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Let’s Hear it for Brain Plasticity

Posted on 8 Jun 2013 by beckylevine

Okay, this post has very little to do with writing and very little to do with actual science. You’ll find a tiny reference here and there to either, maybe, but don’t look for any big revelations. This is mostly a gratitude post.

Just under a year ago, I hit what I consider to be my middle-age. (Both of my grandmothers lived past 90, and both of them smoked when they were younger, so with age-inflation and my never having lit up a cigarette in my life, I have done some generous math and pushed things out a bit. Hey, optimism is a factor of long-life, right?)

Anyhoo…So far, this side of the middle-age line, along with the two decades or so before, seriously top the previous decades for growth, self-understanding, self-change and just all-around happiness. And this from someone who had a very good childhood.

But I’ve been thinking about one aspect of this getting older thing a little lately. Prompted, probably, by my re-realizing some things about myself as a writer and about my writing process. Things I thought I had figured out, yeah, decades ago. Things that, apparently, I’m having to relearn again, but in a different way–maybe in a more open way, maybe in a more flexible way. As in, let’s try this again and see what happens; not as in, I’ve got it now and nothing about it will ever change again. (Yeah, right.) Also, I’m currently letting my husband borrow my Kindle, to see if he wants one, and I downloaded a couple of books for him from the library–one on brain plasticity, a topic he loves.

Here’s the thing. I remember a time when all the talk about brain growth was dedicated to young brains. I remember when people, if not scientists, knew that brains stopped growing and changing after a certain–not that old–age. I remember how amazed people were when they found out that some teens don’t develop the long-term planning areas of their brain until, gasp!, in their twenties. And I remember reaching my forties and discovering–both by reading and by experience–that I could take active steps to set new and better patterns into my brain, that I could regroove it.

Do you want to talk relief? Do you want to go into all the ways that my brain and I worked together, in my youth, to keep my life narrow and limited? Do you want to know how magical it is that, these days, my brain and I can exchange peptalks that keep us from making those kinds of choices ? I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m not saying it’s not painful. Hey, we’re talking about carving out new neural pathways. Of course, it’s tricky.

But it’s so possible.

It seems to me that people are talking about this like it’s a new discovery, like it took science to give us the truth. Or does it just seem new to me, because when I was younger I didn’t care so much about what an “older” brain was like? Go talk to my parents, and they’ll tell you about life changes, life hits, adapting, and taking on new adventures. Put my dad on a plane to another country; okay, just watch him put himself on that plane, and watch him eat whatever food is on the menu (yes, even rotted shark in Iceland) and ride whatever animal there is an opportunity to climb onto (yes, elephants and camels). This last trip, he got on a motorcycle, for the first time ever in what’s getting close to eight decades of life. (I know, not an animal, but he didn’t even know the driver!)

Why did I think, all those years ago, that I was set? That the person I was then was the person I would be forever? Is that how teens feel today? Is that what makes being young so tough?

Yes, sure, I could do a Cherry Drop (with help) off the monkey bars, and I could sleep till noon on Saturday without cracking an eyelid, and I could eat bowls and bowls of Lucky Charms without worrying about a sugar crash. And, during those years, I guess my brain had to be growing. But there were years when it felt like any movement it was making was circular, spinning and spinning in the same way of thinking.

I’ll take the now. I’ll take the stiffer joints and the semi-constant sleep-deprivation and the lower-carb diet. Because with that all seems to come the possibility of bumping the record needle out of its groove and seeing where it will land.

Frankly, brain plasticity rocks.

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Retrying an Old Process

Posted on 5 Jun 20135 Jun 2013 by beckylevine

I received an email today. The email set me to a small task. The task helped me make a decision. The decision made me send the right email back. The path was pretty straightforward: cause-to-effect, cause-to-effect, cause-to-effect. Sequential. Linear. Except for this other little layer, a seed that got planted somewhere during the sequence and that germinated for the next hour or so. And then I was talking to my husband about. And I had a lightbulb moment.

The task involved pulling out some chapters of an old WIP and reading through a few pages. I had distance and time from the project, from all the words on the page. I had some nice surprises and, yes, some grim recognition of what wasn’t working. The thing was, though, I’d put a pen nearby without really thinking about it, and before I knew it, the pen was in my hand circling sentences and passages, crossing out lines, scribbling critiques and compliments in the margins. The decision meant that, for today at least, those notes aren’t needed. So I put the pen and paper down and went from decision to task.

