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Many thanks for your mail. It has been such a balm to read your notes, and to know we're all in this big boat together.

Hugs to all of you who have lost editors and authors, and jobs and projects and more this past year or two -- it is such a difficult time right now in publishing.

We're all going to hold on to the sides of this boat together and sail forth into calm seas. Yes? Yes. There is safe harbor ahead.


In the meantime, let me tell you what helps.


A change of scenery helps.


It helps to have a boy play a tuba. Meet my Minister of Music. (Don't you think we need one of these in the next administration's cabinet?)







A drizzly afternoon of board games and tea helps.















A walk to the lake helps. So do silly dogs.



















Handmade meals help.
















Beautifully stacked wood and a crackling fire helps.
















"Who's the tallest?" contests help.



















Wii Music helps! So does having your Minister of Music download six hours worth of his favorite music onto your laptop for your listening edification and pleasure. I am flying a red-eye home on Thursday at midnight, and I will be able to plug in and enjoy Bob Marley, The Amnesty Trio, Cherry Poppin' Daddies, Coldplay, Def Leppard, The Eagles, Hootie and the Blowfish, James Brown, Joe Cocker, Modest Mouse, Steve Miller Band, Taj Mahal, Canadian Brass, and my personal new favorite, Panic at the Disco. Thank you, Minister.

Thank you, Family.

It helps to be surrounded by love, and it helps to have a purpose other than "the end" on a manuscript, too. Today I will spend the day at Grass Lake Elementary School in Kent, and tomorrow I will hang with students and teachers at Glenridge in Renton, before being whisked away to dinner with friends and then to the airport and home, back to Atlanta.

We'll do good work today, talking about personal narratives and working with them after school with teachers. Today I feel like I live a charmed life and want to enjoy every second, even those seconds that toss me overboard.

There is lots to be learned in the choppy sea of uncertainty. For one thing, I am always reminded of how good the good times are, and how they always -- always -- circle around and come into port again. We create safe harbors for one another. It is one of the things I love about being human and telling stories.

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Blessed is he who takes comfort in seed time and harvest, setting the warfare of life to the hymn of the seasons. -- Julia Ward Howe

A bit of politics this morning, a bit of process, I hope you will indulge me. I'm going to be a proud mama for a moment (proud book mama, too).

Daughter Hannah (who was an Obama Fellow in Georgia all summer and has been working for Obama in Bowling Green, OH since September) called several times last night from Ohio, as the election results came in.

We could hardly hear her over the cacophony in the background as Ohio went blue, as Hannah's Ohio county went blue (it had been predicted to stay red), and as the country voted for Barack Obama as its 44th president.

Hannah shouted, over and over again, her ragged voice shot through with joy and relief after relentless months of campaigning in two states, canvassing, calling, trying, believing, hoping:

"I brought you a president! I brought you a president!"

Yes, you did, you 22-year-old compassionate, passionate activist, you.

Yes we did.

It amazes me what people can do when they follow their bliss. (Thank you, Joseph Campbell.) I am following my bliss with this novel. I wonder if finishing it will feel anything close to the sweet victory I heard in Hannah's voice last night. I'm banking on it.

This afternoon I talk with my editor and get my hair cut (not at the same time) so I can look halfway presentable on the road this month. I leave Saturday for Boston, then shoot across the country to Seattle, and finish off November in Tennessee and Georgia, just in time for Thanksgiving.

Taking October off to write -- the first October I have been home in seven years -- was a gift and a challenge I gave myself. I am almost there, almost finished, I can brush the ending of this novel with the tips of my fingers. Now to grab it and hold it in both hands. What a victory that will be.

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I would just like it to be noted that, here I sit, writing away, all this month like a crazy person, while the crazy political season swirls all around me, and here I sit on election day, writing away like a crazy person, while the crazy electoral ground literally shifts under my feet.

Is this discipline or what?

Insert maniacal laughter here.

What a time! And that's all I'm going to say -- today -- about this election season and our collective stories -- what a time.

In the meantime, I have GOT to make progress, and yesterday was a wash, a complete and utter wash -- I fell into bed feeling like a failure, even though I know I'm not.

Yesterday was the day for a "big reveal." This is my name for a scene where a vital piece of information is revealed to the reader (and to Franny, in this case). A big reveal is like opening a window into the story. Sometimes the big reveal turns the entire story -- and there are smaller reveals along the way, of course.

Big reveals are hard to manage well, but they are manageable, if you've got one to manage... if that makes sense. For me, since so much of the novel has shifted under my fingers, this particular big reveal has shifted as well.

The reveal I had planned to write about here turns out to be too much of a hammer-on-the-head. I need something more subtle. And I have possibilities... but I could not decide yesterday. I went one way, then the next. I backed up and tried again, but the best I could do, sitting all afternoon at Panera Bread while workers installed replacement windows at my house, the best I could do was call it a day and go home around 6pm.

Then I sat with the novel last night, reading and making notes, and rereading... still no reveal that felt just-right. I was staring at a big gaping hole -- sort of like this one, to the right, which is where my multi-paned, floor-to-ceiling living room (my office) window used to go. I am replacing my forty-year-old stuck-shut, wooden-warped, impossible to clean or open windows with insulated, tilt-in, easy-up-and-down, gloriously wide-paned vinyl windows. New windows: new reveals. I need a new reveal for my novel.

Remind me that I DID work yesterday. Remind me that, when the big reveal is... er... revealed to me, that it will come as a result of yesterday's slog. Please do not remind me that I have four days left (count 'em) to finish this draft. Thankyouverymuch.

When the work isn't going well (my definition of "well" at this point being pages are coming together and I'm making forward progress in the narrative), I turn to making notes in my notebook. Here are some of the notes I made over the past couple of days. I sent them to my editor, in preparation for Wednesday's (tomorrow! ulp!) conversation:

I'm off to vote this morning, then back to work.

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This is how we started Halloween: with a black cat up a tree. It's where Franny is right now, in my novel... it's Halloween 1962, she's up the proverbial tree, and I'm letting her figure her way down.

Cleebo began calling to me -- to anybody -- about 5pm yesterday. By the time I discovered where he was, half the neighborhood was out in the yard, looking for a pitifully-meowing cat. He was more than 200 feet up in a pine tree that had no limbs below the skinny one he was clinging to.

"I've seen him run half-way up, after a squirrel," said neighbor Scott, "but I've never seen him this high." I'll bet Cleebo never thought he'd be that high, either.

We talked him down. We got a sheet and held it beneath the tree, like something out of an old "the building's on fire!" movie. We discussed calling the fire department (Do people still do that? They're not going to believe you've got a black cat up a tree on Halloween night!), we brought out his food bowl and rattled the food -- neighbors were full of suggestions, and my staff, dressed as a witch, called, "Come on, Beebo!"

He made several false starts, trying to come down head first, some of which left us gasping. Then, finally, as dusk began to fall, Cleebo finally figured out to save himself and -- bit by little bit -- he climbed backwards down that tree. I stood at the bottom and called encouragement to him as he slid-and-stopped, slid-and-stopped, meowing all the way. Pine bark rained all over Scott and me as we held a sheet like a billowing sail underneath Cleebo's possible falling-trajectory.

