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I had two friends send photos of SHAKEN, as displayed at NCTE.
Which was really kind of them.
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Just What To Do: Some Thoughts on Grief
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I loved this gentle picture book about grief and how we struggle to offer comfort in sad times. The text is spare and simple; the illustrations clear and poignant without being sentimental.
It’s pretty perfect.
As a teacher and writer, I’ve spent time lately thinking about the practices and strategies we have to cultivate our own creativity. I’ve even reached out to my peers for their tips and suggestions, which you can easily find on my blog with a little scrolling.
Here’s one thing I do:
When I go to the library, around once a week, I try to grab 10 new picture books from the shelves that feature “what’s new.” I find that I really like 1-2 of them, actively dislike a couple, and shrug at the rest. It’s hard to create a really great book and that percentage seems about right.
Anyway, this is the book I found last week and immediately shared with my class. For many reasons. One of those reasons was to remind these aspiring writers to keep the text short, to hone down to the bone, to seek the essence. I struggle with that myself.
These days, picture books are getting younger and younger. The text is shorter. Conventional wisdom now says that a manuscript should not be longer than 500 words. So, of course, people keep coming in with 600-750 word stories. Ha. Maybe it’s time to work harder at writing 150-200 words manuscripts. Leaning hard in the other direction. See if you can stay very spare, direct, and allow the (imagined) illustrations to carry some of that load.
Don’t try to do too much in one 32-page picture book.
On a personal note, my oldest, Nick, is a two-time childhood cancer survivor. He’s 31 today and imperfectly healthy. Back then, friends and neighbors felt it and cared. A two-year-old with cancer. How could they not? But they struggled, I’m sure, to say and do the right thing. This book is about that. What I came to believe was that it was important to say something. Recognize the moment. Simply, directly. It doesn’t have to be a lot.
Don’t say, “What can I do?” Don’t say, “Just ask if you need anything.”
Don’t put the work on them.
Just drop off the lasagna. The gift card to the coffee shop. Think about what you can do . . . and do it. The small gesture means so much.
The one thing I hated — despised — was when someone would say, “I’m sure he’s going to be okay.”
It made me furious. Such complete and utter bullshit. You don’t know. No one knows. The core of the experience is the unknowing. Children die. Terrible things happen. Don’t you dare squeeze my hand and promise something you can’t possibly deliver, just so you can feel good. You are sure of nothing. You don’t know. Nobody knows. That’s why each day is so hard.
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CULTIVATING CREATIVITY, Part 4: Tips & Strategies Featuring Vikram Madan, Lizzy Rockwell, and Matthew McElligott
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Welcome to Part 4 on my award-winning series (not really) about creativity (really!), where we learn from some of the most outstanding voices in children’s literature to hear what they do to cultivate their own creative process. Think of it as priming the pump.
For many of us who attempt to do this for a living, being creative is not simply a matter of sitting back and waiting for the magic to happen. It’s a way of being that can be cultivated, nurtured. But how? There’s the rub. We are all different in the way we live and the way we work. “Being creative” might feel entirely natural for most of our participants — but still, there are strategies that help bring us to that creative ground.
Today we’ll look at the terrific answers I received from Vikram Madan, Lizzy Rockwell, and Matthew McElligott.
In Part 3, we heard from Diana Murray, London Ladd, and Jeff Mack; while Part 2 featured responses from Travis Jonker, Paul Acampora, and Michelle Knudsen. Those links’ll bring you there.
VIKRAM MADAN
There’s a rule of thumb in painting that if you see a scene and you think “That scene would make a great painting”, then that’s very likely true –- that scene is probably worthy of turning into a painting. I apply that to writing too — mostly, whenever an idea or thought strikes me as a possible book, and often it is nothing more than a title or phrase, I try to capture that by making a list, or making an empty folder for it on my computer -– and then over time keep adding thoughts and reference material into that folder. Most folders remain empty, but eventually one or two will reach a critical mass where I feel I have something I can try to develop more intentionally. Sometimes I can go back to these mostly-empty folders and mine them for ideas for other projects I have. It’s a very organic, chaotic approach.
Vikram Madan is one of those rare people who stepped away from a successful career in order to pursue the wild dream of writing and illustrating children’s books. Today he lives in a sodden cardboard box. No, just kidding! Vikram lives in the Seattle area where he’s still dreaming — of dragons and nozzlewocks, owls and penguins, Bobos and Zoonis. Some dreams, it seems, have a way of coming true.