Then my husband came home, I was describing the sequence, and…

O.M.G. I. LOVE. REVISION.

I know this. I so know this about me. For pete’s sake, it’s a big part of why I participate in a critique group and why I wrote The Writing & Critique Group Survival Guide, and it’s why I did freelance editing for many years.

I think I just didn’t know until today how much more I like it than first-drafting.

How clueless can I be?

The book I have been most successful in, both in getting it written and in getting it closed to agented & published, I wrote in a week. I’ve blogged about that process before–I did some very basic plotting and then sat down for five days, while my husband and son and brother-in-law took care of Life around me, and I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I didn’t take breaks at the end of a chapter, I had a word count for the day, and I reached it. And then I started again the next morning. And I did it again. And when I was done, I had…crap. I sat down and started reading, and it was painful and messy and I didn’t have to even read through the whole thing before I had my first big revelation: I’d given all the action and drive to my sidekick. My hero was observing and narrating, but he was also following. I sat down and started my second draft, in which–in every chapter–I shoved that MC to the forefront of the action and made him do things to make things happen. Sure, I made other, little changes along the way, but the focus of that revision was on one thing and one thing only. And that’s the draft I sent to my critique group.

I think I’d be really fooling myself if I said that I could write the first draft of my current WIP in a week. I’m back to work part-time and, well, I’m just in a different place than I was. I’m not going to dissect all the reasons.

What I’m going to do is try to push myself back into a speedy first-draft mode. I’ve talked about it and blogged about it, but for some reason, I haven’t started doing it again.

Yet.

I’m setting a goal: Complete first draft of this WIP by the end of the summer, by the day my son goes back to school.

I know this is doable. I know it’s doable by me. Sure, there are ifs, but, frankly, I’m feeling like dropping those ifs down the garbage disposal and flipping the switch.

This means something big for me. This means not sending chapters to my critique group until this draft is done. I’ve talked to so many writers who take this idea as a given; they accept that they can’t receive critiques on their first drafts. I’ve been looking at that idea a little more closely lately, and I’m starting to come around to it. The problem for me has been that I really, really, really love having people read my work. I love the idea that I’m sending it out, that I’ll get to hear people talk about it, brainstorm ideas, come home with more grist for my mill. I’m pretty good at knowing that the comments need to be reserved for later, for when I reach revision. But, somehow, I think wanting to do it that way has gotten me into accepting a slower pace from myself. I’ve slipped back into that idea that I can get my X number of chapters written, send them along, and then–you know–wait a bit and write a few more.

If I loved first-drafting, that might work for me. But I think what I’m doing is keeping myself too long in the stage that is just so-so for me. It feels okay, but it doesn’t feel inspirational or motivational. I feel a little like the kid who gets all their home work done and…gets some more. I don’t hate first drafts, but…oh, revision.

It’s where I want to be.

So that’s the plan. The new process will be the old process, the one that…hello? WORKED.

And we’ll see where it takes me this time around.

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Some Random Thoughts in May

Posted on 26 May 2013 by beckylevine

It’s not Friday, so I’m not doing five, and it’s not Saturday, so I’m not doing six. Is Sunday seven? Even when it’s the Sunday of a three-day weekend, and Monday won’t really be Monday?

I could go on.

But, instead, just some thoughts in May.

