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I had so much fun in Chicago last week with Scholastic Book Fairs folks... so much fun that I had to come home and recover most of this week! First off, Robin Hoffman crowned me the Pomegranate Queen and here I am wearing my crown and standing with the fantastic sales consultants at Scholastic Book Fairs Midwest Regional Office. We made a grand morning of it, swapping stories and getting to know one another.

Then it was time for a tour of the warehouse, courtesy of Marvin Parrott, Operations Manager, and Jerry Zibton, Inventory Manager. Scholastic ships out 8000 book fairs from this location each school year and services four regional branches: Chicago, Madison, Bloomington, and Milwaukee.







Every two hours, 20 Fairs are packed and moved through the entire "flow" of operations in this warehouse -- unbelievable. Recognize these cases?



Here is Rosie, packer extraordinaire. She can pack five fairs in an hour -- whoa, Rosie! Rosie's got a picture book case here...






...while Carol packs a case of novels -- that's ALL-STARS that she's putting into the case right now.








Holly shows me where Deborah Wiles's novels are in this vast warehouse.


Right here. Scholastic Book Fairs has showcased every one of the Aurora County novels and has helped put my books into the hands of young readers across the country. RUBY LAVENDER was on 26 state book award lists, and so far LITTLE BIRD has been on 24 -- what a boon to have the Book Fairs participate in getting books to schools and readers.

After a lovely day in the offices and lunch at Tony Spavone's (we're talkin' Chicago, here: wisecracking, balding guys (not Marvin and Jerry at right) standing at the buffet, carving roast pork in the middle of a weekday -- it was all good), we traveled to Bolingbrook Country Club, where Scholastic had planned a luscious late-afternoon event for teachers. I wish I'd taken photos of the food! Some teachers brought young fans to see me, which I loved --

...and, after speaking to teachers and signing signing signing books, scintillating sales reps (and I do mean scintillating) and I enjoyed a great get-to-know-you dinner together (we shared love stories, among other things) before wending our respective ways home through spitting snow.

Thank you, teachers, for coming out on a cold Chicago evening to meet me -- it was my pleasure to spend time with you! Thank you to everyone in the Midwest Region for making this day memorable and for taking such good care of me. Thank you, Roy Schlegel, for being such a gracious host. Thank you Mark Dudy and Marianne Bost and Kristi Leahy for all the engineering -- even down to the baked goods. Thank you to the entire team!

Here's a last photo of me and my friend Robin Hoffman, Scholastic Book Fairs' National Community Relations Manager, who makes events like this happen all over the country. We like to eat together, as you can see from this blog entry (scroll to the bottom -- don't we look even younger and skinnier now? Smarter, too. Ha.).

We'll be together at IRA as well, when I get to say hello again to my SBFs friends from the Southern Region in Atlanta. Can't wait for May.

And now... time to pack. Tomorrow, Las Vegas. Las Vegas! I've traveled quite a bit, but have never been to Vegas. As many of you know, my love affair with Elvis runs deep and true -- in fact, he's a major character in HANG THE MOON, my 1966 novel (which is part of the Sixties Trilogy).

I've been to Tupelo, Elvis's birthplace, and to Graceland in Memphis, but I've yet to visit Viva Las Vegas. I'll bring my camera. I'll be working with teachers, students, and librarians on Saturday at UNLV (as well as Nancy Johnson and Cyndi Giorgis -- more on this later), but Sunday will be a play-day with a dear friend I haven't seen in years. I hope I hope I hope we find several Elvises. The more sequined, the better. Thankyouverymuch.

Catch you on the flip-flop.

"In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me lay an invincible summer." -- Albert Camus

I wanted to show you my invincible summer today, since I'm going to write about the depth of winter. Here's part of that summer -- handmade cards from the good folks at Scholastic, officially welcoming me and "The Sixties Trilogy: Three Novels of the 1960s for Young Readers." I was tickled beyond words to received them. They decorate the kitchen table right now -- I walk by and pick one up and read it again and feel so solid, so sure, so delighted, and so honored in the decision to publish these novels with Scholastic.

Scholastic will take great good care of all three novels, and I will be in such good hands. Some folks slipped sixties photographs of themselves inside their cards (loved that Halloween photo taken in a Catholic school with a back row of Flying Nun costumes!), and one, this one, stole my winter-hardened heart. Hahahaha -- "Please bring Dismay back." Scholastic has carried all three Aurora County novels in their Book Fairs, and has loved those characters as much as I have. Here we go, step-step-stepping it, into the future, provided I survive the rest of the winter.

