The big milestone

Today is the year mark of my dad's death in India. I wrote about it, and shared it with my family and a few friends. I am sharing it below with you.

Over the past weeks, those of us Davises and Pearls who survive him have thought about him and about how we want to acknowledge this milestone. Today we drive to Boston to be with my mom, brother and his family. Eric, me, Gus, and Henry. We'll all eat together, we'll bring a guitar and try to get everyone singing, we'll do whatever my mom feels like. There's no gravestone. No cemetery. She doesn't want the kids to forget him. Little does she know--no one could ever forget him. How could they? She took his jar of ashes and put a Yankees cap on it.

Fall in Massachusetts is so beautiful. It will be impossible not to think about the raking of the leaves, the foliage on Moose Hill Parkway, the decades of my mom's great cooking, and all of our family dinners. If anything was happening in the world, my dad could explain it to us. He just seemed to know everything. Dinner time was when we'd get all our answers. I know how hard it is for my mom to sit through the presidential campaign without him by her side. He had such a uniquely expressive sense of moral outrage.

Going forward, I will write more about the times when he was alive, but for this one year anniversary, I guess I'll share the story of what happened to us that night one year ago. It would be lovely to spend the time remembering my 44 years with him before this day. At the same time, I acknowledge and accept that being with him in the moments I describe below was probably the luckiest thing to happen to both of us. The truth is that I feel honored that I was the one to be with him when he died. And though I miss him every minute, I appreciate that I will never have to see him get old and frail. Though it seems unlikely as I recount the events of that October night in Udaipur, I know watching him grow old would have been even harder. I see my friends going through the long slow torture, and I look up and say to my dad. "You sure did it in style, shnookums."

BE STRONG 

October 19, 2011

“Ambulances don’t come here,” said the voice at the front desk.

My dad lay listless in his bed. It was awful. Around nine he’d gotten up to use the bathroom in our little hotel room, but didn’t return. No sound came from the shower or the toilet, but the light was on. I peaked around into the bathroom door, and there I saw him--laying on the tile floor, ghostly and unconscious.  

We’d arrived in Udaipur, “The Venice of India” that day, tired ourselves out on a tuk-tuk tour, and jumped in our hilarious side-by-side father/daughter beds knowing next to nothing about our environs. It was good we shared a room, after all.

“Dad?” I had prodded him as he lay frozen on his side. Hearing his name, he thawed a bit, and came to. He asked what happened. We got him up and into bed--but he was out of it. He’d hit his head and there was blood. I’ll admit I was really, really scared.

“I need help,” I told the front desk.  “My father’s sick. I need a doctor!”

His next episode happened a few minutes later--like fainting, but worse. “He’ll be fine,” assured a doctor an hour later. “Would you stop asking me about oxygen!” He scolded me for my behavior as he left the Haveli, but nothing could explain his behavior. He didn’t connect or seem to want to.

Thinking back to this time just a year ago—we were both getting ready for our fifteen-hour flight from Newark. We’d had our shots, pills, etc. I wasn’t worried about malaria as much as jet-lag.  My dad only worried about his lesson plans for teaching. When I spotted him at Newark, he wore a smirk like Indiana Jones. His sense of joy was palpable. Mine, I hadn’t yet realized, was compromised by a sense of responsibility I hadn’t felt since I was a brand-new mom. My dad: Beloved professor, staunch humanist, Doo-Wop aficionado, affectionate beyond description, klutz. Me: the one who’d printed out twenty pages of “what-ifs” from the state department knowing I was going to a place I’d only seen in movies with words such as Slums in the title.

So we went, just he and I. My mom stayed in Boston. India was too damn hot.

He’d teach secondary teachers at the American School in Bombay; I’d meet with elementary kids and talk about my writing. We’d have five days there, and then fly north to see beautiful Rajastan. Yet here we were, on the first night of the second leg of our adventure, and something had gone terribly wrong.

When the men with the stretcher finally arrived, I breathed again—I’m not alone. But my confidence crashed when I saw their so-called ambulance. Was I expecting a hospital-in-a-van like in New York City? Maybe so, because this ambulance was an empty van—no oxygen, no EMTs, not even a strap for the patient. Guess we’d just have to rush to the ER.

