PROMISE

Hope is emerging wherever I look.

Buds, springing from bare branches...

...expand gently, floret by floret...

...into full-blown racemes.

Ideas, too, seem to spontaneously bud...

...open up...

...spread wide their petals into the complete and fragrant vision.

Later will come the fruit.

MEANINGLESS

I keep a small notebook and pencil under my pillow to capture all those brilliant ideas that show up in the middle of the night.

I can pull out the notebook, jot down my inspirations without even opening my eyes or turning on a light, tuck the notebook back under my pillow, and resume sleeping with hardly a moment's interruption. In the morning I open the notebook, remove the inscribed pages (which surely will be filled with gems of insight), and file them in the appropriate places.

The other morning when I opened the notebook to see what my midnight unconsciousness had produced, this was the page that awaited me. Yes...one word: 

"cucumbers" 

I had no idea what I was thinking...what the word meant...what the brilliant thought could possibly have been. The appropriate spot in which to file this gem was clear: WASTEBASKET. 

Reminder for the day: Some things really are worthless.

CHAOS II

Once again, I am in chaos, a dark and murky jumble, where all is confusion and disorder:  I am beginning a new project. The physical chaos mirrors the mental chaos with which I begin any new project, whether as an illustrator or a writer. As encouragement, I frequently remind myself that in many creation myths, even the Great Creator began with chaos.

I try to trust that I, too, will be able to separate the light from the dark; that I, too, will be able to gather and form and shape disparate elements into an ordered universe. In other words, that I will be able to create another book.

CHAOS

I never seem to be embarrassed to let people see how messy my studio becomes. I think it's because I am always awed and amazed at the way a beautiful object is created out of such chaos. An object that one can pick up, hold in one's hands, peruse, read, enjoy. The process seems to me---still, after all these years---nothing less than miraculous. It confirms for me, over and over, my sense that I am the channel for the creating power, not the source.

I do clean and straighten my studio after each project is completed. A moment of stasis.

Then begins the next project---the next round of chaos. Out of which, yet again, will emerge a thing of beauty. 

And thus the magnificent cycle continues.

COMING UP FOR AIR

I'm no good at multi-tasking. So when several book ideas grabbed me by the ear six months ago and began to harrass me, blogging went by the board. Six months later, I've sent three manuscripts with sample art off to my agent for her to peddle. And I'm back at blogging.

Picture Book #1

Publishing being what it is, I can't really show off my darlings. But I'm giving you a hint.

Picture Book #2

And another hint.

Graphic Novella

And another.

Unfortunately---again, publishing being what it is---the soonest you will ever be able to see much more of these three projects will be at least one year from now. Unless you can come in person to my studio---there you can be the first to see whatever it is I'm working on, at whatever stage it happens to be.

IS THAT TRUE?

When my son was around 4 years old, he tagged along with me as I attended a short conference on storytelling. One of the traditional tales told was The Big Toe (http://www.creativetales.net/the-big-toe#.VHuEg0vtVt0). The storyteller was quite skillful, building up the tension with increasing volume, and manipulating his voice to ominous effect. He finished up with appropriately creepy groans and the final phrase, "You've got it!"---making all of us in the audience jump in delighted surprise. James enjoyed the telling right along with the rest of us. Next came Q & A. The audience asked about storytelling techniques, how to keep your audience's attention, and so on. Then James raised his hand.

"Was that a true story?" James asked.

The storyteller thought for a moment. Then he said to James, "There are Factual Events; and there are True Stories. This story wasn't a Factual Event; but it is a True Story." 

James listened; nodded his head. He understood completely. And I have never forgotten those words of wisdom from this storyteller. Isn't that what we artists are working with, always? The True Story---which may or may not be a Factual Event.

Note: In this day and age I feel compelled to defend my parenting techniques, in case readers think that a 4-year-old should not have been exposed to a creepy telling of a creepy story. My children---who both learned to read before they were five---read anything they wanted, including gruesome Grimms Fairy Tales, gruesome Mother Goose rhymes, and all those other pieces of literature from which children today are so often protected. I often remember what James---and I, too---learned about the difference between Facts and Truths from that performance, and how succinctly and clearly it was demonstrated to him. How fortunate my son was, to learn this at such an early age.