LIZZY ROCKWELL
For most of my 40 year career, I have been a freelance illustrator who thrived by solving other people’s problems. I like collaboration. I like knowing trim size dimensions and target audience
For many artists, limitations are stifling. For me they are inspiring. But now I only illustrate children’s books that I write. I create my own problems to solve.
Once I have a concept (often handed to me by Muse, while I’m walking, sleeping, gardening…) I need to create some structure. I conceive each spread as a scene in a picture book, typically 15 of them. I usually write by hand in a spiral notebook, noting which page will hold which words. Or I write directly into a thumbnail-sized handmade book dummy, writing and sketching in pencil as I go. Sometimes it goes well. Sometimes it does not. But I have posed a good problem to solve.
Here are the images, plus an interior spread from IT IS TIME: THE LIFE OF A CATERPILLAR.
This one was a first attempt at my insect book. It ended up completely differently as I LOVE INSECTS. I came to hate the “coaxing know-it-all parent” tone of this original stab. The finished book is written as a debate between two kids, one who loves insects and her friend who hates insects. Along the way they tell us a lot of cool things about insects. Such as, “Insects help plants.” And “Some insects hurt plants.” (The illustrations do the heavy lifting.) It was written as a leveled reader, which upped the limitations ante in a challenging and fun way.
Below shows rough dummy writing and illustrating at the same time. Working at about 50% scale. You can see the erased words of earlier attempts. Grace M. and I had a whole back and forth about the pronoun of the caterpillar. I felt “It” did not make the protagonist as relatable to the reader. Grace thought genderless was less troublesome in these complex times. In the end we used “she”. Though the black swallowtail caterpillar is not visually distinct by gender, the female butterfly who reveals herself at the end is.
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Lizzy Rockwell is the extremely proud daughter of acclaimed children’s book author, Anne Rockwell. Clearly, Lizzy is one acorn that did not roll far from the family tree. Lizzy lives in Bridgeport, CT, where she loves to quilt, cook, hike, paddle, and grow things in her garden.
MATTHEW McELLIGOTT
For me, keeping a notebook is critical. Interesting thoughts pop up at the strangest time, but I’ve found that if I don’t capture them immediately, they disappear, never to be seen again.
The other thing I’ve learned (and this will come as no surprise to you) is that having a community of other authors and artists to talk with, share a coffee or a beer with, and bounce ideas off of does more to keep my momentum going than anything else I know. One good conversation with an interesting, thoughtful person can inspire me for the week. Being part of a community — even if it’s a community of loners who all work by ourselves — gives me the energy to push through those creative dry spells.
And coffee. Strategic, targeted application of caffeine works wonders.
Matthew McElligott has been drawing and making up stories all his life. Some involve math, some involve monsters, all encourage laughter. When Matt’s not working on illustration and children’s books, or drinking coffee with his pals, he spends his time teaching as a professor at Russell Sage College in Albany, NY.
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Category: Cultivating Creativity, Interviews & Appreciations, the writing process / Tags: Children's book authors and illustrators talk about creativity, James Preller on Cultivating Creativity, Lizzy Rockwell, Matthew McElligott, The Creative Process, Tips and Strategies to Cultivate Your Creativity, Vikram Madan
ON WRITING: A Closer Look at the Dialogue in TOM LAKE by Ann Patchett — But Absent the Spoken Words
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The other night, in a Level 1 writing class for adults that I guide for Gotham Writers, we were talking about dialogue. I asked the students to try an exercise where they wrote only the spoken words, nothing else. No attribution, no exterior description, no stage directions, no interior thoughts.
Focus entirely on what’s said out loud.
Later I asked them to go back and include those missing features, a strategy that builds awareness of the available tools, turning that spoken conversation into a fully rendered scene that readers can picture in their imaginations. And also, hopefully, help my students notice the power of all the unspoken messages that are delivered outside of, and beyond, what’s (merely) said out loud.
Coincidentally, after that class I came across a sweet little stage direction while reading Ann Patchett’s Tom Lake. I underlined it, as is my habit. I put a star in the margin. It’s the bit about Emily and the fork (below), which struck me as brilliant. And I thought: that’s it, that’s some of what I was trying to convey.
What follows represents one way of looking at a scene from Chapter 10, omitting all the spoken words.