What grit! What determination! As he got close, I dropped the sheet and plastered myself against the tree trunk and reached my arms up to him and plucked him off the tree as soon as I could. Sweet relief and laughter all around, and Cleebo, his paws and belly sticky with resin, began purring in my arms.

Then, of course, he wanted to saunter right off again. Oh, no-you-don't, Buster.

It's Halloween night 1962, and I am coaxing Franny down her tree. Like Cleebo did, Franny's going to have to figure out how to save herself. This is my challenge now.

I'll spend the morning with Franny. Then I'm baking a chocolate cake and getting ready for a birthday gathering here tonight with friends. I haven't seen nearby friends for many weeks. I've been holed up with this novel, but now I am seeing the light at the end of the tunnel... the ground beneath my feet. I hope. I hope.

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The Cuban Missile Crisis took place in October 1962 and bumped up against Halloween. Halloween was on a Wednesday in 1962, although people wondered if there would even be a Halloween that year, as we danced around the Russians and came within a hair's breath (what is that?) of blowing one another up.

I love a homemade Halloween, and that's what my hero Franny plans for in 1962, so I'm having fun right now, writing about the Halloweens of my childhood. Since Halloween plays a central role in Franny's story, can I call it research when I stop work early today to carve a pumpkin and roast the seeds? I think yes.

That's part of my process today. Another part: I'm resisting allowing my hero to stumble, so I'm writing around the problem instead of through it. Arrrrrgh. Must stop this and plunge into that inmost cave where my hero faces her Supreme Ordeal.

I had this same trouble with Comfort in LITTLE BIRD. I didn't want her to suffer the way she did, so I wrote three different endings to LITTLE BIRD. Dismay came home, walking into Snowberger's smack in the middle of his own memorial service. Dismay didn't come home, but a "found a big black dog" poster was how I ended the book, so the reader knew that Dismay was out there, somewhere, and someone had found him. Then I wrote an ending in which Dismay was found dead. I couldn't stomach that one at all and threw it out immediately.

My editor read every one of those endings. Every time, she told me I was cheating. She was right.

In the end, I opted to be as truthful to my story as I could. Dismay could not come back, and Comfort's heart would be broken, and yet through her suffering, she would come to understand Peach's suffering, and even Declaration's suffering, and she would redeem herself and grow up. Something like that.

So today I'm reminding myself that it's okay for Franny's heart to break. She can handle it. She -- and the story -- will be the better for it. I know the resolution of my story is on Halloween and that the weekend before it is the hardest of Franny's life. I want to mirror what was happening in the country at the time, through Franny's struggle.

The weekend before that 1962 Halloween was as scary for the country as it will be for Franny, if I do my job well.

On that Saturday night, Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara said, "I thought I might never live to see another Saturday night." I want Franny to feel this way, too. I want the reader to feel this way. On that weekend before Halloween, as Russia agreed to remove Soviet missiles from Cuba, Secretary of State Dean Rusk turned to JFK's National Security Advisor McGeorge Bundy and said, "We've been eyeball to eyeball and the other fellow just blinked."

I am eyeball to eyeball with Franny right now. I can't let her blink.

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Know who said that? I do. Here he is, in all his august glory, Snagglepuss. In my novel it's 1962, and Franny loves Saturday morning cartoons.

I did, too. I didn't know this at the time, of course, but now I see (upon rewatching the umpteen clips on YouTube) that I soaked up lots of sophisticated language, lovely turns of phrase, and some hilarious ways to make others laugh by watching Snagglepuss and his hip delivery, like something out of a Shakespeare play, crossed with Jackie Gleason and a dash of the Marx Brothers, too.

I'm exiting, stage left, this afternoon, as son Zach moves today. I am in charge of the chili/soup, which is bubbling as I type. I've fiddled with the novel, but it's hard for me to fit in fifteen uninterrupted minutes today, what with the workers who are here (more on this later), Jim and Richard going off to vote early so we have the day free, and my chopping, slicing, stirring, of a chilly-fall-day's soup. Still -- once this day falls into evening, I plan to hole up and write forward.

I've been working with my characters today, with the limited time I had to work this morning. Characters need identifiers, or tics or tags... there are different words for this. Each character I create has his or her unique ways of seeing the world and or interacting with it. There is an inside landscape and an outside manifestation of that.. along with small things characters do or say -- Ruby saying "Good Garden of Peas!" for instance, and always pulling up her left overalls strap, always pushing her unruly red hair out of her face.

Franny loves Snagglepuss. It's part of her identity. Here's a one-minute clip featuring that sophisticated cat. It still makes me laugh... and, it helps me characterize Franny.





Heavens to Murgatroyd!

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I had another nightmare last night. Bombs exploded (with a half-muted sound) in the distance and the sky turned orange and then gray and then everything was ashen and it was hard to breathe.

I was a kid in my dream, and I had kids... you know how dreams go. There was a dog -- a black dog. Jim Williams, my contractor friend, drove his truck through the haze to my house to bring me my dog, who had been swimming in brackish water. The kids didn't understand what was happening and were soon bored. I let them play with the hose in the back yard and wash trash cans.

I'm writing about all of this right now in my novel -- isn't that weird? Or not. Franny has to do chores. There is a dog -- Jack is his name. There is a gravel pit that looks like a nuclear blast site or a crater on the moon. There is a bomb shelter, and everyone is afraid of nuclear war. Franny is a kid -- she is me. I am she. (All my characters are part of me.) And I am a grown-up, writing this story. It's all there.

I'm sure my dream is influenced, too, by Cormac McCarthy's book, THE ROAD, which I read several months ago, about a father and son trying to survive a nuclear winter. It's bleak and beautiful, painful and powerful, and I recognize the landscape of that novel in my dream.

I dreamed in color. I hope I'm writing in color, too. There is a sense of foreboding in the novel, but I hope you are laughing, too, when you read the finished book. Oh, I am trying hard to make you laugh. I'm holding both sides of Uncle Edisto's stick.

I didn't laugh in my dream, though. It was filled with a surreal, walking-under-water feeling, and this is how I feel about the novel now. Yesterday I figured out the way forward, and I can see that I have left the stage of "Tests, Allies, and Enemies."

I am approaching the inmost cave with this revision. If you have read Chris Vogler's THE WRITER'S JOURNEY, you'll recognize that term. If you are a novel writer, or a student of story, you'll recognize the place:

"The Hero must make the preparations needed to approach the Inmost Cave that leads to the Journey's heart, or central Ordeal. Maps may be reviewed, attacks planned, a reconnaissance launched, and possibly the enemy forces whittled down before the Hero can face his greatest fear, or the supreme danger lurking in the Special World."

That's where I am. I am moving into the heart of my story -- I'm racing OUT of the middle, thank goodness. I can review everything later, but for now, I want to keep moving forward, and take Franny to the heart of her fear, and let her figure her way out. It feels good to be racing for the finish.

