Choosing the Novel

I thought I would finish revising my novel-in-progress a while ago now.  But the last couple of months of the school year included two multiple-day school trips to chaperone, a few weddings and a bunch of other special events to attend, and hours and hours of grading.  Then, two days after my last meeting at school, during an amazingly fun and special weekend away, Mike and I got engaged and soon began looking at places to get married next June.

So summer was here and it was time to get back to writing—I’d promised myself I would—but instead I was visiting wedding venues, going to doctors’ appointments I didn’t have time for during the school year, seeing people I hadn’t spent much time with lately, and completing my scuba certification dives.  Lots of fun, lots of excitement, but still not much writing.

When I lamented the fact that I’d wanted to finish this revision by July 10th  (a self-imposed deadline I’d already pushed back from May 1st, June 1st, and then July 1st) and now I wasn’t sure I’d be able to, Mike said something that made me stop and think.

He said, “Sometimes, you have to choose your book.”

He was right, of course.  I often struggle to choose my book over other things now that I’ve finished my MFA program and no longer have deadlines that somebody else set for me.  It can feel selfish and antisocial to prioritize writing.  It can feel scary to commit to something I’m not always sure I’m all that good at.  And slogging through revisions usually isn’t as rewarding as working with students, or as fun as meeting up with friends, or as entertaining as watching Doctor Who on the couch, or as exciting as looking up wedding stuff online.

But if I never choose my book over other things, then how can I expect to make progress with it?  How can I beat myself up about not finishing my novel when I consistently let it fall to the bottom of my priority list?

So for the past week, I have chosen my novel.  I opted to stay home and work rather than going away for the Fourth of July weekend.  I sat my butt in a chair, turned off the internet, and wrote for two hours at a time, at least a couple of times a day.  By Sunday night, I had finished my revision, and yesterday I sent it off to a couple of generous first readers.  But finishing that revision took making a conscious choice and a sacrifice.

When I was a kid and went to Sunday School at a Presbyterian Church, a Sunday School teacher once told my class that we had a choice in everything we did, even showing up at Sunday School.  (I’m not sure if this statement was linked to a Bible story we were discussing or if people were misbehaving and the teacher was trying to convince everybody that deep down they wanted to be there or what.)  Most people in the class were very vocal in their disagreement.  They insisted that they didn’t choose to do their homework, or to go to school every day, or to come to church on the weekend.  They had to!

“You always have a choice,” the teacher repeated.

“Well, maybe,” some kids reasoned.  “But if we chose not to do our homework we’d fail and get held back, and if we never went to school we’d be breaking the law, and if we refused to come to Sunday School we’d be in major trouble with our parents.”

“Those are still choices,” the teacher maintained.

Looking back, I see that the teacher was right, in a literal sense.  But as there were back then, there are still plenty of choices that really aren’t on the table for discussion.  I don’t feel like I’m making a choice, for example, when I turn in my grades and comments when they’re due at school.

The tricky thing, though, is that it’s easy to lose track of the fact that we’re making choices all the time.  It’s easy to begin to feel like there just isn’t time for writing (or exercising or dating or sleeping enough or whatever it is) without recognizing all of the moments when we make choices that prioritize other things.  We’re not going to be willing or able to reconsider many of those choices.  But we might need to think twice about some of them.

I’m not going to choose writing every time.  I’m often going to choose my relationships or my teaching job, and I’m okay with that.  But it seems like a manageable goal to choose my writing some of the time, so I am going to try to be brave enough and self-aware enough to do just that.

The Challenge of Being Present, with Eyes Wide Open

Yesterday, I met my friend Miriam for happy hour.  Afterward, we walked up the street together toward my apartment and the theater where she was going to see a play.  We’d shared a half-priced individual pizza as an appetizer, and I was holding a to-go box with the leftovers inside.

In front of us, there was a guy asking people for money and food.  He wasn’t sitting or standing still, making requests as people passed, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer.  He was walking alongside an older man, who was moving slowly and leaning on his umbrella.