FOUND KEYS

My lost keys are now found keys. A friend was helping me straighten up my house; when she picked up a garment that had been lying in a chair for...well, weeks...there lay the keys underneath. (Probably fallen out of a pants pocket.) I had searched every place I could think of (except under a tossed-aside sweater, obviously).  I was sure they would never be found. NEVER. I had given up completely on them. Yet they were found, finally. And not even in some exotic location; just in a place that I hadn't been able to imagine as a hiding spot.

How like this is, again, to finding the key to a writing problem or knot. I wrack my brains, try out every possible solution in my mind, brain storm until I am stormed out.  It seems obvious: I will never find the solution. NEVER. I give up on it totally, and go on to something else. And then the solution pops into my mind at some unexpected moment. A solution that now seems obvious and simple---yet I hadn't been able to imagine it on my own.

Muses, and Friends: I can't imagine life without them.

LOST KEYS

I misplaced my keyring---with keys to house and car---a day or two ago. I knew they had to be somewhere on my property. I would not have been able to get back into my house without them. I have duplicates to all my keys, and was not really inconvenienced, but I became obsessed: looking in the same places over and over, convinced that the fiftieth time around, the keys would be where, on the forty-ninth time around, they hadn't been. Soon there was a path marked out on the carpet of the route I was travelling...again...and again...and again. What is that definition of insanity?  Doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results?  

Suddenly I caught myself.  I realized that this is exactly how I often begin when I can't find the keys to a knot in a manuscript or a sketch dummy on which I'm working.  But I've learned that the obsessive approach is not a productive approach. If I can calm down, open my heart, relax my mind, the key to the creative problem will usually appear of its own accord...on its own timetable, of course.

Can I apply this same principle to finding my house and car keys?  Free up my mind, meditate, in the hope that the location of that elusive key ring will float to the surface?  Well, I can try...though so far, I have to admit, it hasn't worked. 

RETREAT, RENEW, RECHARGE

July and August in Vermont.  What I didn't have: Easy access to the Internet. Enough forks and spoons. Or pots and pans. 

Furniture. A washer or dryer.

What I did have: A tiny toad in the back yard on dew-laden mornings.

N. C. Wyeth thunderstorm skies.

A birthday table, with dear friends.

A double rainbow of hope, the day before I left.

And when I returned to my Phoenix studio? A sudden deluge of creativity.

A TALISMAN FOR A CHARACTER

The middle-grade protagonist of my current project needs a talisman of some sort to carry with him as he escapes from an abusive orphanage---the only home he's ever known---and sets out to make his way in the world. This talisman would have to be something quite small. Something that would fit into a pocket. Something that could be concealed from the prying eyes of harsh matrons and overseers. Something that he happened to find in the labyrinthian halls of the orphanage. Something that could also fall out of a pocket. I just couldn't figure out what this talisman was. Then I decided that if I went looking at actual objects, my character might whisper "That's it!" into my ear when I came to the right one.  

I began my talisman-hunting at Antique Trove, one of my favorite places to haunt.  Seemingly miles and miles of dealer booths, with displays of everything and anything that can be fit into a building.

                            

I found a small tin box with a hinged lid.  In my story it couldn't be a tobacco tin---but it could be a tin for peppermints, for example. "This might be it," I thought.  Then it occured to me---maybe this was only the box in which he kept the actual talisman.

So my next visit was to my local Goodwill, another of my favorite places when one is looking for the unexpected. Maybe a ring? A bottle cap? A spoon? A 

button?

I wasn't struck by anything at Goodwill, so I went on to Target.  Since my protagonist ends up at a diner, perhaps there'd be some sort of small kitchen utensil that would fit into his tin box. But there was nothing that seemed remotely suitable.

Back home once again, I thought about a key...a coin...a stone. But there was no whispering, no voice that said "THAT'S IT!"  In fact, I began to doubt whether he had a little tin box at all, either empty or full.  In other words, back to square one.  So was this a failure?  Not at all.  I now know that his talisman is REAL, not just a figment of my imagination. I see him carrying it; holding it; hiding it. I just don't yet know what it actually is. But I do know for sure that, one of these days, he is finally going to show it to me.

