LIFE OF AN AUTHOR: When Nature Has Other Plans On Your Writing Day

Today was supposed to be an all-out writing day. I’d had it all planned.   

I’d get up early and dig right in (putting the window fan on before the heat made things too sweaty to focus).

I was going over how it would all play out, lying under the thinnest covers in the late hours the night before, listening to the remnants of a violent thunder storm that had swept through our New Hampshire town. The rigorous cloud burst had left our dog Lucy shivering a few hours before it even began. Rich and I had decided to read by a lamplight expecting the electricity to go out, but it only flickered. We listened to the rain, which sometimes came down in sheets that drenched any windowsill beneath a sash that had been left open just a crack. But I’d checked my computer twice and it was functioning fine. I was still on track for my mega-writing day.

A few hours later, after it had long gotten dark, we’d still heard the rain. Checking the backyard before heading to bed, we scanned the lawn with our flashlights for any signs of collecting pools—we live about a 100 yards from a brook that can overflow---but we’ve never seen it happen.

But then the fire department’s pick-up truck zoomed down the streets and we heard voices at 3 in the morning. The brook had gone over its banks further down from where we live, and some of the streets had flooded.

Our backyard started pooling toward the forest but luckily, nothing major. Still, the anxiety of the wetness and the newness of it brought out weird behavior in some animals. (Did you know that squirrels can dive into puddles of water and swim to the other side?)

Our sudden "vernal" backyard pool.

Ground hogs wriggled in the grass of our yard, disoriented, as robins hovered at the edge of the temporary, grass-fed pools. And chipmunks frantically dug to see if their acorns were still safe where they’d buried them.

On the streets, I could tell some of the neighborhood kids were scared. It’s one thing to don your billy boots to jump in puddles, but not when the puddles are twelve feet long and deep.

Heading over to the post office, we started hearing the sound of pumps siphoning out water from basements and water-logged streets. The day soon became full of stories--just not the one’s I’m supposed to write about for editors who go by deadlines. But the weather has a way of disrupting schedules, and also pulling people together—the closer the pools of water come to a neighbor’s house, the closer you become to them, reaching out to help. Rich is talking about getting Kentucky Fried chicken for supper and having the neighbors come over to nosh on the porch and get away from the thought of water.

If it were any other day, I’d say no to a deep-fried supper. But there are times when something greasy can be comforting, and when writing what you’re supposed to can wait.

The Life of an Author: Book Awards

The Life of An Author

As I was contemplating leaving sports broadcasting back in 1999, a friend of mine took me out to dinner to talk about my options, then told me to hold off on dessert because she had a surprise-- she’d booked a session for me with a clairvoyant.

“You’ll become known for your works of the hand,” the clairvoyant announced, scribbling the air with an invisible pen. “And your books will win awards.”

Now, no matter how skeptical you are about a person’s ability to see the future, when they tell you something you’d like to hear, I, for one, tend to believe it.

Her bold words crossed my mind when my first novel, Little Joe came out in 2010. A year later, the same friend asked me, “No award yet, huh? I guess the clairvoyant must have meant your next book.”

We were nearly into 2012 when I’d heard that Little Joe had won the silver medal in the Austin Waldorf School’s Children’s Choice Award. I was so thrilled and honored, I celebrated for a week, and my colleagues joked that if I could get this excited about a school award, “we may have to sedate you” if I got one that reached state, or even national status.

Then Little Joe made the final list for this year's South Carolina Children’s Book Award. While I didn’t need to be sedated (though I ate several red velvet cupcakes, but they were the miniature kind), I was just as thrilled. And I couldn’t help but think back to that evening with the clairvoyant more than thirteen years ago.

While I’m still new at being an author (I’m working on book number three), I’m convinced that every author wants to have their works be recognized. I think if a children's writer told you that it didn’t matter if their books were considered for the Newbery, the Printz, the Sibert or the National Book Award, they’d be denying you full disclosure.

Having your book considered for an award means several things, and the most important one for me is this: enough people (reviewers, librarians, booksellers, bloggers and teachers) thought so highly of the book that they had it nominated.