As we overtook them, the guy switched his attention from the old man to us.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“Sorry,” we mumbled, walking faster.

“Will you just listen to me before you walk away?”  His voice was loud.  Exasperated.  Vaguely threatening.

“We’re in a rush, sorry,” I told him.  “She’s on her way to a play.”

He matched our quicker steps and leaned in toward us.

“I’m not even asking for money,” he said.  “I’m starving.  I’m asking for some food.”

I looked at the box in my hand.  I didn’t need those extra two slices the way he probably did.  I was meeting another friend for dinner in an hour and had a fridge full of food at home.  Plus, if I gave him the pizza, he’d leave us alone.

“Here,” I said, thrusting the box toward him.  “You can have this.  It’s pizza.”

“Is it really?” He did let us go then.  But he turned back toward the old man.  “You see?” he said.  “At least someone cares.”

That wasn’t really fair, I thought.  I didn’t give him the pizza because I cared more than someone else.  I gave it to him because I had it right there in my hand, and because I was a little bit scared, and because I wanted to be able to walk away.

And then we heard a thunk.  Like cardboard connecting with pavement.  I thought it was the pizza box hitting the ground.  I thought the older man had had enough of this guy following him down the street and now taunting him.  I thought he’d knocked the pizza box out of the guy’s hand.

Miriam and I both turned.  It hadn’t been the pizza box.

The older man was on the ground, his umbrella lying next to him.  The other guy, still holding the box, was stepping backwards as he asked if the man was all right.

Two other images rushed into my brain.  A woman, probably in her seventies, on the ground in Reading Terminal Market last week after she slipped on a wet patch between a cheese shop and a produce place.  And my grandfather, stumbling and falling in the stone courtyard outside my brother’s high school graduation twelve years ago.

“Do you think that guy bumped into him?” Miriam asked.

The older man was starting to stand.  Other people were asking him if he was okay, too, and he nodded or said yes—did something to convey the affirmative—but I don’t remember what.  Less than 24 hours later now, I don’t know what his voice sounded like and I can’t picture his features.

Miriam and I turned around and continued heading up the street.

When I got back home, I felt sad and antsy, so I called my fiancé, Mike.  We talked about other things—happy things—and then I told him what had just happened.  As I said it out loud, it blurred into a story instead of an experience.  The exactness of it was already pixelating.  The two men’s faces were hazy.  I held onto some of the dialogue, and I knew what I had been thinking, but I’d already lost access to my gut-level feelings.  When I wrote out the scene just now, I fell into telling rather than showing when I tried to describe the guy’s voice (loud, exasperated, threatening) and my own emotional state (a little bit scared) because those details weren’t clear enough for me to show.

“That’s just wrenching at every angle,” Mike said when I was done telling him the story yesterday.

And it was.  I hadn’t let myself be fully present in the moment and I’d been content to let the details go fuzzy because I’d found the experience troubling and gut-wrenching on so many levels.

But in his book From Where You Dream, Robert Olen Butler quotes Akira Kurosawa, who said, “To be an artist means never to avert your eyes.”  A good writer (or visual artist or actor or whatever) can’t avert her eyes to things that feel too uncomfortable.  Or, on the other hand, too thrilling.

Two years ago, as I began my third semester at Vermont College of Fine Arts, I worked with Mary Quattlebaum, who required that I freewrite, even just for five or ten minutes, every day.  Sometimes I freewrote about character dynamics or plot ideas in the novel I was just beginning, or I wrote about things that made me anxious.  But sometimes I captured little scenes that had provoked an emotional reaction in me, like the one I tried to write above.  Because I wrote these snippets every night, I got better at keeping my eyes open and staying aware of my feelings during the day.  As I wrote the beginning of the first draft of my novel-in-progress, I drew upon those freewrites a lot.  My novel has a first-person narrator, so it was helpful to realize what I noticed, thought, and did during emotional moments so that I could keep her reactions realistic. I think I need to get back to freewriting a little bit every day again, to re-train myself to keep my eyes and other senses open, and to give myself more material to draw upon as I try to finish revising my novel.