Winter has always been hard for me. I want to love it. I want to love the cold, the short days when evening falls at 5pm and the soup is ready to be sopped with good, crusty bread, the nights with five blankets on the bed, the mornings with frost and snow and a quiet world to contemplate... but it's just not for me, winter. As February (surely the longest month) creeps ever-more-slowly toward March, I curl up against the cold and dark and wait for spring. It seems as if events conspire against me in winter, as I am not always at my best mentally or psychologically. I am slower, less nimble, and less resilient -- and I am in need of that invincible summer.

I got sick this winter -- that flu-bug that everyone is talking about hit me hard. Delirious with fever, I fell down my basement stairs ten days ago and thought for an odd moment that I had killed myself. The bruise on my upper left arm is finally beginning to turn from black/purple to red/yellow. I've eaten lots of protein in this past ten days, to feed this bruise and the others I received from that fall and from another tumble I took two days before that one, which involved walking too fast and getting my foot caught in the errant strings of the blinds in my office. Bam! Down I went onto my left knee, bruising the back of my right shin, somehow. And I never fall. Falling is akin to throwing up, in my book -- just say no. So, I'm telling you -- the depth of winter. The stairs fall was much worse than the office fall. I couldn't move my left arm for three days, and I'm still gingerly "helping" it move (yes, you did see me helping my left elbow up onto the table with my right hand) -- but it is substantially better now.

On the day before my fall down the stairs, I knocked heads with local bureaucracy in a long, ugly, humiliating way -- I can't even talk about this yet -- and on the day I fell down the stairs, I had just hours before been insulted in my yard about the colors of my house. This, on the heels of the bureaucratic brouhaha, stung more than I thought it should have (and it was ugly, it was) -- but it also harkened back to ancient stuff (and boy-oh-boy have I loved all your words of encouragement about my colorful house -- thanks so much). Then my beloved contractor and I had a misunderstanding about next-steps, although we quickly worked it out, but do you see what I mean?

I know this is not February's fault. But winter.... winter has always been the season when life's challenges seem to descend with a vengeance, just at the time of year I'm least ready to handle them... while at the same time, the universe knows I'm more vulnerable, less at-the-ready, more curved into that ball of hibernation and waiting for spring, and longing for a peek here and there into invincible summer. And always, it comes.

It comes in the form of kinship, community, and friendship. Here's half the room at the Southern Breeze SCBWI Springmingle in Atlanta, where I spoke this weekend. I loved every minute of this conference -- it is so good to be in-country, isn't it? I know you know what I mean.

I took no photos of the cavernous room at South Carolina IRA, where I opened the conference on Thursday night, then scooted home to Atlanta Friday afternoon after a morning session on reading with students in the classroom, but boy, I loved those South Carolina teachers. My South Carolina roots run deep; I didn't realize how deep until I prepared my talk and saw all the connections. Thank you SCIRA and Jeannette Davis at R.L. Bryan, for bringing me back to South Carolina. Joan, send me pictures of baby Grace!

I loved the friends I made and met in this past week of travel. They have restored my soul in the midst of this deep-winter time, and have reminded me that I am a writer, I am a reader, I am a teacher, a friend, a fellow traveler, and a resilient human being, after all. Thanks to Sarah Campbell, who took so many fantastic photos at this year's Springmingle, including the one at left. You make me look good, Sarah! Sarah's book WOLFSNAIL, will be here from Boyd's Mills in May. Congratulations, Sarah! Sarah has a blog here, where you can read more about the conference and the presenters. We had fun; I learned a lot.

Thanks to Hester Bass, good friend who took such good care of me this past weekend and hey to all my fellow SCBWI members who were so kind -- remember, spend it all, hold nothing back, write from your heart, and be not afraid. You just never know what breath or what story will be your last. I have a story to share with you about that very thing, but I need permission first... so more to come soon, more invincible summer.

What are your invincible summer moments this year, in the depths of your winter times? Last night, as daughter Hannah's Oscar party swelled from the basement and frivolity filled the house, husband Jim and I excused ourselves and tiptoed with our bowls of chili to Hannah's darkened upstairs bedroom, where we shut the door and ate together in Hannah's bed, and watched the Oscars on her tiny television, in the dark, basking in one another's company after four days away from it. Invincible summer, I thought. This is it. Laughter and loveliness surrounding us as a balm to the pain and indignation of the world.

This is what I'll write about in the Sixties Trilogy as well, that invincible summer inside each of us, that pulled us together, and pulled us through one of the most turbulent, changing, challenging, and defining decades in American history.

I'm starting back to work today, as February turns, oh-so-slowly, into glorious March.

Hurry spring.

Wow! What mail! I'm bowled over. Thanks so much for joining in the conversation about teaching writing. It's a hot topic, eh? I've had such a good (and instructive!) time reading your thoughts.

Here's where I write to you; a few days ago I blogged about teaching personal narrative writing and finding the heart of your story. I'm about to go on the road to talk about this very thing, so if any of you are members of South Carolina IRA (SCIRA) or Southern Breeze SCBWI, come see me so we can gab in person.