This touches me deeply. To have the characters I’ve created, nurtured, and felt every emotion with touch someone else (and more than a few) enough to say to another, “I think you should read this book because it might affect you too,” gives me the added strength and courage to begin another novel. It makes the 300 blank pages before me a little less daunting; the months of research--which often tend to compound rather than contract--telling and re-telling my story until it’s as right as I can make it, worth delving into.

“Wouldn’t it be great if you won, just like the clairvoyant predicted?” my friend said to me.

“It doesn’t matter,” I told her. And I wasn’t lying. What means more to me is being nominated—for that’s a monumental triumph in itself. After that, the territory becomes as murky and unpredictable as a lottery win—the result owed in part to a sprinkling of fairy dust, lucky charms, and numbers. And just as I don’t hinge my actions on the reading of a clairvoyant, I don’t want to count on luck, either. I’d rather keep writing, knowing that my work has touched more than a few people who read thousands of books, than spend time thinking about winning.

Leonardo da Vinci ... Live

The other night Rich and I went to a local screening of Leonardo Live. Have you seen it? It’s the behind- the-scenes-look at opening night of London's National Gallery’s Leonardo da Vinci exhibit, which sold out in London until the day it ended, in the middle of February. Produced by the same company that brings the Metropolitan Opera to millions, this presentation is mesmerizing.

Touted as a once-in-a-century exhibit,  museums from Paris to Krakow loaned their works for a show that saw both of da Vinci’s Virgin of the Rocks paintings (in the same room, no less), and more than half of his known completed paintings.

The film starts off slowly, with a wide exterior shot of the National Gallery.  People are walking by, seemingly unaware of possibly the greatest exhibit we will ever know taking place in the building beside them.

Then the presenters take us inside through the mazes of rooms, where the cameras spin chaotically giving us erratic glimpses of Leonardo’s portraits and drawings, before the throngs of museum goers are let it.

Critics and glitterati from all forms of art expound on why da Vinci matters. It all takes on a rock-star feel, instead of a medieval one, and I admit, I’m somewhat dubious about the whole thing.

But the moment I catch sight of the painting, Lady with an Ermine, something happens. My heart shifts and I whisper “Oh, My God,” while Rich sighs.

 

Her skin resembles porcelain and her hand has taken on a life of its own. Those fingers caressing the ermine seem to have blood coursing through them. You can actually see the wrinkles around her knuckles, the ridges on the fingernails. How long did it take da Vinci to get that right? I wonder.

“She’s somebody I could write a song about.” It’s the first line in my husband’s novel, Wrestling Sturbridge, and I feel that way about the Lady.

The presenters talk to musicians, actors and historians, but I keep hoping they come back to The Lady With An Ermine.

Then we meet the Gallery’s restorer, and the woodcutter who created the missing pieces of the gilded frame around the National Gallery's Virgin of the Rocks.

He’s chiseling it all out by hand, tiny flower buds, petal-by-petal, with what looks like a screwdriver. I start to cry. Through this humble-looking woodcutter, I get a sense of just how labor-intensive art is—of what goes into a restoration, of what it takes to display a masterpiece and of the life of the master himself. It seems like an impossible task—the rosettes barely the size of a thumbnail; the painting, more than 6 feet tall. But in the end, we see it surrounding the painting, how they seem as one.

Why did Leonardo da Vinci have so many unfinished works? was the joke of the night. But who could blame him? The far more astounding question for me is, how did he manage to complete so many? Focusing on just one of his finished oil paintings can alter the way you see things.

I agonize over every line in my novels, but a painting the magnitude and genius that was da Vinci took decades. Before there were even painstakingly accurate brush strokes, there was his studious devotion to anatomy, for we’re told Leonardo never considered himself a painter.

“I have been impressed with the urgency of doing,” da Vinci once said. “Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Being willing is not enough; we must do.”

Be more than willing. Go see Leonardo Live.

The Blank Page

I’m not the kind of writer who can work on different manuscripts at the same time.

