The Art of the Talisman

It happens sometimes, that a book grinds to a halt. In my experience, this is the rule and not the exception. I will be, for months and months, on firm ground and with a clear path. I will be surefooted, bright-eyed, brave. The story stands around me like an unshakable fortress, a cunning edifice, a cozy den.

And then it collapses. And I am struggling with falling beams and crumbling plaster and illogical plans. Without tools. Without power. In the absolute dark.

This is where I am currently. I have been here before. I have erased and recomposed and erased this book more times than I can count (it is a method of writing that I do not recommend). I have promised the manuscript to my agent, to my writer’s group, to everyone. But it is in pieces, and I am heartsick.

(As I said, I’ve been in this place before. I reach in the darkness and brace a joist to a stud. It holds. I check the footings. They are sound. I move forward. Slowly, slowly.)

It helps me to have something physical that I can hold on to. Something that I can touch, hold in one hand, and then the other. When I was writing The Mostly True Story of Jack, I had a map of the town of Hazlewood that I kept in my back pocket. It was a rough thing (I suck at drawing, after all), scribbled on lined paper. I drew stick figures and inane symbols. A church here. A college there. And look! A park. And look! Clive and Mable’s house. And Frankie’s house. And the place where Wendy beat up Clayton. And the Grain Exchange. And Mr. Avery’s house. And the place where the sinister members of the Knitting League knotted their wicked plans. (Those ladies did not make it into the book, alas. They will show up eventually.) Every day, I would take my map out of my pocket and flatten it out on my desk. I would scribble and erase, scribble and erase. Then fold, and slide the thing back into my pocket.

And it helped. Through all the erasing and fretting and re-doing and undoing. It helped to have something to hold onto.

In Iron Hearted Violet, I had a leather bound book. To start out with, it had the first draft of the book in there. I would carry it from the park to the doctor’s office to the creek behind my house. I wrote the entire first draft longhand (it was considerably shorter than the final version), and, since I wrote much of it during the summertime, and my kids were home, it meant that it had to come with me as I hauled them from program to program, and it had to come with me as we were camping for six nights deep in the belly of the Boundary Waters, and it had to come with me when we went to movies, or when I was getting my oil changed or sitting at the DMV or whatever. I scribbled on that thing constantly.

When I got to the end, and began piecing the story back together on the computer, I used the remaining pages to write notes and to draw sketches about the history, physiology and psychology of dragons. I drew organs and bones. I drew timelines and diagrams. I wrote speculations and lectures and bits of history. When I ran out of pages, I used notecards.

And again, it was something to hold. Something to ground me.

The book I’m writing now is called The Boy Who Loved Birds, and I like it very much. This is how it begins:

When she arrived at the Dough Lady’s house, Mara carried three heavy stones in her left hand pocket. She’d throw them if she had to.

The stones – all from Lake Superior, near Mara’s home – were smooth and oval and cold. They curved into the heat of her hand, cooling her down. If she brought them to her nose, they would smell of iron and storm and smoke.  If she brought them to her lips, they would taste like the sky. The weight of each stone felt as precious as breathing.

And so I have stones.

I keep them in my pocket almost all the time now. Because even when the story is stuck, and even when I go in like a vengeful angel and smite text with sword and fire, even when I erase everything, the person of Mara remains. Her indomitable self. Her sadness. Her rage. Her mistakes. Her slow path to forgiveness.

I love her. She infuriates me, but I love her anyway. And I keep her stones in my pocket as a talisman, as a physical thing that connects me to her, her story to the world. And they keep me sane.

For those of you in creative work, what are the things of the world that you bring with you as you sally forth into the uncharted waters of the the imagination – the dark heart of the Unknown? And for those of you in any kind of work, what are the things that allow you to keep doing what you’re doing? What are your talismans?

The Winter Novelist’s Toolkit

Please note: Those in warm climates can ignore this. They can also keep their weather stories to themselves. I am currently wearing three pairs of wool socks and have situated myself as close to the fireplace as I dare to sit without fretting about the possibility of lighting my computer on fire. If you want to tell me about your writing desk’s proximity to a Mauian beach or the fact that the Gulf of Mexico breezes are currently drying the sweat between your toes or that your staff of slim-hipped cabana boys are, right now, handing you drinks with umbrellas in them and gently sponging the sweat from your unlined brow as you finish your chapter in your tank top and Bermuda shorts and contemplate if you want to eat your lunch while wading in the salt water or floating in the pool, then I will, very politely, tell you to can it.

I do not want to hear about warm places. Or even lukewarm places. I will pretend that you do not exist.

It is Minnesota here. And it is winter. And it is friggin’ cold.

Now, here’s the thing about sitting at a desk and writing – it is cold work. Despite the fact that I sit on a yoga ball (so bouncy!) and that I take hourly breaks to dance around my office or do push-ups (so gnarly!), I get incredibly cold when I write. Even on a warm day. Today, for example, I have abandoned my office in favor of my couch by the fire. The window next to my desk is old and leaky, and even though it got up to a balmy 15 degrees today, (yesterday, the high was -5. We’re improving!) I was still shivering.

Still, sometimes we are on deadline. And sometimes, we have a story itching in our fingers that wants to get out. And sometimes we promised our writing group a new set of chapters MONTHS ago, and they are still waiting. All of these might be true. So even though we shiver and shake, we still need to get the words written. Because no matter what we do, our books will not – and will not ever – write themselves.

(Because our books, let’s be honest, are jerks. And they are lazy. And they expect us to do all the work. Blasted books.)

Anyhoo. I have made a list of useful things to be able to suffer the cold long enough to get the words written.

1. Fingerless gloves.

 My mom got these for me a few years ago from Etsy. And they are magic. One of the problems with cold-weather writing is the fact that the knuckles get creaky. And once they are creaky, they are achy. And then they are hurty. And then it’s hard to write. Keeping the hands warm keeps the words going. And also, stripes. Stripes are magic. And so is wool.

2. Tea

My daughter asked me once what I would do if tea was outlawed.

“Crime,” I said. “The only option will be crime. Mass revolution, too, of course. But mostly crime.”

I told her that I would be forced to turn to the dark side of the law – a quick-fisted, heat-packing, fast-talking, tea-hustling skulker of dark alleys. I’d wear a trench coat and a fedora pulled low. “Hey, buddy,” I’d whisper to gents passing by. “Wanna buy some tea?” I’d build speakeasies for tea – illegal tea-rooms where I’d serve Assam topped with also-illegal raw milk. Because, why not? I’d become a Tea Kingpin, slowly building an empire of tea and corruption. I’d be a tea-drinking gunslinger, with a pack of minions willing to do my bidding. My soul would twist and burn. I would cease to be the Nice Mom Down The Block. I’d be like Mr. White in Breaking Bad.

Do not take my tea away, goddamnit.

Anyway. Tea. Warms the hands. Warms the mind. Keeps the words moving. It’s the only thing keeping me alive at present. Thank god.

3. Wool socks.

As I said: three pairs, currently. And I’m next to the fire. Remember in Harry Potter when  Harry asks Dumbledore what his true heart’s desire is, and Dumbledore says “Really nice wool socks,” and Harry thinks he’s kidding? Well, that castle was drafty. And damp. And in England. And made of stone. Wool socks were exactly what Dumbledore needed. Dark Lord? Forget it. Warm toes – that’s what it’s all about.

4. Very Loud Music

Not when I’m writing, of course. I’m a silent writer. But once an hour, I need to stand up. I’ll do jumping jacks or push-ups (which are very warming) or I’ll run in place. Sometimes. But usually, I’ll get up and dance. The Lillingtons. James Brown. Iggy Pop. Sleater-Kinney. The Roots. Whatever. Nothing battles the freeze of stillness with the insistence of movement.

6. Chocolate

‘Nuff said.

It’s funny, I’m working on two books, one of which is set in Minnesota bog country in the middle of summer. And it is hot and humid and sticky. And wonderful. The other is in a world that is not our own, and it is hot as well. And I notice that the writing now is very slow. And deliberate. Because winter is coming. And the cold is waiting. And, even though it is imaginary, I want to hang out with my characters in an extended summer. Where I may leave my wool socks on the ground and let my toes sink in the muck. Where I may shove my fingerless gloves into the back pocket of my cut-offs and feed sugar to a grasshopper in the hollow of my hand. Where I may go with my computer to sit outside, with the sound of birds and birds and birds.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a novel to write. Slowly.

Sometimes, a book saves us.

We had a rough day in Barnhill-Land yesterday. My son – good-natured, enthusiastic, vigorously naughty, and incredibly creative – pulled out all the stops in the carpool. He and the neighborhood miscreants (all wonderful, beloved boys; all prone to lapses in judgement; we grow, we stumble, we fall, we grow some more), in the back seat of the minivan, started in on a whirlpool of naughty talk.  It was like they were all competing for the Jerk-of-the-Year award – and it’s only January. Bad words. Inappropriate jokes. Bathroom talk. Penis jokes. Pretending to flip off the driver (my neighbor; 250-pound ex-farmer; bad move, boys). And then actually flipping him off.

And it descended.

And they got mean.

And they got nasty.

At one point my neighbor turned the car around and started back for home. At the possibility of facing their mothers and generally being ratted out, they changed their tune instantly.

The thing is, I remember this from childhood. Bad energy. Bad air. And how it felt bad too, and kind of sick, and yet, upsettingly, vaguely exciting as well. Like violence on television – you don’t really like it, but you watch it again and again. And it grosses you out, but you can’t look away. And I remember how it fed on itself. And how, once it started, it couldn’t stop. The fights with siblings. The way my classmates and I would raise our hackles and turn on Substitute Teachers (the kid who could make a Sub cry was always held in high regard). Neighborhood squabbles. Playground nastiness. Mean girl stuff. Group divisions, carefully laying down who was in and who was out. I remember feeling the air change – how it would get heavy and thick, like the sky was pressing down – and either being the target of the nastiness, or standing by and saying nothing, too fearful to step up.

I know that sometimes kids will be aware of themselves behaving badly, but once it starts, they feel powerless to stop it.

They aren’t powerless, of course. They have all the power in the world. They just need to be taught. And that’s our job.

There was, yesterday, a flurry of emails between the parents. Yesterday afternoon, it was my turn to drive. I re-arranged the seating order, I got all the kids buckled, and then I pulled the car over. And rained fire.

