Archive for October 31, 2024

This Saturday, November 2nd: The Rochester Children’s Book Festival!

The obvious upside that comes with signing at book festivals is that we get to meet young readers. And that’s a beautiful thing. But more and more, I’m looking behind these kids and seeing a smiling grandparent, a mother with three other children in tow, a dad who looks more excited to be there than anybody in the room. The families that support literacy and believe in books and want that for their children. So they carve out the time, gas up the car, drive out to the festival, open their wallets, and act like the whole thing is xmas morning. I believe this is the festival’s 29th year and it couldn’t happen without a strong, generous community. Year after year, these inspiring families come out to the Rochester Children’s Book Festival. I’m so lucky to have a seat at the table. It does the heart good.
Please say hello if you can make it.

CULTIVATING CREATIVITY, Part 2: Tips & Strategies Featuring Travis Jonker, Paul Acampora, and Michelle Knudsen

As outlined in a previous post, I called upon a variety of children’s book authors and illustrators with a basic question:

What do you do, if anything, to cultivate your own creativity? 

Today we’ll look at the answers I received from Travis Jonker, Paul Acampora, and Michelle Knudsen.

TRAVIS JONKER

Well, I didn’t think I would ever share this with anyone, but since you asked . . .

Whenever I begin a new notebook, I write the following in the back:

It’s a reminder to myself that I don’t have to do a whole lot to express my creativity.

Readers should run (don’t walk) to pick up a copy of Travis Jonker’s new picture book, illustrated by my pal, Caldecott Medalist Matthew Cordell.

PAUL ACAMPORA

My “creativity practice” is embarrassingly simple: I take notes. I am constantly writing down snippets of conversations, song lyrics, descriptions of found objects, occasional historical facts, and funny names of people, places, food, and dogs. My notes are not particularly noteworthy, but for some reason they catch my eye. Once a week or so I review what I’ve collected on scraps, post-its, and notes apps. I jot them onto a page in a dollar-store composition notebook for possible use at a later date.

I’m usually disappointed to learn that my observations are painfully mundane, but then I remember Eleanor Rigby picking up rice after a wedding or a moocow coming down the road or how much depends upon a red wheelbarrow or a dog named Winn-Dixie, and I keep taking note of the simple things that might be the seeds for my next story.

 

Paul Acampora’s most recent middle-grade novel is the achingly beautiful (and funny), In Honor of Broken Things

 

MICHELLE KNUDSEN

Three things that help me with writing are walks, music, and Post-It Notes.

Walks are good for having ideas, for thinking through tricky plot points, for shaking up my mind after too much time at my desk.

Sometimes music and walks go together. Sometimes I make playlists that I only listen to when writing or thinking about a particular book. Sometimes one song will get associated with a book, and then I’ll just listen to that song on endless repeat.

Music usually only works for novels though. I need quiet for picture books.

Post-It Notes work for everything. I have lots of colors and sizes, and I love how low-pressure they are. I can write a word or a phrase that seems to have potential and just stick it somewhere around my desk. Sometimes those turn into something more; sometimes they end up crumpled into little paper balls to amuse my cats. Either result is acceptable.

Michelle Knudsen’s most recent picture book features a reunion with illustrator Kevin Hawkes, the team that created the all-time classic, Library Lion

PLEASE COME BACK ANOTHER TIME FOR MORE TIPS & STRATEGIES FROM SOME OF THE BEST MINDS (and creative spirits!) IN CHILDREN’S LITERATURE. 

And while you are still here, I guess I ought to say that I first started working in children’s publishing in 1985 and never had the good sense to find alternative employment.  Here are my two new books from 2024: 

 

         

CULTIVATING CREATIVITY: Tips & Strategies, Part 1

Once upon a time, I sent a message to a variety of children’s authors and illustrators. People who are my friends. And I asked a favor. As someone who purports to “teach” writing — much more guide on the side than sage on stage — I had begun to think that being creative — thinking & living & breathing creativity — was a very important part of it. But what do the best in the business do to cultivate that creativity within themselves? I was curious to learn any tips or suggestions. 
Unfortunately, I dropped the ball for a variety of reasons, months pushed past, leaves budded and fell, but I’m here to say that I have recovered the fumble!
To get things rolling, here is the letter I sent . . . 
As you may know, I sometimes teach a zoom class for adults interested in writing for children. In fact, many authors and illustrators have generously volunteered to spend time with my students over the past few years, sharing, inspiring, and supporting these aspirational writers and dreamers. 
One theme that we’ve returned to a lot this year is Cultivating Our Creativity. 

It’s not just a matter of waiting for the magic. 

Many writers will actively do things to help prepare the ground for creativity. They start each morning by free writing for five minutes. They keep lists of possible book titles or themes. They do yoga, they take walks, they create stacks of index cards, they visit bookstores, write a haiku, seek out a favorite book, whatever. 

What do you do to help keep those home fires burning?

I would love to create a series of blog posts that gather together different tips & strategies that REAL AUTHORS & ILLUSTRATORS (that’s you!) employ to help your creative process along. 

I think it would be fascinating & helpful & inspiring to read.

So I’m asking a you to submit your thoughts, 25 to 150 words or thereabouts, nothing too onerous, outlining your personal methods. Maybe it’s just one quick tip. Maybe your have deeper thoughts to share. That’s your call.

Thanks for playing along. And I totally understand if you’d rather not bother. It’s okay. 

Many thanks. 

