls. Also, I did two email interviews. Whew, I think I’ve remembered everything.

Now, I don’t expect any reader of this journal to feel sorry for me, but it’s one of the difficulties of being a prolific writer. (Though I hate the word “prolific”, preferring instead the word “versatile.” But in this case, it’s the prolificity that’s the problem.) Every editor I work with seems to have the same rhythm and gets back to me with quick questions and needs a quick turn-around at the same time.

Now to the problems with the novel: afraid I have not made the villain do bad things for real reasons, I had to go back in and adjust and then re-adjust stuff. I needed to give the setting a shaking up and paint a more realistic picture of West Virginia in the 1930s. And I was balking at the next difficult chapter. Procrastinators R Us. In doing all this, I added another 2500 or so words to the manuscript so far, so that at a little over halfway through, the book is 25,000 words long.

So I was head-down writing much of these past four days, with the exception of a dinner with Bob and Debby, tea at Rufflets with Janie and Pam and Pam’s friend. And a hair cut.

I also read two so-so mystery novels, two interesting graphic novels, and watched a tiny bit of tv. Spent time feeding the baby gull, George, who’d fallen off the roof, much to the distress of his parents. (And me!)

But otherwise, it was work, work, work.

Plus one rejection letter and one exciting acceptance which, when it is tied down tight, I will talk about here on the journal at some length.

Apologies, apologies, apologies. I plead tourist insanity. I plead business. I plead sluggishness, I plead exhaustion, I plead. . .the Fifth.

And of course I cannot remember all that has happened in the past sixteen days, so this will perforce be a quick catchup.

First touristy stuff: As the girls were here for two weeks, of course I had to do stuff with them, complicated by the fact that Heidi really didn’t know how to drive on the left side of the road. So if there was driving to be done, I had to go with them. So close to home, we went to the East Neuk–Anstruther, Crail (and Crail pottery), walking in St. Andrews one day, with Marianna to the Wemyss caves and pictish stones in Lindores and Strathmiglo another day. Heidi an Maddison went several more walks around St A on their own, and three times into Edinburgh on the train, only once when I went with them.

And then we took a wonderful trip to Skye, though it was mitigated  by a blown tire in Crieff and then some sideways rain the first night we were on the island, staying at a friend’s house. But we had a lovely day out the next day with actual sun: seeing Dunvegan Castle, the marvelous water garden, some ruined churches, and a terribly spooky drive to visit a site that our host insisted we mustn’t miss. The road there was a terrifying one track, night was falling, and the mist rolled in so thick, we couldn’t see more a foot or two in front of us. We came to a huge hill that could have taken us into Hell or over a cliff, for all we knew. Dear Readers, we turned back.

Next day, Eileen Donan Castle, then off to Inverness for Urquart Castle, then Dunkeld’s ruined church, and home. Whew.

Two days later we went to the Borders, and had our best day out yet: Direlton Castle, Tantallon Castle, the N Berwick seabird center, and a trip by boat around the Bass Rock, the greatest gannetry in the world.

Home again that same day, and after another trip for them into Edinburgh, another walk about in St A, their last day here we had afternoon tea at Rufflets, the weather being perfect we sat in the formal gardens.

They left, the British Open tourists and the rain and gales rolled in. I stayed at home after that to write.

Writing: I wrote three drafts of  a new Dino book (Birthday), did editorial revisions for Last Laughs, Twinspiration, Birds of a Feather. Wrote a short story based on one my characters from Except the Queen, called “Dog Boy Remembers” (3,000 words), started another short story I’d be writing with Adam. Retold the final Jewish folktale for Jewish Fairy Tale Feasts. Whew, a lot to do in a few short days.

Got my first copy of Hush Little Horsie which, since it was dedicated to my friend Nora here, I got to give her the evening we went off to see Shrek 3, which we both enjoyed.

Signed several small contracts for short story reprints, fielded a request from an Italian publisher possibly interested in Briar Rose and said yes to the small Hungarian offer for the same book.

And finally–finally–began to rewrite the first 22,000+ words of the novel, Snow in Summer which contractually I have to finish by summer’s end. Fiddled, twiddled, tarted it up and pared it down, and the first 11 chapters (of the 20 already written became 23,000+. I hope this weekend to finish up and solve my major problem with it, so I can  push ahead next week on the book since my visitors are gone. And no new visitors due until mid August. So a whole month to myself. Whew.

I have been so engrossed in working on my novel (up to 22,000 words so far) I have forgotten to do things like update my journal. But tonight–knowing I am about to go off and do touristy things with Maddison and Heidi who have just arrived–I thought I’d better do a catch up.

Books:

For a while I thought I was doing just fine on the novel. Chapters were spilling out of me. The snake-handling sect chapter seemed pretty darn good. Chilling and awe-filled at the same time. I’ve been reading three different books on the Signs Following snake-handlers. But something was nagging at me and today, as I drove to the Edinburgh airport to pick up H&M, I realized what was wrong. Not how to fix it, mind you, but at least I identified the problem. The wicked Stepmama is a construct and her nastiness is not yet making sense. And why she doesn’t kill both Summer and her father outright and get it over with is not clear. So before I can continue with my forward movement, I have to give this problem a deep and heavy think. And then go and fix it before starting up again. Sigh. I hate when that happens!

Meanwhile, I was also toying with a new proposal with Jason, called WING BEATS which will be about flying birds, their wings, and the science of flight.

And a couple of tries at some HOW DO DINO board books as well as an odd poem here or there.

And then some dynamite news: An absolute rave in School Library Journal by the always- fascinating Betsy Bird for the new picture book I have with David Small, Elsie’s Bird.

Also, Hush Little Horsie has been taken by a book club. A possible Hungarian sale of Briar Rose–possible in that I got a lovely email from the Hungarian publisher but neither my agent nor I knew anything about this. And Bob Harris and I had to go to my Scottish lawyer to get a contract notarized for a musical theater production of. . .wait, I’m not allowed to say which book yet.

Life:

*My Scottish car died, battery ran down. Fixed.

*Went to hear Professor Bob Darnton (head of the Harvard Library) speak at the St A University with friends Nora and Rob. Bob was my high school boyfriend! I think the last time we laid eyes on one another was 25 or so years ago at a Fairy Tale conference in Princeton. An said maybe three words then.

*Tea with Vanessa Samuel at the Cheese Farm. Will be loaning her my Massachusetts house for a week as her physicist husband will be at a conference in July at Mt Holyoke.

*Tea at Wayside with friend and neighbor, Robin. Alas, she and family are going off to live in California. I shall miss them.

*Friend Peter came for dinner, and we wandered around town as well.

*Did the St A garden scheme with friend Christine and her nephew Dan. Walked around the town and got into about five gardens, and enjoyed the day immensly

*Drove to Edinburgh airport and picked up H&M, they took a walk into St A and crashed early.