“The adults who love you,” I told them, “are able to see your Best Selves. When you show your Worst Selves, it hurts us very much. Jeff loves you, and each of you hurt him today – either by your words, or by not standing up to your friends and telling them to knock it off. It hurt me, and it hurt the rest of the adults too. And it hurt you too. And you know it. Each of you was hurting this morning.”

When we got home, I had Leo own up to what he had done, and I had him write a letter of apology to our neighbor and deliver it in person. He didn’t want to do it. We talked about manning up.

Once we got to the other side of that, we talked about consequences. I’m a big believer in having kids take responsibility for their own behavior – and part of that is taking an active role in their consequences. Leo’s consequences are much harsher than I would have levied. But they are authentic to him. And they matter to him. And, what’s more, he knows what he did wrong, he doesn’t want to do it again, and he wanted to make amends.

By suppertime, we were emotionally exhausted, and spent.

“What if I stay bad?”  Leo asked.

“You won’t darling. You will make choices. Some will be good and some will be mistakes. You’ll do your best to fix your mistakes. You’ll try to heal the things you break. Just like everyone else.”

“But what if I break?”

“Then you will fix you. Just like everyone. Everyone you see is broken. Everyone you know has mended cracks and parts that will never work right again. It doesn’t stop us from learning and loving. We mend, we heal, and we love the broken places. I have lots of broken places. But I still have a responsibility to work and love and build. And so do you.”

He was, last night, a shadow of himself. He was crumpled paper and shattered glass. The reality of being such a jerk to a person he loves and respects had devastated him. I hugged him, and he started to cry.

So I built a fire in the fireplace. I canceled my plans for the evening. I sent him upstairs to brush his teeth and told him to bring Treasure Island back down to me. We sat, he and I, under his Batman blanket next to the fire, stories of misplaced loyalties and loudmouthed squires and bloodthirsty pirates and the creaking hull of the Hispaniola spinning around us. And Jim, the cabin boy – brave, trusting, fatherless, full of big plans and adventuring. And John, the cook – broken, beaten, scheming, and yet, in the end, redeemable, and capable of that One Good Thing.

We read and read until he fell asleep on my shoulder, his little arms wrapped around my waist. My broken, brilliant, beautiful boy.

We are all mended cracks and creaky gears. We are broken smiles, broken hearts, broken minds and broken lives. We are hack-jobs and cast-offs and wobbly legs and gouged surfaces. We are soft edges, scuffed corners, ungleaming and unvarnished, but pleasant to hold and comforting to touch.

And we are lovely, and loving, and loved.

 

Regarding my 1,000-year-old dog.

This is my dog.

Her name is Harper, and she is very old. Decades. Centuries. A cool millenium. You might not believe me that she is actually 1,000 years old, and you might try to convince me otherwise, but I would like to point out that you have no proof. And she’s my dog. So.

She has been in our family since 1998, back when my husband and I were two shacked-up quasi-Communist, vaguely Anarchist ne’re-do-wells, stomping around Stumptown in our government-issued firefighter boots and quoting Saul Alinsky at whoever stood still long enough to listen. We lived in a house with a bunch of other twentysomethings and their various friends, partners and hangers-on – artists, puppeteers, Wobblies, graduate students, people who used to work for ACORN, and so on. I would make huge vats of beans and rice and someone would bring beer and we would play cards and eat and argue until early in the morning. My couch often had some guy sleeping on it. Some guy in need of a shower.

And then this dog showed up at our friend’s house.

In retrospect, I understand that the dog was a prophecy of sorts. A sooth-sayer. A sign.

Your life will change, the dog told us. Indeed, it is changing already. 

She was in awful shape – hungry, filthy, cold. She had only just had puppies. She was still lactating and her womb was all busted out. She had the shakes. When you pet her, your hands turned black. She was frightened. If you moved your hands too quickly, should would cower and whine. She had a tender spot on her head that she didn’t want you to touch. She was wary, wounded. And I loved her. Instantly.

We weren’t going to keep her, not right away. We wanted her with a family. We had housemates with allergies, and couldn’t keep her indoors. She deserved parents and kids and teenagers. Someone to snuggle with next to a fire. Road trips. Hikes in the forest. A little child to dress her in a cape and a facemask and call her SuperDog.

These are the things we said. These are the things we believed. We didn’t know we were predicting our future.

It is happening already. 

We brought her to the Humane Society, and then had to move heaven and earth to get her out and back home with us before they put her down (they had a policy not to keep mixed breed dogs alive, or even to make them available for adoption;  they did not tell us this policy when we brought her in and told them explicitly that if they couldn’t place her with a family that we would take her, joyfully; there were, then, very tense words, uttered by me, with swearing; we got our dog in the end). I’ll tell you what, nothing bonds you to an animal more than saving her from certain death. Nothing at all.

We took her to the vet. “This is the healthiest half-starved dog I’ve ever seen,” the vet said. “She’s made of barbed wire and duct tape and galvanized steel.” He gave her some shots and removed her uterus and guessed that she was somewhere between three and five. “Clearly full grown,” he said, “but young enough to still be a spaz.” (It is now 2013. She is still a total spaz.)

She was a tough mother. She’d go on ten-mile runs with me and wouldn’t even get winded. She ate entire packages of bakers chocolate and didn’t even get a stomach ache. She ate, digested and shat batteries, and didn’t blink an eye. She never got sick, never got hurt, never skipped a beat.

We took her with us everywhere. We went for long hikes. We took her to the coast and Forest Park and Columbia Gorge. We started eating outside and hanging out on the back porch, just to be near her more. And we changed. Ted and I noticed that our youthful resistance to life-long commitment started to ease, and our discomfort with aligning ourselves with institutional relationships drifted further and further away.

Family, we started to say. You’re my family.

You’re learning, said the dog. Good job.

We got pregnant. Got married. Moved. Bought houses. Sold houses. Started businesses. Wrote books. Had more children. We built. Expanded. Grew.

All the while, there was Harper the dog – babysitter, muse, helpmeet, protecter, janitor, exterminator, friend. She built us into a family.

Two summers ago, we brought her to the BWCA. She almost didn’t come back. Later that year, she developed a tumor on her leg that grew and grew and grew. It impeded her gait. It kept her from doing the things she loved to do. The vet counseled us not to do the surgery to remove it. “She’s so old,” the vet said. “She might not survive the surgery. And if she does, she will heal so slowly. She’ll hurt, she’ll infect, and she won’t know why.”

We did it anyway. Her tumor was three pounds – bigger than a puppy. She healed like a champ. The vet was amazed. “It’s one thing,” he said, “to have a dog the age of Methuselah. Lots of people have those. But to have an ancient dog heal as fast as a puppy? Either you’ve been replacing your dog with younger models of herself, or you have a dog who is virtually ageless. One or the other.”

And so I began to think that my dog is a thousand years old. I believed she would never die. I believed she would outlive me and my children and my children’s children. I believed that my dog was from Faerie, or Asgard, or Alpha Centauri.

Three weeks before Christmas, Harper suddenly started walking with a limp. A week before Christmas, she stopped putting any weight on her back left leg at all, preferring to move like an ambulatory three-legged-stool around the house and yard. And, all in all, she’s doing pretty well with it. She’s still eating, still drinking, still in high spirits, still chasing squirrels, still barking at the raccoons that hide between our garage and our neighbor’s fence. But she won’t let her leg touch the earth.

I took her to the vet.

He took a deep breath and sighed.

“Yep,” he said. “It’s weird.”

I hate weird.

She has, it seems, odd formations on her bone. It could be atypical bone spurs due to a weird manifestation of arthritis, or it could be bone cancer. In any case, due to her advanced age, we will treat it the same way – palliative care and lots of love until that doesn’t work anymore.

Which means that I am actually going to have to get used to the fact that my dog will not live for another thousand years, and that she is not immortal, and that she is not from Mount Olympus or the Isle of the Blessed. She is herself. Harper. My dog. And I will love her and love until I can’t and she will live until she doesn’t, and that will be that.

I have written this entire blog post with Harper sitting on my feet. I gave her a piece of beef jerky a little bit ago, and I know that she is waiting patiently until another piece appears in my hands like magic for me to give to her. She shifts her weight and groans a bit. Her leg hurts. My heart hurts. She rests her chin on my knee.

Your life will change, she says.

I didn’t ask it to, I say.

No one ever does. Your life will change. Indeed, it is changing already. She breathes deeply through her damp nose and closes her eyes. She is alive, she is alive, she is still alive. For now. As we all are. And sometimes, that’s enough.

For all of you with dogs in your life: bless you. May your beloved animals live for a thousand years. May they change your life.

Follow-up to the “should-we-give-up-the-internet” question

I should add that for the rest of that day, my darling child was offering me “proofs” that the internet was both worthwhile, useful, and necessary for daily life.

Like for funniness, for example. “How can you live without funniness, Mom,” she asked. “I mean, have you met yourself?”

One bit of proof is this video. And you know what, she’s right. Having the internet in the home is worth it for the muppets. Ninety percent of my internet searching is muppet-related. This is a fact. Here are my two favorite things in one little video: classical music and Beaker. Enjoy.

On Our Visit to Roosevelt High School – expectation, transformation, and super awesome kids.

My oldest daughter – math wiz, artist, DIY crafty-manx fashionista, geek princess, treasure of my beleaguered heart – is in eighth grade, which means that we, as a family are looking into high schools. My baby is going to high school. This baby:

Look at her! So tiny! Her foot is about the size of my dang thumb! High school? Really? It simply cannot be. This is the face I make every time I think about it.

In any case, we are now looking at schools. Now, this, alas, is tricky business. She used to go to Seward Montessori – a public, wonderful school in South Minneapolis, and we were very happy there. Unfortunately, in fifth grade, while Ella was busting at the seams of every standardized test that they handed to her, we found out that her school had simply decided to stop teaching her math. “Oh,” they said. “She’s so far ahead. And she loves helping the other students. And when she reads a novel, she’s just so quiet. And, really, she’s fine.”

Note to educators everywhere: Never tell the parents of your high-testing kids that they are “fine”. No matter where they are in the spectrum of learners, every child deserves to learn every day. Every child, wherever they are, deserves to have reasonable educational goals and a guided plan to help them achieve those goals. Just because they’ve topped out of your curriculum, does not mean that they no longer need to be taught.

Anyway.

So she’s gone to a G&T program in the Bloomington Public Schools called Dimensions Academy, which has been a good fit for her, learning-wise, even though we did have to haul her butt deep into the suburbs every dang day. Which has been a pain. And even though she has made wonderful, dear, and life-long friends, she has never felt entirely comfortable in a suburban setting. She misses the diversity of the Minneapolis Public Schools. She misses the dynamism. And frankly, so do I.

