The Crooked Truth

View from my room at When Words Count

Jamie’s Crooked Truth: Tossing the To Do List 

My two sons often steal my phone to take photos, so what I discover on it is always a surprise. I might find goofy faces, 26 close-ups of the dog’s nose, or an artistic series of a Yoda Lego minifig scaling our kitchen cupboard.

But recently, I’d stumbled upon something jarring--a video they’d taken of me. I’m hunched over my laptop, typing, oblivious that I’m being filmed. “WE GOTTA GO!” I yell, and become a whirling dervish of multi-tasking--snapping shut my laptop, putting dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, turning off a dripping faucet in the bathroom, racing toward the front door, and then running back into the kitchen for the purse I’d forgotten.

My youngest narrates the action: “She’s craaaaaazy.”

Yikes.

Life can get pretty crazy around here.

So a weekend at the When Words Count writing retreat was a welcome break from, well, everything. No phone, no TV, no distractions. Just a serene Vermont setting, delicious food, good company, wine by the fire at night, and long stretches of time to write. Heaven.

Dinner is served! Yum. Cross "cooking" off your to do list.

A fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookie for dessert. See? Heaven.

When I arrived, I decided to relax by going for a stroll along a dirt road. But I found myself speed-walking like I was late for an important meeting. Craaaaaazy. I was still in real-life mode, my mind buzzing with the unchecked boxes of my to-do list. It took a little while to settle into the idea that the only item on my list now was writing.

To be able to focus 100% on writing for three days is a luxury I’d never experienced. I thought I’d get burned out by the second day, but instead I wrote straight through lunch, lost in the imaginary world on paper.

I also didn’t give myself parameters as to what I should be writing. I came to Vermont with a kernel of an idea for a novel, and left with an outline, list of character descriptions, and a first chapter.

One of the many places to write -- a desk in my room, The Flannery O'Connor Room

Flannery's glasses

On the last day, I walked slowly along the same dirt road. The green mountains looked glorious. I couldn’t hear cars. Just birds. I tried to pinpoint how I felt and the word that immediately came to mind was “whole.” In one place, with one focus, and not pulled in a hundred different directions.

I vowed to instill some of the retreat experience into my everyday life. To live slower, fully present in each moment. Aaand . . . that was wishful thinking. The real world IS crazy. So for now, I turn off my phone and write in a quiet nook of the library. You get peace where you can find it.

Where do you find peace to do what you love?

The Crooked Truth

Kristen's Crooked Truth: A Crooked Embarassment

I wish this story had a better ending. I have a story where I encountered a bear while hiking alone in Alaska. And I have a story about how I saved a falcon from certain death in San Francisco. And I even have a funny story about deeply offending Charlton Heston during an arranged photo in Virginia. But the story I’m about to tell isn’t like those stories. Long story short, I ruined something.

I was in junior high and had Ms. Simon’s art class for my first period. From day one, during our pen and ink project, she’d told us repeatedly that we shouldn’t pick up our ink jars by the lid. I can remember the classroom clearly. I remember the random person I’d been assigned to sit next to: Martel Gilbert (not his real name). And I remember his pen and ink project, a barn surrounded by weedy vegetation and a pickup truck. 

I had never recognized the destructive property of ink until the second after I picked up that stupid jar by the lid. The whole thing happened with lightning speed. First, I was holding the jar by the lid. Then, I was holding just a lid. Then, I heard the sound of the glass jar toppling onto the workstation. It fell right next to Martel’s project. In a second, the dark wave had obliterated two weeks worth of cross-hatching and stippling. I was horrified. What’s worse, I didn’t react fast enough and the ink wave, traveling in all directions now, sloshed toward me and stained my crotch black—it was desk level. Before running from the room, I remember apologizing to Martel. My own project, a single blooming rose, hadn’t been darkened by the drama, because I hadn’t pulled it from the drawer yet. Did I feel like an idiot? Yes. Did Martel call me an idiot? He did.

The next memory I have of this event is standing in the attendance office, trying to call my mother. She wasn’t there. I ended up reaching my grandmother, a direct descendent of pioneers, who--even after I explained my situation in great detail--felt I should persevere in my ink-crotch pants. (School wasn’t supposed to be about fashion.) But I wouldn’t stop crying. So she came. Sitting on that towel on top of an old shower curtain felt like a real low point for me. At twelve, I wasn’t sure how I’d get past it.