I want your focus to be on all the small ways that Patchett brings this conversation to life. The attribution, of course. The way the narrator offers a deft but significant touch on the entire scene: she is clearly telling us this story, coloring it in for us. There’s the stage directions: Maisie’s arms tightening across her chest, Benny’s hands on Emily’s shoulders, Joe holding up his hand, etc. Additionally, there’s that one key passage where our narrator, Lara, muses on the dresses and quilts (interior), and the closing paragraph (exterior) that’s pretty much straight description.
You can also locate a conversation on a miniature golf course — or move it to a coffee shop — or shift that same conversation to a walk along the shore. One thing is clear: we don’t want to have an entire book of two people talking at the kitchen table. A different setting can make all the difference.
NOTE: This particular conversation is set in Joe and Lara’s farmhouse kitchen, involving their three adult daughters, Nell, Maisie, and Emily, along with Benny, a neighbor who is Emily’s fiance. Hazel is the dog.
The three dots represent any spoken passage, of any length, contained within quotation marks.
TOM LAKE, pages 142-144: Dialogue without Words
“* * *,” Emily says.
“* * *,” Joe asks, teasing her. “* * *.”
Everyone is waiting now. Hazel is waiting. Emily opens her mouth but nothing comes out.
“* * *,” Benny says
Joe shakes his head. “* * *.”
“* * *,” Emily says.
We should have one night that is not about the future or the past, one night to celebrate these two people and nothing else but we’ve blown it. “* * *,” I ask her.
Emily tips back her wineglass. She drains it. “* * *.”
I am making our three daughters quilts from my grandmother’s dresses, from their grandmother’s dresses and my dresses and the dresses they wore when they were children. I started collecting the fabric when I was a child because even then I knew I would have daughters one day and I would make them quilts. My daughters will give these quilts to their daughters and those daughters will sleep beneath them. One day they will wrap their own children in these quilts, and all of this will happen on the farm.
“* * *,” Emily says. “* * *.”
“* * *,” I say, but that’s a lie. These children we’ve never spoken of? We want them very much. We long for them.
“* * *,” Benny says, his voice quiet because all of us are silent. “* * *.”
Joe holds up his hand. “* * *.”
But Benny doesn’t stop. His voice comes without drama or demand and still, he keeps talking. “* * *.”
“* * *,” Joe says.
“* * *,” Maisie says.
“* * *.”
“* * *,” Joe says. “* * *.”
“* * *,” Nell says. “* * *.”
“* * *,” Joe asks. “* * *.”
“* * *,” Nell says. “* * **.”
Maisie tightens her arms across her chest. “* * *.”
Emily sits down on a kitchen chair and Benny stands behind her, his hands on her shoulders. We are all so tired.
Emily picks up a fork and balances it on one finger. She looks at nothing but the fork. “* * *.”
Nell reaches across the table and takes her sister’s hand, and Joe, Joe who never walks away from us, goes out the kitchen door. He is standing at the edge of the garden, his back is to the house. He is looking at the trees.
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ADDENDUM: Readers can click here to see the full dialogue that’s missing in this post, plus a few more observations from me, as I struggle to understand how this writing-thing works.
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Pausing to Breathe: An Excerpt from SHAKEN
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Nelly instructed Kristy to place her hands on her belly
and focus on the rise and fall with each breath.
“Let yourself get big,” Nelly said.
“So many girls today want to shrink their bellies
down to nothing.
Let yourself get big. Develop those diaphragm muscles.
They will serve you well.”
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I’ve been thinking that I’d like to share another scene from Shaken, but which one? I was unsure until, er, recent events forced my hand. Yesterday and today I’ve been seeing a lot of “just breathe” advice. But how, exactly, does one do that?
In this scene, we see Kristy in art therapy practicing that calming strategy.
To write this scene, I called upon a friend, Erin Svare, who teaches yoga and fitness and women’s health. Erin gave me a lot of the language that I put into Nelly’s mouth.
Two certified art therapists were also hugely helpful for those scenes, “helpful” in that I couldn’t have possibly done it without them. They answered questions, read first drafts, offered comments and encouragement. Thanks again, Tracy Gilbert and Maria Lupo, for the important work that you do — and for sharing a small piece of that with me.
SETTING THE SCENE: It is late in the book, Kristy is recovering from post-concussion syndrome, and things are looking up. She meets with Nelly, her art therapist, for their penultimate session, which includes watercolors, breathing exercises, and goldfish.