When you are feeling tired and rambly, your writing may very well turn out to be tired and rambly. Which is okay, because, hey, it’s still writing and the word “writing” is just code for “pre-revision.”
I cannot complaint that I have been a little chilly this weekend, because–and may I say, GEEZ!–people in Vermont and other northern sites in the U.S. had SNOW this week. I’ll just put on socks and deal.
Eucalyptus are still my favorite trees, a fact I was reminded of by a recent trip to Golden Gate Park. Yes, I have Eucalyptus trees less than 100 feet outside my office window at home, and, yes, I love them. But you do stop looking. Temporary relocation is a good thing.
One of the biggest reasons summer vacation is so awesome is, because May can be, let’s just say: Quite. The. Challenge. Every year, I forget (blessed wimpy memory) how schools seem to have a great, demanding need to pile on and pile on and pile on. Next year, I swear, I am scheduling NOTHING in May. Nothing. Except perhaps the purchase of a new freezer, to be dedicated solely to the storage and supply of ice cream.
If I’m really, really careful and use props, I can do the Pigeon pose in yoga again. Which I couldn’t for a while, after hurting my hip. Pigeon is good. Props are good.
Piles on the shelves behind you are much less worrisome and intrusive than piles on your desk.
Mindfulness. A path I’m really glad that I’m finally stepping on to. Yes, okay, sure, sometimes also a path that I wish were one of those motorized person-sized belts, like at the airport, that carry you wherever you want to go without any effort on your part. With, you know, a High-Speed setting. But, overall, just glad.
I do believe, even with the weird weather, that Spring is definitely here and Summer is on its way. And that feels good.

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Hearing the Big, Bad Editing Voices…But Not Listening

Posted on 19 May 2013 by beckylevine

At the beginning of this year, I made a choice to put away the book I’d been working on for a couple of years. There were lots of reasons, most of which I went into here. The minute I opened my mind to working on something else, a MG idea I’d had in a file jumped in and shouted, “Me! Me! Me!” That’s what I’ve been working on for the past months, and I haven’t regretted the change once. Oh, sure, there are worried about whether this WIP, too, will only get so far and then stall out, about whether I’ll fall out of love with this MC. But I’m pushing those worries outside and letting myself play with the story and, for now at least, stay in love.

Actually, I’m pushing away a lot of worries. For many years, I really didn’t understand when people talked about the “editing” voices and insecurities that got in the way of their writing, that stopped the flow. I’d been lucky, I guess. The one book that I’d worked on forever, with little progress, I hadn’t really cared about. The first book of my own that I did fall in love with, I finished, and–while I can see why it didn’t get agented or published–it made me happy, still makes me happy. Ditto for the picture book I still have agenting/publishing hopes for. So, basically, while not everything I worked on turned out well, my confidence level (okay, yes, possibly my conceit?) was pretty high.

And then came Caro. Who, basically, kicked my confidence in the butt. I haven’t gone really deep into analyzing the why of this, other than recognizing all the possible reasons why her story was too hard or too not-right-for-me to tell at this time. Basically, I decided I was in-hate with my writing every time I sat down with her, and that wasn’t what I wanted my writing experience to be, so…drawer.

What’s been really interesting, though, are that some of the bruises Caro gave me seem to have turned into scars. Not big, bad ones, just little cracks in my confidence armor. My son and I have a thing we do when we’re reading books or watching a movie: as soon as the hero gets cocky, we’re basically like, “Here it comes! He/She is going to get it!” So, yeah, maybe I was a little cocky. And maybe, in a little way, I got mine.

Which is okay. Maybe I needed to come down a bit off the “I’ll get an agent! I’ll be published next year! Everybody will read and love me!” (Say the last three sentences in the same tone as Sandra Bullock’s “You want to daaate me. You want to kiiisss me!” from Miss Congeniality.) Maybe I needed a push back into remembering that writing is for loving words and loving stories and loving the doing of it all. At least for me.

But…as I work on this MG WIP, I am hearing more voices. They’re saying things like “Hey, just pick which point of view you want and stick to it.” They’re waving at me and saying, “Really? Are you sure that scene goes right here? How will that connect up with that scene you wrote two days ago?” They’re recommending that I put the story aside for a week or three and go research X. Or Y.

I think the voices were probably there when I was working on Caro’s story, and I was not just hearing then, but listening to them. Without realizing it? If that’s possible? Whatever was going on aurally, I think I was bouncing around a bit like a pinball. Do this. No, do this. But that won’t work; you’d better do this instead. And–possibly the worst thing for me to believe–you can do it all at once!

I know people hate the voices, but I’m kind of feeling lucky, this time around, to actually be hearing them–to be aware of the games my brain is trying to play. Because, at least now, I can use my fine-mesh, all-iron, keep-the-bad-fairies-away net to catch them, look at them, hear their words, and then say, “No.”

One example. In this WIP, my MC, Charlie, gets caught up in something, something very cool and, I think, sort of real and unique all at the same time. His interest becomes a passion, becomes an obsession, becomes some real trouble. And, of course, his interest is something I know only a little about. You know where this could lead, where one of those voices is “recommending” I let it lead. Yeah. Research.