So. High School.

My inclination is to have her go to South High, which is where I went. And my sisters. And my brother. And a gaggle of my cousins, second-cousins and so forth. In fact, my first-cousin’s son is a freshman there now. It’s a wonderful school with six bands, a fantastic art program, an incredible theater program, good academics, a deeply-involved parent base and a wicked awesome choir.

The problem is that, while we are in South’s zone, it is not our neighborhood school. And Ella might not get in. Roosevelt is our neighborhood school. And that? Well it was problematic for me. I had….expectations about what I would see at Roosevelt. Biases. And they were not kind. (Nor, let’s be honest, were they fair. More on that in a minute.)

Now, here’s the thing about Roosevelt’s reputation: it’s not entirely undeserved. At least historically. It’s been one of those schools that has struggled and struggled, for years. And things just haven’t gone right. Bad planning, extenuating forces that they could not anticipate, poor decisions by the school board, disastrous decisions by the Federal government, shifting demographics, high needs, what have you. Roosevelt couldn’t catch a break. Heck, even when I was in high school, if a teacher said that their job was moving to Roosevelt, we’d hug them and sob as if they told us they had inoperable brain cancer. During my senior year, the school board (in its perpetual wisdom) decided to transfer our principal – Dr. Andre Lewis – to Roosevelt. The students walked out and the protests lasted for days.

Now, let me say here that while I loved my experience at South, it wasn’t perfect. There were massive behavior problems back then and ….well, let’s just say it was rough around the edges. There were fights in the halls. I once found my locker splattered with blood because some guy clocked another right in the nose (with splattering) and the kid face-planted right next to my padlock. My principal got hit over the head with a crowbar when he got in the middle of a gang altercation. A kid in my music theater class got shot.

It was the early nineties in Minneapolis, the term “Murderapolis” hadn’t been coined yet, but we were on our way.

And as tough as it was, our understanding was that Roosevelt was tougher. Meaner. “Rougish” was the word we used. We didn’t know anyone who went there.

So, it was with not a little trepidation that I brought my child to Roosevelt for a visit.

And it was not without a little bit of skepticism. Sure, I had been told that they’ve been experiencing a turnaround. And sure, I had heard that they’ve got a big-ideas principal and a cadre of super-committed teachers. I had heard all of that. But I didn’t really believe it.

What I saw blew me away.

The high schools in my city in general are stronger now. They are cleaner. They are more orderly. The hallways are calm. The kids are smiling at each other.

But Roosevelt? Well, it’s something else. The kids loved each other. And they loved their teachers. Like, every kid I talked to. I’ve never seen anything like it.

We first had a meeting with Michael Bradley, the principal, who laid out for us where his school has been, how it has approached its restructuring, and what it’s plan for the future is. He talked about the middle schools in the area that have managed to turn themselves around (Sanford Middle School, for example, whose transformation is nothing short of a miracle) and what he is doing to replicate that for Roosevelt. He told us of his very personal goal to transform the school into an institution in which any student – be they high end or low end – would receive the tools and instruction they needed for a stellar education. He talked about the lasting damage of No Child Left Behind – the Bush Administration’s brilliant strategy of punishing schools into succeeding (may they rot in hell forever for the damage they did to our nation’s schools) – and how struggling schools were forced to abandon all programs except for baseline remediation. Gone went the music program. Gone went art. Gone went the choir. Gone went the debate team and the theater department and the math team. Gone went languages and upper-level math and creative writing.

“It was,” he said, “a system built to fail. And the people it hurt the most were the ones who deserved it least – the kids.”

I almost started crying.

“It’s not enough,” he said, “to put our efforts on remediation. Remediation outside of the context of a well-rounded and vigorous education – educating the whole person – is not going to work. It can’t be either/or. It has to be both/and.”

They implemented an IB program. They doubled their art program. They partnered with 3M to put in a writing center. They have a robotics program. They have a fantastic band teacher who is building an amazing band and orchestra program. They’re adding to their library.

But what’s more, they have a vigorous and deeply committed teaching staff that impressed the hell out of me. Our guide kept grabbing kids at random as we walked through the hallways, asking kids what they liked about their school.

“I really like my school a lot,” kid after kid after kid told us. “But I love my teachers.”

We grabbed another one. “The teachers here are the nicest in the world. If you’re lost, they will help you. If you are bored they will challenge you.”

And another: “The teachers here treat you like you’re one of their own. Like we belong to them.”

And another: “The teachers here are the best in the world.”

And another: “My teachers are either saving my butt or kicking my butt – sometimes in the same class period.”

And finally, we talked to a completely gorgeous senior girl – the first in her family to ever get into college. She is a singer, and had been accepted to the U of M, the conservatory at Lawrence University and NYU. And she said this: “I wouldn’t be where I am if it weren’t for my teachers. They helped me and believed in me and made me believe in myself even when I wasn’t ready to do it. They’re the best.”

These kids at Roosevelt, they were happy, they were kind, they were silly, they were crude, they told dumb jokes, they were committed students, they played their guts out in band, they asked thoughtful questions in English, they built cool catapults in Physics and were building a robot that could play Ultimate Frisbee in Robotics. They were awesome, awesome kids.

I’m still not convinced that it is the best fit for Ella (the fact that there is no choir might be a dealbreaker for us). I do feel, though, in a way that I did not before, that if we do not get our first choice and are at Roosevelt, that Ella would be just fine. She’d make friends. She’d learn. She would really love her teachers. All of that is good.  But, mostly, as an educator and as a neighbor of the school, I found the experience profoundly thrilling. Because this is happening. This transformation. This growth. This change. It is happening right now. And it did my heart so much good to see an entire building cooperatively involved in their own transformation, and, as a community, committed to the idea that yes it is possible, and yes it is probable, and yes we can build it together.

Go Roosevelt.

Yes.

Because I need to smile today. And so do you.

There are two things in this that make me ridiculously happy: Gilbert & Sullivan and the Muppets. Specifically, Sam the Eagle.

I cried when I dropped my kids off today (see yesterday’s post), and maybe you did too. But I will be smiling when they come home from school. Thank you, Jim Henson. Thank you Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan. I shall ignore your famous feud for the moment, and simply focus on this little song, with its brokenhearted and lovelorn and poetic and possibly-suicidal birds, that I sang to my children when they were babies, and that they now blame for their collectively odd sense of humor.

There now. Are you smiling? I am too. And I love you.

Each wild and precious life.

I went to church today and cried. This is nothing new. I am, as a general rule, a complete and total crybaby – always have been – and I often cry at church. And this last weekend? Well, I’ve been crying a lot.

Because the rest of my family had stuff going on today, it was only my son and I going to church. And because I wasn’t sure if the school shooting on Friday would get a mention during Mass, I sat Leo down and explained what happened. His sisters already knew, but I resisted telling my son. His over-fascination (starting at around age nine months) with guns. His rough play. His little-boy-bravado masking some very real fears. I don’t know. I hadn’t worked out exactly how to handle it.

So I told him that a bad man had done these bad things.

I told him that little children had died.

But I also told him that there were ladies at the school – the principal, the teachers, brave brave ladies, who had laid down their lives to save children. How they hid their children in closets and cupboards and put their bodies in between the bullets and their beloved students, and saved who they could.

I said, “Those women died as heroes, but they did what any teacher would do. Your teacher, your principal, your aides and secretaries and janitors and substitutes – they will do anything to keep you safe. So will your dad and I. You and your sisters and your classmates and your friends, you are all precious to us. I am telling you this not because I want you to feel afraid. I’m telling you this because, just like those children, you are so loved.” And then I hugged him.

Tragedies like the one in Connecticut are emotionally complex for parents. We cycle through garish and overwrought emotions – each one tearing into us like a speeding truck with its high-beams on. We are frozen; we are blinded; we are hit. We imagine those little children in the path of a madman’s bullets, and we see the faces of our own children. We hear them scream. We watch them die. Our imaginations are merciless and cruel. And, over and over again, we grieve with the families whose lives are shattered as we clutch our own offspring to our chests and feel waves of love, then terror, then relief, then guilt.

And anger.

And sorrow.

And numbness.

(and oh! those hands! and oh! those faces! and oh! those poor parents! and those children, those little, little children!)

I do not know what my children feel. They took it in and didn’t say much. I do know that my son, who usually is a right pain in my behind at church listened intently during the homily. (He was still a pain in the other sections of the Mass. He still is, in the end, his very Self.) It’s the third week of Advent – season of Light, season of Hope, season of the promise of peace. During Advent we are reminded that a single candle can illuminate the darkness, and that Heaven is not an abstraction, belonging only to the dead. Heaven is here. It grows inside us, waiting to be born. It is ruddy and squalling and precious and alive.

This is what they said at church, and afterward, Leo had questions.

“What did they mean that Heaven and Hell were right now?”

“Well,” I said, “What do you think it meant?”

That, ladies and gentlemen, was answering a question with a question. It’s a jerk move, and Leo wasn’t having it.

“So,” he said, “if I don’t feel love, like right now, am I in Hell?”

“No, sweetheart. You have never known a time when you weren’t surrounded with love. You have always been with love, but you don’t notice it because it just seems like the regular world. What they meant is that Heaven is love, and Heaven is connection, and Hell is hatred and disconnection and loneliness and despair. That’s what they meant.”

Leo thought about this. We were in the car, driving from Minneapolis and Saint Paul. It’s strange weather for December – all fog and low clouds and odd warming/icing patterns that are part of this larger weather weirding due to climate change. I don’t approve of it. Particularly now, when our feelings are complicated and muddled and foggy. I miss the stark brightness of sun-on-snow, and the searing cold of winter.

Finally, “So the people? Where the shooting was? Are they in Hell?”

He heaved the question over the seats of the car. It landed on my lap like a stone.

“Well,” I said. “Yes and no.”

I brought my hand to my mouth and felt my breath on my fingers. Out, warm. In, cold. I listened to the buzz of the wheels on the road, the rhythmic swish of the wipers. I wished we were on a couch, that he was on my lap, that he was looking at my face and not the back of my head, the occasional flick of my eyes in the rear-view mirror. I sighed.

“Here’s the thing, buddy,” I said. “Evil exists. Bad things exist. God gave us free will, do you know what that means?”

“It’s choosing,” he said.