I’ve been struck lately by how distractible I am when I sit down with my manuscript open on the computer—how easily I give into the impulse to check email or Facebook or to Google something I suddenly wonder about.

If I can get myself back to a place where I can really be present for moments, both positive and negative, both in life and in the last chapters of this novel, then maybe I’ll make some real progress toward finishing this revision.

Two Novels to Savor: I’LL BE THERE and PARCHED

When I was in high school, I first read a novel by the writer Alice McDermott and was blown away.  I shared it with a friend and was surprised when she still hadn’t finished it a few weeks later.  Did she not like it?  She assured me that she did.  “I have to read it slowly,” she explained. “It’s too beautiful to read fast.”

Back then, I couldn’t relate to the idea of reading a beautiful book slowly, unless I was reading it in school and the teacher parceled out chapters each night.  The more I liked a book, the later I stayed up reading it and the faster I was done.  Now, though, I understand what my friend meant about savoring a beautifully written book.  I recently read two books that I had to take slowly, partly because I haven’t had as much reading time lately as I would like, but partly because I found myself wanting to linger, even though both books are suspenseful.

First, Holly Goldberg Sloan’s I’ll Be There tells the story of Sam and Riddle Border, I'll Be Therewho have been on the run with their disturbed, abusive father since he took them away from their mother when they were very young, and Emily Bell, whose life is as stable as Sam and Riddle’s are unstable, and who believes that everything is connected and everyone is part of a ripple effect. Emily and her family members become attached to the Border brothers, but then Sam and Riddle’s father, Clarence, finds out about his sons’ new friends and tries to ruin everything.

I’ll Be There is Holly Goldberg Sloan’s first novel, but she has written and directed several films.  I wasn’t surprised about her screenwriting background because the novel has a cinematic feel.  The omniscient narrator dips into many, many characters’ psyches—from Clarence Border to Emily’s family members to an elderly motel maid and a cattle farmer—and Sloan gives readers an interesting blend of detail and restraint.  At the beginning of the novel, she describes Emily Bell as having “some kind of magnet that pulled at someone’s soul” and “allowed someone to look at her and feel the need to share a burden.”  Throughout the novel, it feels like the omniscient narrator holds such a magnet up to each character that is in some way connected to Sam, Riddle, and Emily, pulling that character’s thoughts and desires up to the surface of the narrative.

At the same time, Sloan chooses not to share some of the main characters’ feelings and experiences.  When Sam and Emily are getting to know each other, for instance, she stops chapters just as they begin interacting or summarizes interactions rather than depicting them in scenes.  For me, these moments of narrative restraint drew me into the story because I liked the characters and trusted the competency of the writing enough that I imagined and inferred what happened in those scenes.

The novel has an almost magical, fable-like feel to it.  Even though Sam and Riddle endure horrible traumas, the story is imbued with hope, humor, and the sense that things will turn out right in the end.  A.S. King recommended I’ll Be There when she visited Friends Select as a young adult book that is appropriate for sixth and seventh grade readers in content and themes, and I agree with her recommendation.  For younger middle school readers who are eager to read “older” books but might not be quite ready for the content of some YA novels, this book is an excellent option.  My wonderful colleague Maureen will be offering this book as one of the choices in her summer book pair, and I hope many students read it and enjoy it as much as I did.

imagesAnother great book for middle school readers is Melanie Crowder’s Parched, which just came out this week!  Melanie is a fellow Vermont College of Fine Arts alum, and I got to hear excerpts of her debut novel when we were both in graduate school.  Parched takes place in a drought-ridden place and follows three viewpoint characters—a girl named Sarel, her protective dog Nandi, and a boy named Musa—as they try to find water and survive.

I borrowed an ARC of this book before it came out and brought it with me on the 8th grade class trip to New Mexico last month…and then realized that this was a book I wanted to bring home and read when I could give it my full attention.  The prose seems simple on the surface, but I knew I would miss a lot of the novel’s richness if I read it too quickly or when I had any distractions.