My husband can. Maybe it’s because Rich wrote his first novels in the middle of the night while his young boys were sleeping.(Though I still can’t imagine how anyone could’ve written something as good as Wrestling Sturbridge in the middle of the night, without sleeping during the day to make up for it).

But Rich is very adept at allotting certain hours of the day (or night) to specific writing projects. Then he’ll close the book on one, have a cup of tea or go for a run, and start in on another-- his mind happily suspending thought on the previous work while he delves in on another.

I’m good with deadlines. Working for decades as a journalist has taught me that. But I’d always focused on one story at a time, seeing it to completion. Perhaps I’d collect information for another story or two that I’d pitch in the future, but the thrust of my work was for my assignment that week or day. While I was a reporter with ESPN, I’d spend several days prepping, which meant reading the latest news on a game or player, and making countless calls to get exclusive information for game-time. Once the actual game was over, the routine repeated itself.

Now that my focus is fiction writing, I’ve discovered that I have a lingering mind-- a story grips me and I can’t stop thinking about it. I form files on my characters which continue to swell, jotting down everything from what they look like to how they feel. And since I love research, whether in libraries or through interviews, I immerse myself in that, until the characters speak to me. (As a writer, there’s nothing more exciting than when you start hearing your characters’ voices inside your head).

But I haven’t found a way to tell them to be quiet; that I’m busy working on another story which has nothing to do with them.

I know this because I attempted to work on a couple of novels simultaneously. Knowing that it usually takes me a year to write one, I thought I could split the week up between two novels and hopefully, end up with two manuscripts 12 months later. Instead, a month in and I’d had two stories that sounded a lot like each other. Plus, if truth be told, I’d really been spending more time on one novel over the other anyhow.

“Why don’t you and Rich write something together?” A friend suggested to me. “Wouldn’t that be more enjoyable and even better than writing all on your own?”

Hmmm.

The following week an editor asked Rich if he would be interested in writing a non-fiction sports book for middle-graders. “I’ll write it with you,” I chimed in, as we talked about the project that evening at our local coffee shop.

That made him smile.

So now we’re working on a book together. Non-fiction—a natural for me-- and two projects. Can I make it work? It's two different genres, with only one being a novel. Sounds terrific, doesn’t it? I hope so.

I’ll keep you posted.

Poetry of Love

I have great admiration for poets. They capture what novelists like me set out to achieve (and hopefully find success at), 300 pages later.

I attempted to write a haiku in elementary school once. The result was a smile from my teacher, who looked down at my shiny red go-go boots and proceeded to tell me what a strong sense of fashion I'd had. A similar thing occurred to me in art class, after I'd painted thousands of dots into a Seurat-like painting of a clown that my mother still has to this day. "My, you have a most happy outlook on life, don't you?" was the reply I got from the art teacher.
I guess it's no wonder then, how writing poetry and crafts can make me to break into a cold sweat. Who would've thought they'd turn out to be conduits of love?

It was while I was at an SCBWI conference in Prescott, Arizona 13 years ago (my first and only one), equipped with a rhyming story (not a poem), a sleeping bag, and jar full of trail mix. I remember it being so cold that autumn night in the campground that I'd slept in everything piece of clothing I'd brought, layering jeans and sweaters on top of my pajamas.

The first day of the conference didn't go as I'd hoped. My story was met with polite attention, but with the same sort of "Wow, that's a lovely sweater you have on" reaction that makes you consider making a pyre out of what you've written, and roasting marshmallows on top while you're at it to try and feel better.So when it was announced that the evening's ice-breaker would be "super fun" ie: making crafts with a rep from Crayola Crayons, I was ready to bolt. Thank goodness I didn't. I would have never met my husband. At least, not then.

Rich was the keynote speaker of the conference, and I did my best to avoid making a fool out of myself while gluing shapes of red rocks onto my assigned T-shirt (Warning: do NOT try to place brown blobs of gel paint onto a T-shirt thinking they'll resemble rocks, because they don't. They resemble something else that illicits plenty of potty humor). I found myself laughing at my own ridiculous results. "You really are pretty bad at crafts, aren't you?" Rich joked. He didn't like the rhyming story much, either. But he did like the novel I was working on, and hearing about my life as an ESPN reporter.

