Well, I Killed THAT Darling

It’s a special darling. It’s been in my mind for nine years and in a story almost that long.

It was a darling in the first picture book I ever wrote when, as I was dreaming up imaginary picture books to “excerpt” in The Writing and Critique Group Survival Guide, I dreamed up one idea that I didn’t want to just write a few lines of–I wanted to write the whole thing.

I wrote the whole thing. It became a full, complete picture book–my first ever–called Dragon Burps. The darling was a major source of inspiration and took its place in a place of honor–the story crisis. With the help of a Bay Area freelance editor (who is wonderful and now helping me with these other picture books!), I revised and revised. And submitted. I had no takers, but I got a few nice comments. I revised a little more, and it was better, but…

I worked on other things–some YA and middle-grade and those most recent picture books.

And then in February, I went to the 2018 SCBWI Spring Spirit conference and, in Mark Teague’s session on leaving room for the illustrator, I flashed on a new way to revise Dragon Burps. The new way didn’t touch the darling, but suggested a much better handling of the turning point of each scene in the middle. I knew it was going to let me build to the crisis in a much stronger, more tense arc.

I was right. I just sat down with the manuscript today. I cut and I tightened. (This manuscript is currently at 700+ words; my newer ones are all under 500.)

And I scribbled notes to weave in the turning points. It is going to be better. It creates a plot that makes much more sense in terms of setting up the ending.

Just not my darling ending.

As I realized what was going on, the first feeling was that click your brain hears when you make something better, more “right.” Then came the sadness. The recognition that the spark that started not just a single story, but an entire journey, had to go. Select, delete, gone.

This was a biggie.

Luckily, so was the feeling of happiness that flowed in, gave the sadness a nudge, and asked it politely to get out of the way. And luckily, the darling took a gentle bow befitting its stature in my life, then stepped aside.

I made a promise, years ago, to the darling, that I would turn it into an entire story, and I did. Today, I’m making it another promise, that I will turn it into a better story.

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Post-Conference To-Do List

Yesterday’s SCBWI California: North/Central Spring Spirit conference was wonderful. All the sessions I sat in on were very good, and I got the best manuscript critique I’ve ever gotten from a publishing professional.  Best in two ways–the agent gave me excellent, concrete, and clear suggestions, and he also gave me some seriously positive and complimentary comments about the story and my writing of it.

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The critique made me feel like I’m at least not wrong about getting somewhere with my picture-book writing. The whole day was inspiring, and I came away with new ideas and possibilities. I can’t even tell you where they came from, but this happens just about every time I go to a conference–must be the energy sparkling in the air.

My to-do list from this conference is:

  • Revise the manuscript I submitted, based on the agent’s critique.
  •  Revise an older picture book that I’ve been meaning to go back to, with the idea for a new (and hopefully better) ending that came to me while I was in one of Mark Teague’s sessions.
  • Revise one more picture book that is currently out with my editor (editing editor, not publishing editor).
  • Start querying one of my picture books, starting with editors and agents who were at the conference.
  • Remember–when I get back to my middle-grade novel–that it’s smartest, at the stage I’m at with this book–to revise one element or strand at a time, rather than trying to fix the whole, tangled mess in one pass. (Oh, yeah, I knew that once!) Got this excellent reminder from a session of Alex Ulyett, from Viking Children’s Books.
  • Sign up again for the local rec drawing class. I signed up in the winter, but the class was cancelled for lack of enrollment. I was waffling, but I really would like to have more fun with whatever sketching I do, even if it’s just for me. So I’ll try again for Spring.

Lots to do and looking forward to all of it!

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BLOOD RED, SNOW WHITE: Not Your Mother’s Arthur Ransome

Well, not my mother’s, anyway.

When I was young–maybe 7 or 8?–my family took a trip to Canada. The trip included at least one bookstore. And there, my mom–who spent some of her childhood in England–found new editions of books she had read during those years: Arthur Ransome’s SWALLOWS AND AMAZON books. She bought the set and, so, I got to grow up with them, too.

I bought my own set years later, collecting it in ones or twos as I roamed through Charing Cross bookstores. A few days before I rented a car to drive myself out to Buttermere so I could walk around the lake “with” the children from Ransome’s stories.

To me, Arthur Ransome was a bald man with a pipe on a jacket cover who could tell wonderful stories, who knew how to draw little people waving semaphore flags, and who might have represented himself in his own stories as Captain Flint.