This moment haunted me for years. I probably thought about it at least once a week. I could never put it down. I hated that clumsy part of myself. It made me feel vulnerable. It made me feel lame. I tried to tell myself that this moment didn’t matter. But what I really believed was that I had ruined something and it was the kind of thing you can’t ever fix. I was incredibly hard on myself.

Ten years later, I was home visiting my family. My grandmother was trying to place new renters in a property she owned near the Grand Teton Mall. She sent my father to give the prospective tenants a tour and he asked me to join him. Imagine my shock when one of the potential renters turned out to be Martel Gilbert. I felt twelve all over again. That ink spill flashed in my mind while my father walked him through the home. Should I bring it up? Would it be lame to mention it? Is he over it? Does he even recognize me? I mean, I looked totally different without a spiral perm.

I brought it up. I said something like, “Remember how we were art partners? Ms. Simon’s class. Remember that day with the pen and ink? You had such a great barn underway. You know I still feel bad about that. I never pick anything up by the lid.”

 And Martel said three words that I will never forget.

“I took art?”

It knocked me over. Here I was, beating myself up over this for an entire decade, and Martel doesn’t even remember seventh grade.

It was overwhelming. I couldn’t believe that the person forever linked to my most embarrassing moment had no memory of it. And so I set it down. I realized that it hadn’t mattered like I thought it had. Dwelling on that ink catastrophe for ten years had been a complete waste of time, and I promised myself that I would never waste time like that again.

And I’ve kept that promise.

Long story short, I learned to forgive myself.

The Crooked Truth

Kara's Crooked Truth: The Other Baby
 
A few weeks ago, fellow Cottager (and next-door neighbor) Kristen Tracy and I were engaged in our weekly catch-up/Prosecco-drinking session. We were both bemoaning the fact that we haven’t been as productive as we’d like to be; our creative work needs us (and we need it), so we’ve been feeling neglectful. But as new(ish) moms, we’re often just too darn tired.

I’ve blogged about time management before, and the solution I came up with for myself about six months ago was to get up early, at six, and write for ninety minutes each day. This worked for me for a while…at least, until we turned the clocks forward last month, and six started feeling more like five, which is just too painful for me. (Until the baby came along, I considered myself a night person. Nine used to seem early to me.) I’ve been getting up at seven instead, but that only leaves me with thirty to forty-five minutes, and that includes the time I need to fully wake up and make myself a cup of coffee.

So, finally, at the end of the evening (and the bottle of Prosecco), as Kristen was leaving, I suggested we insist on some additional writing time for ourselves, and that it might be worthwhile if we spent that time writing together. She agreed, and we enjoyed our first joint session two Sundays ago (we had to skip this past Sunday, due to Easter).

I can’t say it was the most productive writing experience I’ve ever had; that weekend, I was in the midst of running a bunch of pre-holiday errands and chores, so it was difficult to clear my mind and focus. But it was certainly better than sitting around and complaining about not having time to write. I started a new section of a project, and while I now realize it seems to be heading in the wrong direction, I at least know why it’s not working and how to fix it. I’ll leave that recalibration for this coming Sunday, when I can only hope that a clearer head prevails...or at least manifests.

The weekend after next, Kristen and I will be attending the New England SCBWI annual conference. I’ve attended many times, though this will only be my second experience as an author. The last time I went, I found the experience incredibly inspiring and very, very productive. I managed to write ten pages (of a manuscript I ended up sticking in a drawer, but still). There is something about being in a room filled with creative energy — whether it’s just one other determined person or a couple hundred eager NESCBWI members — that I find particularly motivating.

I should mention that my husband paid for the NESCBWI conference for me for Mother’s Day; the irony is not lost on me, that he’s honoring my role as a mother by giving me a break from it, bless his heart. But there’s also this to consider: I may be leaving my baby for the weekend, but I’ll merely be trading it for another creation that engages and confounds me, requires my attention and care, and regularly needs changing. Truly, my work is never done.

