Getting the Summer Hate On

Here’s the thing, I pretty much hate summer. There I said it. And here are ten reasons why I hate summer. For those of you who hate the word hate, well . . . there you go.
1. The heat. What the heck? It is so hot and humid my brain is sticky. And if you scramble the letters in heat you get hate so, there you go . . .
2. Sweating. Yeah well, that goes along with the heat, especially when you have inadequate AC. Why shower?
3. People who ask me what I’m doing this summer. Like it’s anything different from the rest of the year. I just add sweating.
4. People “on vacation”. Nuff said.
5. Sweating.
6. Women wearing insane looking sandals, especially the kind that make them look like Spartacus.
7. Traffic into the shore points. I mean come on people. Go home.
8. Bugs
9. Sweating, heat, humidity, no air, can’t breathe. Did I mention that?
10. I can’t wear black without . . . you guessed it, sweating.
So come on now, be honest. What do you hate about summer?

Why I Love Middle Grade Books

Here's the thing, I love middle grade literature. Now don't get me wrong, I enjoy grown-up books also and I love writing them but today I wanted to tell you why I enjoy middle grade books and why I enjoy writing them.
These are the things I see as a reader of middle grade literature.
The middle grade years are a time in a child's life that is full of innocence yet sometimes profound wisdom. And this can be seen and felt in the books.
Anything is possible in Middle Grade books.
There is a quality of magic and wonder in these books.
Honesty, courage, hope and resilience are overarching themes in most MG. Qualities I believe we all wish we had in great quantity.
Comedy. Middle grade books are often full of charm and laughter.
They're short. Although this is changing and that's okay. I can read several in a week's time and come away just as satisfied if not more as if I had read a 400 page tome.
As a writer of middle grade literature I enjoy all of the above and using all of the above to tell a story. Because story matters. Story first. It's kind of like taking the Hippocratic Oath--First do no harm. For authors I think we should all take a similar oath, call it the Tolkien Oath, First, tell a good story.
They're short, but don't have to be I can write a good novel in less time. Less words. But each word MUST be carefully, specifically chosen.
The writing is tight. As a writer of MG I endeavor to write only the sentences that are necessary.
Kids know good writing. You cannot fool them. Writing for kids keeps me on my toes.
The audience. Kids of this age are voracious readers. They keep coming back for more and will read anything from a literary to a fantasy. They just want a good story.
If you haven't read much MG fiction, I suggest you give it a try. Some of my favorite authors are Jonathan Friesen, Kimberley Willis Holt, KAtherine Patterson, Kathi Appelt, GAry Schmidt, Joan Bauer and the list goes on.
Now go forth and read, you'll be glad you did.

Free Agnes--And Not From Prison

Here's the thing, my debut novel, which incidentally was named on of the top five books of 2009 by Library Journal is now free for the downloading, ha, kind of a new meaning for Free-Loading at Amazon and CBD. Go for it. Now. Even if you've read it, download it. Please.

Counting the Stairs

Here’s the thing, the other day I was reading a young friend’s blog. You should also. It’s really good. Find it here. Anyway, I scrolled through a couple of posts and found one where Ivy admits that she compulsively counts stairs. Holy cow, I said. Me too. I can’t help it. I have been doing this for as long as I can remember. It was so nice to know that Ivy, a brilliant, talented writer and scholar also shares my obsession. I suppose that’s what it is—an obsessive-compulsive thing. Most stairs have thirteen risers. I find that interesting. I don’t know why, but I do. Hogwarts would have been great fun to count. This compulsion never gets in the way of my life and no one, until now, knows that I do this. I even count the same stairs—like the fire escape steps I use to get in and out of my apartment, every single time. Thirteen. Try it and see if I’m not right about the stairs in your life. But please, don’t stare.

Who's that Woman Behind the Mask?