“Right,” I said. “We are free to choose. And we can make good choices and bad choices. We can do good things or evil things. But the thing is? When terrible things happen, it doesn’t mean that good things won’t happen as a result. When there are terrible natural disasters, people help each other. They rebuild. They become closer to their neighbors and discover friends that they didn’t know they had. Old arguments stop being important, and people become more connected. And that’s Heaven – or a little bit of it anyway. That bad man, I don’t know why he did what he did, but my guess is that he wanted people to hurt. He wanted them to feel pain and despair. He wanted them to be in Hell. But the thing is? People have a tendency to come together. When bad things happen, they go out of their way to love each other. And love increases. It multiplies. There is massive amounts of love welling up in every single person that you see. It’s pouring out of their eyes and leaking from their hands. They’re leaving trails of it on the ground. They don’t know what to do with all that love. So they are hugging their kids and checking on their neighbors and sending all of the prayers and energies and extra love that they have to the people who are hurting. And they’re doing what they can to make our world safer and more just. And that’s not Hell at all. That’s Heaven. Or a little bit of it. And so that bad man? He was wrong. He was so so wrong.”

Leo thought about this.

“So you’re saying God did it on purpose? Gave free will so there would be more Heaven just lying around?”

“I don’t know, honey. But that’s a good guess.”

“So, God is tricky. He is full of tricks. Just like me.”

“That’s right, buddy,” I said. I tried to keep my voice even. I failed. “Exactly like you.”

The rest of the drive was silent, except for the wheels and the pavement and the whirr of the defroster. The sound of my son breathing. The beating of his heart. His maddening, fascinating, complicated Self. Wild, precious, and alive.

A thousand blessings upon all of you, dear readers. May your love shine in this time of darkness, and may your aching hearts be eased. Heaven is here and Hell is here, which means that we all have work to do. May we all have the courage to do it.

 

In Which I Attempt At Wisdom (and largely fail)

I believe I mentioned before that I have, for the last six weeks, returned to the teaching of adults, through a literary arts organization called The Loft Literary Center. It’s a great organization – one that has been incredibly supportive of my work over the years – and I love being a part of it.

It’s been a while since I last taught grownups. Normally I teach children. I get kids; I get how they think; I get their humor. Hell, in my soul, I think I secretly am a ten-year-old boy. Named Harold. I don’t have to think a lot about reaching my audience, because I am my audience. So, I approached my teaching of grownups with some amount of trepidation. Also, I spent the summer in a rather dark place when it came to my work and general self-efficacy, so I was rather skeptical as to what I actually had to offer these grownups who may or may not show up for my class.

(Or who may, in a fit of annoyance, leave my class in a huff. Or attack me with spit balls and paper airplanes.)

And I was surprised – no shocked - to see that my students actually enjoyed my class. Called it useful. (I have never been called useful before.) Called it illuminating. (How can I illuminate when I am standing in the dark?) Anyway, it was good for my ragged spirit. And my paper-thin soul.

So today is my last day for my class entitled Navigating The Treacherous Terrain of the First Fifty Pages Of the Middle Grade Novel (A Survivor’s Guide). Because, whatever. I like long titles. And I feel like six weeks isn’t long enough to give them what they need. And I feel like six weeks isn’t long enough to spend in the company of such a capital group. And I want to leave them with stuff they can use – bits of materials and instructions and know-how. Maps. Translations. Magic runes.

So I wrote them this – a Q&A of sorts. And now I turn it to you, dear readers. What more should I include? What will be useful for my collection of students who are either done with their novels, or well on their way? What pieces of wisdom do you have.

This is what I have so far. Please add your thoughts in the comments:

Questions and Answers for the In-Progress Novelist

1.    What now?

Oh, my dears and darlings! I wish I could tell you for sure. These are the things that must happen, though, before you can even consider sending your work into the world – finish the draft; let it sit with you for a bit; read it over with fresh eyes; revise; let someone else read it; listen to their comments; really listen; revise; read it again; revise; drink tea; love your families and give them gifts of appreciation and apologize profusely for your distinctly odd behavior while in the process of novel-making; read great books that challenge you and make you want to write better books; revise again.

2.  Do I need a writer’s group?

Not necessarily, but you should have readers. Usually we call these beta readers, and they are the trusted folks who will generously give their time to read your stuff and tell you – without reservation – what they think. You do not need to follow their advice. What you do need to do is notice the spots in your manuscript that give your readers trouble. And you need to recognize that the weak spots in your story are, in fact, opportunities to dig in, crack the thing open, examine the innards and mechanisms and structures, and to make your work stronger – complete and whole and separate from you.

3.   So where do I find these readers? (And by the way, my Social Anxiety Disorder prevents me from making direct eye contact or meeting new people.)

Fear not! The world is filled with writers! Obviously, the Loft is a great resource, and you can connect with classmates or fellow scribblers in the coffee shop or folks who show up at readings or whatever. If face-to-face contact scares you, fear not! The internets exist! Places like absolutewrite.com and critique.org are wonderful places to find critique partners. The Verla Kay boards are incredibly helpful as well. Also, for those of you who are not scared of by Twitter, there are several weekly chats that happen in the twitterverse that create spaces for people across the industry – the pre-published, the just-published, the oft-published, as well as agents, editors, publicists and hangers-on – to connect and exchange ideas surrounding pre-set topics. There are three that I participate in from time to time (when bedtime doesn’t get in the way): #kidlitchat happens on Tuesdays, #yalitchat is on Wednesdays, and #mglitchat is every Thursday – all at 8pm Central time. I have made very strong connections – and even friendships – with other writers that way. I’ve exchanged manuscripts with people and have gotten beautiful feedback. But mostly, this job is hard. And it’s lonely. And tribes exist for a reason. We need to find people who honor what we do, who see its value, and who give us shoulders to lean on when things are tough. We need to find people that we can be kind to – with whom we can share our own knowledge and experience and expertise. In the end, community matters, and it’s good to be part of one.

4.    Do I need an agent?

Yes. Well, not necessarily. But holy smokes, do they ever make things easier.

5.    Can you elaborate?

Sure. And let me clarify – if your intention is to go at this via the independent, self-publishing route, then you do not need an agent. If you only want to finish the novel, make some nice copies of it and share them with your friends and loved ones, then there are approximately nine million avenues to make that happen – Lulu.com is the first one to come to mind – and enjoy! There is nothing better than sharing stories with people you care about. If you are planning on writing a series of fast-paced novels (maybe three or four a year) and selling them as e-books, keeping the lion’s share of the revenues for yourself, that is a fine option as well. Lots of people do this; a goodly sum of them do it for the love and couldn’t care less about the money; a small-but-growing number break even, or make a modest profit; and a very small number are able to pay their bills with what they sell independently. Like traditional publishing, it’s a bit of a crap-shoot. But none of us are in this business to get rich. Heck, even the folks on the NYT Best Seller List aren’t getting rich. It’s just the fact of the matter.

HOWEVER, if your intent is to eventually get your books on the desks of editors who work for the large publishers, then YES you need an agent. Even many of the small publishers require agents these days. Your agent is part critique-partner, part business-analyst, part guru/spirit guide, part money-manager, part pit-bull, part suave-savvy-deal-maker, part career-mapper, and part publishing-speak-translator. I would be lost without my agent. Lost!

6.    Can we talk about money?

Of course we can, but alas, it’s not very useful. (Unless ranges like “from 0 to infinity” can be described as useful. In which case, awesome.) We could talk about averages and outliers, but in the end, publishers make decisions about the advance based on what they think they can recoup from that individual book, or what they think they can make back from that particular writer over the long term. Sometimes, a higher advance is a publisher’s way of signaling what their intended marketing and packaging budget will be for the book, but not always. There are writers who come out of the gate with six-figure advance deals. These are not typical. A typical first-time author will, if they are very lucky, land a book deal that stands at around $5-30k. But the thing is? This is not money you can reliably depend on. Because even if you’re getting 100k – that’s a lot, right? But then 15% goes to your agent (because without them you wouldn’t have had that money to begin with), and then there are self-employment taxes (did you know that self-employed people get taxed at a higher rate than other people? Well now you know.) and health insurance costs, and office incidentals, and then there is the fact that money comes in huge chunks that do not respond to your other bills, and can be delayed for reasons totally outside of your control (your editor goes on maternity leave, your book gets moved to another list, your publisher merges with another publisher, thereby putting your book’s very existence in question, etc.) . This is money you cannot depend upon. This is an unreliable way to make a living. It is much, much better to consider this a side-job, OR to have a spouse whose income is reliable, and accept your role as a kept man or woman. In my case, both my husband and I are self-employed and are accustomed to this life that we have built on a complicated DIY structure made of duct tape, cast-off lumber, a bit of twine, wire, papier-mâché, and gum. It is sometimes possible, but just because it’s possible doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. And it isn’t for everyone. It’s better, and recommended,  to maintain a consistent income, and to use the revenues from writing to buy some freedom from time to time (sabbaticals, and what have you).

7.    Do I have to be on social media?

You do not have to be, but it does help. When you are in the process of querying, the first thing an agent will do (assuming your work is compelling enough to justify the time) is to see what bits of you exist online – on twitter, on a blog, on facebook, on Pinterest, whatever. Part of this is just to see if you’re setting off their Jerk-O-Meters (because no one wants to work with a jerk). Part of this is to see what kind of potential readership you already have (again, you don’t need this, it’s just a thing that’s good to know). Part of this is to see what your potential vectors are for book promotion. Now, that being said, the purpose of social media – regardless of type – is for communication, collaboration, and creative community-building. If you have a blog that is entirely dedicated to the pictures you snap on your daily walks, or the prayers that you offer to the universe, or pictures of your kids, or your own artwork, or surrealistic and post-apocalyptic newspaper articles from a 25^th century human colony on Mars, or whatever, that is fine. If your whole social media profile is limited to transcribing the fart jokes your neighbor kid tells you onto Twitter. That’s fine too. No matter what, it should be natural to you, it should be fun for you, and if you try to force it, it won’t work. Try it. If you like it, great. If you don’t, don’t sweat it.

8.     How do I find an agent?

Great question! Have you heard of Google? That’s not really a question, but it is part of the answer here.

No matter what, you want to find an agent whose interests and literary proclivities mirror your own. You want an agent who loves your work. This is important. So make a stack of books you love and find out who represents those writers. To do this, you can either take a look at the acknowledgement page, as many writers will thank their agents there, OR you can find the author’s web page (as most have one these days) and you should be able to find it some place on there (usually on the Contact page), OR you can simply google the phrase “Who represents _______?” or “Who is ____________’s literary agent?” and something should come up. I get about ten of these search terms coming to my blog every day.