I knew from hearing Melanie read parts of this book that the writing was gorgeously spare and poetic, but I didn’t know how attached I would feel to the three main characters.  Melanie makes powerful use of actions and gestures to show (rather than tell about) the affection between Sarel and Nandi and then the gradually building connections between Sarel and Musa and Musa and Sarel’s dogs.  As a result, I felt affection and concern for all three characters, too.

As in I’ll Be There, the multiple viewpoint characters create suspense, because the reader sometimes knows more than individual characters do.  Melanie provides enough background information about the characters and their world that readers know what Sarel, Nandi, and Musa are up against and can picture the setting, but she uses a lot of restraint in her depiction of this world.  This restraint encourages readers to consider where and when the story might take place and to think critically about the similarities and differences between this world and their own.

Parched is a book that absolutely lends itself to slow, careful reading.  Because of its relatively short length and the way it sets readers up to make inferences and connections, it would be an excellent read-aloud novel.  I plan to use it as a sixth-grade read-aloud next year.

How about you?  Any books you’ve found yourself lingering over lately?

Crafting Likable Characters Who Make Mistakes (with Lessons from Lyn Miller-Lachmann)

My seventh grade students recently finished reading Riot by Walter Dean Myers, which is set in New York City during the draft riots of 1863.  Because the students had studied immigration and visited the Tenement Museum and New York Historical Society during a trip to New York, they were familiar with the setting of Riot, understood the tensions between Irish immigrants and black people, and even recognized some of the photographs in the appendix at the end of the book as things we had seen during our trip.

My students and I appreciated the way Myers brings a historical situation to life in a 6450024compelling way by focusing on a (fictional) family who find themselves in an especially difficult situation: the Johnsons are a biracial family—half-black, half-Irish—so when poor Irish people, who can’t afford to pay $300 to get out of being drafted, begin to riot because of their fear that black people will take their jobs if the North wins the war, the Johnsons’ light-skinned teenage daughter, Claire, feels that the two sides of her identity cannot possibly fit together and no longer understands who she is.

Students enjoyed the book and were engaged throughout the unit.  However, they had one interesting reaction: they were annoyed with Claire.  “She whines a lot,” some of them pointed out.  “It’s annoying.”  “She puts herself in danger for no reason,” others added. “Nobody would even know she was half black if she didn’t insist on telling them all.  She’s bringing all this drama on herself!”

It wasn’t a bad thing that they reacted this way to Claire.  We were able to talk about why the circumstances would have shaken Claire so deeply, and we noted that people don’t always react rationally when they are upset.  But I was struck by how definite and unified they were in their response, especially since I’ve been noticing similar responses in  reviews of various young adult books on Goodreads and Amazon.  Recently, I’ve read a bunch of reviews of different books in which the reviewer comments on being “annoyed” or “bothered” by a character when that character makes mistakes or shows questionable judgment.

I get a bit discouraged by these reviews.  I am the kind of reader who cringes when a character makes a bad decision, so, as a writer, I have to force myself to let my characters mess up and then learn from their mistakes.  But sometimes it seems like writers are stuck in a no-win situation.  There isn’t enough tension or action if characters don’t make mistakes, but then readers get annoyed with them when they do!

I asked my students if there were any main characters from books we’d read together who hadn’t annoyed them, and they gave me three: none of them had been annoyed by Matt Pin in Ann E. Burg’s All the Broken Pieces, Doug Swieteck in Gary D. Schmidt’s Okay for Now, or Curzon in Laurie Halse Anderson’s Forge.

I started thinking about what these three likable, un-annoying narrator-protagonists had in common.  They all certainly make mistakes.  But they don’t engage in much introspection, and they are active characters with clear desires.

images-2Meanwhile, the same day I talked about character likability with my seventh grade students, I finished reading my friend and VCFA classmate Lyn Miller-Lachmann’s wonderful middle grade novel, RogueRogue tells the story of Kiara, a girl with undiagnosed Asperger’s syndrome, an obsession with the X-Men, and a desperate desire for a friend.  Lyn wrote an insightful guest post on fellow VCFA alum Melanie Fishbane’s blog about the challenge of making Kiara a likable narrator.