The Crooked Truth

Anika’s Crooked Truth: Writing with Heart

As a child, I always felt a little like an outsider.

I wasn’t a total introvert. I played a sport. I was in the drama club. Mine was a subtler feeling of not fitting in, which had to do with being biracial, having divorced parents and splitting my time between two families.

I've grown up now, and accomplished things. I'm a mom and a published picture book author. And yet I sometimes feel like that girl again. In certain situations, social and professional, she's there, full of awkwardness and self-doubt and feelings of not being “right” for anything.

Recently, at Whispering Pines Writers Retreat, novelist Lynda Mullaly Hunt talked about having the courage to put your heart on the page, and how it was the scariest part of publishing her first book—the idea that pieces of her would be laid bare for the world to read.

During the first pages exercise, when the first page of my middle grade novel was read aloud, one of the mentors said, “Reading this, I feel like I’m in very capable hands.” It was a positive comment; a perfectly respectable and encouraging bit of feedback. Far better than, “Wow, this is really a mess!”

But I realized something. I’d been writing safe. Capable, but safe. Something (fear probably) has held me back from taking a risk, and putting my heart on the page.

When I returned, I began a story about a biracial girl who feels like an outsider. It scares me a little. But it also feels like coming home. I hope I have the heart—and the guts—to finish it.

-Anika

The Crooked Truth

 

Kristen's Crooked Truth: A Crooked Coincidence

 

My life felt weird. It was the early 2000’s and I was living in the Midwest, finishing my Ph.D. in Poetry. In the middle of a hectic week, I got a phone call from the property manager in the apartment complex where I lived. She left a message, demanding that I visit the office.

 

When I got there she told me that we needed to talk about the community pool. This surprised me, because I’d never used the pool. I’d never even learned how to swim. She handed me a written warning for violating pool rules. She told me that if I received a second warning I’d be permanently banned from the pool area. “I’ve never used the pool,” I said, thinking this a solid defense. She replied, “You let your friend use it. She can only be in the pool area when a resident is present. Plus, she brought an inflatable lounge float, and inflatables aren’t allowed.” My friend? An inflatable lounge float?  Of course I wanted to believe there was a mistake, but as my property manager recounted the whole story of what had happened, how she’d approached my friend, kicked her and an additional friend (with inner tube) out of the pool, I knew exactly why I was holding a written violation.

 

My “friend” was the first person I’d met in graduate school, a fashionable memoirist. We’d stopped speaking the year before, when I realized she was more drama than I could handle. I didn’t try to explain any of this to my property manager, and I felt like an idiot for even accepting the written warning. I also felt oddly stalked.

 

Teaching at the university had also become weird and complicated. At first, I’d loved it; then I got a bad class. Actually, a bad student. He was bright, but troubled. He missed workshop often due to a pole-vaulting injury he’d recently aggravated. After he blew off his report on Marianne Moore, I sent him an email explaining that he’d failed the course. He exploded. And in an email that I imagine he regrets sending, he threatened me. Not sure what to do, I shared the email with another member of the English Department. The result? I had to teach the rest of the semester in a locked classroom. Also, the department chair, a tall and cautious Scotsman, often insisted on escorting me from the locked classroom to my car.

 

Romantically, things had hit an odd point too, when I got an unexpected package in the mail. Years earlier, I’d fallen madly in love with a fiction writer who lived in Vermont. I thought he was the one. He wasn’t. But for some reason, years after pressing the eject button on our relationship, he sent me a diorama--crafted mostly of twigs--of a story I’d written. He’d tucked a tiny note inside that said, “I love you and I miss you.” While the diorama was truly impressive, I wasn’t sure what it proved. For days, I weighed whether I should call him. In the end, I didn’t.

 

It probably doesn’t come as a shock that I began to develop an anxiety disorder. Leaving the house felt particularly stressful, because I no longer trusted my ability to “pick” people. The one thing that kept me grounded during this time was writing. I didn’t stop. Poetry. Young adult novels. Middle grade novels. I read and researched around the clock. So when I got an email announcing a regional SCBWI conference, I should have been thrilled to go and show the fruits of my labor, right?