Another great resource is Agentquery.com, which allows you to search agents to represent specific genres. They also show a sampling of a particular agent’s other clients to give you a range of their representation, and links to their websites and submissions pages.

But here’s the thing – and I cannot stress this enough: the query process, I feel, is a blunt and unwieldy tool, and it is not representative of the relationship that you are attempting to enter into. Agents work on behalf of writers and in cooperation with writers, but they do not work for writers. They are independent, savvy, and highly communicative individuals with broad and nuanced relationships with lots and lots of important folks in the industry. They can read people very well, and are incredibly perceptive when it comes to tastes. You want to partner with someone who has a profound and passionate understanding of your work, who is someone you trust as a reader, who will protect your interests, who has a clear vision of what your career can be, and – most importantly – is someone that you like. So how do you figure that out? Again, Twitter can be helpful. Lots of agents tweet. Not all do, of course, but for those that do, it can be an insight into their interests and curiosities, their humor and their passions, their politics and their reading lists. Another thing: blogs. Lots of agents blog. If you are considering querying them, make sure you have read it. And third, agents usually appear all over google. They will be mentioned in their clients’ blog posts, their bios will appear on writer convention presenter lists, they will have done interviews or Q&A’s, they will be pictured at a SCBWI event, or whatever. Do your research. Know before you query. Talk to them if they are interested in your work. And ask yourself, “Do I want to be in a productive, creative relationship with this person? And how would that work?”

9. Ummmm. How do I write a query letter?

Don’t stress the query letter. Keep it short, keep it snappy, give enough of a hook to draw your potential reader to the page, and then be devastating and original in your actual fiction. Most agents ask that you include five pages with your query (typically pasted right into the email, because agents are skittish of attachments as a general rule). These pages don’t just have to be great – they have to be amazing. Be amazing. This is your new rule.

Now, if you are still stressing the query, there is help online. Miss Snark has long since stopped blogging, but her archives are still up. Google her, read everything. And you’re welcome.

If you are interested in getting your query critiqued, hop over to Queryshark.blogspot.com. Note: read the blog first. It is not for the faint of heart.

And again, it’s good to read agent’s blogs. Many have written excellent posts on what they are looking for in a query, and what they are not. Also, be sure to read the guidelines obsessively with each agent you query. Follow the dang directions. I cannot stress this enough.

10. Any more thoughts?

Write. Every day. Finish this book. Revise this book. Write the next book. And then another. And then another. Accept the fact that I know lots of writers with first and second and third novels living quite happily in a drawer somewhere, never to see the light of day. This is normal. If you could write one novel, you can write two. Your second novel will invariably be better than your first. If you can write two novels, you can write ten. Challenge yourself. Insist on getting better. Write vigorously, prodigiously, brutally, and with great love. Be expansive. Be sly. Be amazing.

And, as with any great thing, keep a long view. Your speed in initial publication has no bearing on the number of books you produce over the course of your lifetime. Just write the damn books. The rest will come in its own time.

All right, folks. What am I missing?

In which I discover that my job has Downsides.

Extreme caveat: If you are a writer and happen to have a kid or two running around the house, you may want to skip this post. Hell, I lived through it and I kinda want to skip this post.

My son’s second grade teacher returned to work after her maternity leave last week. I’m thrilled about it – which is not to say that I didn’t like the substitute. I did. But oh! I really like this teacher. My daughter had her as well in second grade, and I think she is rainbows and poppy fields and fairy wings. She leaves a trail of glitter wherever she goes. She is wonderful.

So, to welcome her back, I stuck a little care package in Leo’s backpack (a nice pen, yummy candies, note cards, etc.) and stuck in a copy of Iron Hearted Violet to add to her class library for good measure. I figured most of the kids in the class are too young for it, but she has a couple of students who are tearing their way through the Harry Potter books who would be ready for Violet. Plus, she already had Mostly True Story of Jack in her classroom library, so might as well have the two, right? I put both things into the backpack, but one came back again. Leo gave her the care package, but not the book.

So I asked him about it.

“I’m not going to give it to her,” he said. He didn’t look at my face. He shoved his hands into his pocket and looked at the ground.

“Okay,” I said. “You don’t have to. But I’m curious. Why not?”

He started walking in a circle. My daughters who were both reading their books on the couch looked up. Tight mouths. A grimace hiding in the crinkles around their eyes.

“I don’t want her to know my mom is a writer,” he said. The girls sighed as one. I looked back at them, and they instantly buried their faces back in their books. I turned back to Leo.

“Why?” I said.

“Because, ” he said. He still didn’t want to look at me.

“Do you know that she already knows I’m a writer. She has all of my nonfiction books too. And Jack. Why does it matter if she has Violet?”

“Well,” Leo said. “Maybe she forgot. She probably forgot. So I’m not gonna tell her again.”

I looked back at the girls. They held their books rigid, without turning the pages. “Girls,” I said. They did not respond. I pressed on. “Does it bother you when people know what I do for a living?”

The skin on Ella’s forehead wobbled and bunched, her lips crinkling up into a tight rosebud in the center of her face. “Ummm….” she began.

“It’s not that….” DeeDee said.

“I mean….” Ella faltered.

I raised my eyebrows. “It really bothers you that much?”

DeeDee nodded.

“Not regular people,” Ella clarified. “Regular people know what you do and it’s no problem because we can ignore them. And we do. But teachers?”

DeeDee gave a great, guttural sigh and slumped into the couch.

“Teachers think it’s extra cool. And they want to talk about it. And use their overly-excited teacher voices and get all breathy and stuff and they say things like ‘Oh your mother is a writer and oh that must be so wonderful for you and oh excuse me while I raise my expectations for you forever.”

“They think things about us,” DeeDee said. “Wrong things.“

“It’s annoying,” Leo said.

“It’s awful,” Ella said.

“It’s the worst,” concluded DeeDee.

“And they don’t know what it’s like,” Ella said. “They only see the book when it’s done, and they think, oh cool a book! And it’s true. The book is cool. But they don’t know the other parts that go with it. The moping and the whining and the long nights.”

“And crying,” DeeDee added. “Sometimes there’s crying.”

“And the You Being Gone.“

“We hate it when you’re gone,” Leo said.

“And the clicking computer late at night and it wakes me up because I know you’re up,” DeeDee said.

“And the muttering. And the emails. And the emails with muttering. And don’t even get me started on Twitter,” Ella said.

“I hate Twitter,” Leo said.

“And then we have to like the book. And, like, what if we don’t?” DeeDee said.

“You don’t have to like it, sweetheart,” I said. “That has never been a rule. You don’t even have to read it.”

“And we’re proud of you,” Ella continued, “but most people just think that writers just print a book out of their computers and viola. But we know all the other stuff that goes with it. And it is not all good stuff.”

I must have looked rather aghast, because the kids all looked at one another and started to backtrack.

“But we really love you, mom,” Ella assured me, and hugged me. And the other children hugged me too. They kissed my hands and nuzzled my face and told me I was a Good Mom, Mostly – which is all I’ve ever aspired to be. Every day, I try to maximize the Mostly.

And then I made soup. And tried to quell the Dark Thoughts in my soul.

And here’s the thing. This job is hard. It’s hard on us, and it’s hard on the people who love us. We love the characters in our stories; we worry about them, fuss over them and mourn them when they die. We fashion a world for them to live in, and we labor and sweat to heave huge elements together, to slide whole continents into place and hang the stars in their firmaments and conjure storms and mountains and wide oceans and the vastness of space; we build families and dynasties and nations; lust, joy, betrayal, consequences, and mad, mad, true love. We invent histories and intimacies and broken hearts. We walk on the backs of teeming schools of fish and allow ourselves to be devoured by wolves and consult oracles and, when we are stuck, we offer our dinner to a beggar and hope for the best.

And then – then! We are buffeted by things we cannot control – reviews, marketing campaigns, sales executives and librarians. We experience failure. We experience defeat. We are elated, then crushed; we sink and then we soar – sometimes in a single afternoon. And we don’t get to experience the one thing that drives us to the page every day. We do not get to witness the child that pulls our book off the shelf. We do not get to see the world that we hinted at uncurling from their brain. We do not get to bear witness to the imagination of the reader at work. Our book is our proxy. And we pray that it is enough.

My job is hard on my kids. It is hard on my husband. It is hard. It is not the only job in the world for which this is true. Lots of us have hard jobs – and we do them with real commitment and love. We do them because we are called, or we believe in the work, or because of necessity. For whatever the reason, we balance the needs of our family and the needs of our work, and it is not always perfect. We do our best, and we do a mostly good job.

Later that night, I laid down with Leo and asked him if he wanted another chapter of Watership Down.

“Not tonight, mom,” he said. “I want one of your stories. And mine. The kind of story that we tell together.”

“Okay,” I said. “What’s in this story?”

“A boy, and a mom, and a monster that lives in a swamp,” he said.

“Does the monster quote poetry?” I asked.

“All monsters quote poetry,” Leo said. “Ask anyone you like.”

And so we began.

In Which There Were Seven Dreams

Last night, I slept fitfully and without satisfaction, my brain addled by the moon’s bright insistence. I am floating now. The earth is separated from my feet by wind and cloud and empty space. I do not know when I will find solid ground.

Right now, two books are growing like moss under my fingers – each a different color, a different texture, a different wild name called against a wide sky. But I will not work on them today. Today I will float. Today I will think about dreaming.

In between each dream last night, I woke with a startled cry, a flail of limbs, a sob lodged in the throat. Each time I got out of bed and walked across the icy floor to the wide windows facing the back yard, and the field, and the creek, and the city beyond. Each time, I pressed my damp fingers to the cold glass, and watched the progress of the moon across the frozen land. Each time I watched my breath collect on the window like a cloud, and vanish without a trace.

This is what I dreamed.

1. I am in a gold-colored tent in an alpine grotto beneath a snowy peak. I have been here before, many years ago. I slide onto the platform upon which the tent sits and slip my feet into my government-issue boots. My ranger’s shirt. My fire-proof pants. I go to the metal cache and pull out what we need for breakfast, but nothing is there. The cache is empty. I call to the man sleeping in the tent – the one who becomes my husband, but in the dream, as he was at the time, he is connected to me by will and by love, and not by law. The tent unzips. He lumbers out. A damp snout. Black fur. White teeth. Ten bright claws, shining like glass. He regards me, as I regard him. The smell of bear musk. The shirr of the breeze. I snort, snuffle, and open my throat and roar.