My dad lay covered in the softest white duvet from our room. I sat by his side, rubbing his arm as we drove, mostly trying to keep the gurney (and him) from rattling up and down. A cow ambled across the narrow road in front of us.  It was like Monty Python here. I looked down, wanting to tell him about the cow. But instead he told me something: “If I wasn’t nauseous before,” he croaked, “I’m nauseous now.” Any other time, I’d have laughed out loud at our absurd situation, our crappy luck. But there was no laughing this time. I’d never felt this alone, this responsible, or this afraid. The bottom was falling out—I felt like a nursing mother who couldn’t produce enough milk—or someone who’d just seen her child fade from sight across a busy intersection.

At the ER, a doctor leisurely measured his oxygen level as others looked on.  “Just get him oxygen!” I was emphatic and panicked.  Didn’t anyone get it?  Anyone? Hello? Next I spotted something on his face--something no one noticed. He looked frozen. His eyes had gone glassy. “Look! Look!” I yelled, “Look!”

Now it was really happening. I was ushered from his side—pushed outside a curtain. But I watched everything—my body floating above, screaming. I was turning inside out. He wasn’t responding at all. I answered my phone. It was my aunt. “My dad’s dying.”

“Go be with him,” she urged. She’d been trying to reach me. “Touch him, tell him he’s not alone.”

I did those things, but he was gone.

Later everyone asked: “How did you hold it together?”  I didn’t. I cried without stopping for the rest of the night. I looked at his suitcase, at his sandals, and waited for something to change. On the phone I told my mom I was all right. I heard my husband cry.

The real job of holding me together came the next day, and it fell upon the men from Amet Haveli, the hotel.  Horrified and concerned, some of them had followed our ambulance the night before, and never left the hospital; another was sent by the hotel owner to help me. Even the waiter from the hotel’s moonlit cafe had stood next to me in the room where my father’s heart had stopped beating. He came over to me in the aftermath, his eyes filled with tears.

The only woman I saw that night was the ER doctor.

The rest were men. Everyone of them used the same two words: “Be strong.”

So I tried.

We knew our dad wished to be cremated, his ashes scattered in Coney Island, so my brother and mom both agreed. We’d respect his wishes. The man sent to help, called Gchouan, offered a traditional Hindu open-air cremation as a funeral. He brought me to see the place. It was just a long slab of concrete with some pyres. The area behind it strewn with garbage. A few filthy Hindu monuments.  Nothing we’d ever see in the US. How long had the place been there? Centuries?

The cremation took place only after a long day of mind-numbing Indian bureaucracy. Another man, Reggie, helped me, too—“our guy in Udaipur” as the gal at the consulate called him. We needed Reggie to help convince the police that I didn’t want an autopsy at the government hospital. Nearly a dozen men discussed the issue for three hours or more. I didn’t care what it took, I didn’t want him cut open in a place that wreaked of dog shit. Besides, after the ER experience at a private hospital, I didn't want to know what this place would be like. Instinct took over and I refused to lose him again. Let his body stay whole.

Finally extricated from the filthy government hospital, his body, wrapped in muslin was slid inside the white painted funeral vehicle’s long cubby. Reggie motioned for me to climb onto the back, and we sat up top on a bench next to my dad as we made our way. Traditional Indian Music played as picture of Ganesh smiled down at us. Remover of Obstacles.

As we drove through the streets, the people of Udaipur heard the sounds of the Indian music. When they saw us, they stopped. The white vehicle with red painted Indian writing, the music, everything signaled a tradition. I was the only one who didn’t know about it. Staring into my eyes to make contact, the beautiful people in their pink kurtas and orange cotton saris, placed their palms together respectfully, and bowed to me and to my dad. Many, many others joined in as we drove. A few gazed past my swollen eyes right into my breaking heart. Riding behind us, like valiant soldiers on horses, were the men from the hotel on their motorcycles. A few hours earlier, I’d wanted to bury myself alive—now, somehow, I felt elated. I felt like a Kennedy child, maybe Caroline. I took pictures as if I’d show them to my dad later. I spoke through my tears, “Dad,” I said, holding onto the flowers that were placed there, “You wouldn’t believe how beautiful this is.”