Just a note: As I surfed the Web this morning, looking for a suitable public-domain photo of a nuclear blast, I found this video game, "World in Conflict," with its accompanying YouTube moment of nuclear blasts, and all I can say is... really? Really? This would have so totally terrified me as a kid.

In fact... it did terrify me. I remember adults talking about the Sedan Site in Nevada, where an underground nuclear test was conducted in June 1962 (photo at right), resulting in two radioactive clouds drifting across the United States toward my home just outside of Washington, D.C.. We watched the news, and we knew this cloud was invisible poison. We tracked its progress across the country and we knew there was nothing we could do about it. We couldn't control our world.

Today I stick to what I can control. I suit up and show up. And now, forward, toward that inmost cave.

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When I was in my twenties, in the mid-seventies, I worked for a construction company building the brand-new D.C. subway system. I started out as timekeeper, in a trailer on the corner of Brandywine Street and Wisconsin Avenue, and I eventually became the office manager.

I was 22 years old when I started out, had two small children, was newly single, and scared to death. I knew so little about... anything. I was a sponge. I grew up in the 7 years I worked for Gates & Fox. I made good friends. I learned how to make my own way in the world. And I memorized the "Five Stages of a Construction Project" that graced the wall by the industrial-strength coffee makers and that we pointed to often, with a laugh, to track our progress.


Five Stages of a Construction Project:

1. Enthusiasm

2. Disillusionment

3. Search for the guilty

4. Punishment of the innocent

5. Praise and honors for the non-participants

But I am not laughing these days. My novel looks right now like the Metro map above. I've cycled back around to stage 2. I don't want to go on. I've been banging my head against the wall of this story for three days now. Well... okay... I gave myself permission to sit with the crazy-quilt of possibilities, to let my subconscious go to work, to come back to the page with Some Answers about direction... but that's not happening. There are no answers.

Maybe it's because I dragged my feet about getting to the page yesterday and when I got there, I waded around in the murky waters of the middle, dog paddling but making no progress. I was distracted yesterday, unfocused. I have suitably distracted myself today as well.

I know this place, know it well. This is the dreaded inertia. The place where I gain weight, get depressed, take to my bed, never go out, stop bathing, am non-responsive to phone calls and emails, snap at people so they will leave me alone and give me
space... no, wait... that's not me, is it?

Is it?

I looked up inertia and found this, in a pile of definitions:

"Lack of skill; Slothfulness."

Oh-I-hope-not.

I call myself a writer and yet I resist the hard work of writing. And it is hard. It is so very hard to create something new that never existed before, born completely out of your head and heart and gut and experience, and fashion it so that it is palatable -- even beloved -- by others.

A day where my characters sing to me is so quickly followed by slog, and then by rest and then... sometimes -- oh, I have to be so careful -- by the setting in of inertia which leads to grinding to a halt.

I used to feel sorry for myself (numbers 3 and 4). Maybe I still do... but mostly, I have learned to coax myself out of this place instead of beating myself up. That's where I am today. I am coaxing myself back to work. I actually think this requires grit and is a highly disciplined act, although it doesn't look like it to me or anyone else. The writer who marches to her garrett daily and grinds out narrative in snow, rain, sleet, heat, depression -- that's the writer who looks disciplined.

I maintain that it is a discipline to fight sloth and inertia with a practiced, compassionate hand, and to coax the writer back to work. So. Here I go. I hope.

The bills are paid, the lunch is eaten, the fire is warm, the room is mine alone, and the laptop sits right here in my lap, with my story open and staring at me.

I just have to agree to sit with it. I have rewards waiting for me when I do. I'm embarrassed to even list them here, so of course I will:

-- a nap
-- a long bath
-- reading my political blogs (I deleted them from my homepage, but I know where they are, yes I do)
-- reading all the Mad Men wrap-ups on the Web
-- stuff I can't tell you about because it is too silly and ridiculous for public consumption

I think it's Dorothy Parker who said "I hate writing; I love having written."

That's how I feel today.

I don't have the luxury of not writing, right now. I travel again starting November 8, and this novel needs to be off my desk and on my editor's by that date.

I love having written.

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Deep into revising the middle of this novel today. More when I come up for breath. Yesterday and today have been a slog. But I am sticking with it, staying at the page, going forward, taking a look... no-no, that doesn't feel right at all, then ripping out, starting again.

Nine-year-old Drew wants to be an astronaut. I'm also working on weaving this story thread through my revision today, making sure I don't drop any stitches.

President Kennedy made his famous "We Choose to Go to the Moon" speech in September 1962, just as my story opens.

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Rain-rain-rain today, the soft, sturdy rain that falls in autumn, the rain that soaks the parched summer earth (which has been waiting, waiting for it) in such an even, steady, and welcoming way that it makes me wonder how I ever lived without this rain for so many months.

On this rainy day, lunch (our dinner) becomes a communal affair. The rain draws us together: Zach drops by, the puppy hangs in, and the story I'm working on wafts over and around everything. Jim concocts a cabbage/onion/potato/black bean soup, and we eat together in Irene, our newly screened-in carport that serves as our dining room. We are almost outside and the moment is delicious.

Many years ago, my Pittsburgh-raised friend MikeM taught me how to make a potato-cabbage soup and preached to me its benefits. "When times were tough at my house," he said, "Mom cut up a cabbage and potatoes and threw them in the pot with onions, salt, and pepper and that was dinner... it was nourishing, filling, and good."

I have made Mike's soup recipe countless times over the past thirty years in countless variations, both for Mike and for my family. Today, Jim made a variation that included black beans and a generous dollop of cracked black pepper, and we sidelined the soup with pocket bread and glasses of cider or milk. This meal was the perfect accompaniment to a drizzly fall day, and it felt just-right to eat outside (almost), in Irene, the rain thrumming on the tin roof, the puppy waiting for crumbs beneath our feet, the garden soaking up the most-welcome, most-needed drencher.

Yesterday, I finally, finally felt that I had been successful in tying the Great Middle of my novel to the New Beginning, after weeks of purging and stealing and finagling with the middle of the plot. I felt a surge of forward movement, like a sailboat that finally picks up wind and tacks starboard -- finally-finally! -- I am moving into familiar waters and can make time -- I hope.

A new chapter 7 is done. A new chapter 8, likewise. Chapter 9... almost, almost done -- it is brand new, and it will lead me into a chapter ten that picks up solidly with my last revision, please God.

And guess what? A new character is born in this revision. His name is Chris Cavas. He is so new to me, so fragile... I am not yet sure he will survive this revision.

Times have been tough. Resources have felt tight. I have chopped a cabbage and many potatoes into this pot of story, I have added water and salt and pepper, even some black beans. I have stirred, and -- voila! -- into this story has swaggered Chris Cavas. What a rush. What riches. And yet... I know from past experience that I am not out of the woods.

I am nurturing Chris Cavas, along with this story. I am bottle-feeding both, fervently hoping that Chris will prove to be the catalyst my heroine Franny needs, now that I have decided that her brother Drew is NOT that catalyst... it is complicated.. and oh-so-delicate.