Here’s the thing, I was having breakfast with my friend Rachel that other day and we got to discussing, well discussing ME! Sheesh. I can be so rude. Anyway, we were talking about some travel plans I have relating to my writing career (I'm heading to the American Library Association National Conference), about my deadlines and books and career when we discovered that I am suffering from IMPSOTOR SYNDROME. Yep, that’s right. IMpostor Syndrome. Seems I mentioned to Rachel how I will be at the conference with REAL writers. This in view of the fact that I have published four books with four on the way and achieved various and sundry awards and accolades. Which all adds up to me still not quite achieving Real author status. Rachel, who by the way, has studied these things, said, "You have Impostor Syndrome.

Now, Imposter Syndrome is nothing new or exclusive to me. It was first identified by a couple of psychologists in the 1970s. Many people, particularly women, suffer from IS, which is essentially an inability or perhaps an unwillingness to believe in one’s success. I think it’s something that creatives deal with more than say, accountants or zookeepers but I might be wrong.

At its most elementary level a person with IS sits around waiting for someone to call them out, to discover that they are frauds, totally untalented and unworthy of any accolades, awards, money, prestige, whatever received. It’s true. I just know that one day an editor is going to call me and say something like, “What the heck were we thinking? You can’t write! Give us all our money back.” So far this hasn’t happened—quite the opposite, actually.

But I got to thinking, that Impostor Syndrome is really just another form of anxiety. A little fear, a little anxiety is a good thing, otherwise I would be walking into open elevator shafts and petting ferocious pit bulls. So, anxiety keeps me alive. In a similar way, IS (Impostor Syndrome) keeps me from getting a swelled head, from dipping into the pool of narcissus, from thinking myself better or more highly than others. It helps to keep me grounded in my own reality and to genuinely be pleased when a colleague succeeds. IS is a filter that wards off mega self-delusions.

However, believing that I am fraudulent author has a downside. I think it can paralyze me sometimes. When IS is at its most active is when the internal editors, (who in my case are three, pot-bellied, men upholstered in three-piece suits smoking cigars), gather around and tell me I am the worst writer on the planet and should be sitting in Author Prison on fraud charges. So, yeah, IS can be damaging to one’s career.

How do we beat it? Uhm, I don’t know. By believing in your own abilities? Maybe. But does something deeper need to happen? And like I said, isn’t a little bit of Imposter Syndrome a good thing? Do you struggle with this. Are you concerned that someday you’re going to wake up and realize that all your success is a sham?

Four and Twenty Blackbirds Baked in a Pie

Here's the thing. You rally can bake live birds into pies. What a hoot. So-called animated pies or pyes were the most popular banquet entertainment back in the 13th and 14th century. The nursery rhyme "Sing a Song of Sixpence . . . four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie," refers to such a pie. According to the rhyme, "When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing. Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the King." True story. Not only did the birds sing but they probably flew happily and with a beak of relief, out into the banquet hall. But that's not all, my pretties, rabbits, frogs, turtles, other small animals, and even small people (dwarfs) as we learned yesterday were also placed into pies. Sometimes pies had birds and a dwarf to be released when the crust was cut. The dwarf would emerge and walk down the length of the table, reciting poetry, sketching the guests, or doing tricks. Now how politically correct is that? Yikes. Anyhoo, just in case you want to bake a pye with blackbirds, here's the recipe.

It comes from the Epulario (The Italian Banquet), published in 1598.
"To Make Pie That the Birds May Be Alive In them and Flie Out When It Is Cut Up - Make the coffin of a great pie or pastry, in the bottome thereof make a hole as big as your fist, or bigger if you will, let the sides of the coffin bee somwhat higher then ordinary pies, which done put it full of flower and bake it, and being baked, open the hole in the bottome, and take out the flower. Then having a pie of the bigness of the hole in the bottome of the coffin aforesaid, you shal put it into the coffin, withall put into the said coffin round about the aforesaid pie as many small live birds as the empty coffin will hold, besides the pie aforesaid. And this is to be at such time as you send the pie to the table, and set before the guests: where uncovering or cutting up the lid of the great pie, all the birds will flie out, which is to delight and pleasure shew to the company. And because they shall not bee altogether mocked, you shall cut open the small pie, and in this sort you may make many others, the like you may do with a tart."