My schedule is always on my website, here. I'll be speaking in Myrtle Beach on Friday, Feb. 22, and in Atlanta on Saturday and Sunday, Feb. 23rd and 24th. And, I'll be in Chicaco, at the Bolingbrook Country Club, courtesy of Scholastic Book Fairs, on Feb. 28. You'll need to contact your SBFs sales rep if you haven't already RSVPd to this wonderful event.

I have publishing news, but it will have to wait until I'm back from my travels. When I arrived home Dec. 5, after a full three months away more than I was home, I did a little collapse and said, "Next year will be for the writing." I vowed I would find a way. Freelancing (teaching and speaking and writing on assignment) has been my day job for the past seven years, and has allowed me to write in the cracks. Last fall, even as I was having a wonderful time and doing meaningful work, I knew the writing was waiting, waiting... suffering, even... and I pined to be with it.

So. This year, less travel. I have determined to afford it. There are ways, eh? (Oh, and there used to NOT be ways, not at all, I have been there so often, so it's delicious to be in a position, finally, to Find Ways). Six months, I told myself. June to December 2008 I will be off the road. That's still the plan. This year so far, I have fooled myself (as I always do) with the occasional school visit, writing day, conference here and there -- just a day or two out, a night or two away from the writing, I say.

But the writing -- the stories -- will not be fooled! "What about us!" they demand. And I see their point. I agree.

It's hard to find that passion and courage for a story (which I wrote about in last week's blog post) when you're a constant road warrior, although I remember I did it with LITTLE BIRD, writing in airports and hotel rooms, and taking a three-month stretch off the road in order to focus and complete the draft. I did it with ALL-STARS, unbelievably, as my schedule was so packed.

On the other hand, RUBY and FREEDOM SUMMER, my first books, were written with the luxury of time at home, every day suiting up and showing up, every day feeling the leisure of spaciousness, process, the ideal I talk about in the classroom so often.

But I became suddenly single as RUBY and FS were being published, and the road became my friend. It has kept my youngest daughter in college. She will graduate in May, thanks to a good financial aid package and all the teaching, speaking, visiting, and some lovely booksales over the years, and all the fantastic state book award lists that my books have been on. Thanks so much, teachers, librarians, parents, readers! You have served as my benefactors in this crazy business and I appreciate you more than you know.

And I do love being in the thick of your lives -- I love schools. I love young readers. I love talking about their stories, listening to them come up with that one clear moment in time they want to write about so passionately, watching that story come alive under their fingers, in that processing time... watching a miracle, really.

All stories are miracles. This new trilogy -- The Sixties Trilogy that I am embarking on -- feels like a gift, a miracle, a ship that is about to sail. So I will honor its coming by giving it the time it needs to come to life. I can't wait for those strings of days that I will spend with these stories, learning from them, fashioning them, publishing them -- with a new publisher, Scholastic -- and a new editor, and a new way of creating in the world.

So I guess I've told you my book news. I knew I couldn't keep it to myself for long. I've been shedding such sad tears of goodbye, although it is never goodbye, in my experience, not goodbye to the two editors I lost last year, not goodbye to my publishing home of 12 years, Harcourt, or my colleagues there (where I am still a Harcourt author, with the Aurora County Trilogy in good hands at Harcourt, with ALL-STARS so newly minted and coming to life in paperback next year... and who knows what the future brings); not goodbye to friends and colleagues who have steered me through the past two months of finding a new home for this trilogy. Not goodbye. Just different. But I still mourn for what was, while at the same time I shout from the rooftops my joy and delight in new beginnings.

It's an Uncle Edisto/messy-glory moment, for sure. A business decision. The result is that The Sixties Trilogy is home, and so am I, and off we go to work together on a new adventure. I need to have the completed manuscript for book one on my new editor's desk by Halloween. You can bet you're going to hear a lot from me about process. I'm ready.



Soon I will return from South Carolina and Chicago. I hope to see some of you in my travels. Come love my neck, as my great-great aunt Mitt would say. We'll celebrate being together. And we'll create new stories to tell!




As you can see, the Little House in the Little Woods is being painted. The colors are actually "beach purple" (which, darn it, looks blue in these photos; trust me, it's purple) and "impetuous," which is not quite chartreuse... my across-the-street neighbor, Elizabeth (Emma's mom), helped me pick out the colors. "I love it!" she says. My next-door-neighbor, C., hates the colors, marched across the grass to tell me so, and when I said, "I love it!" said, "ARE YOU SERIOUS?" and stalked away. Then she wrote me a stern letter asking me to reconsider. Jim found the letter in the mailbox on Saturday, typed, no signature. I was catapulted back to being Comfort's age and cowering at my mother's "aren't you ashamed of yourself?" And of course, I was, because I was told to be.