 

Not exactly.  I’d only recently joined SCBWI and wasn’t sure I was any good at writing for children or young adults. I’d spent a decade writing poetry and identified myself as a poet, even on government forms. Saying I wrote fiction made me feel like a terrible imposter. My first impulse was to stay home and write until I had something “solid” to share. But Kate DiCamillo was coming with her editor Kara LaReau. I went back and forth. In the end, I decided to go. And in a burst of optimism, I also decided to pay for a manuscript critique.

 

My meeting with Kara turned out to be fifteen of the most nourishing minutes of my life. She really liked my story, but more than that she liked my writing. She told me I could send her future work and even gave me her business card. It was a moment that motivated me even years after it happened. Okay. I’m going to speed this story up now. Not long after the conference, I signed with my agent, Sara Crowe. Soon after that, she sold my first book. My second. She sold two middle-grade novels. I decided it was time to leave the Midwest and my weird life and move to my dream city: San Francisco. I arrived there and continued to write. I sold seven more books. I made friends who weren’t insane. And when the time was right, I fell in love. With Brian.

 

Sadly, Brian didn’t live in San Francisco. He lived in Rhode Island. Three months into our long-distance relationship, even after I knew he was the one, I was reluctant to leave San Francisco. Other than Brian, I didn’t know a single person in Rhode Island. Then I thought of Kara LaReau, who I followed on Twitter. Even though she lived in Boston, I thought I could write her, and somehow get her to introduce me to nice and normal people and maybe trick her into becoming my good friend. I stalked her Twitter feed. That’s when I found out that she didn’t live in Boston; she lived in Rhode Island! I called Brian. I couldn’t believe my good luck! I started telling him all about this great coincidence, and he said, “Tell me more about Kara.” And so I told him a bunch of stuff I’d learned about her in her Twitter feed, and then Brian said something that to this day amazes me. He said, “What I’m going to say next is going to blow your mind.  Kara LaReau is my next door neighbor.”

 

Mind blown. Today. Right now. Kara LaReau is my next door neighbor. We share a peony bush. I contacted her right away and we started meeting up when I visited Brian. She baked me things and showed me around my future neighborhood. She was fantastic! By the time I finally arrived in Providence, after eloping in San Francisco, visiting Paris, and shipping all my belongings across the country, I was several weeks pregnant. Here’s where my story gets weird again (in a good way). Within weeks, Kara found out she was pregnant. Yes. We weren’t just neighbors; we were pregnant neighbors. Fast forward a few more months, and we both have sons. Three months apart. Kara is one of my dearest friends. And it all comes down to going to that SCBWI conference. I feel so lucky. Lucky to be a writer. Lucky to have met Kara. Lucky to have a family. And lucky to be lucky.

 

Here is a picture of our husbands and sons on Halloween. Kara is the mother of the tiny elephant and I am the mother of the baby fox.

 

Is life good? No. Life is great. And still a little weird.

 

P.S. The other photo is of our books. In the midst of starting this blog, Kara and I found out that both of our next books came out on the same day, March 4, 2014. That’s right, our sons might not have had the same delivery date, but our books did. 

The Crooked Truth

Jamie's Crooked Truth: The Lost Language of My Sister

My younger sister and I shared a verbal shorthand, as most siblings do -- private jokes, short phrases that represent entire incidents, words that don’t translate. A language only we understood.

“Crowley eyes” was what we called a particularly nasty form of the Stink Eye, perfected by a mean girl at our bus stop named Shirley Crowley.

“Mr. Rogers’ noises” were any kind of loud click-clacking, rustling, or lip-smacking noises in an otherwise silent room. Like the sounds we heard on “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” when Mr. Rogers made a craft too close to his microphone. For an awkwardly long time, the only noise coming from our TV was the amplified cutting of paper. From then on, whenever I did something like crunch into an apple in our quiet kitchen, my sister would shout, “Agh! Stop making those Mr. Rogers’ noises!”

If one of us wanted the other to stop talking, we’d said, “Shh! There’s a man sick in Chicopee.” (That’s what Mrs. Sullivan, the dear old lady who lived downstairs, would tell us. It didn’t make sense, but we liked the sound of it.)

Later, in high school, “Project Afro”* was code for racing to the phone before my parents, so we could intercept the principal’s recorded message informing them that I’d skipped school. (*Origin unknown. Maybe our brother had an afro at the time.)