Ironically, 13 years later, Rich and I are collaborating on a picture book peppered with rhythmic lines. And the most cherished gifts I've received from writer friends have been samples of their poems.But after nearly breaking a potter's wheel while while learning how to throw (and politely being handed a refund), I have no desire to do anything crafty. It would simply cause me too much stress. I'm the one who buys the sweater in the window of a knitting shop, after spending days convincing the owner to sell it to me, after all, she can easily knit up another one, and I, of course, can not.

So I wear my hand-knitted-by-others sweaters, and keep poems like the one from Eileen Spinelli displayed on my dining room table. I want to pass it throughout the day and have the pleasure of reading it over and over again.The latest one she kindly sent me for Valentine's, like her others, either takes my breath away or makes me smile. This one did both:  FEBRUARY NIGHT

The roads are dark. The snow is deep.
We hunch against the cold.
And yet the wind snags memories
and fragile hopes unfold,
surprising every wintry heart
grown warmer, lighter now.
Love has a way of finding us
without our knowing how.

by Eileen Spinelli.

Masters Track and Field

My husband Rich doesn't just write about sports, he's still a competitor. I know that's a good chunk of the reason why so many sports readers relate to the characters in his novels. He's been competing in track since middle school,through to state and national meets in university, and he hasn't stopped. (Now he competes in masters track.) So it was no surprise when I'd asked him what he wanted to do on his 55th birthday yesterday, and he'd said "to compete." But what was surprising for Rich, as it always seems to be, is why I'd be interested in coming along.

I've learned over the years from him that running is more than just going fast: it's about the process, the daily commitment and struggle, until finally, you triumph.(Which no longer means winning, I'm told, but accomplishing your personal best by surpassing your previous personal bests, and if that means winning the race, then okay.)

Masters racers compete against themselves, against the misconceptions about what they can accomplish--those thoughts of self doubt that needle the brain--often brought on by society, or even youth. I've seen them watch in horror sometimes, waiting for their high school meets to start up later in the day, mumbling, "How can anyone go that slow?" instead of being filled with admiration or amazement at what an 80-year-old athlete is trying to accomplish. And no, that old man isn't having a heart attack, he's 70 years older than you.

It's true that the clock is against masters track athletes from the start.
Maybe that's why the personal victories are so sweet. And, don't get me wrong, there are masters track and field record holders close to 70 who race faster than peers 20 years younger and keep shattering the world records. They defy what old men are thought to look like by being ripped and fast and younger-looking than many middle-aged men. But the majority of masters track athletes are not former Olympians,nor have they ever competed for their country in national events when they were young.A good chunk of them have torsos that resemble a turtle's more than an athlete's, but just as many train hard--like Rich--who gets up at 6 every morning to run.

There are also nights when Rich will say to me that he's going for a run, and I know it's also to work out a story-line, a character, or a conflict he's seeking an answer for. I suspect that other masters runners do the same, knowing those logged miles can be like an old friend or a new one(some masters athletes have taken up their sport at 60 or so), and something they can depend on, or hope to, for as long as possible.

So, after knowing all this, why wouldn't I want to see Rich race?

I know if you asked masters competitors, they'd say they do this because it's fun. But what I think they really mean is, they do this because it's a part of who they are, and if they didn't, they wouldn't feel quite the same. From all my years as an observer sitting in the bleachers looking out at the cluster of events and the competitors they attract, it's become evident to me that it's more about tapping into that feeling and challenging yourself to dig it up, than kicking butt.

Sometimes they do this in dusty track shoes instead of spikes, wearing their favorite t-shirt, circa 1965. And those heavily-crested track jackets from the 50's are surely a badge of honor and now, courage. Then there's the runners who've finished their heat but linger by the finish line to cheer the others on, signaling a mutual understanding of why they're all still doing this in the first place.