We arrived as workers sorted wood for stacking on the pyre along the concrete platform. Soon, we carried his body, our poor sweet bundle, to the place it would never leave.

Now he lay cradled on the wood branches. Gchouan was my guide. He told me that soon they would unwrap my father, exposing his face and chest. “Be strong,” I remembered. So I braced myself. From five or six feet back I watched, my eyes half closed just in case I saw something I couldn’t bear. But as the gauzy white was ripped and pulled open, I saw him again. Dad. He looked pink and beautiful. His nose was mushed, but not terribly.

A man opened a box of ghee (liquefied fat, like butter) and then another—pouring both on his body. After flowers had been placed around his neck, I was handed a cluster of twenty or so tiny smoking twigs. “You hold them near him and it symbolizes that you lit the pyre.” They told me that women were only allowed here if they were the dead person’s only relative. They poured water in his mouth after placing a coin inside. That part was bad. Too uncomfortable for him. I didn’t want a coin in my mouth, why would he? Now was my time to touch him. I reached out my fingers and felt his soft gray hair. Maybe this was my way of saying good-bye. As I write, I can’t remember the last time I kissed him.

The pyre was lit, and in some spiritual way, I suppose I was glad for him. Glad he wasn’t cut open at the smelly hospital. Glad he didn’t suffer too much. Glad that even though the country of India had the worst ambulance ever, they knew how to do this part right.  Gathering for a group picture, the dozen men and me, it felt like we’d fought in a war together. My brother was with me, too, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, and I was grateful. He said he’d tell our mom what was happening. I couldn’t bear to think about her pain.

“It was predestined,” these saddened, kind, locals told me afterward, grasping my arm in the place I’d held onto my dad’s the night before. I wish I believed it—I really wanted to. Though I can tell you one thing, my dad wouldn’t have bought that line in a million years.

Something So Right

Today I celebrate a new story.  It's the story of me and a new collaborator. She goes by the name of Erin Murphy. You can see her website if you haven't heard of her. Her agency is EMLA. Erin has agreed to represent my children's books. That means she reads my work, helps me understand what's working (and not), then gets me to fix it, eventually creating, as Jack London calls it, "marketable goods." Once those marketable goods are polished and ready, they are sent to editors for consideration.

Erin Murphy

"How I found Erin" is a story I keep going over. It began early this summer when I thought I had a closer draft of my MG novel. With that accomplished, I felt happy, yet completely aimless. Eureka! (I didn't say this out loud) I figured out the problem. I wanted a partner in my writing career. Without someone to bounce my work off of (bad sentence) I was in danger. Danger of opening a fruit stand or becoming a babysitter. Doing anything to make a little money! (I do also teach and a few other things.  Just being dramatic here.)

Back to the story:
So what did I want from this partner, anyway? Think, think, think. I thought about my friends Jessie Hartland and Brenda Bowen. They work together as author/illustrator and agent, respectively. Among other unique book ideas, Jessie had a graphic bio of Julia Child in her head when we worked together in the past (me as editor in my previous life).

Brenda Bowen

Jessie Hartland

After I left publishing, Brenda became Jessie's agent. Brenda submitted the Julia Child graphic biography book dummy to Random House. (Or maybe she sent a query. I'm not sure!) Why Random House, you ask? Here's why--Brenda figured out they were Julia Child's publisher. She knew they already had an enormous investment in Julia Child. And wouldn't a picture book biography be perfect for the French Chef's hundredth birthday! Brenda was exactly right. The book was bought by Anne Schwartz for her imprint Schwartz & Wade. It all made perfect sense. And now it's out. It's called Bon Appetit! And it looks great. (Apologies if any of these facts are wrong, but I think it's all true because I know these people.)

I tell this story often--to writer friends, writing students, and others--because it shows the depth of reflection on the part of an agent. As a former editor, I know authors from the other side. They have enough going on for goodness sakes--they're trying to put the words together on the page. It's not easy! They can't deal with money and personalities and publishing houses! YUCK! Finding a home for a book in its early stages is hard work that requires a polished skill set: diplomacy, patience, shrewd business skills, marketing savvy, luck. But it also requires a huge dose of humanity. It requires LOVE! I don't always have all or any of those things! But I wanted a partner who did.