But I'm not ashamed of myself, for heaven's sake. Still... it's another Uncle Edisto messy-glory moment, isn't it? I like my neighbor. I love my neighborhood. And I love my little house. What would Ruby and Miss Eula do? After all, they have a Pink Palace!

WW: -20.6 pounds as of Friday. All that road weight coming off, just in time for me to get back on the road again. Ah, well. I am rested and ready, and I won't be out long.

It's hard to believe that our writing day at Mantua was three weeks ago -- oy. Let me share some photos and thoughts with you.

I was hired to spend the day working with fourth graders on their personal narrative writing, something I have done quite a bit in the last umpteen years and something I've learned so much from as I've taught. I've tweaked and changed and modified and morphed the way I work as I have learned more, as I've had such rich, diverse, challenging, joyful classroom experiences, and as I've internalized the life-affirming importance of sharing ourselves, through our stories, with one another on this planet.

"We've done some work with notebooks and Lucy Calkins' work; are you familiar with that?" Yes, I am. "Are you familiar with Six Traits?" Yes, I am. Have you read Ralph Fletcher, Nancie Atwell, Stephanie Harvey, Shelley Harwayne, Donald Graves, Georgia Heard, Katie Wood Ray, and more? Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and more. I've worked with some of these folks, have admired, read, and learned from them all, and continue to feel their influence in how I teach. Their books adorn my bookshelves; they are comfort reading. I slip into them and breathe a sigh of recognition -- I am in-country.

And while I enjoy talking about methods and theories and approaches until the cows come home, really, so much of teaching writing involves common sense and experience and matching student needs to student abilities within a framework of realistic (and, yes, I know mine are high) expectations, and marrying that to ways of knowing, seeing, telling, showing.... without attachment to a strict or prescribed method (but taking what you can use, and leaving the rest, perhaps), as teaching writing is not a cookie cutter experience, as we all know.

But story is universal. I think story is what we're here for. To dance it, sing it, write it, paint it, draw it, act it... to decipher our experiences in some meaningful way and share them with others. Our stories help us understand what it means to be human. I'm convinced that we treasure, protect, and develop the sense of wonder we are born with, if we are heard and respected when we are young, and if we learn to hear and respect others.

But how do we do that? Again... stories. Personal narratives.

We all have them: "Guess what happened to me today?" moments. Those "let me tell you about the time that" moments, and those "I'm finally brave enough to tell you this story" moments. And those moments are worthy of capturing on the page (or canvas, or stage, in song, in the laboratory, the field, the... you get the point).

In a very real way, there is nothing magic about this process of discovering and accessing story. It is organic and intuitive -- we all want to be heard, we all want to belong, to be safe in the world, to love the world and to be loved, and we define our days by the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, and the stories we share with one another. The magic is held in the moment we understand that, just as the authors of books have told their stories, our stories are just as important, crucial, valuable.

The craft of writing can be taught. The art -- the passion and courage to tell your story -- the art (if that's the right word) -- that's the part that can't be taught. Or perhaps, that's the part we teach ourselves by giving ourselves permission to be true to who we are. The passion and courage requires a thorough connection to all other stories in the world, and a solid understanding that your story belongs right up there with all the others. When you really and truly discover that, your heart breaks along with the pain and the gladness of the world. That's the heart of the story -- the voice, too. When you want passionately to show "guess what happened to me today!", the smallest moment becomes an intimate, moving, hilarious, powerful, heartfelt story... and it is connected to the entire web of stories.

Of course, if I stood in front of ten year olds and said this (and I do say this, in a different language), they would scrunch their noses and say what? WHAT? So I don't say this... I read to them instead.

I read WHEN I WAS YOUNG IN THE MOUNTAINS by Cynthia Rylant, SO MUCH! by Trish Cooke, HONEY, I LOVE by Eloise Greenfield, THE PAPERBOY by Dav Pilkey and more. And as I read I point out what I love and I ask questions. "Don't you love that turn of phrase?" and "Listen to that transition!" and "Oh, I love this part, I love the rhythm of this sentence" and "What a voice!"

And I tell my students that every writer has a voice. They have voices that are waiting to be found. And stories that are waiting to be shared. And an opportunity, in the time we have together, to find one of those stories to share.

How do we do that?

We keep notebooks.
We brainstorm.
We list.
We order.
We choose.
We focus.
We find that "what happened first" killer opening.
We partner up and we tell our stories to one another.
We listen to each other's stories.
We write SHORT. One clear moment in time contains a universe.
We write in a circle.
We use the senses.
We find the just-right ending -- it usually involves a little surprise.

And we do all these things supported by the literature that shows us how. Nancy Johnson and Cyndi Giorgis have written a beautiful, meaningful book that showcases this concept beautifully. It's called THE WONDER OF IT ALL: When Literature and Literacy Intersect. I want to say more about this fabulous book and will, soon.