I can see how narrator likability would have posed a challenge in Rogue.  After all, Kiara is a girl who feels unliked by many of the people around her.  Lyn wrote about two strategies she used to encourage readers to sympathize with Kiara: she included secondary characters who like Kiara, and she gave Kiara “a strong desire” to “pursue […] against all odds.”

Lyn does a great job of developing secondary characters whose affection for Kiara builds Kiara’s likability.  In addition to the two characters Lyn mentions in her blog post, a six-year-old neighbor and an elderly woman, there is also a charismatic older teen whose acceptance of Kiara encourages readers to accept her.  In addition, Lyn also uses secondary characters who are unkind to Kiara to make readers relate to and feel protective of her.  Lyn makes especially effective use of a flashback during which Kiara heard one of her brothers speculate on what’s wrong with her and what might have caused her “mutations.”  This scene elicits great sympathy for Kiara, and readers can relate to the experience of hearing someone close to them say something hurtful (especially middle school readers, many of whom often worry about what others are saying about them).

Also, as Lyn notes, Kiara’s strong desire, to find a friend and to discover her own “special power,” plays a major role in making her likable. Kiara ends up discovering a talent for making videos, and her video talent reveals a confident, competent part of her character.  Furthermore, her desire for friends is so poignant and so consistent that readers will understand her motivation when she makes a few misguided decisions rather than feeling annoyed.

I think these two strategies worked beautifully in Rogue.  Lyn made me love Kiara, worry about her, and admire her, all at once. (Plus, I already passed the book on to a 7th grader, who has recommended it to others and didn’t have any “annoying character” complaints.)  I learned a lot from Lyn’s novel and blog post, as well as from my students’ reactions to characters that have annoyed them.  As I finish up revisions on my current novel-in-progress and then return to another writing project, which features a rather prickly and occasionally bratty narrator, I’ll keep these lessons from Lyn and my students in mind.

Highlights from A.S. King’s Author Visit

The past week has been a busy one for me.  On Saturday night, I returned from the 8th grade class trip to New Mexico, where we visited ruins and living pueblos, ate delicious New Mexican food, and saw breathtaking sights.  And the day before we left, the inspiring and entertaining A.S. King came for a thoroughly successful school visit!

I organized the visit earlier this spring, and since that time, A.S. (Amy) King has won an L.A. Times book award for Ask the Passengers and joined the faculty at Vermont College of Fine Arts, where I got my MFA.  She was an energetic, engaging presenter who gave students some excellent advice about writing and life. There’s no way I could capture all of the highlights of her presentations, but I’ll share a couple here.

Amy with 8th grade students.

Amy with 8th grade students.

The teacher side of me especially appreciated the way Amy told students that their middle and high school experiences won’t define them.  She didn’t minimize their current challenges and successes at all, but she told them that they get to choose which people and moments they let into the “personal suitcases” they carry around with them, and she emphasized the importance of how they respond to setbacks, rather than the setbacks themselves.  She also urged them to journal about the experiences that have shaped them and tap into their own emotions, so that they won’t hide anything from themselves, and so that they can use those emotions in their writing and other creative endeavors.

imagesAs a writer, I especially enjoyed Amy’s discussion of her writing process.  She explained that she doesn’t tend to write with a strict outline, and she told the story of how surprised she was when she was writing Please Ignore Vera Dietz and realized that Vera had a bottle of vodka under the driver’s seat in her car.  When Vera reached down for something, Amy genuinely didn’t know what she would find there.  At first, it was perplexing to her that practical Vera would drink while driving, but then it became Amy’s job to tell the story of why this practical girl would have a vodka bottle under her seat.  I love that idea; that if a character does something that doesn’t fit with the writer’s vision of him or her, maybe that seeming contradiction becomes the seed of a compelling story.