Oh, what decisions. Oh, what work. Oh, what joy. And, truth to tell, here's a little bit of ecstasy, finally, as I wade deep into the middle of this novel, chapter ten, with a solid beginning (my editor confirms it), a new-found catalyst for change (my gut tells me so), and a sure-fire, years-ago written scene ahead of me that begs for my attention in the way that the rain and the soup tell beg for my attention.

I want to be on the right track. I want to be heading in the right direction... whatever that means.

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Had a nightmare about my dog, Sandy, who was the model for Dismay in EACH LITTLE BIRD THAT SINGS. She died in 2004, shortly after I moved to Atlanta.

In my dream, I was encouraging Sandy to get up, even though I knew she was hurt badly, sick, something... and I was trying to "push" her down the road in my dream, toward some unknown destination we needed to get to, asking her to get up, over and over.

We passed dead dogs by the side of the road, some in the middle of the road, it was something out of a horror film, and finally -- I couldn't believe it -- Sandy did get up. She never looked at me. She staggered to her feet, and began to trudge in front of me, slowly and unsteadily, and I could see how hurt she was, how wounded she was, and I wanted to call to her to stop, to just stop and don't worry about it, stop, it's okay, it's too much... but she kept going, just out of my reach, toward an unknown place, and I kept following her. She was in pain, suffering, and I was walking behind her, unsure of what to do next. And then I woke up.

I wonder if I am dreaming about my novel.

Or (I watched last night's debate), maybe it's the political season I'm dreaming about, or the economy. Or something I ate. Or maybe I just miss my dog. We were talking about her at dinner last night. Still, it is 3:43 am and I am awake. And going to work.

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Here's what's going on at my house while I write. I'm in a good writing place -- a place that doesn't like interruptions even to move firewood. I can easily look up and an hour has passed, two. And I do take breaks. But I'm conserving energy now, even physical energy -- it's all going into the story at this point.

I am eating a lot of eggs. (I know.)

I have to make myself get out of the house now. I don't want to. I don't want to walk or move firewood or even read the news (this is big). I am no longer tempted by distractions, in this white-heat place, and I'm trying to ride this heatwave for as long as I can, even though it also feels somewhat destructive -- do you know what I mean?


This always worries me some, so I make myself dash to the store for milk, stopping in the aisle to scribble a new story-thought. I check on the guys as they contemplate where-in-the-world to put this last bit of firewood and I say out loud my latest story thread (see their excitement?). I meet with my staff at the end of the driveway and beg off after a few precious minutes, "to keep working." I make myself take a shower. I make myself go to bed.

When I'm writing like this, I get very still for very long periods of time. I work long hours, stretching into the night. I don't go to dinner with my Monday night dinner friends. I don't go sit meditation. I don't worry about feeding anyone.

And you know what? After thirty years of apologizing for how I work and who I am, I am done with all that.

I don't make excuses. I don't apologize.

I know you know what I'm talking about.

After what feels like a lifetime of apology, I finally live with people who don't require excuses or apologies. Likewise, I don't demand reasons, apologies or justifications from them. Ours is a peaceful, gentle household -- a good place to live, love, and work.

I don't make apologies or excuses to myself, either. I have stopped feeling guilty for not participating in the life all around me while I work in a white heat to finish this novel, even if I look, for a while, like something the cat dragged in. Even if I can hardly make conversation. Even if I don't answer the phone and nap in the middle of the day, and let one more day go by that I haven't answered a mountain of email or paid bills. It will get done.

I understand the way I work, finally, and I accept it. I've tried changing it, I've tried beating myself up over it, I've tried all the books and all the therapy and all the well-meaning suggestions of friends and fellow writers. I have wasted time on trying to be what I think I'm supposed to be instead of honoring what and who I am and how I work. I've tried guilt -- the gift that keeps on giving. I have given it back.

Writing works like this for me. It's easier to accept how I work and work with it, than try to make it be something it's not. I have friends in my life who don't require a check-in or a reason for my silence. I extend to them the same respect and courtesy. And I work. Long and hard. I have a headache. I stop. I eat an egg. I sleep. I get up and work again.

It's trench-time. I am not fully present, except to my story. I am depending on my family for steadfast support, protein sustenance, and kind understanding. Also a dollop of naked enthusiasm. I know I have these things.

Thank you, family.

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I'm resisting the temptation (barely) to research today instead of write forward, although I *am* writing, and the story is crackling with new bits that I'm capturing in a computer file I call "notes." First these bits are scribbled on purple Post-it notes, for some reason unknown to me, slapped into my notebook, then transcribed later, during a break, to the computer file.

There are so many research questions coming up as I uncover the next layers of this story. When did Howard Zinn write A PEOPLE'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES? When was the single "Green Onions" by Booker T and the M.G.'s first available for purchase? Were there night classes at the University of Maryland in 1962? What were the cartoons on Saturday morning television and what was on television on Friday nights in 1962? Were Dixie Cup dispensers invented by 1962 or was that later in the Sixties?

Etc.

I have stopped to look up some answers, but mostly I'm trying hard to stick to the page and make notes about my questions -- none of these answers will change a storyline, and I can just move forward, if I allow myself to. I neeeed to keep moving forward with the narrative.

So I keep a running list beside me at all times. It's all over the place, with questions and ideas both, revelations, too, falling like the leaves outside my window today. Later, when I transcribe my notes to the computer file, I'll look upon them as an archive of the day that helps me see these puzzle pieces in the order they appeared, and I'll be able to see how I integrated them into the storyline. Or pitched them.

I'm trying to tie the original Big Middle to the New Beginning today. Gaaaaaaaaaaa. I can see how much sheer, mundane, muddy work there is to do now, to clean up this middle. And some of it will need to be completely jettisoned, and this just kills me, because I love love love these scenes. And yet... they are no longer serving the story.

Some writers I know spend time writing character sketches and whole imagined scenes that they know they'll never use, that explain backstory for them, or character, or plot. I don't do that, but I do overwrite (in every context) in a first draft. I write much more than I need to write -- I'm particulary a "directional writer." You know the type: she walked to the door, she reached for the handle, she turned it, she opened the door, she stepped across the threshhold, she turned right down the hallway... oy and oy vey, save me.

But I don't worry about this right now -- cutting this sort of directional writing is a task for smaller revision and it doesn't bother me a bit to lose it -- I depend on seeing this stuff and yanking it out of there at some point.

But this is large revision I'm into now, and I need to make every scene count. WHY is it there? What does it matter? If it's just there because I loved painting the relationship between Franny and her brother Drew and the lovely fall day -- well, it's gotta go. That scene needs to impart vital information, needs to move the story forward -- does it? No? Then make it work or let it go and move on -- what do you need and what can you let go? This is how I'm talking to myself today.

I know so much more today than I knew even a week ago, it's almost scary. It makes me think that I've got a Whole Lot More To Do than I bargained for, in this revision.

Help.

What's really scaring me, if I'm honest, is that I may have to throw out the entire second half of this novel. Excuse me while I sink onto the couch and call for a cold cloth for my forehead.

