It is a beautiful time of year. As I write this, the late afternoon light is filtering through just-turning leaves onto a palette of reds, oranges, and yellows (butterfly bush, zinnias, tomatoes, and a bright red miniature eggplant that looks more enticing than it tastes). I’m treasuring these last few days before the temperature falls below 32 degrees–the colors will fade, the tomatoes will freeze, and the goldfinches will lose their remaining gold feathers. Already, the monarchs have all begun their journey to Mexico, and I believe we have seen the last of the hummingbirds this year. I wonder if the sandhill cranes have started coming back yet–I’m listening for their distinctive call.
Twice, in recent weeks, I’ve received letters from young readers who have almost finished HIDDEN and want me to write a sequel. I remember that feeling, when I was a child, caught up in a story, wanting to know how it ended and wanting it to go on forever, all at the same time. I’m touched at the thought that a child would stop reading and take the time to write to me, to let me know about that feeling.
Wherever you are, whatever the season, I hope you are taking time to see and hear whatever is around you.
June 5, 2012
Garden planted, space for vegetables and flowers.
Time for reading AND writing this summer.
May 31, 2012
As news of Peter Sieruta’s sudden passing has spread across the internet, I have been struck by how much pure love is being shared–love for Peter, love for children’s books, and, in a way that Peter would have found delightful and perhaps surprising, love for one another.
Several people who never met Peter in person, upon learning that I had the privilege of meeting him at a recent book event, have asked me what he looked like. Others have commented on the fact that there are no photographs of him online (or maybe there is one from his early childhood), and asked his brother if he might post a picture. It’s an interesting question for his family to answer. I can see good arguments on either side.
As for what Peter might have wanted, I’ll share a brief moment: As he was leaving the bookstore that evening, I asked if he’d like to be in a picture (with me and several other authors). His response was an emphatic NO!!! (I heard it as, “I got myself here. I had a good time. Don’t push your luck.”) We laughed a bit about the intensity of his reply, and I teased him just a little, and wondered later if I shouldn’t have–it was clearly personal to him.
He described himself as very shy, but there’s something about that word that isn’t quite right. There was a deep and conscious choice, partly based on the difficulty (pain) he experienced in social interactions, but more to it than that–a positive side of keeping a social distance, protecting something of great value, and knowing you are doing that.
It’s clear that his qualities of intelligence, kindness, humor, caring, and thoughtfulness came through loud and clear in all his online interactions. We all have a lot to learn from him about expressing questions about a book, or anything else, with a dose of humility so genuine that the questions generate further conversation, and are not hurtful.
I will say a bit about what he looks like: someone you might pass in the aisles of a bookstore or sit beside on an airplane and never know how enriching a conversation with him might be. Brown hair, average height, above average weight, and–I think but I’m not sure–brown eyes. I’m not sure because it’s not the color I recall. It’s the dazzle of knowledge behind them, the quick decisions about how much of that knowledge to share, the delight in learning something new.
I wonder if he knew how beloved he was (and is). I think he probably did, but maybe he didn’t want us to know he knew.
Because then we might have been scared of him, and that would not have served him, or us, well.
May 30, 2012
It has been a long time since I’ve written anything here–busy spring with lots of travel, launching STEP GENTLY OUT, and finishing a novel, SALT: A Story of Friendship in a Time of War–to be published by Frances Foster Books/ FSG next spring, probably May, maybe a little earlier. I love this feeling of anticipation when my part in the book is mostly finished, and now I get to wait to see what the jacket artist and book designer will do to bring it to life.
Time to plant vegetables and flowers and slow down a bit for a month or so.
February 3, 2012
On January 1, a cold snowy day, we had three bluebirds at our feeders, the first time I’d seen bluebirds since last spring when a pair of them apparently lost their argument over nesting sites to the house sparrows.
Since then, we’ve seen them three more times (two one time, three another, and yesterday, four of them!). It makes me so happy, whenever I see them. I’ll put the nest boxes out again, hoping they may prevail this year.
December 24, 2011
When I was a child, this was the day that my dad would take each of us (ten kids in all) to the “five and ten cent store” so that we could buy gifts for one another. The gifts would be small and, as I look back on them, maybe a little amusing: a box of bandaids, a set of barrettes, a box of paperclips… We loved receiving these things; when you live in a house with so many other people, there’s something very cool about having a hundred paperclips of your very own.
What impresses me now, is that my father was able to keep track of all the gifts–he remembered who had purchased what for whom, so that we didn’t receive ten barrettes and no crayons, for example.
Wrapping the gifts was highly secretive and fun, and opening them took hours. We opened gifts on Christmas Eve, one at at time. Our parents usually bought us clothes, our grandmother made pajamas for each of us, one of our aunts gave us a box of Fanny Farmer French Mints (to this day, that is the taste of Christmas Eve for me).
Whoever you are, reading this, I thank you for visiting my website, and hope you have good memories of your own childhood. I love the connections we make through our reading and writing.