Amy also explained that in Everybody Sees the Ants, she initially included a house fire, images-1which forced her protagonist, Lucky Linderman, to leave his ruined home and spend the summer in Tempe, Arizona.  She ultimately realized the fire didn’t work, but if she hadn’t let herself go where the story took her and write that fire, Lucky might not have journeyed to Tempe.  The fire got cut, but it got Lucky where he needed to go for the story to take off.

Usually, when a writer talks about “listening to characters” and “letting them drive the story,” I get the same feeling I’ve had on the few occasions I’ve gone to yoga classes, when everyone around me is breathing deeply, relaxed, and in the moment, but I can’t shut off my brain.  I feel anxious and a little inadequate.  Why won’t my characters whisper their stories in my ear?  Sometimes I’ve thought they might be talking to me, but half the time when I’ve tried to sit back and let them tell me their story, I’ve written flabby, meandering scenes that go on and on without any forward progress. So when people talk about staying open to what their characters want the story to be, I usually begin to worry that I’m approaching this writing thing all wrong.

But I didn’t get that anxious feeling during A.S. King’s presentations.  Maybe that’s because she was so warm and funny.  Or maybe it’s because she wasn’t saying that there isn’t any place for strategizing and cutting in the writing process.  In fact, her description of her writing process matched up with a lecture that Tim Wynne-Jones gave at Vermont College before I was a student there, about how writers should embrace their inner geniuses.  I’ve listened to a recording of the lecture, and Tim urges writers to look for interesting seeds that they have subconsciously planted in early drafts, and then decide which seeds they might develop.

I don’t think this approach means that everything that your “genius” subconscious plants in a draft is going to work.  In my current work-in-progress, I planted some hints that the main character might become a runner, so I tried to cultivate a running subplot, but it just clogged things up without adding anything valuable.  But I also subconsciously mentioned baking and pastries in an early draft of the beginning, and one of my VCFA advisors, Mary Quattlebaum, helped me to realize that my main character might have a passion for baking.  While the running idea flopped, my story started to come together after I embraced the idea of my protagonist as a baker.

A.S. King didn’t downplay what hard work writing is, and she gave students (and me) the sense that writing, or any creative pursuit, involves a balance of openness and strategizing, embracing and cutting.  She was a hit with 7th, 8th, and 9th grade students, and current VCFA students will be in for a real treat when they get to hear her lecture this summer!

Technology in Young Adult Fiction

Well, it’s official. After missing a few exciting things and getting some encouragement from MFA classmates, I’ve joined Twitter.  I’m a little overwhelmed and still not clear on the nuances, but hey, that’s technology.

Speaking of technology, and in honor of my entrance into the Twittersphere, today I’m thinking about technology and social networking in young adult books.  We all know social networking is a major part of adolescents’ social lives, so it hardly seems accurate to write contemporary realistic fiction that ignores cell phones and Facebook and Twitter and G-Chats and Instagram.  But a number of issues arise when writers attempt to depict all this technology in fiction.

For one thing, even technology-savvy adults may not know as much about social networking as teens do, or we may not use social networking in the same ways.  I’ve been using Facebook and a cell phone for years, for instance, but until some students filled me in, I didn’t know that some teens post TBH (meaning to be honest) as a Facebook status and then have to write something “honest” on the wall of anybody who likes the status, and I didn’t know some teens use group texts to exclude and badmouth somebody who’s physically present but not receiving the texts. Plus, trends in technology change so quickly that a book that includes specifics will soon be outdated.

It seems to me that writers handle technology in a handful of successful ways:

1.) They avoid modern technology by writing historical fiction or by orchestrating some situation in which no one has technology access.

2.) They write sci-fi or fantasy and invent their own types of technology.

3.) They reference technology but without specifics.  Characters mention their phones, and readers can infer that they mean cell phones, but the writer doesn’t choose a specific brand or commit to any terminology.  Or characters chat with other characters online, but the writer doesn’t say whether they’re on Gmail or AIM or something else.