If you're FB friends with Erin Murphy, and you read her posts--you know that she's that person. She reflects constantly, almost daily. She's cheering for her authors--reporting their good news. And she admits when she's tired or busy or says something like this: "Sometimes my desire to be thorough and methodical with my work is not in line with the world's plans for me."

Mmm. Yup. In the sometimes surface world of cyber socializing, Erin is the real thing. So these past months, as I thought long and hard about who might make the right agent for me,  I wondered: Is it someone who'd make me rich? (Um, yes.) Someone at a big agency? (Not necessarily.) Someone with power? (Perhaps. Why not?) I thought of lots of wonderful agents. I even had a really kind agent--but all the time, there was a thrumming in my belly--where all the emotions live. It said: Erin, Erin, Erin. I didn't always pay attention to it, and then one day I just knew. What I really wanted was none of those things above--I just want someone who loves my work.

So I sent her my work.

When the YES e-mail from Erin (prompted possibly by my ever-so-gentle note explaining that I was being  patient) it was a great moment. (Actually, she didn't say YES! She listed nice and constructive things about my work and simply asked: So what do you think?). What did I think? I thought: Hell ya!

Can you tell I felt an enormous relief? I did. I do. I'm very excited.

(WARNING: ABRUPT TRANSITION)

Not only that, this Erin Murphy moment coincided with the time of my fifteenth wedding anniversary. Because of that,  I was reminded of our wedding song: Something So Right. (Yes, Paul Simon!! But I must admit I first heard Annie Lennox's rendition!)

Well, I won't drag out this story--I'll just say Paul Simon's song was the story of Eric and me, but I think it also had a lot to do with finding Erin. With Eric, it took five complicated years for us to get to the wedding day. It was hard, but thank goodness for that time we spent learning how to be together. Eric taught me the value of waiting--and the risk of rushing into something important. And he showed me. Never told me. I watched him. And I suppose what I learned more than anything is why no one should want another person to do something they don't wish to do. On the other hand, not everyone is lucky enough to be married to a Buddha. But he was a Buddha with his heels dug in deep, so I had my work cut out for me. We had plenty to learn from one another.

At the risk of sharing lyrics without the music, here is the refrain from Something So Right. If you don't know it, it's all over Youtube

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3x-SXYRZBYk

My buddha

When something goes wrong
I'm the first to admit it
I'm the first to admit it
And the last one to know
When something goes right
Well it's likely to lose me,
It's apt to confuse me
Because it's such an unusual sight
Oh, I can't, I can't get used to something so right
Something so right

Erin, Eric, I'm so glad for both of you. Someone new, someone old.
Two great partners!
Excuse me, I have to go drink my champagne and do some laundry.

Six months down and a life time to go

The thing about writing is that you're always looking for a new way to say the same thing. Why is that? It's because over time, our common thoughts turn into ready-to-use phrases. These phrases get used because they're so perfect for a time--and then they get used too much, and eventually become cliche. The cliche loses its strength, sort of like expired medicine or last year's nail polish color. Okay, not exactly, but we simply have to search for fresh ways to use words every day. Don't we?

Reading books translated from foreign languages can help. The French would say "Tu parles Francais comme une vache Espagnol." It translates to "You speak French like a Spanish cow." Not something you'd say to an American with lousy French, I'm sure--but isn't it funny to know their common expression. I guess we'd say, "He sounds like he's just off the boat," or some such. I remember when I lived in France, I once had my haircut by an Italian man. After that I knew how to say, "Now I'm going to cut your hair," in French, but with an Italian accent. That cracked me up. More poignant, I suppose, was the fact that many of the domestics living in France were Portuguese. I learned to recognize that accent (the Portuguese accent in French) as well. Words, words, words. They're the bomb.