We revise, again using the literature.

We have fun while we work hard.

And, maybe most importantly, we give ourselves the gift of process. So much of our time on this planet (especially in school) is regimented. To have the time to think about story -- to ruminate and plan and go forward and back up and make a mess and rethink and create... it's a gift our stories require, in order to be their best.

I'm waiting for the stories from Mantua to arrive at my doorstep. I can't wait to read the finished stories, to get to know these writers -- these human beings -- better. It will enrich my world. And yours. The world becomes more known -- and more peaceful -- through the sharing of our stories.

It's early for Valentine's Day, but never too early for love stories, and I have one for you, in this month's issue of the new Hallmark Magazine. See that story on the bottom right? "true love." That's me and a few other writers who have shared stories of "How We Met" in this month's Hallmark.

As a freelancer who pulls from several wells to make a living, I especially love magazine writing and the essay form; I cut my writing teeth on personal essays (or personal narrative, as I tell my students). As a human being telling stories, I especially love love stories. Real love stories.

So, when Hallmark said, "Five-hundred words on how-we-met, can you do it?" I said, "You bet." Famous last words! As I sat down with my notebook and began brainstorming -- the prelude to almost all my writing -- I realized, before I even began a draft, that writing a publishable 500 words was akin to writing a publishable picture book manuscript, and every word was going to count -- every word.

Try writing just 500 words about a topic you are passionate about -- a large topic, too, because we met twice, Jim and I, once when we were teenagers, and again when we were in our forties, and both meetings are crucial to the story I wanted to tell.

How would I narrow it down to the essentials and still keep a narrative arc? How would I choose just the right focus that would give me the most bang for my story-buck? How to connect with readers on an emotional level in 500 words? How do you do it? I find it helps if you have a good teacher, or editor, which I did. We did good work together. And today, the magazine came.

So we celebrated, at my house. (Well, my editor wasn't here, but my new husband -- he of the how-we-met -- and I were here, along with a couple of guys hanging out on the roof, and two cats. That's enough for a party.)


I grated some cheddar, whipped some eggs and milk, and baked a vegetable pie using yesterday's leftover stir-fried beets, turnips, onion, broccoli and cauliflower.







And I basked in the beauty of the car house that Jim Williams and Stoney Vance are roofing with tin today. See my shadow? ("Wanna see my essay?" "Nah, that's okay... we're workin' with tin here...")







Now it's the end of the day. The river rock is in place, the workers are gone, the pie is eaten, the sun is setting, and the story is in print. First line: "He wore wingtips."
Ha!





So... one more story out there in the world, to be shared. And isn't that what it's all about -- sharing our stories. For me, telling stories is a way to make a living, as it's what calls to me most strongly. Writing these stories makes me braver in the world, somehow. It's the way I understand myself and the world around me. Richard Rhodes said it in his book HOW TO WRITE: "Story is the primary vehicle human beings use to structure knowledge and experience." Yeah. Somethin' like that.

When I taught "Writing Techniques for Teachers" at Towson University, I used to invoke the words of Mrs. Frizzle of THE MAGIC SCHOOLBUS:
"Take Chances. Make Mistakes. Get Messy." It's what I tell fourth graders when I'm teaching personal narrative writing and showing them my messy notebooks. It's what I told the fourth graders at Mantua Elementary last week. And, bless their hearts, they made a mess. A joyful mess.

I showed them my drafts, too. I did three major revisions of this 500-word story for Hallmark, all of them messy. I had a great Mrs. Frizzle, my Hallmark editor. And I just kept trying to structure my experience, figure out what I had learned -- what knowledge did I have, if any, and how could I tell this short story from the deepest place I could touch? I believe story comes from what you know, what you feel, and what you can imagine. And I love the challenge of writing short.

So... if you've got your notebook: write 500 words about how you met your sweetheart. One of your sweethearts. Your child! A best friend. An enemy. Remember: What you know, what you feel, and what you can imagine. Show, don't tell. And have fun. It's just for you. See what comes up. As you write, keep in mind these words by poet Mary Oliver:

“To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.”

This is Emma. Emma is holding down the fort while I fly to D.C. and work at Mantua Elementary School on Thursday. She will answer all correspondence while I'm gone, even though she has a limited vocabulary... she'll still do a better job at correspondence than I do. And since she lives just across the street, she won't have far to go to answer my phone, which she'll do better than I do, since I rarely hear or answer my own phone.




Emma is the recipient of many of the books I gathered from independent booksellers on the AURORA COUNTY ALL-STARS book tour in September. It has been so much fun to watch her eyes swallow a book -- you know what I mean... that wide-eyed "is it for me?" look, that look of wonder, "what IS it?" and that delight in discovery -- colors! words! pages! STORY! "Again!" Emma is already an avid reader -- she reads cover-to-cover in her own way -- because her mom, Elizabeth, reads to her.