MAKING IT POSSIBLE

We plant seeds and bulbs in earth; words and phrases on paper.  We water and weed.  We fertilize and prune.  We tend and cultivate; loosen the soil or the mind; sleep on it, pray over it. Re-read, re-mulch.

Will it bloom?  We don't know.  Perhaps it will.  Perhaps it won't.  We never know until the very end.  Our task is simply to make it possible.

WHY I MAKE CHILDREN'S BOOKS

I published this book many years ago.  The children who were reading it when it was published are now in their 30's, their 40's, or perhaps even their 50's.  But even though the book is now out-of-print, it seems that it still lives on in the hearts of those who read it as a child.  Someone will tell me, "It was my favorite book when I was 5 (or 10, or 4, or 8, or....)."  A grandmother or grandfather writes, "My daughter/son loved this book, and now I want to give it to my grandchild."

Recently I had the opportunity to see the flyleaf of a copy of this book...

...and the flyleaf of another copy of this book.  A colleague of mine, seeing the same flyleafs, wrote, "These inscriptions are very moving, and renew my faith in the tender, sacred quality shared between children and those close to them through children's books.  Seeing these handwritten notes is quite touching.  Yes, all the work and effort put into creating good children's books is so worthwhile."  Could we, as writers and illustrators of books for children, leave behind any better legacy?

THE SEASON OF LIGHTS

As days shorten, and dark nights lengthen, we humans turn to lights to mark the season.  Even more southern cultures---though they live amidst a more subtle change of seasons---celebrate with light, in anticipation of the return of longer days.  As for me, growing up in northern New England, where the winter nights are dark and endless---well, if I had lived in earlier times, I would have whole-heartedly participated in religious and magical rites designed to entice the sun to return to the frozen earth.  Instead, being a supposedly more modern creature, I've treated this topic often in my books.  One example is TALES FOR A WINTER'S EVE, which I created intentionally to honor the winter solstice as it would pass through my beloved rural Vermont community.

The sun setting over a frigid and snow-clad community was a signal to folk---animal or human---that it was time to scurry for home, warm hearths, and tasty stews.  But it was also a symbol and a reminder of the setting of one season, and the advent of another.  

It was a signal to settle in for the long winter to come---in burrows, nests, hollow trees, or clapboarded buildings---that were hopefully well-stocked with food and fuel.

Brief forays out into the darkness and cold added zest to the long waiting.

But there was always the blessed fire and light on one's return---where one could warm one's toes, sip hot cider, and tell stories to pass the time.

And at the very end of the day, we hoped that for everyone---furred, feathered, scaled, or naked---there was a cozy bed, a goodnight hug, and comforting dreams of the return to light and warmth.

THE DISORGANIZED WRITER

I have always had trouble organizing creative projects.  When I'm working on a picture book, that is not so much of a problem.  The text and plot line are short enough that I can memorize it all and keep it visually straight in my head.  Reference material will usually all fit onto one table.  But I've been working for a couple of years on a longer manuscript with a plot that is more complicated than the picture-book level. The process has turned into a kind of aimless wandering through a literary bog.  The result has been mounds of papers, files, folders, notes, old envelopes, and reference materials. Yes, the mounds are all stacked in piles together on the shelves of one bookcase.  But I have learned through sad experience that this does not qualify as "organized" or "useable" or even "findable". As a result, I've been going in circles---adding more and more to the mounds, but moving no closer to the completion of my manuscript.

Like many authors, I'm always collecting How-To-Write books.  I recently came across this one.  (It has a companion, The Marshall Plan For Novel Writing).  Hope springs eternal in my breast; though no other How-To book had ever enabled me to make even a dent on my struggles, I snatched this one up as a possible thread out of the labyrinth in which I had become trapped.  To my astonishment---and delight---I have found parts of it very helpful.  

I am still working slowly; that probably will never change for me.  But my manuscript is now contained---manageably---in one notebook.  I FEEL that I am progressing with the project.  (I don't yet dare assert that I AM progressing.)  The Marshall Plan Workbook may not appeal to anyone but myself; we are all different in the ways in which we write.  But then again, it might be just what you were looking for.  So I pass this experience on, for whatever it's worth---and no, I am not being paid to do so!