Well, hey, look at these shelves. These are the books that I bought when I was researching for Caro’s book. This doesn’t show you the ones I got from the library.

I’m not sorry about any of the reading time I spent for this book; I am now officially in love with Chicago and in awe of Jane Addams, and none of that is bed. But…do you think it’s possible that I overwhelmed myself? Let’s all say it together: DUH!

Okay, maybe not. Maybe. All I know is that I get a slightly PTSD’ish twinge when I think about doing any research for Charlie’s story. Story. That’s the word. I feel like I know enough about Charlie’s thing to write his story. And these little warning bells go off every time I think about learning more about that thing. For now. Warnings that maybe I’ll get overwhelmed again, find myself chasing facts down various paths, playing with all the different ways Charlie could play with those facts. Warnings that maybe I need to figure out Charlie first and then take him with me into the research.

And for now I’m going to listen to the bells.

Not the voices.

How badly do the voices hit you? What do you do to push them away? How do you settle into trust of yourself and your characters?

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Thoughts on Varian Johnson’s Post, “Where are all the black boys?”

Posted on 17 May 201317 May 2013 by beckylevine

I read Varian Johnson’s post, “Where are all the black boys?” earlier this week, when people were linking to it all over Facebook. If you haven’t read it yet, you can see it at Varian’s blog, here. It’s one of those posts that has stayed with me, partially–of course, because it’s so important and Varian shows the problem and his feelings about it so beautifully. But, also, I think, because there are so many questions in the post, one question in particular–which I’ll get to later–that I can’t find any answer to.

I’m going to talk first about my own reaction to the post and to many of the excellent posts I read about multi-culturalism. Basically, I feel part of the privileged group–the white American girl who grew up in a safe, sheltered environment; who tucked herself consciously into that safe, sheltered environment and was happy there. I have always been able to find myself in books–basically, you could build a tower as tall as the Washington Monument about us shy, reader girls who don’t feel popular and would rather curl up with a book than venture out into the world. Yeah, that’s me. Except, of course, in those books, those girls always find themselves in a situation where they have to step out of their comfort zone, and I never, really did. Yes, I’m Jewish, and no, there aren’t that many books about Jewish-American girls today, at least not that I know of, but I grew up in a completely non-practicing family, of which many members had also grown up not-practicing and not necessarily believing for a generation or two before me. I still don’t practice any form of religion, Jewish or otherwise. So the Jewish girl who’s written about as a practicing, even semi-religious character just isn’t my “me,” if that makes sense. I can find my grandparents and great-grandparents, and my mom, in some excellent historical fiction–for adults and kids–if/when I want. I guess, if I were looking for a more specific me than that white, sheltered girl, I’d look for an atheist girl growing up in a very non-atheist world. I look around my brain and heart and ask if I mind that I don’t find that story, and–for myself–I guess I’m okay with that. Maybe I shouldn’t be?

All that is just to explain why/how, when I read Varian’s post, I feel like I’m a bit on the outside looking in. I feel sad and angry and frustrated, but as someone seeing this stuff happen (or not happen) to another person, not to me. I’ve had the same feeling, reaction ,when I’ve read and contributed to some of the excellent posts on multi-cultural writing at Mitali Perkins’ blog, Mitali’s Fire Escape. I’m not sure whether that actually makes any difference in how I respond or how I should respond, but I do think it’s part of my perspective.

Anyway, what I do know is that it matters what I do about it. It matters what we all do about it. Except…

I don’t know what that is. I don’t know what I, we, can do to change the uneven, unfair representation in books of so many peoples, so many populations. Is this misrepresentation even just happening in books for kids? I’m guessing not, but I really don’t read enough “adult” books to have an opinion.

Whatever. The question is, what can we do?

Buy the books that are written with non-white characters? I do that. Not just because I should, but because I’m always on the lookout for a good MG or YA story. Also because I like to explore worlds and cultures and people who are different from me. Like I said, I can pick up a “me” book anytime, anyplace. With ease. I like something new and different. Buy these books for our kids? Did. Do. Check out these books from our libraries? Request that our libraries purchase them? Did, do, again. Possibly, on this one, not often enough. (Note to self: Send more requests to librarians.) Talk about the topic and the books on our blogs and in social media? Did. Do. Doing.