Today I woke up knowing that tomorrow marks six months from the day my dad died in Udaipur, that crazy little town in India with the palaces in the middle of the big lake--the "Venice of India." Where the movie Octopussy was shot, they say. The Venice of India is not such a good place to get sick, by the way. So as you can imagine--I cried a lot this morning as I tried to collect memories of that day. We had a great flight, but then the disappointment at arriving at a hotel that seemed dilapidated and depressing, and sort of walled in. There was our ride in the tuktuk that felt more like a refurbished mo-ped from 1976, than something three grownups should be riding around the "Venice of India" in. We finally saw the lake and the palaces we'd read about, and even a camel or two on the side of the road. We stopped at a beautiful garden--an ancient royal garden of some sort. That's where I took the photo of my dad with all the jokers--a group of sophisticated teenage Indian tourists wearing sunglasses. They were just my dad's type. There was an enormous fountain filled up with lily pads, and then we saw a beautiful curvy woman in a yellow sari, and we said that was the Indian version of my mom. He told me his last joke there, and we gave some change to a very poor woman and her toddler.

When Henry woke up at 7:15 this morning, he came in my room. When I told him to look out the window at the shivering tree, that today would be chilly unlike yesterday, he made a "brrr" sound, and climbed into our bed. I looked at his little bronzed face and told him I'd spent the morning crying. I told him that tomorrow was the six month anniversary of Oompah. He looked at me in total sympathy, his eyes welled up, and he smiled. "Oompah was the best joke teller." That's what he said. I can see my dad shaking his head. He just loved Henry.

So my head and my heart were heavy (but open) all morning as I re-wrote a satisfying sibling fight scene in the draft of the book I will someday share, and Eric left with the boys. Yet I couldn't stay in bed with my beautiful new laptop all day (Thanks, MOM!) I had to go out into the world to see the dermatologist. Going out into the world--that's when things happen. Fifty-eighth and Sutton Place may not sound so bad to you, but to us, it may as well be Minneapolis or Timbuktu. I threw the apartment back together, put on a dress that matched my beautiful brown Repetto ballet flats (Thanks, Shela!) and wrapped myself in one of the big hand-woven scarves my dad and I picked out at Harry's, the store in South Bombay where he bought two rugs for my mom. I cracked myself up, saying: "Did you ever get the feeling that the scarf you're wearing is really a table runner?" I imagined him laughing, too. I think it actually might be a table runner. How does one know? Well, I'm always imagining him laughing. Maybe that's when I miss him the most. That's always when I realize how much I miss his voice. He had so many of them (voices) but several of them were just so gentle. For a guy with a raspy voice, he really was able to sound like a pussy cat.
-
So I'd made my way to the Middle-East of Manhattan, and there I was--right at the on-ramp of the Queensboro Bridge. God in heaven! Who wants to cross that? But I guess my old Pop was watching, because as the light turned red for the ramp, I heard a familiar sound. It went something like this" "Sh-boom, Sh-boom. Ya da da da da da DA da da da da Sh-boom Sh-boom." Now, this is not the typical song you hear coming out of a car window in Manhattan. This is a song from around 1954. So I turned my head to the right, to see where on earth it could be coming from--and there sitting in a big old SUV with a giant YANKEES sticker on it, was an old happy fat guy with shiny greased back gray hair, just singing along to the Chords. I looked straight at his face, and he caught my eye. I sang a long for a few bars, and then I gave the guy the old thumbs up. He smiled. And as I walked away, I talked to my Dad--who I guess was trying to tell me he was okay. "Dad," I said to him. "I'm so glad you're doing okay now. Because you weren't so good the last time I saw you."

So I won't go on and on about how weepy I got. (I'm starting to feel like Holden Caulfied, walking around New York observing old people.) But the whole day has been like that. So I'll just try and wrap up with two thoughts. First, I decided that instead of thinking of tomorrow as the six month anniversary of the day we lost you, Dad, I'll think of today as the six month anniversary of the last time you taught, and I'll just say to those students at the American School in Bombay: You guys were really, really lucky.

And I'll finish by making sure Dad, that you know I didn't just sit around and cry all day. Like I said, I went to the dermatologist (something we always did together) and then I went to a thrift shop and bought a pair of really cute shoes for ten bucks and a pair of black silk capris (also $10)--just like the ones Mary Tyler Moore used to wear on the Dick Van Dyke show. (I know you loved her.) Oh yeah, then I bought some yellow Freesia and made a little shrine on the living room table instead of getting one of those depressing candles that Jews use. I know the flowers would probably make you sneeze. Not once, but about sixty five times. So God bless you.