By the way, I should note that I am getting all this from a book called Pie: A Global History by Janet Clarkson

The Scranton Mine Disaster

Here's the thing, I was really really looking forward to meeting the chickens. I was really really excited about going into a coal mine even though I wasn't sure I'd actually be able to do it. I had every intention of meeting with two writing groups and putting forth my pearls of writerly wisdom. But as Robert Burns said:

"But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane [you aren't alone]
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley, [often go awry]
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promised joy."

I never made it. Well not the whole way. I wasn't feeling well when I left to drive to Scranton on Friday and by the time I arrived I was pretty much sick--with a head cold/sinus/snot/sore throat crud thing. My hosts, who I will tell you about a little later. HINT: Think Gotham City, Police Commissioner. Anyhoo, my hosts were so very gracious. I did manage to make the book signing at Northern Lights Espresso Bar. It was fun. That's the mic I sort of read into--unfortunately I sounded like a complete idiot. It was like my brain had been fried. I was, to say the least embarrassed, to say the most, mortified and I swear I will never do it again--but I often say that. The place was awesome. Scranton ROCKS!! I had never been to a First Friday celebration. Every town should do this and celebrate the arts. Every town! But I went back to the Pennsylvania State Police Commissioner's house--that's right, and crashed. The next morning I was supposed to go to see the chickens and do the coal mine tour and meet with to writer's groups but I was just too sick. I had to go home. My dear friends and students Leslee and Cindy were sad and so was I. But I just couldn't do it. So I drove eighty miles an hour all the way home--a two hour drive, I did in in one and a half. I went to bed. Slept until four o'clock, got up. Was starving. Ate whatever I had in the fridge. Went back to bed.

I feel better today. My throat is still a little sore. I still cough off and on but at least I can think again--at least I seem to be thinking. I will get back to Scranton very soon. I promise. I still need to meet the chickens and go into the coal mine and meet the writers. SCRANTON, I SHALL RETURN!

Books, Chickens, Coal Mines, and Claustrophobia

Here’s the thing, I want to tell you about my weekend. Except it hasn’t come yet. But I am really excited about it. I can hardly wait, so I have decided to tell you what I can. I am driving to the Scranton, Pennsylvania area tomorrow. It’s pretty much a straight shot up the Pennsylvania Turnpike—in fact—all the way to the end of the turnpike. Now that’s a scary thought, isn’t it. “Drive to the end of the turnpike.” Uhm. Anyhoo. I am going to sign books, discuss Bright’s Pond, Harriet Beamer, Carrying Mason, writing and pretty much anything else folks would like to discuss about books and writing. Hopefully sell a few copies also.

But, this weekend is more than a typical author appearance. I am going to tour around up there and see some sights—including Bright’s Pond. Well, not really. BP is all in my imagination but the model for the town is definitely an amalgam of several small towns in the mountains of PA. So it will be great to walk around and see the towns and glean even more PA small town quirk to use in my novels—believe me PA can be quirky. And not only that but I am going to get to hold a chicken! Yep, pretty exciting stuff. You see, I am working on a new middle grade novel and there are chickens in the story. I need to do some research so my friends and students, Leslee and Cindy (excellent writers btw) are going to shepherd me around and take me to a chicken place. I want to hear the chickens, smell them (yuck) and hopefully maybe snatch an egg or two from one.

Then, not only am I going to hold a chicken. But, now hang on to your bloomers, but I am going to tour a coal mine—an actual coal mine. Yep, I am going to get into a coal car and travel I don’t know how many hundreds of feet underground and see the actual workings of a coal mine. This life has always fascinated me and I am hoping to write a novel about coal mines one day—so yep, it’s research. The tricky part is this. I am claustrophobic. Always have been. So it might get ugly down there. I hope I can breathe. I hope I don’t get too scared and panic and make the tour guide person bring me to the surface. I really, really want to do this. I will be praying, and I hope you all will also, that I can make the whole trip in the mine. I pray I won't be too . . . CHICKEN. HA!

After that, it’s more food and drink. And then back down the turnpike. I won’t be posting again until Monday. I will have pictures. I will let you all know how I did in the coal car. And with the chickens. I’ll take lots of snaps to share.

Man O Man—writers have more fun than people.