What else? It just doesn’t seem like enough, not enough to actually make a change. I know, I know, a drop of water can wear away a stone, but…IT TAKES FOREVER. Varian says he’s worried about his daughter, and his nieces, and his nephew. I’m worried about them, too. I’m worried that our kid will still be fighting this battle for their kids, and so on, and so on.

What do you think? What else can we do? What do you do? And do you think it’s actually going to work?

Trying not be discouraged. Trying to find a sweet spot in the fact that Varian’s post is making its way around and that we are all at the very least talking about this. It just feels like a relatively small sweet spot.

Thoughts? Comments?

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Separating My Writer and Reader Selves

Posted on 14 May 201317 May 2013 by beckylevine

I have read some spectacular books lately…Marissa Meyer’s Cinder and Scarlet, Helene Wecker’s The Golem and the Jinni, Aaron Starmer’s The Only Ones. And I just started Francisco X Stork’s The Last Summer of the Death Warriors. The quality of writing in all these books, at every level–from character to plot to storytelling to voice to prose so absolutely gorgeous you can taste it–is phenomenal.

And I’m being reminded all over again that (and why) I need to make sure I separate myself as a reader from myself as a writer.

Why?

Well, frankly, because each of these books could scare off my writer self.

I’m usually pretty good at this. I’ve been writing only a few years less than I’ve been reading, and books and authors have always been inspirations to me. Sure, yes, they’ve also been distractions, but they haven’t been deterrents. When I was twelve, I wanted to be as good a writer as Phyllis A. Whitney (in her teen mysteries). To be honest, at that age, and with that level of hero-worship, I probably wanted to write books just like hers. In later years, I got over the flattering wish for mimicry, and mostly felt like I wanted to be able to put words on the page as well as some of my favorites, but certainly not in an identical way.

Have you read those books I mentioned above? Okay, maybe you don’t aspire to writing fantasy/sci-fi, but which of us wouldn’t want to have the world-building talent that Meyer does. Who wouldn’t want to tell a story like Wecker, to dig deep and come up with characters like Stork’s Pancho and DQ? Who wouldn’t want to be able to fashion words with the beauty that all three of those authors do?

Not me.

I don’t think this is a problem/solution post, more an observation of yet another stage in my writing journey. I’ll continue to lose myself in other writers’ books, and I’ll continue to remind myself that if I even want to get close to what they’re doing, I need to step away from their stories and get back to mine. And then I’ll get out the staple gun and attach myself to my chair and desk. And write.

My own words in my own way.

I seem more vulnerable to staring at that gap these days–that gap between what authors like this can create and what I–realistically, I think–am capable of. Today. So far. I’m not letting this turn into discouragement or push me away from my own writing. That path leads only to poison, as far as I’m concerned. But things have shifted a little for me in the past year–a combination, I’m sure, of struggling with one book for so long before deciding to “drawer” it; returning to work part-time; reminding myself that this is a long-haul path, not a quick flick of the magic wand. I’m a little less certain, a little more conscious of my writing flaws. (Ah, youth, I guess–loads of low self-esteem and lack of confidence in so many things, but apparently not in my writing!) Again, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, as long as I keep it reined in and don’t let it get in the way of my writing.

I know some people who don’t read (as much?) when they’re in the throes of writing their own novel, maybe just for the first draft. Maybe they just don’t read books like their own. I’ve said before that the only time I had to pull back from reading certain books was when my 12-year-old male protagonist started sounding too much like Meg Cabot’s Princess Mia. In general, though, if my writer self even looks at the idea of pulling back from reading, my reader self comes at me in a fury, all teeth and claws and really loud screams. Besides, the corollary to my question of who wouldn’t want to write like those brilliant authors is the question of who wouldn’t want to read their words. Every day.

One more time: Not me.

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Meditation

Posted on 5 May 2013 by beckylevine

I took my second meditation class today. For some, that might not seem like a big deal, but for me–pretty big. Meditation is something I’ve been moving toward for a while, but I’m good at stretching those “for a whiles” out for a good long time. Kind of like taking a piece of string and cutting it in half, then in half again, then again…there’s always another cut you can make without actually getting there.