4.) They make up fictional sites that resemble real ones but have different names.10594356   (This strategy is sort of like fictionalizing a setting, something I’m preparing to do in my novel-in-progress; if you give a place a different name, you can draw inspiration from a real place but nobody will hold you to the details.)  For instance, Sarah Dessen has invented a Facebook-like social networking site called, which pops up in some of her novels, and Lindsey Leavitt has created another Facebook-like site she calls Friendspace, which includes a game called Authentic Life, for her new novel Going Vintage.

5.) They make technology, or a glitch in technology, part of the premise of a book.  Both Jay Asher and Carolyn Mackler’s The Future of Us and Sarah Mlynowski’s 6693333Gimme a Call take the glitch-in-technology approach.  In The Future of Us, Emma and Josh, two teenagers in 1996, somehow access Facebook in 2011 and find out how they are faring fifteen years in the future by checking out their older selves’ profiles.  And in Gimme a Call, after dropping her phone in a fountain, a high school senior named Devi, who has just been dumped by her boyfriend, realizes that she can call herself as a freshman, so she attempts to keep her freshman self away from the guy who’s broken her heart. 

In the case of both of these fun, high-concept books, technology is a large part of the premise and readers are encouraged to think a little bit about how they use technology and social networking.  The 1996 versions of Emma and Josh are shocked, for instance, at how much private information their future selves reveal on Facebook, and Gimme a Call suggests how much teens rely on their phones.  But really, both of these books encourage readers to think more about another compelling idea: how small actions can impact the future in large and unpredictable ways.

Lindsey Leavitt also uses technology as part of the premise for her novel Going Vintage, in which 16-year-old Mallory swears off technology and resolves to return to the way things were in the 1960s after she finds out that her boyfriend is cheating on her with a “cyber-wife.”  In this case, there’s no technological glitch, but what Mallory learns via social networking provides the inciting incident that starts her journey.

I was excited to read Going Vintage because it addresses important questions about social networking and technology and how they impact teens’s social lives.  Leavitt shows how teens get back at each other on social networking sites (Mallory changes her boyfriend’s status to one that proclaims him “a tool” after she finds out about his online relationship), and the way online arguments can blaze up like forest fires (lots of other people get involved and write nasty things about Mallory after she posts that status).  Leavitt also reveals how impossible it is for teens, or any of us for that matter, to avoid technology altogether and still function.

So there you have it: five ways I’ve noticed that authors handle the challenges of social networking and technology in fiction.  What other ways can you think of, or what other books depict technology in effective ways?  Or, alternatively, any Twitter tips for me?

On this April Morning

Yesterday, I put off writing a blog post because I wasn’t sure what to say.  After a week that included the Boston Marathon bombings, the terrifying manhunt that shut down Boston, and a massive fertilizer plant explosion, it felt wrong to post about the relatively mundane details of teaching or writing.  And yet who am I to offer up thoughts on the sad, scary events of this week?  Yes, I ran a few marathons a while ago, so I know how joyful, loving, and chaotic the crowds are, and I can’t bear to think of the horrifying scene that unfolded when two bombs went off near the finish line on Monday.  And my brother lives in Cambridge, so I was especially shaken by the lockdown and search for the remaining suspect on Friday.  But so many other people are so much closer to these events than I am.  What could I possibly have to say about them?

But then today, I woke up thinking about April Morning, the Revolutionary War-era novel my seventh grade students are reading, which takes place during the Battles of Lexington and Concord.  The novel is set in the Boston area in an April long ago, and the fifteen-year-old narrator, Adam, both recounts the terrors of war and describes people’s courage and generosity in the face of fear and killing.  Adam recalls, “Many people were kind and gentle on that day; it wasn’t unrelieved horror, and fewer were cruel than you might have thought.”