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Here is Elvis-Andy-Bebop, or Elvis-Bebop-Andy, I'm not sure which. He is spending as much time with my son Jason these days -- more -- than he is with me, so I guess I have become a grandma, but I don't mind. I love being a grandma, actually, and I am spoiling ol' Bebop for all he's worth. Sorry, Jason.

Here stands Elvis, attentive at the red screen door, gazing intently out at the whoosh of activity in the front yard brought on by the Big Wind that's blowing through Atlanta today.

It's gorgeous here. Overcast, because a front is coming through. The wind crescendos up up up and high high high and every tree sways in a thousand frenetic directions, giving up leaves to the loud dance of the wind, and the leaves swirl everywhere, up and down and about, falling, falling, and the birds SING OUT! and the chipmunks call to one another, and the squirrels skitter up the trees, and the wind comes down again, like an out-breath, an exhale, and the birds dash to the feeders, Cleebo the cat gets ready to pounce unsuccessfully once again, and the puppy watches all this from his position just inside the front screen door.

He has been out many, many times already this morning and has exhausted himself. Soon, I predict he will collapse in a heap on the old quilt he sleeps on and snore himself into a two-hour nap. Then I will get some real work done. Or not.

It appears I am a Big Wind, a "sound and fury signifying nothing" these days. Yesterday I blithely detailed for you what my Saturday would be like, and it was nothing like that, nothing at all like that. I did not make gingersnaps for Belinda. I did not work in the yard. I did not epitomize that model of the working writer that I aspire to... ...

... but I did write. I did discover. I did ... nap. Big time. The big wind was half the size of today's wind, but still, with the doors open and the outside coming in, I was too tempted to crawl between the covers and snooze myself through a Saturday afternoon. So I did. Oh, the deliciousness!


Not so long ago, early October Saturday afternoons were for soccer games and kids with friends over at the house and a thousand peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and yard work and shopping for shoes or back-to-school. Delicious as well, just a different taste.

My life has changed. My writing has changed, too.

The last years that I lived in the house in Frederick, Maryland, I used to rise, without fail, at 4am and write. Now it's more like six, and even seven and eight... but I have the day ahead of me in a way I never had it before. I have had children since I was 18 years old. I am 55 and still have children, but they are all grown, and most are on their own. I wrote with children underfoot for twenty years, and now I write with the ever-changing tides of my household surrounding me.

I can nap on a Saturday afternoon, too, for which I am profoundly grateful. Last night I finished a new chapter four. Today I am entering known territory -- I have a good chunk of the previous revision in front of me, and I am going to see how well I can tie these well-known and loved pages into the new chapters I have written, and vice versa.

I pray that the old stuff doesn't have to go, but I can already see that much of it will. I have already killed one darling, and more may be advancing toward the guillotine. Still, the bones of my novel feel intact, growing. I need to make sure, at this juncture, that all my current story sinews connect to the bones of my novel.

I look at Elvis-Bebop-Andy this way. He is All Leg. Growing, connecting, discovering, figuring out his world, and all the while those bones are stretching and lengthening and growing, in their natural progression. I want my novel to feel just that organic... I want it feel just-so, just-right, and totally, completely of-a-piece.

So today will be about the bones. Structure. How's it coming together as a whole, this novel? I'm going to spend time with the novel in a big-picture way today. I may not write forward (revising, shaping, adding, cutting), but I will understand what I've got, I hope. I will look at my overall arc, and it will be like standing back, taking a breath, seeing where I am at this point, after adding this new material right to the front (and having ripped out the old).

It's Sunday. Jim and I have an undeclared but official date-day on Sunday afternoons. We will likely go... out. Or maybe we'll nap. It's the one afternoon we usually have at home together where neither of us gigs. We actively nurture our relationship on Sundays. I will passively nurture this novel, as we get out and about in the Big Wind that is Atlanta today.

Maybe I'll make those gingersnaps, too.

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Back to work in a real way this morning. Last night I had several breakthroughs while on my walk (exercise is part of process!), which catapulted me out of bed this morning, eager to get to work.

Breakfast on the porch this morning while I contemplate my progress so far this month. It never fails to amaze me how the slog slog slog of days turns into a white-heat for me. I know it's different strokes for different folks. Some writers must write every day. Some go for weeks without writing a word, while soaking up whatever it is for the next story, or coaxing it to the surface.

I am more in the latter camp. Unless I am on deadline, I go for days without writing the actual story at my laptop, but I don't let a day go by without scribbling in my notebook. Of course, right now, during this white-heat, deadline time, I am writing/revising the story, at my laptop, every day.

I use my notebook daily -- even if it's for a to-do list or a grocery list and that's it -- even when I'm traveling (esp. when I'm traveling -- I write on airplanes this way, in the interminable waits on takeoffs and landings, and then I transcribe to my laptop). The physical act of writing in my notebook keeps my writing pump primed.

Here is some of what I have scribbled in my notebook about the novel in the past three days. I haven't corrected spelling or grammar, as this is stream of consciousness, and also quick-recording. Here it is, just as I wrote it.

You can see, there is lots of personal narrative in here -- I am taking my life -- my ten-year-old life -- and turning it into story, a totally made-up story.
----------------------------------

Fear
Drill
Note-taking ­ some of the letters, memos? Franny writes like that?

What about textbooks having incorrect information? Howard Zinn, the people’s history of the united states, etc.
JoEllen is a mentor. Magician, whatever.
Absolutely true diary ­ remember that novel. What I am writing is highly autobiographical.Just found out Franny is the new kid.
Guns of navarrone
Franny will be 11 and in fifth grade, and it will be 1962. I’ll start in Sept.
Oct. 9 2008
HALLOWEEEEEN! Was talking with meg at kudzu this afternoon about Halloween and our childhoods and I told stories about my children’s childhood and the fire at the end of the driveway and everything… what about Franny and Halloweeen might be impt. I have had this thought before but abandoned it. Now it feels just right.
GALE is not a bad girl, although Franny’s mother thinks she is… and Franny will find this out… hmmm… defy her mother? Gravel pit? What? So maybe franny and Margie don’t break up, but they have a tough time of it over gale and Margie growing up faster, gale already grown up a lot

Mom, can I sleep with you tonight? Dad’s out of town on a trip. Mom will pick him up at Friendship and JoEllen will babysit. What about uncle otts?
Drew wants to sleep with mom, too, but it’s franny’s turn. Does she hear him sniveling in bed and how does she feel about that? Does she go into his room and comfort him? Sleep with him in a twin bed? Army men are everywhere? They can still fight later.Oh, I should use those caterpillars! And locking drew out of the house/shed thingie! Can be little flashbacks… to first snow, and etc. the way I did Uncle Edisto and Aunt Florentine flashbacks. This can be a good story. New kid moves in across the street ­ woody with raccoon ­ goads drew? Gravel pit? Now drew has a friend his age in the neighborhood?
Finish notebook entry.

This is my process now. The story is revealing itself to me, bit by leap. I am scooping it up. My notebook goes with me everywhere, to record what is being revealed, to ask questions, to practice what-if, to capture tiny fragments as they present themselves.