2. I am in a submarine, following the migration of blue whales. The submarine is gold with black stripes, like a bumble bee. It is narrow at its face with a swollen middle, as though ripe with young. It has a comfortable, easy look to it, as though it’s only purpose is to act as a plaything for the whales. Indeed, the blue whales seem curious, turning their great, round eyes toward the view windows and peering inside. They blink. I blink. They lean into the deep and I scuttle after them, leaving a trail of bubbles behind. My children are in the submarine and they are stopping up leaks. They use their fingers, their hands, their clothing. They use wax and rubber and paste. They press their mouths to the holes and blow out. “Mom,” they say. “We have to go back.” “Just a little bit farther,” I say. “Mom,” they say as the water pools at our feet. As it splashes our knees. As it slips up around our waists. “Just a little bit farther,” as we skirt the backs of the whales. As we turn upward with them toward the invisible surface thorough the endless stretch of salt and dark and cold, cold, cold.

3. I am being fired. Again. It hurts just as much as before.

4. There is a wolf fast asleep at the end of my bed. It is curled around itself, a spiral of fur and tail and meaty breath. I sit up. It cocks its head and blinks its eyes. It gazes at me sleepily. “You!” I say. The wolf yawns. “You were expecting someone else?” it says.

5.  I am wearing a black pencil skirt with a matching jacket and patent leather pumps. My hair is done with a swooped bang and a high bun and a pillbox hat. I am running. I realize that the world is in black-and-white, with the occasional jerky flash like poorly threaded film, and there is a soundtrack running behind me – bright and jangley like a Hitchcock flick. I have no name. I know I have no name. My only purpose in this movie is to die. The light changes. A blade flashes. The music launches into a brash, assonant chord, like the shatter of glass. I feel the knife enter at the back. I feel the steel in the space between ribs, in the sinew of muscle, the sponge of lung. I do not breathe. My arms fling out like wings and the light surrounds me and I am gone.

6. There is a knot in the umbilical chord. And oh god, there is a knot. And oh, god, there is a knot.

7. I am outside. It is freezing cold, and I am in a tank top and my underwear, walking barefoot across the lace of snow over the brown grass, down to the creek. The cattails are flattened against the shore – no herons nest there now. The foxes have found more private places for their denning, and the ducks have launched into the air and shot across the sky. I am alone. My toes curl onto the mounds of frozen mud and I sink onto my heels, regarding the frozen creek. There is a figure under the ice. Its hands are pressed against the surface. Its mouth moves in horror. It is dressed as I am. Its hair floats in the murky water. I turn, find a stone, crack the ice, and offer my hand. My hand on my hand. My fingers around my wrists. I help the woman that is me out of the ice and lead her back to the house. Where it is warm.

One of these days, I will sleep without dreaming. But not soon, I hope. My dreams are strange, but they are mine. And I will keep them.

The Luminary Bestiary

The other night, I dreamed that I woke up in an owl’s nest. It was dark, and the moon bore down like an enormous and glowing eye. I cowered in a pile of feathers and bones and broken bits of eggshell. The other owlets were huge – seven feet tall or more – all down and fuzz and beak and claw. Or perhaps I was tiny. There was no way of knowing.

(What is large, after all? What is small. Is it not our way of saying that the world only exists in relationship with our consciousness? Is it not merely a subtle self-aggrandizement?)

Their eyes blinked in the hovering moonlight. They glowed. They rustled their underdeveloped wings and opened their razor mouths. They cocked their prehistoric heads to the right and the left. They leered their faces toward my own, and squeaked.

Am I owl? I asked my dreaming self. Or am I lunch?

I didn’t know. And I woke for real before I knew the answer. I lay in bed for a long time, looking for the moon in a sea of stars. And I fell asleep listening to the far-off hooting of owls.

The next morning, I told my dream to my son.

“I had that same dream,” he said.

“Really?” I asked. “The exact same one?”

“Well,” he clarified, “not exactly the same. In mine I woke up in a dragon’s lair. And I couldn’t tell if I was a prisoner or dinner or treasure or a dragon. And then I decided.”

“Which were you?”

“Treasure. Or a dragon. I can’t decide.”

I would have told him that he was already both, but he had already run outside to play. And meanwhile, I had monsters on the brain.

People have asked me – quite often in the last few weeks – about two particular characters in my book: the Dragon and the Nybbas. Specifically, I’ve been asked about the genesis of these characters, and how they took root in my mind, and the process of their own becoming. And I’m never really sure what to say to these questions. The dragon, of course, is, well dragony. With fire and wings and scales and a foul disposition. However he is also old. And broken. And cowardly and infirm and lacking in hope and heartless. I do not mean heartless here to mean cruel or vicious. I mean simply that his heart is not in his body. And that is problematic.

The Nybbass, on the other hand, shifts its shape to suit its purposes, but it’s primary form is in mirrors. It lives on distortions, reflecting a reality that is mostly true, with enough omissions to skew belief or poison that which once was good. Mirrors, of course, can do that all on their own dang selves, but the Nybbas makes it worse.

The thing is, though, that I can’t really tell how these creatures have taken root in the landscape of my imagination. I can only say that the world in my head is densely populated with monsters. They creep around the edges of stories, asking politely to be let in. (And sometimes, not so politely.) There is a six-legged feathery monster with eyes like dinner plates and razor sharp teeth that prefers to live in bone dry forests, where the dying trees are slowly succumbing to bug infestations. There is the leather-winged cat that wipes out entire species of migratory birds and are likely responsible for cow-mutilations around the country. There is a dragon the size of a thimble and a troll that lives in my basement and a man eating worm that crinkles the lawn in my back yard. There is a beast made of river-muck with tin cans for eyes and a mouth full of teeth made from broken glass that sklurks in the creek behind my house and ripples its gassy path from wetland to footbridge to fishing hole. There is a ghost dog in the field that howls at the moon every Tuesday night at eleven.

My mind is thick with monsters.

And I think it always will be.

 

 

 

You know that dream when you’re naked in public? Yeah. It’s pretty much exactly like that.

This week, a box of books arrived in the Barnhill house. Two boxes, actually. I opened them up, and peered inside, and saw multiple copies of my book looking back at me, blinking their sleepy eyes.

 I have been a basket case ever since.

Now, to be fair, I’ve been a basket case for a while. The time when I erased the ending over and over and over again, trying to get the thing to land right. The time when I poured over galley pages from sunup to sundown until my eyes were bloodshot and dry and my skin flaked away like dust and my soul became clouds and clouds and clouds. And I was a basket case when the first ARCs arrived in the mail. And when the art was finalized. And when they sent me the map. And when I knew that the first reviewers were holding my book, or pouring over my book, or ignoring it all together.

But now.

Now.

Mind you, we’re still well shy of the official release date – October 9 – but that doesn’t matter. There is a stack of VIOLET at the Barnes and Noble. I saw them. And then I ran away. Amazon has them at the ready. Any beloved indie bookstore can snag a copy – or ten – in a matter of days. If they don’t have them already.

Which means that my baby is in the world, and I cannot hold anything back.

I was hanging out with a bunch of other moms from the neighborhood last night. There was wine and cookies and book talks and a bunch of ladies dishing about god-knows-what, and I brought a copy of the book to show them. These are women whose kids play with my kids, who show up at neighborhood functions with caprese salads and noodle bakes and bars. These are good, good women. Anyway, they asked me if I was excited.

“No,” I said. “I’m terrified. I feel vulnerable and hopeful and frightened and exposed. It’s not a pleasant feeling.”

They were amazed at this and somewhat flabbergasted, so I clarified. “You know that moment when you’re in labor, and your clothes have been taken away and you’re wearing one of those flimsy hospital gowns, and your feet are in the stirrups and your rump is facing the door and about fifty-seven people have been in and out of the room in the last fifteen minutes, all with an unobstructed view of your nether regions?”

Tight grimaces all around. Yup. They remembered.

“Well, it’s just like that.”

“Oh, honey,” they said.

And then they gave me wine. God bless them.

Violet – the girl that I struggled with and fussed over; the girl who inspired fits of tenderness and exasperation; the girl who haunted my dreams for months and months? She’s gone now. She’s gone from me. And I never get to have her back. And that, my friends, is a mournful thing.

Still, it means that she belongs to more people than just me. She belongs to the reader. She belongs to the library. She belongs to the classroom and the after school center and the back seat of the station wagon on a road trip to Lubbock. She belongs to you. And the kid next door. And the world.

Godspeed Violet. Godspeed Demetrius. Godspeed Cassian and King Randall and Auntie and Moth and Nod. Godspeed Dragon and even the Nybbas. Godspeed to you all. I’ll miss you.

 

Butt-Kicking Princesses in History – Thyra of Denmark

The Danes, as a group, pretty much ruled in the nicknaming department. Particularly with their various monarchs. Olof the Brash. Halfdan the Black. Harald Bluetooth. And so forth.

Thyra, Queen of Denmark, was a lady of questionable parentage – with more folks listed as possible fathers and mothers than a new-born kit in a bunny factory. Which is to say that her parents, while terribly important, were likely not married. So she was married off to a Danish king who’s moniker was, I’m not even kidding, Gorm the Old.

And he wasn’t even old. And plus, his name was Gorm, for god’s sake.

And that, of course, makes a good story – the clever girl marries the schumpy boy and makes a great man out of him. It is, as we all know, the Marge Simpson approach, (“Lisa, most women will tell you you’re a fool to think you can change a man but those women are quitters.”) with a long and glorious history in storytelling. And it may be true.

However there is another record from the historian Saxo Grammaticus tells us another story, thusly: ”This man [Gorm] was counselled by the elders to celebrate the rites of marriage, and he wooed Thyra, the daughter of Ethelred, the king of the English, for his wife. She surpassed other women in seriousness and shrewdness, and laid the condition on her suitor that she would not marry him till she had received Denmark as a dowry. This compact was made between them, and she was betrothed to Gorm.” Was she a princess or a bastard? Who knows. What I do know is this: Stories like that make me question my whole life. Withholding your hand in marriage until the young man in question can produce for you an entire nation? My god. This woman was brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?

Anyway.