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It was one of those times with Nelly when it didn’t feel like therapy at all. Truthfully, it rarely did. Maybe that was another one of Nelly’s tricks? Today was their ninth appointment, and next to last. Something about insurance only paying for ten. Nelly gave Kristy a few prompts and Kristy just . . . drew. Painted, actually, with watercolors, which she enjoyed. Nelly didn’t try to interpret the meaning of Kristy’s pictures. She never did. It wasn’t like that. Kristy just felt chill. Relaxed and calm. She found that she liked making art—so long as she didn’t worry if it was “good” or not— and the creative time helped her think about things. Strange how that worked.
Sometimes she talked about those thoughts with Nelly, and other times Kristy just turned them over in her mind: like a spade digging into the moist earth.
“I think you are doing very well,” Nelly said toward the end of the session, bracelets jangling, as she and Kristy put away the art supplies.
Kristy didn’t understand at first. She studied her painting and made a face. “Very well” seemed like a wild exaggeration. Nelly had asked her to draw herself picking apples from a tree. So Kristy did. It wasn’t anything special. In the image, Kristy stood on a ladder, reaching up and collecting the apples that were red and ripe. At the last minute, Kristy included Jimbo in the picture holding the ladder steady, and Binny, who was saying in a word balloon: “I’ll make a pie!”
“I guess it’s okay,” Kristy said. “I’m not very good at people.”
“I don’t mean your artwork—which is beautiful, by the way, and happy—I mean you.”
“I think so, yes,” Kristy agreed. “My headaches have mostly gone away. I still get anxious sometimes.” “That might always be true,” Nelly advised. “This life comes with stress. Tell you what. Let’s practice your breathing.”
“Again?” Kristy asked, but was already eagerly rolling out an exercise mat. She lay down on her back. “Practice makes perfect,” Nelly said.
“Well, actually, no,” Kristy contended, propping herself up on an elbow. “Coach Izzy, my school soccer coach, she’s a stickler for technique. She says that if you practice the wrong way, then you are just hard-wiring those mistakes into your muscle memory. She says, ‘Perfect practice makes perfect.’”
“Ah, gotcha,” Nelly replied. “Coach Izzy sounds like she’s on the ball.”
Nelly instructed Kristy to place her hands on her belly and focus on the rise and fall with each breath. “Let yourself get big,” Nelly said. “So many girls today want to shrink their bellies down to nothing. Let yourself get big. Develop those diaphragm muscles. They will serve you well.”
Nelly continued talking in a soothing tone. “You know that feeling when you can’t catch your breath? When your breathing gets shallow, high in the chest? Those are our emergency breathing muscles.”
“Panic attacks,” Kristy said. “I feel like I’m drowning in air when that happens.”
“It’s a scary feeling,” Nelly said. “That’s why we’re practicing this now. Belly breathing is a tool, Kristy. A tool that is always with us—we just have to remember to use it. Belly breathing calms the nervous system, slows the heartbeat, and primes the body for work. When you feel those anxiety triggers coming along, breathing can help you cope.”
Kristy murmured, relaxed and entranced. Eyes closed, ears listening, heart open.
“We know that great athletes in every sport have an ability to tune out the noise. They eliminate the distractions. They silence the negative self-talk in their own heads,” Nelly said. “I’ve worked with athletes right here in this office. Believe me, it works.”
She reviewed with Kristy a strategy called equal parts breath. “Inhale to the count of four, pause, exhale to the count of four, pause.”
Kristy practiced counting, imagined a box with four numbered corners and a little ball bouncing from corner to corner. “Now move your hands and feel how your rib cage widens and narrows. That’s right, put your hands right there. Your body is settling,” Nelly said. “Later you can lengthen your breath. Work up to a count of six, or eight. After more practice, try to go a little longer on the exhale. In for four, out for six.”
“It’s a nice distraction,” Kristy observed.
“Yes,” Nelly said with a light laugh. “You are focused on counting, being in your body. The outside noise goes away. You are in the present moment. Practice that every day and you are setting yourself up for success. The same way a basketball player practices foul shots. Then during the game, with all that outside pressure, she can calmly knock down those shots. Breathing is a tool you can access when you face stressful situations.”
“I like it,” Kristy said. “Makes sense.”
They moved to the leather chairs and grabbed handfuls of Goldfish from a bowl on the table. The perfect snack food, in Kristy’s opinion. The size, the little hollow part in the middle, the zesty flavor. What more could anyone want?