And yes, this far into this novel (years worth!), I am still uncovering layers of meaning and structure. This is the way it is with every novel, for me. I've come to believe that I push a novel at my peril. In some ways, I don't believe I can push it to reveal to me its secrets. I just have to keep showing up at the page, whether it's the laptop or the notebook, the slog or the white-heat. (I like white-heats a lot better.... insert hollow laughter here.)

Nothing is too small to note. Nothing that doesn't work out is wasted. It is all necessary to the whole and to the finished project. This is why I tell my students, keep a notebook. Put everything in it. Everything. You never know when you may need it. Paste leaves in it and photographs. Clips recipes to it and letters. Draw pictures, scribble, pour your heart out, and you will see:

There it is, on the page: your voice.

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I shared my pink chair for a moment with Jack Bryant from Russell Middle School in Winder, Georgia last night. Jack came over about 6:30, at the end of my work day, and interviewed me (video was involved; help) for a school project he is working on. He sat in the green chair, I sat in the pink chair and Jack's father, Kerry, made sure the camera kept working.

How is this story part of 30 days of process? Keep reading.

This past May, Scholastic Book Fairs hosted a tea for teachers in nearby Hall County. I was their guest author, and I participated by talking for a few minutes and reading from my novels, and signing books afterward, meeting teachers, which is always a pleasure.

As I got to know these teachers, I noticed one, Robin Blan, was wearing a fantastic artsy jacket and I asked her about it. One thing led to another, and I arranged to meet her in July in Dawsonville for her folk-art reunion -- Robin is a folk-art dealer as well -- AND to meet there her student, Jack, who had just read EACH LITTLE BIRD THAT SINGS, and who loved it ferociously... Robin had me sign a copy of ALL-STARS for Jack, and we parted with the assurance that Jack and I would meet in July. "He is special," said Robin. "You'll see."

When Jim and I arrived at the folk-art reunion in July, we had just missed Jack and his mother. Disappointment all around. When school started in August, I heard from Jack, a fantastic, articulate, respectful, earnest letter -- would I be willing to be interviewed for his school project?

But no, no, I had no time, I was on deadline for this novel, and... wait. I would be at the Decatur Book Festival over Labor Day Weekend, presenting... could he meet me there? With bells on, he said. But it didn't happen. A death in the family meant that Jack was attending a funeral that weekend, armed with Comfort's Top Ten Tips for First Rate Funeral Behavior.

By now I was deep into Revision-Land and could not bear to think about giving up a day for even my own children. Well... you know how it is... and you know what I mean. It's so hard to keep the momentum going, and it's so important to keep moving, for me, as I tend to write best in white-heats.

I wondered what had happened to Jack and his project, so I wrote him and his mother three weeks later and offered to answer some questions on email, to do a Skype interview, something else, if we still had time. I offered the photos on my website and blog for Jack to use in his PowerPoint presentation.

Back came an email from Jack that his parents would take him anywhere, anytime, take him out of school, take time on a weekend, whatever, to drive the 30 miles from Winder to Atlanta, for this interview, if I could find time. His deadline was October 18.

And I said no. Kindly. Firmly. And Jack wrote back the most respectful, kind, firm acquiescence. Case closed. Jack would send me some email questions. I would get my book done. And I would make one trip, one trip long on my schedule, to Birmingham with my Scholastic Book Fairs friends, to the Alabama Library Expo.

Which I did. I rode to Birmingham and back with the fabulous Beverly Williams. We regaled one another with stories. I told her about Jack, and how this request had grown out of the Scholastic Book Fairs tea in Gainesville, and how polite, erudite, earnest Jack was, how his parents -- both of whom had written me -- seemed so supportive and wonderful, and yet and yet and YET, how I had to finish this novel -- FOR SCHOLASTIC, no less -- and how my deadline was so tight... and Scholastic needed the novel in order to start design, art, marketing, who knows what else -- buzz, one hopes... I needed to keep my end of the bargain so others could do their jobs, too.

And Beverly said, into the quiet that my insistence left in its wake, "Could you maybe do the interview in the evening, after work?"

Now is the part where I am supposed to say that she completely changed my mind, that I saw it differently suddenly and that the earth stood still, but that is not the case.

Immediately I said NO. No, no, I have to keep my momentum going, I can't be distracted by these things, I'd have to completely rearrange my train of thought, go into author-mode, I'd have to GET DRESSED, PUT ON MAKE UP, BE "ON" and I would lose a day, really -- at least -- by doing this... it's about PROCESS... I have to stick with the process, and stay with the story, keep the faith with myself... that's how it will get done, and I am so far behind...

Beverly was quiet. Then, softly, "Wow. I didn't realize that. I see what you're saying, but I'll bet most folks don't get it. I wouldn't have gotten it without your explanation..." and it was clear that Beverly still didn't *really* get it... and I had to let that go, and so did she, and we changed the subject, and it was good. We are friends. Each to her own. (Hey there, Beverly, friend.)

Here is the part where we writers try to explain that what appears to be quirkiness and stubborn-ness and maybe just-plain-arrogance is not about being special, it's not. It's a job, this writing gig, this writing life, and this is how it works. It's not about saying we're more important than someone (anyone) else is, it's about getting the job done. And it's a weird job, constructing stories out of thin air, creating something tangible that never existed before -- it's hard. That's the nature of work, however. It's hard. And rewarding, and all those things that work can be... but it needs tending to, in its way.

And, along the way, we do other things that we construe as part of our jobs. We travel to schools and libraries and conferences to work as partners in literacy efforts, we write articles and give interviews and teach and volunteer and we sometimes run into misunderstanding or misconception. We walk such a fine line...

We know we're going to be misunderstood when we say, for instance, to schools, "I'm sorry, I can't do five sessions in a day, I lose my voice and stamina and I'm no good for my writing day tomorrow (or the next day)... and in any event I won't have a writing day because I'll be recovering from a school visit.

"Please understand -- we are going to have a wonderful day and I'm going to love being with you, but I need to put into place some boundaries that will work within your schedule as well. Please. You know your students and your school's particular needs and quirks and politics. I am coming to your teachers and students -- all 500 or 1500 of them -- for the first time and it will take all my energy to be present and effective for you -- I want you to have a wonderful day and take away so many good things that you can use in the classroom and put in your teaching and literacy toolboxes."

We know we're going to be misunderstood by some when we state honorariums and watch conference organizers or school budgets blanch, and we swoon right along with you, we do, because we understand the savaging of school, library and conference budgets, but honestly, at the same time we work with you to make a visit happen professionally, practically and financially, we stand for ourselves because we know we are not prima donas, it's just that we know what it costs us to take the day away from the writing, which is really three days at least (and we know this isn't understood, either), and we know what our expertise is, we know how important this day will be to students, to teachers, and to us, yes, we are excited to be with you, and we hear you when you say this is "just a day" (or "just a half-day" which is even harder) but it is also so much more, in so many ways.