I hired Emma both for her sense of wonder and because of her special skills. She is especially skilled at petting cats (look at Cleebo discovering snow last week!) and digging in the dirt, so if you need any cats petted or dirt dug, call Emma while I'm gone. She is also very good at overseeing construction (new driveway... look at that red Georgia clay!).

I'm teaching personal narrative writing to fourth graders at Mantua tomorrow. I've brought my notebooks, my stories, and my work in progress. I've got a new hat! I've brought a tangerine, a banana, a red pear, homemade granola, and a carrot-raisin muffin with peanut butter. (WW last Friday: -14.6 pounds so far.)

And I've got 150 fourth graders. With notebooks. All day tomorrow. I can't wait. I'll chronicle it all right here, so hang on, as I send updates. To Emma.

I have committed raking. I spent all day Saturday outdoors, rake in gloved hands, collecting the fall leaves and depositing them on the garden beds. I love the meditative quality of raking, and my neighbors love it that I rake at least once a year. On all sides of my house I hear leaf blowers on Saturdays, and lawns have a picture-perfect quality to them. "I'm a yard man!" says my neighbor Pat.

My yard remains coated with leaves until some warm January morning, when I pick up a rake and give myself permission to take all the live-long day to put the front yard to rights. Pat still likes me. What he and Clarissa and Scott and Elizabeth and even toddler Emma, who is quite my gardening friend, don't know yet is that I plan for the entire yard to be a garden one day, with pea gravel pathways winding around the bee balm, the yard art, and the benches.

Until that day, I dream, and January is perfect for dreaming. I'm dreaming about color choices for the house (see my shutters? You can also see how the carport enclosure is coming along), I read cookbooks in bed and dream about recipes I want to make (this is how my Lively-up Yourself Lentil Soup came out -- it was delicious; you can compare my version to Holly Swanson's at 101 Cookbooks)...

...and I dream about the stories I want to write. I moved to this house in Atlanta in June 2004. I came with files, notebooks, and boxes of stories, some of them published books, some of them half-finished orphans, some of them just sketched-out ideas or half-pages of notes. I've added to this stash in the years I've been here. So this week I decided that, in this January dreaming month, I would open my story cupboards and make a list of what I had, so I could get what I still needed as recipe ingredients in order to turn these partial ideas into full fledged stories.

Or not.

I mean... sometimes you find that you no longer want to write about The Incredible Hulk or gumshoes named Mud, don't you? If I was no longer interested in a topic, out it went, like the moldy corner of cheese still in the dairy drawer of the fridge. But if I got a tiny tingle when I read through the pages of research, the failed drafts, the snippets -- and especially, if it made me laugh when I read it -- I rinsed it off at the sink and I kept that story, tidied it up and gave it a folder all its own, labeled and ready for my attention.

I used a sketch book and colored pens to list all the stories. I didn't go in any particular order, just grabbed pile after pile of papers, and I didn't color code anything; when one marker didn't suit me (or when I got interrupted and came back to my chair), I used another. I drew lines and circles and doodles as I made connections. For instance, I've got one snippet that reads, "I have an office. My associate sleeps at my feet. Her snores are a rhythm I depend on." It made me laugh. I've drawn an arrow from that snippet to this one: "People smell. Have you noticed this?" Ha! This dog (whom I've named Buddy, it seems) also says, "I don't understand fried okra." Who knows what this might someday mean, but I remember when I wrote the second snippet. It was during a freewrite, in Vermont, on retreat.

Have you ever pulled all your work together from wherever you've got it stored, and listed all of it in one place, in one notebook? I filled five pages of my (large!) sketchbook with lists of snippets, ideas, drafts, work-in-progress, rejected stories that I still love, and more. Five pages! I look at these five pages and see that I have been much more productive than I have given myself credit for.

How do you track your progress, in writing? In life? What does success mean to you? Not so long ago, success was survival, for me.

To be able to sit here, in a home of my own, and look out the windows onto a world of my own making (see the unraked yard?) seems like success enough. To look at these five pages of story ideas -- all of them with potential, because all of them hold a piece of my heart or they wouldn't be on the list -- I think I am rich! I have just needed to rake them up, these ideas, to put them in one place together, in a sort of garden-in-winter, in order to see how hard I've been working at telling my stories, and how much I have done. These ideas aren't going anywhere; they are waiting for me to return to them, waiting for inspiration, enthusiasm, hard work from me. Waiting for me to stop mixing gardening and cooking metaphors, maybe.