Thyra was already well-known by the time she married poor old Gorm. Or, at least it is said that she was. Thyra has many stories. Perhaps they are all true. Perhaps none are. The stories say that she was pretty, brave and resilient. They say that she fought an army of Germans and held them at bay. They say that she travelled across the Sea of Trolls to retrieve a stolen daughter.

They say a lot of things.

And you know what? I’m inclined to believe it. After all, they called her husband Gorm The Old. Know what they called her? The Pride of Denmark. (Or the Ornament of Denmark. Or the Jewel on the Neck of Denmark. In any case, it’s clear she was held in high regard.) According to legend, she was wooed aggressively by Otto, the emperor of Germany. And she held him off with batted lashes and sly smiles, all the while building a massive dyke (that still stands today) from which to wage war. And friends, war was waged and Otto ran off with his tail between his legs.

Go Thyra.

Later, when Gorm persuaded her to become his wife, she laid down her final terms for the nuptials to take place: He must first build a new house and sleep in it by himself during the first three nights of winter, and record what dreams he had. Only if she liked what she heard would she then consent to marry. When he reported that he had dreamed that a herd of oxen came out of the sea and that birds fluttered down from the sky and landed on the house, Thyra was satisfied.

Which means that Gorm may be cleverer than originally believed. After all, these dreams came straight out of the bible (they are the ones that Pharaoh reported to David – oxen from the ocean symbolizes a bountiful harvest, while birds indicate a strong nation). Gorm wasn’t a Christian, but he knew his beloved was. Could it be that he would think to report the exact dreams that he knew would please his wife? Could it be that he invented the stories that would, for once and for all, remove her last hesitations and pave the way of winning the gril of his dreams? Nice move, Gorm. Nice move.

Tricky fellow.

In any case, Thyra lived a long time, but not nearly as long as her husband. When she died, he mourned desperately, and erected two runestones in honor of his beloved. The Pride of Denmark. The Treasure of Denmark. The Jewel of Denmark. The Mother of Denmark. Thyra.

Butt-Kicking Princesses in History – Tomoe Gozen

Okay, fine. She’s not a princess. But she was a samurai – a samurai! -  which is so friggin’ cool I can hardly stand it, so I had to include her. And as a result, I’ve been running around my house all day, slaying my enemies with my imaginary sword, and beheading possibly-carnivorous bunnies in the landscape of my imagination.

(And my kids accuse me of not having a real job. THE NERVE!)

(Is being a writer not a real job? Oh god. It’s not, is it.)

My ten year old just asked me what I was doing. So I told her. “Writing about a girl samurai,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “So you’re writing about me, then? Good.”

“Are you a samurai?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “not now. You haven’t bought me a sword. But I am in my dreams.”

And now I live with the knowledge that my willowy girl lives a double life as a sword-handling samurai princess in her dreams, and my life is awesome forever.

(My kids are cooler than any book I will ever write. This is another bit of knowledge that I must live with. It’s not so bad, as bits of knowledge go.)

Tomoe Gozen was the wife (one of several) to the general Minamoto no Yoshinaka. The samurai business was, at the time (12th century, Japan) a fairly dude-centered industry, but Tomoe was known for her superior fighting skills, her horsemanship and her valor. She was an expert in archery, military tactics, and competitive beheading.

Okay, fine, I made up the competitive bit …. but she was a good beheader, which, really, is an under-appreciated skill. I couldn’t do it. Could you?

The epic poem, The Tale of the Heike, which describes the massive struggle for control over Japan by the Taira and Minamoto clans at the end of the Genpei War, tells us this about our Tomoe:

Tomoe was especially beautiful, with white skin, long hair, and charming features. She was also a remarkably strong archer, and as a swordswoman she was a warrior worth a thousand, ready to confront a demon or a god, mounted or on foot. She handled unbroken horses with superb skill; she rode unscathed down perilous descents. Whenever a battle was imminent, Yoshinaka sent her out as his first captain, equipped with strong armor, an oversized sword, and a mighty bow; and she performed more deeds of valor than any of his other warriors.

According to the poem, Minamoto no Yoshinaka had defeated the Heike and driven them far to the West. He also took the holy city of Kyoto, and tried to declare himself the leader of the clan. He had, after all, done all the work. Or, he and his warriors. Which is to say, he and his wife – who he apparently sent into the thick of battle and only joined her when she made sure it was safe.

Typical.

Anyway, his cousins did not agree, and a battle for control ensued. Specifically: The Battle of Awazu in 1184.

Both Tomoe and Yoshinaka fought valiantly (Tomoe beheading, as usual), but they were vastly outnumbered. With his horse stuck and lamed in a half-frozen field. Yoshinaka told Tomoe to flee, which sounds sweet, until he added that it would be shameful for him to die in the company of a woman. Which, if you don’t mind me saying, is a bit rich. And I hope she socked him one, right in the eye. Because he would have deserved it.

So, righteously ticked off, Tomoe stormed away. And then she got bloody – first beheading Honda no Moroshige of Musashi,  and then running her sword through the middle of Uchida Ieyoshi. She then evaded capture and vanished from history.

Some accounts say that she gave up the sword and became a nun. Others say that she got married again and was domesticated. Baloney, I say. There’s no grave and no further mention of her in the historical record (and by “historical record”, I mean, of course, this cool poem and not much else. There is a grave for her (first?) husband, so we know for sure that he exists. But she is a mystery. I like mysteries.).

Which means that she could have gone anywhere. An outlaw in the forest. A secret friend to travelers. A sword-wielding foe of those who abuse their power. A beheader of bad guys. I don’t know, but I refuse to believe the official account. Any woman that gnarly isn’t going to disappear just because some man tells her to.

She will enlarge. She will become a contradiction, a poem, a legend, a dream. She will contain multitudes. She will inhabit stories just because. And she will not die.

My daughter, apparently, is a sword-wielding samurai in her dreams. Perhaps so am I. Perhaps so are you. Perhaps all of us become Tomoe Gozen the moment our eyes droop and our heads drop back. Perhaps we hear thundering beats of her horse’s gallop and our eyes begin to blaze and our sword arms itch, and all at once, someone yanks on the back of our collars and hauls us into battle.

CHARGE!

Possibly-Carnivorous Bunnies

You see? It’s not just the bunnies at my house. It’s a bunny-wide epidemic.

My back yard is, currently, overrun with bunnies. At first, I thought they were cute. I thought they were adorable, fuzzy-faced little fur-balls scampering and cavorting through my over-grown grass, impervious to the cares of the world and existing solely for charm, and charm alone. This was, of course, a cynical ruse. It is part of their strategy.

In the spring, they were so small, they could fit in the palm of your hand. They carried notebooks and pencils and a surveyors wheel. They checked out books from the library on how to build a catapult. I thought it was charming.

By July, they were the size of cats. When they hid behind my peonies and pounced on a small dog, I assumed they were just playing. They were terribly cute. And the dog squealed like a pig. I didn’t see that dog again, but no one in the neighborhood minded much, as he was a yippy, screeching little thing who had taken to peeing on people’s shoes when he was feeling annoyed. Which was always. He vanished, and I assumed he went on an annoying-dog cruise ship around the world.

By August, they rivaled the weight of my ancient, herding dog. They had weight-lifting tournaments in the back yard. Money was exchanged. There were bunny bookies shaking down unsuspecting robins for misplaced cash.

They started building bonfires. They painted their faces with mud and the juice of yew leaves and something red that I hoped to god is from berries. They howled at the moon and beat their chests grinned at my house while rubbing their adorably fuzzy bellies.

Now, in September, they have broad shoulders and bulging biceps. They play cards under the play house and gnaw on cigars clenched in their yellowing jaws and use foul language in front of my children.

There are no squirrels in my yard anymore. We used to have a family of woodchucks living in the base of the fir tree, but either they saw which way the wind was blowing and got the heck out of Dodge, or something more sinister is afoot. The birds are gone. The raccoons have fled. And the bunnies are – right now – staring at the house. They are peering into my office window. They are elbowing one another and gesturing with their stubbled chins.

My dog won’t go outside. I don’t blame her. I have taught her to use the toilet, though I still have to remind her to turn on the exhaust fan from time to time.

The gas company has been calling my house for the last three weeks because of their meter reader who disappeared while checking my gauges. He was, apparently, on the phone with his fiance, when, as he was writing his numbers, he was reported as saying, “Oh, look at the cute little…. oh my….here, I have carrots! Please, take the carr-” and a terrible silence. The fiance said that she could hear the sound of something furry – and possibly adorable – rubbing against the phone.

There is no trace of the meter reader. I have doubts that he’ll ever return.

The bunnies have been collecting cookbooks. They have titles like “A Meat-Lovers Paradise”, and “Tender Cutlets For Hungry Hunters”, and “Kill It And Grill It”. They stick post-it notes on the pertinent pages.

They are sharpening their knives.

They have, apparently, purchased some sort of cauldron, and are, right now, smashing a bit of flint against an old nail, trying to make enough sparks to light a blaze.

They have devoured my vegetable garden, dug up my tulip bulbs and my iris tubers. They have eaten my grass to the nub. They have assaulted my cherry tree and my rose bushes, and are, even now, stripping my hydrangeas and sucking the marrow from its tender bones. They are dismantling my garage and painting graffiti on my fence. I have dreams that they have invaded my house, that they write posts on my blog and hijack my twitter feed. I have dreams that they drive my minivan and use my credit cards and sign my children’s permission slips and then start a campaign of terror and blame it all on me.

I have dreams that they rip my books to shreds and pen a new series of bunny romance novels under my name.

Clearly, the bunnies must be stopped.

I will await your suggestions.

Paperback Writer!

Holy Box of Books, Batman!

I know I announced this when it was official last week, but a HUGE books arrived in the mail the other day, much to the delight of Barnhills everywhere. And so I stacked them up. And…..well. Just look at them! So many! And just after I was complaining to my dear Anne Ursu that I didn’t have a single copy of my own book in my house because I was constantly handing them to children who looked like they may be in need of reading material someday, and viola! Books! Real ones! And they arrived in secret on my doorstep, and I can’t wait to hand them out again to unsuspecting children.

I feel like the tooth fairy. Except without the underlying dental conditions. Also: with books.

Butt-Kicking Princesses in History: Urraca of Zamora

I love a good sibling rivalry story. As one of five siblings myself (oldest sister of four girls and one boy) and the mother of three (I may have mentioned them once or twice), I know quite well the shrewd calculations and endless scheming, the simmering  cauldron of perceived slights and all-out wrongs, the endless record-keeping and pecking-order-awareness. It’s more complicated than Secret Santa day at the UN, I’ll tell you what.