And when Rich raced across the finish line of his 200 meter heat in victory,(he's now the USA Masters Track & Field East Region Champion), it must have resurrected that old feeling from his university days. And yet, when he came up to the stands to give me a hug, he whispered, "This is why I do this. To feel what it's like to run fast. And to feel like I could keep going."

Adopting Lucy from the Animal Shelter

When the British Columbia SPCA chose LITTLE JOE as its book pick last year, I went and gave Lucy a great big hug.

Lucy is our eleven-year-old shelter dog who, in the 10 years that she's been part of our family, has given me a daily joy that can't be measured.

Writing can be a lonely business and I spend about 8 hours a day on it.(Right now I'm faced with more blank pages since finishing my final draft of novel number two).

Lucy is there with me every step of the way. She's curled up like a fox eyeballing my progress, or jumping up and putting her paws on my desk to remind me it's time for play. And chasing her around the house with that tennis ball has been known to cure my writer's block. But what I love most about Lucy is that each morning she awakes like she'd just been born-- as if it's the first day of her life-- and she can't wait to get started.

Nothing seems repetitive to Lucy; no event too arduous, difficult or meaningless.I try to remember that during the day, or when I'm working on revisions and my story is way past fresh. Can I see it like Lucy? As if I'm not familiar with it? Can I approach life like Lucy?

Lucy came into our lives shortly after I married Rich and became the step-mom of two tween boys. We all thought it would be a good idea-- a bonding moment-- if we adopted a dog. I was also feeling terribly guilty about having to send their two cats away (I'm really allergic to cats), even though their new home was with a close friend.

Jeremy, in particular, was disgruntled with me and had been sulking for quite a while, so we all agreed that he could choose the dog, and that he and Rich would go up to our local shelter and look around, since it could take a few months until he'd find, "the perfect lap dog." And hopefully, one that didn't shed.

Now I would strongly suggest that unless you go to an animal shelter strictly to volunteer,if you go looking for a pet to bring home and love-- know that you will most certainly find one. One that keeps you up at night needling your brain, sniffing at your heart and causing your children to beg, nag, and make the most outlandish promises, until the 24 hours you've dedicated to thinking it over becomes so excruciating, you're forced to call the shelter number after hours, hoping that the answering machine will say they open before nine.

Jeremy had come home smiling the day before saying that he'd found Lucy. Sounded like a good name for a little lap dog, right? Only she wasn't so tiny. "I know I went in looking for a lap dog," Jeremy admitted, "but then I fell in love with Lucy."

Within 24-hours all I'd heard about was Lucy, so by the time 9 AM came around the next day, all that was left was for me to do was to get in the car.

Lucy had the run of the place. She promptly jumped up and put her paws on the desk when I walked in, sending pens and doggie treats airborne. She wasn't anything like the toy poodles I'd grown up with. Lucy was a rough and tumble dog. A mixture of all sorts of hounds and looking like Petey from the Little Rascals, minus the dark patch on the eye.

So that's how it was going to be.

How long had she'd been there?...
Two months. Maybe more.
How come?...
Because of her boundless energy and her need to roam. "But she's kind behind the eyes."
Kind behind the eyes... where had I heard that before? In an E.B. White story, perhaps? And what of her family history?...
Silence... looking up paperwork.... Lucy licking the paperwork, tail wagging. "All it says is that when the staff opened up one morning she was there... tied to the doorknob."

So you know she's going home with us at this very moment, right? Even though I hadn't even touched her, walked her, or let her lick my face.

I went out to the back field of the shelter, which was a sheet of ice, and let Lucy walk me.

That's how it was going to be.

"She'll need to be fixed before you take her home," the receptionist said.
How soon?
"She'll be ready on Valentine's Day."

On the phone that night my mother asked,"Did you find a lap dog?"
"We found the perfect dog."
"Well, at least she doesn't shed, right?"
"You know, I went into the shelter planning on finding one that didn't," I told my mother, "but then I fell in love with Lucy."