And now what? What do I do with this list? I gave each story a folder. The snippets I put in a folder called "new work." All folders are in one big file drawer now, all together. The research that won't fit into folders is on one shelf, each bit labeled appropriately. That in itself is satisfactory to me. It's satisfactory to create, to organize, to try my best to finish something using all the skills I possess, to revise, to improve, to revise again, to weather rejection to try again, to be finally lucky enough to put a story out into the world, to find readers. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

I did this story gardening work on Monday, January 14, the day of the ALA award announcements. I knew ALL-STARS was not on the list, as I had not been notified, and I stayed away from my computer most of the day and immersed myself in my own stories.

And. you know... part of me had wished, from time to time, for award recognition -- it would be human, of course, and hard not to get swept up in the hoopla for a book that made so much noise in the world and that my publisher (Yay, Sweet Harcourt!) and booksellers, teachers, librarians, readers worked so hard to promote (I guess I did, too!), a book that got such wonderful reviews and such kind attention from readers.

And, if I'm being honest about it, which I'm trying to do, financially it would mean a few years more off the road, too -- a while longer to work at what I love and not take on the proverbial day-job to support the writing (something I've put out there as a goal), and the ability to continue to publish (I have opinions on this, too, but for another time). So, I'll admit that I looked at the possibility, when I looked at it, with more of a practical than emotional eye.

I used to wax romantic about writing and publishing children's books. No longer. This is a business. Years ago, children's publishing occupied a benign corner of the adult publishing realm, where it was patted on the head and not expected to turn a profit. Not so today, of course. The pressure inside publishing houses is intense, and the pressure that writers feel as a result... well, it's a hard business sometimes, and it's best for me to remember that it is a business, and that I am trying my best to make a living and grow a career.

Still, I have steadily learned, in these past few years, to disconnect from the award aspect of publishing and to focus on the page. And I'm healthier for it. I really do know what's important and what feeds me artistically, emotionally, spiritually, even physically... it's time, space, quiet, home, routine, love, family, kinship, peace.

I need these things most of all, in order to create, to be healthy, to live well. So. I wasn't disappointed on Monday: I am making a living in the arts, I am writing well, I am being published, and I have readers, solid reviews, good sales figures!, a great big cheering section, and lots of possibility ahead of me.

What I was on Monday, was curious. Hmmm... and I suppose it's arrogant (I'd prefer to think it's hopeful or naive) to even assume ALL-STARS had a chance for that recognition in the first place. It's all such a puzzle; there are so many good books out there, and I actually have lots of trouble with the whole notion of awards and prizes and bests, being an inclusive sort of gal.

At any rate, I didn't plan (and certainly don't write) for awards. I planned for an introspective, inward-looking, homeward-bound, good-writing year this year (for the first time in seven long years!)... and I will have it. When I came back to my computer at the end of the day, Monday, I found an email about ALL-STARS from an adult reader, an engineer, who I bet has never heard of the the Newbery, the Caldecott, the Printz, and other ALA awards. But he has heard of ALL-STARS:

"I was emotionally connected from beginning to end. True to theme, just about everything in the book resonated with me. Even the Redbug catcher seemed eerily familiar. As a kid I lived and breathed baseball. Played every day until dark; knew all the major leaguers - my favorites being (of course) Sandy Koufax, Willie Mays, Gil Hodges, Yogi Berra, and the rest; - had all the baseball cards; knew all the statistics, etc. My brother and I would lie in our bunk beds at night, room all dark, and quiz each other, What was Ty Cobb's lifetime batting average?, How many home runs did Mickey Mantle hit in 1952?, What is Ted Williams' nickname?

"Early in grade school my teacher took us to the school library and told us all to find a book to read. I wasn't interested. Up until then, reading had just been a rote exercise like spelling or adding and subtracting: Look Dick, See Jane, blah, blah, blah. My teacher, Miss Tremarene (who was also my next door neighbor), said, "Read about something that you are interested in." The concept sort of blew my mind. I said, "Can you do that? Can you read about anything you want to?" She said, "Sure." So I said, "I'm interested in baseball." She helped me find a book. The first book I ever read was The Pee Wee Reese Story! Weird, huh? It changed my life. I've read
non-stop ever since."

Just think: a book (and a teacher) that changed someone's life. It could be any book. It could be the book you write. It needs to be the right book for that particular reader. And the right book for one reader is not necessarily the right book for another.

I asked Kate DiCamillo once, if she'd meant it when she said, at the end of her Newbery acceptance speech for DESPEREAUX, "I know I don't deserve it." Absolutely she meant it, she said. And we talked about how you just never know: who's on the committee, what do they love, how do they interpret the criteria, what can they agree on, and more... it's all so arbitrary. And yet it's not, Kate. I think good work rises up, like cream. I have to believe that. And yet, I get it. There are many good books out there. Many good books in this season alone! There are so many stories. It's a wonder and a treat for readers... I'll never get to read them all.

So I look at this year's awards list and I grin. I like it. What I like best about awards is that we get to celebrate our common community, our business of writing and publishing books for young people -- we get to celebrate all our stories.