November 5, 2011
A week ago I received an award. This is what I wrote to try to share the special flavor of that evening:
At my table at the awards banquet, I’m surrounded by friends and family, and we relax in the light of the white floating candle on our table. The conversation is gentle, easy, quietly celebratory.
When my name is called, I step up onto the stage to receive the Eugene and Marilyn Glick Indiana Authors Award, one of three that will be given on this elegant evening. I look out at the banquet hall, holding in my hand a small paper with my notes of people to thank, a few remarks on what this means to me, maybe a small joke.
But the podium is dark. I can’t read my notes, and I am dazzled, as the lights of all the candles shine up at me from the round white tables in this room which is not usually a banquet hall, it is a library–the old, beautifully modernized, Central Indianapolis Library. The moment has such deep presence: the presence of these three hundred people who have come together out of a shared love of books, who write books and read them and care deeply about them. And there’s the surrounding presence of the books on the library shelves, and all the people who have written and read them, all the librarians who have helped make connections between writers and readers.
I am surprised to discover that I am completely at ease among all these friends, known and unknown. I have no anxiety about saying the wrong thing, or forgetting to say the right thing. I find words to accept the recognition this award represents, and my words are in turn accepted: I belong in this world. And I am aware that this feeling, unusual though it may be, fully belongs to each of us, in every moment.
Later, as if in confirmation of this glimpse of truth, a young woman approaches me and asks me to sign one of my children’s books. She tells me that she was on the selection committee for this award, and that she’s from Winamac, a small rural town that I remember from a long-ago poets-in-the-schools residency. Might this woman, I wonder, have been a teacher or a librarian and have met me at that time?
No, she tells me, “I was in elementary school, and you came to my classroom. I have a signed copy of your first book of poetry.”
So many circles and spirals. Such deep and ongoing connection.
September 18, 2011
I haven’t seen very many monarchs this summer–no eggs or caterpillars or chrysalises. I’m not sure why–others have noticed the same thing.
I had a funny idea this week–funny only because it’s so obvious and took me so long to see it. Whenever I do a school or library visit that focusses on MONARCH AND MILKWEED, I take milkweed seeds and encourage the children (and adults) to plant milkweed for monarchs. It’s been a somewhat laborious and messy process: 1. let the milkweed pods dry and split open
2. take the seeds out
3. shake out as much of the fluff as possible (but there’s always some left)
4. put the seeds in little plastic bags, trying to guess the right number of seeds for individual children or for a classroom.
So–the other day I was picking milkweed pods, intending to gather the seeds for school children, and I LOOKED at what I held in my hand: a perfect container for milkweed seeds, nicely zipped up and probably just about the right number for a class of 25-30 kids to have ten or so seeds each. The pod itself is the perfect container!
So now, before they burst and send their seeds flying all around my neighborhood (I suspect my neighbors think I’ve sent enough milkweed seeds their way over the past ten or fifteen years)–I will put each pod in a plastic bag, left open so the pod can dry, but not exposed to wind, so the seeds will stay contained until I give it to a teacher or child.
And school custodians everywhere will thank me when they don’t have to vacuum up milkweed fluff in the wake of my visit.
Though I know I won’t be able to resist blowing just a few seeds out into the audience, always such a fun moment, when the kids scramble for the flying seeds as they parachute down.
August 9, 2011
This week I’ve been watching the olympics in the evenings, and going over the copyedited manuscript of SALT during the daytime hours. I’m glad to be a writer, rather than an athlete. We can take our time, and make our mistakes, without crowds of people watching us; there is teamwork involved (editors, book designers, and all the people who get our books into the hands of readers), and there are deadlines to meet; there is sometimes competition, but it’s different from athletic competition. I like the fact that the success of our work never comes down to how well we do in one specific moment. We can take weeks, months, even years, to think about something until it seems right.
This new book, SALT, is like that. I’ve been thinking about the story for over twenty years, trying to find a way to tell it in a way that children can understand and appreciate. Set in 1812, it explores a friendship between two 12-year-olds, a Miami (Native American) boy named Anikwa, and James, the son of a trader.
SALT: A story of Friendship in a Time of War, will be published next summer by Frances Foster Books/FSG/MacMillan. I’ll post the cover soon.
July 20, 2011
What a good month this is turning out to be.
I’ve just learned that I’ll be awarded the Eugene and Marilyn Glick Indiana Authors Award, in the regional category, at an awards dinner and ceremony on October 29th. In addition to the award I’ll receive, there is an award to the library of my choice–what a wonderful way to celebrate libraries, books, authors, and readers!
We’ve just had another wonderful week of Miami daycamp. I learned some of the Myaamia language along with the children, who are delightful. This year, a highlight of the week was a bus trip to important Miami sites such as the Forks of the Wabash and Seven Pillars.
Not too many monarchs so far this summer. I’ve seen a few, but haven’t found any eggs on the milkweed.
In this corner of my website I post news about books, travel, backyard birds and flowers, maybe a few recipes and photos. It’s interesting to look back through the archived posts from the first ten years on my previous website and see when birds arrive, when I traveled to different places, and how books occasionally change titles.