I used to think that the worst part about suddenly losing a sister is not being able to say goodbye. But equally awful are the moments when you pick up a phone to tell her something only she’d get, before remembering there’s nobody to call. The realization that you’re left speaking a lost language.

My sister’s name was Julie, as in Julie Boolie or Julie Boolie Pasta Fazooli. She would have been 39 today. She was under five feet tall and had a laugh as loud as a foghorn; you’d hear her coming before you saw her. She loved to laugh.

But more than anything, Julie loved children’s books. She collected them, even as an adult. Her favorites were by Steven Kellogg, Charlotte Zolotow, and Rosemary Wells. It was Julie’s bookshelf I recalled when I interviewed to be an editorial assistant and the publisher asked me about my favorite books. 

Julie's copy of The Three Funny Friends by Charlotte Zolotow, illustrated by Mary Chalmers

Just before she passed away, Julie and I wrote a silly story together. We wrote it to make ourselves laugh, nothing more. To our surprise, it became published. Though our language might be lost, a piece of her will always remain in that book. (Isn’t that why we write? To trap a bit of our fleeting world with paper and ink?)

I think of my sister every day. With every story I write, I ask myself, “Would Julie like this? Would Julie think this is funny?” And I keep writing until I hear her loud laugh. 

Dedication from Joe and Sparky Get New Wheels

The Crooked Truth

 
Kara's Crooked Truth: Journaling Through

One morning last week, I got up early for my daily writing time. I sat down with my laptop and assessed the previous day’s output. I thought about my current work-in-progress and its trajectory. And I decided that it stinks. It’s fatally flawed, I thought. It’s hopeless. It will never work. I should abandon it altogether.

But then, I stopped myself. I put my laptop away, opened my writing journal, and began working through my issues. By the end of the writing session, I wasn’t completely convinced to keep going with the story, but I had a slightly better outlook.

What brought on this wave of negative emotions? Hormones. A couple of years ago, I was diagnosed with PMDD, or Pre-Menstrual Dysphoric Disorder, a severe form of PMS that strikes a small percentage of women, and features (among other DELIGHTFUL symptoms) crippling depression. Just like those medications that warn you not to drive or operate heavy machinery while under the influence, my experience with PMDD has taught me not to make any major life decisions while I’m under its evil monthly spell. I take medication for it now, so I can keep the bleaker thoughts at bay, but it still manages to creep in at inopportune times and sour my judgment.

As you might imagine, this is not good for my creative life. Fortunately, I have become self-aware enough to recognize when the PMDD is taking over, so I can back away from the Delete button (or the Send Email button, or the telephone).  But it’s frustrating to go through several days a month when I have to avoid my work-in-progress because there’s this other thing in my head, wreaking havoc in my brainspace. 

Of course, journaling about my inability to write is still writing, and it’s often more productive for me — by removing myself from the actual work, I can save it for a time when I have a clearer head, and give myself fresh perspective on whatever story problem seems to be in my way. I call it journaling through the problem. And during those times when the problem is ME (or, more accurately, a certain imbalance of chemicals in my body), I can journal through it by self-counseling. Even if my words are scrawled in my journal, I still count them towards my daily quota, and meeting that quota always makes me feel like a winner — or at least, like less of a loser.

Do you keep a writing journal? Has it been helpful?

The Crooked Truth

Anika's Crooked Truth: 
An Acceptance Speech

This being awards season and all — I’ve been thinking about my favorite part of awards shows. Not the red carpet, or the dresses, or the memorial montage. For me, it’s the acceptance speeches.

I’m partial to the funny, self-deprecating, end-on-a-touching-note-Jennifer-Lawrencean speeches. Give me wit, give me heartstrings, give me chutzpah!

These days, a really great acceptance speech lives far beyond the two allotted minutes the winner gets at the podium. In the age of social media — stand-out acceptance speeches almost always go viral — watched again and again on smart phones and laptops and tablets across the globe.

For fun, I thought I’d take a crack at writing an acceptance speech of my own. So what that I don’t have a red carpet? Who cares that I’m not wearing couture, or chatting up George Clooney, or that I haven’t been nominated for, er … anything. I’m writing my speech anyway.