Then I turn to my notebook listing my five pages of stories, and this time a slow smile spreads across my face. Here are the stories I have control over. Here is my garden. Here are my ingredients. Here is my future, a work in progress.

Time to get to work.

There you are. I hoped you would come. I'm glad you did. I'm sitting by my fire this morning -- it has turned very cold for Atlanta, so I'm working in front of the fire with my laptop. Time to get back to work. Time to face the page.

I've got an essay in mind to write. As I finished up the '07 Tour Blog, I wrote about organizing my closet and putting away my clothes, and how it reminded me of my mother and what she taught me about laundry and ironing and clothes and life, and how I miss her... I think it would make a good essay, and I'm going to try writing that essay in this short first week of a new year.

The idea is sketched out on the tour blog, making that blog a sort of notebook for me, for that idea... so I copied that part of the blog, printed it, and pasted it in my actual, current notebook, and started doodling around it... it led me to search out some photos of my mother, which I copied and also pasted into my notebook. I included a photo of my mother sitting in a rocking chair, holding infant me. (Don'tcha love the mohawk?)

I don't know just how this essay will turn out, but I've made notes in my notebook about how it feels to be living in the world without my mother, how it felt when we were in the midst of battle, how it felt the times we really connected, how it felt to be the person with her the morning she died, how I've grown to see her as a human being and see myself that way as well... and those notes turned into sweetness, the sweetness of all that was good about our relationship...

... the secret goodness that ran underneath our quarreling and disagreeing and my constant pushing for acknowledgement of my truth, and my inability to understand hers, until I was much older and had grown children of my own and was in a similar position.

Any of those moments are worthy of essays. But that's not really what I want to write about. I want to write about that ironing scene I paint on the tour blog. I do want to write about my feelings of being motherless, but I want to show this through my closet, by telling about those two days I spent doing my laundry and thinking about my mother. Something like that.

My notebook is the place to figure out what I want to say, a place that helps me focus, and list what it felt like, smelled like, sounded like, tasted like, looked like, in that closet, and in those days my mother stood at the ironing board in the family room, pressing my father's boxer shorts and watching ANOTHER WORLD, and asking me about my day at school as I ate a butter and sugar sandwich, and how it has felt in the four years I have navigated the world without my mother.

I can see, I'm focusing on what I want to say. Now I'll go to the page. I'll fool around, starting with the closet scene.. in fact, I've got a particular moment I want to write about... the moment I began to button a blouse as it lay on my bed, on a hangar, and realized that I never did that anymore, never buttoned a shirt before I hung it up, but felt compelled to do it that day, for some reason, because my mother always did, and it's what she taught me to do. Perhaps I was influenced by the ending of a year and the beginning of a new one, I don't know, but I will add this idea to the mix and see if it's true.

What I know is that I began to slow down and button each button on each blouse, zip each zipper, tie each string, hang or fold each item of clothing as close to the way my mother did as I could remember.

As I write this scene, the rest will suggest itself to me, perhaps a first-line will come to me; I'll move it to the top. It will be my focus now. And the rest will shift. As I write this piece, I'll understand my mother better. I'll understand myself better. I'll reveal a little more of what's true about me, even the parts I don't want to see. Maybe I'll be brave enough to keep them in the essay. Or maybe they won't belong, and I'll have those pieces of truth for myself, exposed, and they'll inform my life... help me grow. It's a mysterious process, hard to talk about and make sense.

I'm already thinking "Mother's Day." I might be able to share this piece on Mother's Day in a newspaper or in a magazine. But that's beside the point, immaterial. It's not why I had this idea, but it's a logical extension of the idea, for a writer trying to make her living in the arts. Even so, I won't concentrate on market, even though the how-to books say to target a market or a particular publication. I don't do that. If I did, I'd not write a thing worth publishing. I do keep a reader in mind, I must, but I target a story. I target my heart. Then I worry about a market, if I decide the piece is publishable. And I try to remember that no writing effort is wasted.

I'll try to get a complete draft, probably less than 1000 words to sum up a lifetime, in a moment. I'll take a moment, remember it as best I can, and infuse it with meaning. Moments, memory, meaning. That's what I'm after today. So off to work I go. The soup is simmering, the fire is crackling, and I have three weeks home before the next travel. Soon it will be time to plunge into the novel. But a short piece first, to warm up.

How do you warm up? What is your process? Whether you are a writer by trade a writer by night, or a professed non-writer, you are a storyteller. What stories do you have to tell? Open your notebook. What moment in this past week might you mine? How can you connect it to a memory in your past? And what meaning can you give it? What personal yet universal meaning might it hold? I know you've had these moments that make you think, like I did in my closet, of a moment in your past... it's a matter of getting in the habit of connecting and thinking "story."

What moment?