This class was a pretty obvious choice for me to make–it’s been offered at my yoga studio at least since I started taking yoga classes there. It’s taught on a Sunday morning, at a time when I don’t have to get out of bed too early, but which leaves me plenty of time for the rest of my day. Yoga has been, for me, the best time for getting into some kind of meditative state, and the teachers at our studio are, in my classes at least, calm and easily-paced and not overly spiritual for my pretty non-spiritual taste. So, yes, I should have known that the meditation class and teacher would be a fit for me, too.

Still…I put it off. I found reasons (okay, excuses) not to go. For pretty much all the reasons meditation is supposed to help–the what-ifs, the it-won’t-works, the it’ll-be-this-ways or it’ll-be-that-ways. The taking of the future, which we can’t know for sure, and making a decision about it in the present.

Can I tell you how happy I am that I was wrong?

I like the teacher. Like my favorite yoga teachers, her pacing is just right, her voice suits my ears and my brain, and she approaches the practice with intelligence, imagination, and humor. The times she does talk, the guidance helps me get grounded, and I find that–for the good stretches of time where she’s silent–I’m able to continue. Sure, yeah, my knees are stiff. Yes, my feet fall asleep. I have to shift my body into new positions. My mind is still for brief moments, not so still for a lot of other moments. I have gotten to a mental place that I cant’ quite define–somewhere between a dream state, actual sleep, and…something else? Still trying to figure out whether it qualifies as mindful, not mindful, or–guess what, it doesn’t matter!

But the bottom line is that it’s working.

Step 1, yes. Out of an innumerable number of steps toward…something. A few of which I might make it to, or maybe I’ll just stay happily at Step 1. Right now, though, I’m feeling like I took that first step onto the rocks that lead you across the river, and it didn’t shift under me, I didn’t cut my foot on a sharp edge, and I didn’t fall…splash!…into the water. It’s a nice place to be standing.

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Seriously, It’s Only Tuesday?

Posted on 30 Apr 201330 Apr 2013 by beckylevine

So, I know it’s only been four days since Friday, but those days seem to have been packed with, oh…just a lot of busyness, mixed in with a droplet or two of potential chaosity. So I’m taking a few minutes tonight to post a quick blog, reminding myself (okay, and you!) of the things that have been both grounding and happy-making.

1. Taking my first meditation class on Sunday. I’ve been hesitating and procrastinating and delaying and self-distracting, because of all the reasons in my mind-list that the class might not go well. Yeah. Duh. It was wonderful. Not that my knees didn’t ache or my feet didn’t fall asleep or I didn’t do plenty of shifting around on my bolster, but I really liked the teacher’s approach, and I enjoyed and was interested in the mindfulness talk she gave afterward. Next week’s class is already on my calendar.

2. Spending time with my WIP. Over the weekend, I sent off a very messy 1st draft of a picture-book to my critique group, then I stepped back into the world of my MG story. Looked at my plot arc, thought about the critique I got at a recent SCBWI conference, and had one of those THAT-won’t-work moments. I. Did. Not. Freak. Out. Instead, I opened up a brainstorming file, pushed myself past some of the more boring ideas, got into a discussion with my son about the best sequence of whining versus action (in the WIP, NOT in our lives!), and started resequencing some of the stuff in the plot planner. And, all the time, I got to watch my MC getting potentially more interesting and, very possibly, more middle-grade.

3. Checking on a friend who could have been very not-okay and verified, with my own eyes, that she was truly, yay, okay.

4. Starting Syren, Book 5 in the Septimus Heap series.

5. Doing the occasional online crossword puzzle and listening to the triumphant blast of mini-trumpets when I complete it.

6. Wearing shorts and sandals during the day. Sleeping with the windows open during the night.

7. Remembering that most, if not all, problems can be addressed and modified, if not always solved. And remembering that family and friends are a big part of figuring out how to do it.

How’s your week going. What has made you smile in the past few days or, at least, settle into a place of calm?

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THE ONLY ONES by Aaron Starmer

Posted on 26 Apr 201326 Apr 2013 by beckylevine

This book. Wow. I’m not sure I’ve ever wished more to be able to describe the feeling that comes off the pages of a story, the sense, rather than the plot or the characters. Maybe I’m shooting for the voice, but that’s not much easier to explain or talk about than feeling.