For what is an acceptance speech if not a long and ceremonious expression of gratitude? And gratitude is good.

So here goes…

- I would like to thank my mother, for everything I never truly understood until I had children of my own.

- I would like to thank Madeline L’Engle, E.L. Konigsburg, Anna Sewell, E.B. White, and Betty Smith (to name just a few) for writing stories that took up residence in my heart and never left.

- Thank you to my tenth grade English teacher, Sister Grace, for declaring the sonnet I’d written was not my own work because the writing was “too mature,” delivering in one fell swoop confirmation that I had talent, a lesson in injustice, and just the fire a sixteen year-old needs to someday become a published writer.

- Thank you to my first job as a copywriter for teaching me brevity (a skill I'm ignoring just now because hey, it's my acceptance speech and nobody's going to play me off into commercial, thankyouverymuch).

- Thank you to all the people that have ever read my first drafts and helped me make them better.

- I would like to thank the Internet, for providing endless opportunities to procrastinate.

- I would like to thank my three daughters for giving me loads of inspiration and love, and tolerating me jotting down things they say because they might make good titles for picture books.

- Thank you to Spanx for reasons that need no explanation.

- Thank you to The Coffee Depot in Warren, Rhode Island, for having strong coffee and free wifi.

- I would like to thank my agent for being equal parts smart, kind, savvy, and insightful.

- Thank you to my critique group, for Sunday brunch and for help and encouragement and Prosecco.

- Thank you to Neil Gaiman for his “Make Good Art” speech.

- I would like to thank my husband for having gone to art school, not business school, and for being talented and patient with me.

- I would like to thank God. And also Oprah. And Tina Fey.

- Last but not least, I would most sincerely and humbly like to thank every reader, parent, child, bookseller, educator, and librarian who has purchased or borrowed or shared my books. Really, I mean it. Thank you.

Now, here’s the part where I walk off stage the wrong way and go chat up George Clooney. 
 

The Crooked Truth

Kara's Crooked Truth: Here’s to Messy

As I write this, it’s 2pm on New Year’s Day, and I’m still in my pajamas. You might call this lazy. I call it revolutionary. Usually I make five or even ten resolutions a year — to eat healthier, save money, exercise regularly, carve out consistent writing time, drink more water. This year, I have only one goal: Embrace Imperfection.

All my life, I’ve endeavored to make the “right” decisions, the ones my family would approve of. I’ve done everything to minimize my flaws, or cover up the ones I can’t erase. Perhaps my eye for imperfection is what made me a good editor, but it’s made it challenging for me as a writer. Writing is all about freeing your mind, opening yourself up to making mistakes and wrong choices, so you can find your way to the best ideas; the fact that I think I’m not only a bad writer but a BAD PERSON when I allow myself to veer off course is counter-productive. The fact that I respond to mistakes and failure with deep and abiding shame is tragic. I end up feeling wrong and bad and gross and guilty all the time. And that’s no way to live, is it?

Now that I have a child of my own, I’m loosening up, in some ways. Part of this is by design; with a little one who needs me all the time, there’s no way I can keep my house or myself up to the same standard I did before. I’m going to have to go another day without taking a shower, or emptying the dishwasher, or weeding the garden. But the trick is, I have to be okay with it. I have to realize that life is more about being happy with who you are than it is about aspiring to some unattainable ideal, or to someone else’s standard of perfection. I no longer want to live under that magnifying glass, and I certainly don’t want my son to feel that pressure.

The same goes for my writing. I’ve always prided myself on the fact that my story drafts read like final text. I never allow sloppiness or uncertainty. But I just can’t keep up that exacting standard over more than a new dozen pages, which is why I think I always get discouraged when I work on longer pieces. Not accepting anything less than perfection and correctness is downright inhibiting, not to mention freakin’ exhausting.

So here’s to living (and writing) messy. I promise not to judge your dust bunnies, if you promise not to raise your eyebrows at my pajamas in the afternoon, or the crazy, freestyle chapters I’ll be cranking out. Let’s raise a glass (or two) of New Year’s Champagne to that — and then let’s leave our empty glasses in the sink for a while. Loading the dishwasher can wait.

~ Kara