Take the Infanta of Zamora, Urraca. First of all, look at this picture:

Notice the heavy lidded stare? Notice the sidelong glance? Notice the scheming slump? My daughters make that same face. Hell, I make that face, and I don’t even live with my siblings anymore.

Urraca was – as I am – one sibling in five, but was, unlike me, the heir to a kingdom. Lucky girl. I, on the other hand, will be heir to my dad’s ginormous dictionary and my mom’s ancient Cuisinart (though, I may have to thumb wrestle my sister for it) (she doesn’t know that I have THUMB ARMOR! With POISONED BARBS! And RAZOR WIRE! One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war, HI-YA!).

Wait. What was I saying? Oh, right Urraca.

Anyway, Urraca’s father was Ferdinand the Great, the guy who conquered the heck out of the various principalities of Spain – held by both Christian and Islamic rulers – and crowned himself Emperor of Spain. This is not – to be clear – the same Ferdinand who kicked out Spain’s Muslims and Jews and, just for fun, whipped up a good old fashioned Inquisition, and ushered in one of Spain’s more unpleasant chapters. I mean, crowning oneself emperor is – let’s face it – a jerk move. But at least it’s not an Inquisition.

So, on his death bed, he divided up his empire, giving his three sons separate kingdoms, while his daughters were each given a walled city-state to call their very own. Ferdinand, having abandoned the trappings and riches of emperor-ness and wearing the simple clothes of a monk, challenged his children to play nice and to be fair and to love one another and God and Spain and then he died.

And then the wars started.

Really, we can blame brother Sancho – the eldest, who, rightfully so, thought that being the oldest meant that he was In Charge. As an eldest child myself, I can relate. He was, after all, king of Castille, the largest and most important of the three kingdoms. So he convinced his brother Alfonso to go to war with brother Garcia to nab Galicia, which Alfonso did willingly. Then, with extra money and arms at his disposal, Sancho went after Alfonso’s Leon, Elvira’s Toro and Urraca’s Zamora.

“NO FAIR,” Alfonso said, but Sancho wouldn’t listen, and now Alfonso was on the run.

Toro folded like a napkin, so Alfonso and Urraca combined forces. Alfonso tried to convince Urraca to come with him to Leon, but Urraca wouldn’t have it. “Have you seen this friggin’ castle?” Urraca said.

Sure, it’s looking a bit worse for wear now, but then it was impenetrable. Nothing that Alfonso would say could convince her. She had said her piece. She had counted to three. And she wasn’t moving. So Alfonso left for Toledo to regroup, and Urraca prepared for war.

Sancho, meanwhile, had teamed up with El Cid, (yes, that El Cid)

who convinced Sancho to go and pay his sister a visit, kiss her hand, and then wage all-out war. Which he did. Because why not?

It was unsuccessful, alas. Zamorra was too well-defended, and Urraca too shrewd a tactician. Unable to penetrate the walls, El Cid convinced Sancho to just wait the city out. Eventually, with her people starving, Urraca would cave. After all, El Cid argued. Ladies are delicate. And tender hearted. And they can’t stand to watch the men and women and children in their community suffer starvation or pain or bloody death. And that may be true. But Urraca was very good at convincing people to do things. And so the Nobleman Vellido rode out to meet Sancho. As Urraca had instructed him to do, he told Sancho that he was switching teams. And then, using trickery and cunning, got Sancho alone. I imagine the interchange went something like this:

VELLIDO: Boy, oh boy, Sancho, I sure am glad I switched sides. Your team rules!

SANCHO: I know, RIGHT? Welcome aboard.

VELLIDO: Hey. I have a GREAT idea! Let’s go over on the other side of that rocky knoll. Just the two of us. With no one else. We’ll watch the sunset and drink some wine and have lots of fun male bonding!

SANCHO: OMG! That’s totally the best idea EVAR!

VELLIDO: Awesome! I think I’ll bring this spear! For no particular reason!

And off they went.

Now, no one can prove that Urraca was behind this, of course. But it is widely believed that she was. Because she had a city to defend. And a snot-nosed brother to put in his place. And, as I said, she was very good at convincing people.

When Sancho was discovered, spear sticking out of his puny little body and hovering near death, he is said to have uttered these words:

“The traitor Vellido has killed me, and I die for my sins because I broke the oath I made to my father.” In which the rest of the world said, “WELL, DUH,” and then he died.

And let this be a lesson to all of us. If Sancho hadn’t made such a fuss, then the five siblings might have been content with their respective shares, and maybe later crises in Spain would have been averted. Or maybe not. While no one expects the Spanish Inquisition, perhaps the truths of human intolerance and the lust for power and the unbreakable code of sibling rivalry would have asserted itself no matter what. Perhaps the Inquisition was inevitable – just as any exercise of human horror, of man’s inhumanity to man.

Still, one may take some hope in the person of Urraca – who didn’t go after her brother’s share or her sister’s share, who didn’t make a mockery of her father’s plea to share and play nice. Instead, she simply stood up to a bully, and took him down. And rightfully so. There are too many bullies, and I expect the Middle Ages had far more than their fair share. Having dispatched with her brother, and the aftermath of nobles with too much time on their hands and too many weapons at their disposal and too much temper boiling behind their ears, she went back to ruling her small nation with some amount of fairness – and perhaps a little smug satisfaction as well.

She was a sibling after all. And no one does smug like siblings.

Butt-Kicking Princesses in History: Arachidamia of Sparta

Okay, I have to admit it: I am having MORE FUN THAN SHOULD BE ALLOWED researching these powerful princesses. I’m also becoming more and more deeply convinced that Disney – and even the Brothers Grimm and Andrew Lang and Perrault and Calvino and the rest of my beloved (and doubly beloved!) fairy tale compilers, whose words I treasured when I was a child and whose vision shapes the writer I am today – are pretty much full of crap. Because history is lousy with ladies whose ambitions, talents, schemes, vision, fortitude, and force-of-being have left deep and indelible grooves in the world around them.

Take Arachidamia, for example.

Now, despite the fact that the Greeks weren’t all that keen into things like women’s rights during ancient times, the Spartans were a bit different. A war-like, austere culture (spartan, if you will), both athleticism and battle-prowess were recognized as being both possible in the fairer sex, as well as admired.

 And to hear Plutarch tell of it, those ladies from Sparta were forces to be reckoned with.

Queen Arachidamia of Sparta was a woman of wealth and power and status. When King Pyrrhus, feeling his advanced age and the numb recognition that his long career of warmaking had landed him with empty coffers and more dead friends than he could count, decided to make one last foray into war with Sparta, Arachidamia smiled to herself, and began to get ready.

Now, at this point, Sparta was in the middle of a war with Crete, and while things were at this moment going their way, the King and most of the army were far away across the ocean, and impossible to reach in time. And the armies of Pyrrhus were…..extraordinary. Difficult to fight in the best of circumstances. The Spartan Senate, seeing the approach of the armies of Pyrrhus, knowing that they were out-manned and out-armed, made the wrenching decision to gather the women together and send them to Crete where they’d be safe. “Oh, no,” said Arachidamia. She gathered the women and approached the Senate. Arachidamia walked into the Senate chamber, according to Plutarch, “with a sword in her hand, in the name of them all, and asked if they expected the women to survive in the ruins of Sparta.” They would defend their homeland, the women snarled. And the men in the Senate felt their knees start to shake.

The matter was settled, so the Spartans – both men and women – began digging a huge trench, running parallel to Pyrrhus’s camp. And then the battle began.

 

Pyrrhus attacked with twenty thousand troops, and five thousand elephants. Have you ever seen an elephant at war? They fight like tanks. They leave a trail of destruction in their path. No matter, said the women of Sparta. And they fought like wolves.

Pyrrhus was astonished. This was supposed to be easy. He didn’t even want to engage in this war in the first place – and only did so at the behest of an old friend who held a grudge against Sparta for refusing to make him King. No one has ever made me King, but you don’t see me going to war about it, now do you?

Pyrrhus fled, ended up in Argos where he was struck by a falling statue while walking under a bridge and then beheaded. Serves him right.

History, strangely, is mute as to the fate of the fighting elephants. But, given that elephants typically live in matriarchal societies, unhindered by the bother of warmongering, I like to think that they gave up their warlike ways and retreated into the forest, munching on mulch for the rest of their days.

 

You know, it’s funny: in most of the descriptions that I’ve read about IRON HEARTED VIOLET, Violet is usually described as “an unconventional princess”, but I’m starting to think that such a descriptor is incorrect. There’s no such thing. Women and girls change history every day – and always have done so. Be they princess or soldier or scholar or artist or spy. Or preacher. Or writer. Or activist. Or friend. Sometimes, it just feels good to know that.

 

 

Tick, tock, tick, tock. Pub day approaches. Yikes!

Well, I’m a basket case, of course. But I’m getting excited.

Last Saturday, I read from IRON HEARTED VIOLET at the Anderson Center – a place that I’ve never been to before, but now will haunt my dreams forever. It is a gorgeous and pastoral farm, tucked into the heart of bluff country in southern Minnesota, that has been transformed into an arts center with a residency program. Gracious brick buildings, art galleries, studios, a completely awesome brick tower with a meditation space at the top.  I can’t even begin to tell you how deeply jealous I am of every person who has ever done a residency there since the beginning of time.

Anyway, they host a children’s book festival every year, and you should all go next September. It’s everything that you would ever want from a children’s book festival: banjo players, art projects, face painting, balloons, STILTS FOR EVERYONE, sing-alongs, marbles, people in costumes, people ringing bells, cool authors giving readings in the parlor of a gracious old brick home, books being bought hand over fist, and……wait for it…… cannons.

Speaking of cannons, one went off, right in the middle of my reading. It was awesome. I was describing a scene when the king and queen stand before the court to present the new princess. I read this sentence, “The king and queen entered quietly, without announcement or trumpets or pomp….” and then there was a terrific boom. I bowed, of course, and added “or cannons.”

I don’t have any cannons today, alas, but I do have this: An excerpt! Of IRON HEARTED VIOLET! If I could, I’d send it to you on the backs of one hundred elephants followed by nattily-dressed zebras waltzing with pretty girls in their arms and prancing ponies singing the soundtrack of The Wiz. Unfortunately, you must use your imaginations to fill in the gaps. Enjoy! 

IronHeartedViolet_Excerpt