I found Aaron Starmer’s The Only Ones by chance, browsing through the e-book pages at my library. I liked the cover, frankly. And it seemed like a middle-grade story, which I’m big into reading right now.

Seemed.

I try not to do the if you liked thing too much, or describe books by comparing them to others. BUT. While I was reading the opening chapters, other books kept popping into my mind. Not because The Only Ones is like any of them, or all of them in combination, or at all derivative of anything. Still, the titles that came to me were…The Phantom Tollbooth. The Little Prince. Lord of the Flies. And maybe the faintest hint of a picture book I read in my childhood, but that was published a couple of decades before I was born–Marie Hall Ets’ In the Forest.

I know, right?

(Okay, yes one other, more recent book, came to mind early on, but I’m not telling you that one here, because it would be a total spoiler. Which I didn’t realize until I finished the book myself. So no spoilers. If When you read the book, if you want to know the last title or share your guess either ask me for the info in a comment and make sure I can contact you, or send me a private message, and I’ll answer. But let’s not ruin it for the others.)

I’ve read a couple of blurbs of the book, and, frankly, I don’t like the way it’s being described. (Hey, you make me fall in love with your book, I’m going to claim partial ownership.) They all jump ahead, past the beginning, which, yes, sure, isn’t all fast-paced and zippity-doo-dah action. Maybe it feels a little old-fashioned, but only in that it doesn’t feel (here I go again) like any of the books I’ve read that were written in the past few years. Not old-fashioned as in slow, or dense, or starting the story up at cloud-level and waiting forever to come down to earth where the characters are. None of those. Maybe it’s just that Martin, the boy in the story, is very isolated, and the beginning is solely his story, so the voice feels at once very close to him and at the same time very distant from anything else.

Because my least favorite part of writing a “review” is doing the summary, I’ll just link you to the blurb on Starmer’s page. But if your go over and read that, know, please, that so much more happens before Martin finds Xibalba. SO MUCH MORE. And, IMVSHO (in my very strong honest opinion), all of it is critical to the story, to getting to know Martin and all his whys, to getting introduced to the machine so that it’s part of the world before you find out how important it is (and, again, why). In the beginning, for many pages…Martin. Is. Alone. And this matters. It really, really matters. Because Martin is going to change, IN BIG, BIG WAYS, throughout the story, and Starmer has taken the time, given us the time, to understand Martin before those changes.

The book certainly doesn’t start out light or cheerful, but it starts out–I guess I’d say–intact and whole. Martin lives in a world that is, if narrow, understandable. That doesn’t last. The world breaks, Martin breaks, and–oh,boy–the other kids break. So, yeah, sure, it’s middle-grade, but…there is violence. And there is loss. And none of it is tiptoed around or gentled or placed in softly padded bags for us. In the middle of all that reality is some pretty special science-fiction. Maybe. It might be magic. This book is at once more real and less real than anything I can (yet) imagine myself writing.

So far. Because, hoo-boy, if I could write like this…if I could create this solid a world and this powerful a set of happenings and characters this quirky and creative all with a VOICE and a FEEL…

Some day. This is why I write, why I keep at it. And this is so, so why I read.

Uncategorized

The Music of Spring

Posted on 22 Apr 201322 Apr 2013 by beckylevine

Okay, no, it’s not your TYPICAL spring music, but when you’re driving around in shorts & sandals on the warmest (so far) day of the year, and this comes on the radio, your car suddenly and magically turns into a convertible…and you’re cruising.

So you roll down the windows and turn up the volume, and you share the music with whoever wants to listen. And you rock out with the music, because you’re good enough, you’re smart enough, and gosh darn it all, you’re old enough not to care anymore.

And then this comes on, and you think, wait, that’s not R&B, and then your brain just says, hey, whatever, It’s Spring, and you keep the volume right where you’ve got it, and you bop your head side-to-side, and you keep rolling down the road.

I know many of you are still buried in snow drifts. And all I can do is send the music your way, and remind you of the first glimpses of Spring that Mr. Tumnus and the Beavers saw, the tiny signs that the long, cold winter was ending. I wish you all a Happy Spring and blow warm winds your way.