We know it is exhausting for you, as well, and I'm quite sure that we cannot begin to comprehend all that you do behind the scenes to make the day a success -- it is a labor of love entirely, we know that.

When we stay away from our desks, we know we have no assistants who will answer the phone and email and do all the administrivia for us, so there's that work to make up as well when we change-up our routines, and there are the subsequent emails to the organizers waiting on us, saying "I'm sorry, I'm here, I'm buried, I'm getting to it..."

Then, too, it takes time to sink back into the story at hand, the family that needs tending to, the life that needs shepherding, the community that we participate in. The distraction of travel and break of routine is difficult... but welcome, if that makes sense. Very welcome. I have made good friends on the road. I consider these days and these schools and conferences sacred good work. I am lucky to be able to do it, and I know that, I do. So it's a paradox.

More than book sales will ever likely do for most writers, working in schools and at conferences pays our bills and allows us to keep writing. It's not only good work; in a day when there is no effective NEA or NEH funding for children's book writers and illustrators, in a day when arts and humanities are so devalued and yet more important than ever to a civil and humane society, in a day when there are no personal benefactors for children's writers and illustrators (unless you have a satisfactory day job which is another challenging story in itself, or a willing and well-healed spou$e or parent$, etc.), schools and libraries and conferences are our patrons. And we work hard to make it worthwhile for those patrons to invest in us, and to make sure they receive a good return for their investment.

Few jobs bring with them the particular wide-ranging, always-changing, multi-layered and platformed, personal, political, administrative, creative possibilities along with the sharply defined challenges, breathtaking privileges, and sacred trusts that being a children's author/illustrator does. You had better love the work.

You will not be rich or famous. You will not write in your pajamas all day and eat bon bons on the couch and whip up little stories for the little ones that everyone loves, purchases, and turns into classics.

You WILL go into schools where -- this does happen -- no one knows why you are there or who you are. You will show up to book signings and be the store's only customer. You will speak at conferences where your time slot is up against the giants of children's literature and 13 people sit in your ballroom and two of them are crying babies. You will study your royalty statement and see that your books STILL have not earned out, despite the buzz and hoorah surrounding them. You will fight for shelf space -- ANY space -- in bookstores and libraries. You will read reviews of your work that make you cringe and inspire you to send hate mail. You won't do it.

You will market and promote yourself to the public and you will run yourself ragged doing so. You will be misunderstood by those who don't understand the brutality of the publishing business or the nuances of the writing desk, or the art of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, personal narrative. Some will label you inconsiderate, arrogant, selfish, picky, difficult. You aren't.

But you will have to suffer these misunderstandings and you will. And you will have to understand, yourself, that you cannot explain to anyone who has not done this job why you cannot rent a car in Hoboken and drive to three schools in one day, or do a 45 minute session with pre-kindergartners or sleep for a week in a weekly-rental motel in the middle of nowhere that has a parking lot full of 18-wheelers, rooms the size of a cereal box, and sheets made of sandpaper. Likewise, you cannot stay in the PTA president's home and hang with the family all evening, even though you would at any other time love the conversation -- in this context, it is just too hard and you are too exhausted after a day on your feet, you are so sorry, but this is a boundary you must put in place, please understand... or not. Sigh.

There is the flip side of this misunderstanding, of course. There are the dream visits and teachers and conferences and conversations and understandings and memories and experiences and long-standing friendships that develop, fantastic teaching and learning that happens, meaningful moments that are treasured, there is that sense of making a difference in the world, the notion of being of service, the surety of doing great good work, and there is love everywhere -- literacy everywhere, too. There is that flip side. Truth to tell, there is lots of it.

And, there is a common, shared goal -- many goals -- and the assurance (hard earned) that all stories, even the difficult ones, end with hope and the secure knowledge that we still have lots to learn, all of us. We are in this together. We are stronger together than we are apart. And we have good work to do, together.

You will walk a fine line, however, as you learn what works for you and what doesn't, how you want to be in the world, and how your work is best served -- for that is what you have control over -- your story, the work in front of you. We have not begun to talk about the writing itself, the product and the process, although all of this falls into process, of course.

And my process this week, yesterday, included an interview by Jack Bryant that I said yes to last week. I thought about what Beverly had asked me, I slept on it for a few days. I read Jack's emails and thought about our history -- even though we'd never met. I was curious, I wanted to do this, and that both surprised me and felt just right. So I wrote Jack again and asked, "could you meet in the evening? I could do that."

And we did. Jack and his dad arrived at the tail end of a stupendous storm. I had run to the post office earlier and had come home literally soaked to the skin. My hair was still wet. I dressed in my work clothes (meaning I was out of my usual funky-but-comfortable rags), I put on lipstick and we laughed about that, and I greeted my guests.

I was bowled over by Jack's sense of self, by his questions, his intelligence, his humility. He and his dad had made an evening of it, had gone to dinner, then had come to see me. I know they each made concessions and changed-up their schedules, just as I had.

And you know what? I had a great time -- a wonderful time. I think Jack did, too. He's going to give me a copy of his presentation and I can't wait to see it. When I visit Barrow Elementary School in Athens next March (which is near Winder), I plan to have supper with Jack and his family on the way home, after a teacher workshop after school. Jack is going to cook his famous risotto and bake bread. Jack's dad will tell me more about HIS dad, who was one of the federal marshalls who held Ruby Bridges' hand and walked her into school. (HOW COOL IS THAT?) I feel a Story coming on...

And yet... this morning, I could not for the life of me get up at four. Or five. Or six. Or seven. It was 8am before I rolled out of bed, and I have piddled with my novel today, but mostly my head has been fuzzy, has lost that thread of process with the novel, and I have spent the morning recovering from being very present last night, working hard, and having a lot of fun.

So today, I'm going to break for lunch and then take myself to my locally-owned coffee shop for an afternoon writing session. I will not try to catch up; I will focus on the process. It is what it is, and I will just keep going. I can write well into the evening if I want to. Nothing else is required of me today. The book will get written. My family of choice has expanded. All is as it should be. All will be well.

I am lucky.

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This morning's breakfast, at 6am: homemade oatmeal topped with a few cranberries and walnuts, with a bit of Fage yogurt on the side, and a copy of the 1947 textbook MAKERS OF THE AMERICAS.

This book broke it open for me yesterday... I am cautiously saying this, because who knows (I know you know what I mean), I have a new chapter one (for the third time in as many years) and I think it may be The One. But I've thought this before.

Yesterday, as I committed to my 15 uninterrupted minutes and then another and another 15, I did indeed sink right down into story... and you know, that break every 15 minutes (or hour, or however it works for you/me each day -- and each day is different)... that break makes all the difference.

In my breaks I toted some of our two cords of firewood to the various covered resting places it will occupy this winter. (We did not beat the rain, but we're over halfway done, and everything is tarped... and the rain on my tin roof sounds like drizzle this morning, not a downpour, which would seriously impede our efforts.)

I made pumpkin muffins for Hannah (her request) and will try to box them up and send them to Ohio today, where she is putting in long hours working for the Obama campaign (oh, the stories!). I'll include something Halloweenish in the box, and I'll stick her mail in there, too, and a surprise.