Love you dad. I hope you know how much.

One year later: New Bloggage!

I looked at this page for the first time in a year. I am sorry, my dear blog. My fault, I fear. In the 12 months I spent not blogging, I completed a 57-page paper on the idea of QUIRKiness in writing for kids (thanks, Polly Horvath, Nathalie Babbitt, and Anne Ursu) and I completed 116 polished draft pages of my middle-grade novel. I had to give the book a name. The title AGNES VON KLINER, FASHION DESIGNER no longer worked since my MC (main character) changed to Agnes's pal, Carly Blye. The working title (is it working?) is Leave a Message for Carly Blye.

SO, my friends, you ask: The graduate degree is done. You know all there is to know. Now what? Well the answer is simple: No, I don't! I am still not sure how to finish the novel, all of my picture book manuscripts need overhauls, and I've had a sudden revelation about rhythm! (As in, my writing has none!) I want so much to be one of these people with a rule! What rules? Okay here are some examples: Write every day. Write every day for 7 minutes. Write a poem a day. Come up with a schedule and adhere to it! Okay, done. I hereby promise to write every day. NO MATTER WHAT. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll post some of my new-found rhythmic ditties here. Please stay tuned. You may not feel so lucky if you have to read them. Hah!

One the reading front, I recently read something I loved: GOOD GIRLS by Laura Ruby. It's a full-on YA with love, lust, rumors, and pain. It's very smart and not over the top, but thoughtful and important. It had everything a teenage girl wants. It's also a bit of a primer on teen romance if you have a boy who's willing to go there. I wouldn't give it to my kids (10 and 12) for fear they'll just laugh at me. But maybe if I leave it out, my tween will notice it. Nah. He's still re-reading Matilda. Henry and I have slowly been enjoying The Trumpet of the Swan by E.B. While. Oh, the joy of a slow, unraveling simple plot.

On the life front, I lost my dad last year, and it's still so hard to believe. I had school to finish this winter, so I found a way to put my sadness away for a little while in order to focus on writing. But, it's here. It's back. I miss him. I hope to write about him and about my amazing, surviving mom in the near future.

Reading and Writing. Behold!

I arrived home today from my writing residency--eleven days in St. Paul, and boy, oh boy was it a crazy, wonderful, kooky, insane, inspiring, emotional (did I say crazy?) week. Well, it was. Indeed. I am happy to be home in NYC, but find myself telling stories no one wants to hear about people they've never met. Do you know how that is? My older son (Gus) is walking around the house exclaiming: BEHOLD! (This exclamation comes from the game Dixit--an awesome game that uses the other side of the brain--courtesy of Kiel Phegley, a first semester writing student.) And Henry (8) who read the new Mo Willems, now feels he has unlocked the secret to successful illustration: "It's the expressions!"

I came home with signed books for them, including Godless by Pete Hautman, The Wednesday Wars by Gary Schmidt--and others not signed, but purchased at The Wild Rumpus Book Store. These include a Moomin picture book, Who Will Comfort Toffle? also a lovely, quirky, sad short novel called Against the Odds, and a stunning picture book called Lola and the Rent-a-Cat. The latter two both about serious subjects: fear of losing a parent in war and then death and loneliness.

This semester I begin work on a critical thesis, so beginning tomorrow, I begin looking for very quirky middle-grade books that address serious topics. I plan to look at how extremely unusual writing and voice allows children to access difficult topics. Should be an emotional tilt-a-whirl. If anyone has any favorites, please tell me. I am going to look at The Pushcart War, an all-time favorite.

At school this residency, we learned about writing for character. The faculty was (were?) fantastic and came up with original and evocative talks. Everything from helping us to think about the meaning of work in our writing and what works when one chooses to anthropomorphize and recognizing your antagonist and how to use subtext in dialogue. This was a lot of the real CRAFT stuff of writing, and because of that--very exciting. ME FEEL SMART!