Apparently, though, he was also some kind of spy. Maybe.

Marcus Sedgwick’s Blood Red, Snow White is in part the story of whether or not Ransome was a spy and whether he was a spy for England or Soviet Russia. The novel, as far as I can tell, is based on some facts–Ransome’s failed first marriage; his travels as a reporter to Russia across the years of the last tsar, WWI, and the Russian revolution; and his falling in love with the woman who would ultimately become his second wife. He was at the places the book says he was, and it seems true that some people in England thought he was a Russian spy and some people in Russia thought he was an English spy.

I think what Sedgwick has done is filled in, with fiction, the spaces between the facts. He has imagined a man and a story that connect the dots of those facts. The Arthur Ransome of the book has the personality that makes sense of the real activities, and the fictional activities lend credence to the path the fictional Arthur follows.

This is all making it sound as though Sedgwick has pulled off a clever trick, dropped down a basic timeline of history and taken crayons to the gaps in the timeline. But it’s much more than this: the prose is nice, often sliding over into lyrical. The choices Arthur has to make, the one he avoids and the ones he steps toward, are real and challenging. And the setting–physical and history–feels at once tangible and symbolic. It’s an intriguing story, whether or not you know anything about Arthur Ransome the writer.

And both Arthurs–fact and fiction–do come home to England’s Lake District and do write about the Swallows, the Amazons, the Coot Club, Mrs. Barrable, and William the pug. That, for me, adds up to two happy endings.

I Write Novels. Or Do I?

Spoiler alert: some whining ahead.

Picture book writing status: Excellent. I have been on a roll. I’m loving the time I spend on them, and I’m getting what feel to me to be amazing compliments from the editor I’ve been working with.

Novel writing status: I feel like I am getting my butt kicked. Over the past years, I have finished one novel–a middle-grade mystery–to my basic satisfaction. It got several “nice” rejections from agents. It still needs work, mostly–I think–in connecting the action plot to a stronger character plot and in amping up the stakes. But I finished it, it came together into a full package, and I was essentially happy with it. Especially for a first novel.

A few years ago, I spent a chunk of time .on a YA historical. Trying to write a YA didn’t work for me, and the historical piece–while I loved it–was another layer of skill I don’t think I was ready to take on. More than all of that, though, I am pretty sure my tangle came about by switching from a plot-driven story (the mystery) to a character-driven story. Without the mystery goal, I couldn’t seem to plot out the things my hero would do, and I couldn’t connect any actions I did come up with to her personality, her needs, or her goals.

I looked and waited for another idea, and it came. Back to MG for me, and with a twist of magic that I thought added the right layer of “symbolism” for the hero’s struggle. I also thought the magic might play a similar role as the mystery did in my first book–something to hand my plot and character arcs on. A few drafts in…I feel like I’m back into the same kind of tangles as my YA.

I am still waiting for a critique back from the same editor I’ve been working with on my picture books, so some of this may resolve itself when I see what she has to say. But as I get closer to getting back her notes, I’ve been spending my own time trying to think about where I want this book to go and how I might get it there. Or at least closer. I spent a few hours on it yesterday and, frankly, I just got more and more frustrated.

I am pretty sure that, as with the YA, my problem is with the character-driven part. Which, if I weren’t feeling so good about the picture books, would be breaking my heart. I love novels. I have read novels since before I can remember, and for decades I have actively chosen them over any other genre: I know short stories and poetry have characters and certainly have depth, but they don’t pull me in like novels, and they don’t let me stay with all the characters and character dynamics for nearly enough time. If you had asked me twenty or thirty or–oh, heck–forty years ago–what kind of book I wanted to write (when I grew up, when I had grown up), I would have said, every single time, “novels.”

And yet…here comes the whine: novels don’t seem to love me.

Obviously, I need to see what comes back from my editor. Maybe I need to take a class. (If anyone knows a really good online novel-writing class that isn’t budget-breaking and isn’t directed at beginners, please drop a rec in the comments!). Maybe I need to read some more plot books.

Maybe I need to stick to writing picture books.

When I say that, a bit of me sings out…oh, yes! Another bit, though, says, But…I write novels. (And, yes, I know that voice is silly, but whenever wasn’t a negative voice silly?)

Okay, no resolution here. Today, I’m going to go back through my files and see if one of the picture-book ideas wants to come out and play–just identify it and get it simmering in my brain. And then I’m going to go back to some classics: —James Scott Bell’s Plot & Structure and (this is way back) Phyllis A. Whitney’s Writing Juvenile Stories and Novels—and I’m just going to reacquaint myself with what the two of them have to say.