I stuck close to home and close to story yesterday, and my reward for those focused writing times followed by the release of the puppy-mind to go play/exercise was the magical gift of a new beginning for this novel. I read through my pitiful "what does Franny want?" list that I posted yesterday, I wrestled with how to put something to represent that in the first chapter in a real-life, action-oriented way, and as I sat there, word-wrestling, a phrase came to me: I am invisible. I wrote it down. It came to me in the way that Comfort's words in LITTLE BIRD came: I come from a family with a lot of dead people.

From that sentence came the rest of the chapter. Where did it come from? I wrote for two hours with every window and door around me open. The muffins cooled, the firewood waited, the tiny morning fire died, and the October breeze set up a whooshing through the trees and around my shoulders with a clear sign of a front coming in.

When I looked up, I had to put myself back in 2008. I had sunk deep down into 1962 and I had a brand-new scene, a brand-new beginning, and a way to look ahead. I took a break -- moved wood for an hour and figured out next steps in my head... was excited to get back to the page.

Here's how the rest of the day went:

Read the new chapter out loud, heard the holes. Revised. Took a break. Read the chapter out loud, saw how this new first chapter is really chapters one and three. I can use my current (as of the last revision) chapter two between the brand-new chapters one and three. Shuffle. Revise. I think this will work.

I ate little supper (leftovers)-- my mind is not in my stomach. Called it a day and watched the debate (save me -- us). Couldn't resist one more read-through, so read the new material out loud, in bed, to Jim (very romantic - not). He asked great questions and gave wonderful encouragement, which I need so much right now. Slept on everything.

When I woke at 5:30, I was eager to get back to it -- this hasn't happened in so very long. For so long this novel has been a complete and utter slog, and today, voila, it's a pleasure, a real pleasure. I began reading yesterday's new chapter before the coffee was ready, and I made my oatmeal (I'm finding that carbs in the morning help) while scribbling in my notebook all my new discoveries, my new questions, my wonderings... because that's what I do best -- wonder. And then explore.


Heavens to Murgatroyd, I think I may be finally moving forward again. So, so much to do in this month ahead. I can't look at that. I need to keep blinders on and just move forward. Trust. Make a mess if I have to -- remember the rules of The Magic Schoolbus? I put them, front and center, at the top of my syllabus for ECED422, "Writing Techniques for Teachers" when I taught at Towson University:

Take Chances.
Make Mistakes.
Get Messy.

Yep.

C'mon -- let's write today.

I'm so eager to be back in Franny's world again this morning and I'm psyched about moving forward -- what will I discover? I hope you'll indulge me and wait on my post about the new picture book... it's coming, I promise. I need to ride the white heat I'm in with this novel -- who knew it would come? I try to trust the process, I do, but probably, deep down, I'm not sure I truly believe a story will crack open again for me, I'm never sure the white heat will be here again, and then... voila.

And I never know how long it will last. To work.

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"Not all who wander are lost."
-- J.R.R. Tolkein

I want to make a strip quilt. I want to sew prayer flags. I want to carve pumpkins and toast the seeds. I want to nap. I want to organize my pantry and rearrange the contents of my kitchen cabinets. I want to chop carrots and make soup. And more soup. I do not want to mop the kitchen floor.

I need to stack firewood -- it's supposed to rain tomorrow. I need to clean the bathroom. The car needs to go to the shop. I haven't been to the dentist in four years (don't say it). The grass needs mowing, the garden needs putting to bed. I've stopped composting. Again.

Paperwork looms. LOOOOOOMS. The political climate is making me crazy. Of course I will have to watch the debate tonight.

And what about the Pilgrimage to Mississippi I wanted to take in September? Oh. It's October. I've got 30 days left at home before traveling in November/December: Seattle, Nashville, Augusta, D.C. In December, I'm teaching personal narrative writing to third graders. My *mind* is in third grade right now, spider-webbing in every direction possible.


What to do? Buddhist Jack Kornfield says we must "train the puppy" to concentrate. So here I sit, bringing my puppy-mind back to the page, over and over again.

Sometimes, however, I give in to the endless lists and the cacaphony of craziness in my head and my mind wanders, distracting me from the task at hand..., the task being to draft this novel, understand my story and storylines, and finish, finish.

Instead, I think it's too hot, too cold, too early, too late, there's not enough time, there are too many interruptions... on and on goes my blender-mind, whirling my writing hours into frothy, insubstantial bubbles.


NOT TODAY. Not today! Today, and every day this month, I promise myself 15 uninterrupted minutes. And then 15 more. Soon I'll have an hour, and when I look up again, three. I know how it works, if I Just Do It.

I want to go to IKEA.

BIC! BIC, as I tell my fourth-grade students. BUTT IN CHAIR. Turn off your email, I tell my students, don't play computer games or IM your friends, or get on the telephone -- no texting! I must take a dose of my own medicine -- I subbed to a bazillion political blogs this crazy election season, and this morning I summarily wiped them off the face of my RSS reader. I must. I must. Otherwise, I will peek all day long. Now to deal with email...

Make a pact with yourself, I say to my students, a pact to stay at the page, only at the page, even for just 15 minutes, and see what happens. This is how the magic comes. And it IS magic, in part... magic coaxed into being by discipline, concentration, focus -- training the puppy, not wandering.

A novel is a complex puzzle, like these quilts I love and collect. Can anyone identify the patterns in these quilts? I don't know the patterns but I love quilting -- so far, I'm a rag quilter only, but I want to branch out. I want to learn the patterns.

In my novels, readers don't need to see my patterns; they will intuit that they are in good hands if I do my job well. Readers will absorb the patterns in the way that I absorb the beauty of these quilts... the person who needs to understand the pattern is the maker, so I must stick with it today, reading, refining, thinking about patterns, themes, overall arc, structure. Cut, paste, sew, rip out, piece, tie off... I have my work on a quilting frame today, and I am a quilting bee of one.


I'm also deep into too-many metaphors, a sure sign I am that wandering puppy. So I'll stop and go to work. I'll eat well (last night's supper included leftover cornbread broken into homemade miso soup). I'll get up and stack firewood at the end of a fifteen-minutes or hour or three, and tonight I'll fall into bed exhausted, I'm sure, just as I did last night.

I won't measure progress by how much I get done on the page. Just as much work is being done in that non-wandering mind. Then, when I let it romp, when I stack firewood or climb Stone Mountain this afternoon, that puppy will give me the answers to hard questions I've been wrestling with. I trust that... and then, back to the page the next day, repeat.


Thank you all for those lovely guesses about and congratulations on the Big Book News -- thanks so much. YES, you are *all* right! I'm birthing a new picture book. This is my first picture book sale in ten years. It was a long pregnancy. (Metaphor Alert. Stop. Now.)

I want to share the process with you -- how an idea grew into a book -- as part of 30 days of process. So tomorrow: contest winners and the anatomy of a new picture book. But for now, 15 minutes. Another log on the fire, and another 15 minutes.

Sinking down, down.... into the magical world of story.

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