Before leaving on my trip, my grandmother died. I went off in the shadow of her funeral, and a eulogy I wrote that gave me an opportunity to look at the family's immigrant heritage (the Hochs arrived in 1920 from Kunkalevka, Poland via Antwerp.) While in St. Paul, I thought more than once or twice about writing historical fiction. It seems like it would be so much fun--at least the research.

So now I am home, and what are the boys reading? Henry is finishing the last of the Fudge books. Gus had a choice between a few books, and chose Godless. It's a National Book Award winner about a boy who starts his own religion, and then realizes how hard it is to control. Pete Hautman, the author, spoke to us at school about some of his writing epiphanies. A fun, irreverent, charming and smart speaker, he shared some great ideas. He learned a lot from Elmore Leonard.

One of the highlights was Gary Schmidt's graduation keynote speech (we had four splendid grads who will each have a novel ready to publish soon! Take note, editor friends!) in which he told heartbreaking stories of the kinds of kids he urged our four grads to write for, before anyone else. He always refers to kids as kiddos. Hearing Gary speak or read is something to behold. (Behold!) He wove together his many poignant, funny, delightful stories--stories about Nathaniel Hawthorne's journey from loneliness to marriage; disadvantaged damaged kids he'd reached; the women of Terezin concentration Camp who fought over the correct ingredients for their favorite recipes while they were dying of starvation. He read three scenes to us from his new book, Okay for Now--forthcoming in April. Watch out for it. I can only think of cliches to describe how involved we became with the three scenes he read.

Also spellbinding were our fourth semester critical lectures. We heard about Zen and writing, turning dreams into writing and understanding dreams to better understand yourself, a practical guide to the intrusive narrator (amazing!), and we learned and learned until our brains were stretched like balloons, I tell you!

In my morning workshop, I was Jane'd. That means that Jane Resh Thomas, one of the founders of the program, made an example out of my sloppy lard-ass writing. I found out (the hard way) that I use "filters" which distance my writing from my reader. Who knew? I felt hurt, defensive, and whined like a baby. But I promise you--I will avoid them now. In workshop, when we're up, we listen. No talking until the end of the hour. So if you want to explain something to your fellow writers, you have to wait until the end. I think my jerking body betrayed my attempt to appear unhurt. But it hurts. And I know how much I have yet to learn. And yet, yet, YET--every reader reacts differently. If that weren't true, we'd all read the same book. I only recently found out that those Dragon Tattoo books have violent sex scenes in them. No wonder they're so popular. Jeepers. Who knew?

Back to life. I have to go give the boys their good dreams and maybe read them a story. More to come--and I hope to add some books jackets and pictures to match this.

Oh yeah. I can't sign off without publicly thanking my dear friend and pal-o-the-month, Peter Pearson. He was a dear friend to all of us at the residency. I think he has a heart four sizes too large. But to me especially. He played his guitar while we sang an adorable song my lil Henry wrote about a book he'd read a few months ago. The song was for a school project. The book was Because of Winn Dixie, and we performed a funny interpretation of it at the graduation banquet. Little did we know that the author of the book, Kate DiCamillo would be sitting directly in front of us. It was a hit. We laughed. We were really happy. I think this happy feeling will last at least until tomorrow. I hope so.

Five months off

People, I took five months off blogging. I think it was because I was writing the
guts of my novel. Yes, you heard correctly, my novel--directed at the very sophisticated audience of 10 year old girls. If all goes as planned, the book will have suspense, excitement, fashion, witty banter, love, loss, and what everybody wore.

As a matter of fact, I had to change the title. It was originally called Agnes Von Kliner, Fashion Designer. But Agnes is now the best friend. The protagonist is Carly Blye. I would hate to be someone who has to run a title contest, but I promise you, dear readers, that not one decent title for this book have I thought of. NOT ONE.

Enough about me and my writing (though I am also working on a book I sold called Carry It, Harriet) enough about my life (I go back to school in a few weeks you know!) how could I possibly go on and on , with complete disregard for the tediousness of the self-referential blogger (aren't we all?)