And I’m going to be grateful that I love to write and that I get to write and even that I get to have this confusion about what to write.

In Which Pooh Has Fun with Picture Books

Okay, not Pooh, me. I’m having fun with picture books right now.

I’m not sure if I’m actually on a roll, or if I lucked out and landed on a couple of older ideas that suddenly turned into something, or if it’s in good part because I’ve been working with a wonderful editor. Whatever the reason, I have spent the past few months revising a few picture books and feel like:

  • I’m loving the stories.
  • I’m loving the revision work itself.
  • I’ve possibly hit a new level of sorts in my writing craft–at least in this genre.
    (There is a middle-grade novel waiting for me to come back to it soon, and I’m not making any claims of writing craft on that one yet!)

I was listening to a podcast today in which an editor was comparing reading a short story to reading a novel, and she said something about how–in a short story–everything has to count. That’s not the newest idea, and I don’t actually know where she went with that thought, because I drifted off a bit into that truth about picture books.

In picture books, hoo boy, every word does count. Seriously, this past weekend, I changed a number in one line from “eleven” to “fourteen,” and I am SO much happier with that line. It has something to do with the two syllables having a better rhythm in that line than three. And it has something to do with there being a “t” sound in fourteen and in the word that follows it. And it has a lot to do with the fact that when I swapped words, the line sang much more sweetly than it had before.

Yes, it’s harder to make every single word count, but I seem to get less lost and drifty when I’m revising a picture book, than I do in a novel. (This week, at least–don’t hold me to this statement in April!) And while I don’t expect to ever write a rhyming picture book, I love discovering the rhythm that goes best with each story. I am tone deaf, but I know when I’ve written a line in a picture book that “sounds” flat. And I know when I rewrite the line and hit the true note.

Where am I going with this? No idea! I’m having thoughts about the middle-grade that may, once I dig back in, get me past “stuck.” And I haven’t yet gone back to my pile of picture book ideas to see if any of them spark in my mind. Probably I’ll do both.

For now, I’m just letting myself fall in love with writing again.

Tomi Adeyemi

I am going to finish the second Li Du mystery, but look what just landed from the library.

After hearing Adeyemi’s interview on the Nerdette podcast, Children of Blood and Bone jumped to the top of my reading list.

Take a listen and then take a look. Or, you know, the other way around.

Elsa Hart’s JADE DRAGON MOUNTAIN

I “picked up” Jade Dragon Mountain on a browse through my libraries’ ebook sections. I thought the setting and premise sounded interesting. In the early 1700s, Li Du–an exiled imperial librarian–is traveling through the city of Dayan on the border of China and Tibet. He only wants to get past the city, but he is required to get permission from the magistrate–a cousin who he hasn’t seen in years, since he shamed the whole family with his exile. A body turns him into a detective, and he must solve the murder before the trouble can distrupt the Emperor’s imminent visit.

The mystery itself is good, with multiple viable suspects and a complex enough plot that is keeping me engaged but never confusing me.

It’s the writing, though, that is putting the author on my always-watch-for-another-of-their-books list. Don’t come to this story if you want fast-paced drama or high-stakes conflict. Come to it, instead, for the lovely prose, the methodical investigation, and the peaceful mood that still manages to support the quiet tension of the story.

As Li Du is leaving Dayan, determined to accept, without question, the death of a kind and curious elderly “foreigner,” he rests on the trail and watches the mist crawl up the mountainside and break apart into small windows for him to peek through. I haven’t seen enough Chinese art to be an expert, but the writing seemed to me to capture perfectly, through words, the feeling in the watercolors and jade sculptures of mountains with tiny trees and rivers and animals and people scattered along trails and beside rivers.

“The quiet deepened into silence. Li Du did not move but rested his eyes on the soft, white expanse. As he watched, the cloud shifted and broke. He saw, as if through a window, a tree on the opposite side of the gorge. It was a dead, hollowed oak, blackened by fire. Only one branch remained, reaching out perpendicular to the trunk. The vapor thickened, the window closed, and the tree was gone.

Another opening appeared. Through this new window Li Du saw movement, and thought he could make out the rounded back of a little bear trundling across a clearing into a copse of evergreens. Again the mist moved, erasing the scene.”

No gunshots, car chases, or explosions. Just beauty and intrigue and questions to be answered.