NOTE: I received answers and will be sharing responses from the following (generous, kind, talented) authors (in no particular order):

Lizzy Rockwell

Travis Jonker

London Ladd

Paul Acampora

Nick Bruel

Vikram Madan

Diana Murray

Matt McElligott

Jeff Mack

Eugene Yelchin

Michelle Knudsen

 

And who knows, maybe more authors & illustrators will jump aboard! 

“I’ll See You Around Campus!”

“I’ll see you around campus!” I call back to my wife as I head out the door. 

It’s an expression I borrowed from my brother Billy, who first started  saying it back in the day. Fifty years ago, more or less. A little joke. For there’s no campus and we’re not eager co-eds from the 1950s. Get it?

And now I’ve adopted that phrase as my own. Not that anyone ever laughs. It’s not about getting a big reaction. The expression pleases me, tickles my fancy; it connects me to my past, and my brother, who I don’t see or talk to much anymore. I know, I know. I am a failed and foolish person. But I still carry Billy around in my failed and foolish heart, echoing his words. 

I also channel Billy’s humor when I inquire of a college student, usually the child of a friend, if he’s met any “co-eds” on campus.  

I can’t explain why that amuses me, or why it has persisted across 45-50 years, but it does. Why fight it? Maybe there’s pleasure derived from their puzzled expressions, the hapless groans. We go through life doing our familiar dance steps, hitting our marks, fulfilling low expectations. The cornball dad and lame jokester, coming at you.

Or I’ll channel my mother when a redoubtable opposing baseball player comes up to the plate in a tight spot, and murmur worryingly, “Oh, he’s trouble.”

When I first heard her say that, Mom was talking about the Cardinals 3B Mike Shannon -— a “dangerous RBI man” in the parlance — and it was probably 1968. The years slide past; the names change. Now Trouble arrives with a new face. These days, baseball-wise, Trouble is named Max Muncy. But the idea remains, the voice of my mother still in my ears. And the reverse, when the New York Mets need a hit, I’ll remember her and repeat her comment, “He’s due.”

Once again I’m watching a ballgame, fretfully, as always, and my dear old Mom miraculously sits beside me, both of us working over the same anxiety. The small agonies of fandom. 

“Hell’s bells,” she’d say, exasperated. 

I love the old expressions. For the charms of a lost language, certainly, but also because they provide a lifeline to the past. And the past is the only place where some of my favorite people still reside. 

Some days I’ll remember an expression out of the blue, unbidden. “For the love of Pete!” my mother used to exclaim. 

Who’s Pete? I’d wonder. Is he a substitute for God? How did Pete get that big job?

I surmise, thinking now, that Pete must be Saint Peter, an important guy once upon a time, busy guarding the gate into heaven, I guess. I wouldn’t know. The expression has fallen from common use, like so many before it.

But oh, it feels good to hear those words coming from my own mouth. Keeping it alive. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” she’d cry. My brother’s humor, the expressions of my late mother. Our glorious, battered, yellowing past. Dissolving in my memory. Still clinging to it, connecting with it, even as it fades away, like an old polaroid snapshot left out in the sun. 

Thanks for reading, folks. And in the meantime . . . 

I’ll see you around campus! 

Kristy’s Concussion: A Scene from My New Novel, SHAKEN: Megan Rapinoe and a Knife

Here’s a paragraph and then a quick scene that takes place soon after Kristy suffers a concussion while playing soccer. It’s the “inciting event” that propels the novel forward.

 

Light breaks through the curtains, bringing with it a sharp pain to her forehead. Kristy imagines a jagged crack running from eyebrow to hairline. She can’t bear to call out her mother’s name. So she waits, eyes squeezed shut, pillow over her face, like an aphid on the underside of a leaf. A black dot of silence. She’ll be better soon. As good as new. Running the field and scoring goals. This is the worst of it. Yes, she tells Megan Rapinoe, who is staring back at Kristy from a soccer poster on the wall, this is the very worst. 

It was the first time Kristy was alone for the day in an empty house. No problem. She’d just take it slow, recover. 

That was the word, over and over, recover. 

“That’s your job now,” her father advised. “Just get better, a little bit better each day.” 

Sure. Okay. 

But how do you do that when your head feels like it’s covered with bubble wrap? When your brain doesn’t feel right? When it hurts to think? Every time Kristy turned her head, it took an extra second for her eyes to focus. For a moment, it’s just blur. 

Kristy padded softly downstairs, moved into the kitchen, slid two pieces of cinnamon raisin bread into the toaster. The room smelled like coffee and eggs and it turned her stomach. There were a few dishes in the sink and for some reason this unsettled her. But why? Who cares? She stood by the counter holding a knife. 

Time passed. She blinked. Looked down.

A knife was in her right hand.

There was a window above the sink overlooking the backyard. Trees, grass, the deck. Leaves beginning to change colors, drop down to the ground. No action at the bird feeder. It was empty, anyway. No seed. 

So this was what it was like to stay home on a school day. For two weeks straight. The big echoing house. The world of nothingness outside. A voice in her head asked, Is it empty, or full of nothing? 

Oh, how very zen. 

Kristy noticed that the faucet was running. She shut it off. 

Why was a knife in her right hand? 

The smell of cinnamon. And something else—a burnt, bitter aroma. Kristy remembered the toaster, the toast, the butter, and the reason for the knife. She wasn’t hungry anymore. Didn’t bother, even, to remove the blackened bread from the toaster. It could wait. It could all wait. She placed the butter knife on the counter and headed back upstairs. The bed beckoned. 

Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow will be better.