Anyway, there has been a shift for me in this blog. I find myself seldom reading to my children anymore. Why is this? I am frightened to ask. It's probably neglect. Gus (11) reads about a novel a day, if he has a new one, and Henry (8) vigilantly reads 20 minutes per night for his third-grade reading log. He has read some C.S. Lewis, Garfield, Fudge books by Judy Blume, a great book called Weird Stuff--and more. Gus just finished Rick Riordan's new book in a day. Yup, he brags. And he's lined up some Anthony Horowitz and Susan Cooper.

So I won't say to much about what they're reading until I start paying very close attention again--but I will say that I have continued to read for school (my MFA in writing for Children and Young Adults at Hamline)and I have read Saffy's Angel (loved) Absolutely, Positively Not Gay (an important book), Somebody (suspenseful quick read), The Higher Power of Lucky (misplaced it 3/4 way through, so very upset)and a galley of Betsy Partridge's wonderful new novel Dog-Tag Summer (luscious) and I am also reading Darkness Over Denmark by my friend Ellen Levine who was just diagnosed with Stage 4 lung Cancer, which is so very devastating. She is so loved by so many. She is my Jewish mother in the city, and I already miss her as she struggles with treatments.

Signing off to go pick up kids, but I have not disappeared--I just needed to write a draft of a novel, and so I almost have one. I'd say another 30-40 pages, and I'll have something you can read!

Comfort in familiarity

Yesterday was a "getting the car fixed in New Jersey" day. Gus had nothing to read (finished Anne Ursu's Siren Song in two days), the hood of the car needed a new part, and so we were both understandably panicked. I'd been thinking about giving Gus some teen fiction, though he's not yet 11. This, because he's suddenly in that in-between age where he can enjoy a picture book or an Eyewitness book (about Knights in this case)as well as a juicy novel--fantasy or realistic. From my shelf I plucked a young adult novel called "Two Parties, One Tux, and a Very Short Film about The Grapes of Wrath" by Steven Goldman. I had edited the book at Bloomsbury just before I left, and loved it so much. It's a terrifically funny book about a boy named Mitchell, whose best friend, David, realizes he's gay--and despite everything they discover together about life and themselves, they remain close. And, of course, they have a typically disastrous prom--involving horrible yellow stains on white tuxedo pants. You guessed it.

Gus had devoured it by the end of the day when the car was fixed ($1300), and I loved asking him what part he was reading every hour or so--so I could reminisce about what a charming book it had been for me to work on. Thinking about it, I realize "Two Parties" was a great book for boys who are beginning to see the fun and humor about more grown-up issues, but who also feel the fears that come with becoming teens.

I learned at Hamline last week--thanks to Chris Campbell's critical thesis--that for boys, fear plays an enormous role in growing into a teen. Sure, 'tween and teenage boys may be curious about girls, socializing, and their own changing bodies, but honestly! The big problem is more about being seen naked in the boys' locker room (Thanks for the image, Chris!) and not feeling humiliated about a squeaking voice, the way you smell, or being over or under-weight. I think Judy Blume had it right when she said: Then Again, Maybe I Won't. These days when I ask Gus if he's excited about something, his answer is usually: "Not specifically." I chuckle, but I realize how indifferent he feels. And why? Because the things an eleven year old wants are the not the things we parents think are "good" for them. Ever. He wants to play video games, talk about whatever matters to him, be sarcastic, read great books, and basically never HAVE to do anything he doesn't want to do. I imagine there are many other things he does want to do, but those probably aren't the things you tell your mom! This topic has become a big theme for me lately as I try an navigate this new phase along with my growing-up son.

Tonight I walked into his room to find him reading yet another book. "I know, I've read it sixteen times," he said as he showed me the cover of Otherwise Known as Shelia the Great. See what I mean? I always feel caught between two worlds, and now he's feeling it, too. It always goes back to Judy Blume, doesn't it!

Now I must go begin revise fifty pages from the novel I am trying (very slowly) to write, but I invite you, my friends, to suggest any great books or films for boys of this age. It's a question that's been stumping everyone in my MFA program. I will say this: Now that I realize that there are big fears and apprehensions that accompany the new-found curiosity and need for exploration, at least I can turn to books such as Fat Kid Rules the World and others, where kids Gus's age are facing the feelings that come with this nerve-racking time in a child's life: he knows he is really starting to grow up for good, and there's nothing he can do to make it go faster or to stop it from happening.