And then I thought about the op-eds that my eighth grade students have written, after reading Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian; Meghan Cox Gurdon’s Wall Street Journal article “Darkness Too Visible”; and Alexie’s response to Gurdon’s article, “Why the Best Kids Books Are Written in Blood.”  I asked students to think about the tone and subject matter of Absolutely True Diary and consider Gurdon’s points about how intense and disturbing some young adult novels have become.  Then, they each wrote an op-ed in which they took a stance on whether or not people should be troubled by the trend toward darkness in young adult literature.

I’ve been grading their pieces, which they turned in just before the marathon bombings last Monday, and many of the students have written about how it’s impossible to shield teenagers from grief and trauma (a statement that feels especially true after this week), so why shouldn’t books explore difficult events and show how some people cope with them?  A few of them have also commented that dark young adult novels can be inspiring because they portray the mental and physical strength of individuals who confront horrifying circumstances.  They suggest that it isn’t fair to condemn the Harry Potter or Hunger Games books as too violent and death-filled without acknowledging the courage and compassion of the characters in those books.

So now, on this April morning as I look back at the past week, I am struck by the importance of stories that explore the human condition, in all its fear and devastation and goodness and joy.  I am glad there are books that explore sad, scary events, and I am glad there are authors who have created characters who are as heroic, brave, and kind as so many people have been this week.

Excited about E-Books: An Author Visit from Andrea J. Buchanan

Most writers I know are a little bit wary about e-books.  Some duck their heads and smile apologetically when they admit that they kind of like the Kindle they broke down and bought.  Many seem worried about what electronic publishing means for independent bookstores and the future of the book as we know it.  Not Andi Buchanan.


Andi speaking with the seventh grade.

Andi is the mother of one of my eighth grade students and the author of a wide variety of books.  She first published a book of personal essays called Mother Shock: Loving Every (Other) Minute of It, which sounds like just the kind of smart, honest, and funny exploration of motherhood that all of you moms would want to check out.   Then she edited three other essay collections about motherhood before diving in to writing for kids.  She co-authored four Daring Book for Girls books, and then most recently, she came out with a paranormal young adult novel called Gift.

Sounds impressive enough already, I know.  But I haven’t gotten to the part about e-books.  Gift first came out as an e-book, with a print edition following, and Andi thought about all of the capabilities of iPads and Kindle Fires as she wrote the story.  So the e-book includes some amazing features, such as letters that creepily appear on the pages and then fade, and a video link to a boy performing music from the book.  There’s also a short graphic novel at the end.  Oh, and there’s a Minecraft map of the world from the book that readers can play online.

Yesterday, Andi came to give a presentation and Q and A session for the seventh grade and then the library and reading clubs.  She talked openly about her writing process, her career, and how she developed the e-book options for Gift. I was especially inspired by her openness to technology.  Rather than worrying about the rise of e-books and clinging to nostalgia for the days when a book was just a book, Andi is eager to consider how e-book options can enable her to tell a more exciting story, and she is willing to collaborate with other professionals and pay attention to what engages kids.

And thanks to her author visit, I learned a valuable lesson: that if you want to get a room full of middle school students excited, you should mention Minecraft.  I suppose now I have to figure out what Minecraft is.

Middle School Girl Culture Mini-Course

Now that I’ve made it through the first week back from spring break, I’m finally getting around to writing about something that happened just before vacation: a two-day “Middle School Girl Culture” mini-course that included a successful Skype visit and other fun events.


Skyping with Jess.

My friend and colleague Maureen and I led a course for fifteen sixth, seventh, and eighth grade girls.  One of the highlights of the mini-course was a discussion of Jessica Leader’s book Nice and Mean followed by a Skype visit with Jess.  I am gradually refining my process for Skype visits, and I thought this one went especially well.  I always have students brainstorm questions beforehand, but this time we made sure that we had a varied list of questions, and then we set ourselves up so that we could go down the line and ask the questions in a logical order.  We were able to proceed more efficiently since I didn’t have to call on people this way.  We also came up with some back-up questions; in case Jess happened to answer someone’s question in her response to another question, there were some fallback options.  Jess was articulate and good-humored as she answered the girls’ questions about the characters from Nice and Mean, her writing process, and her own middle school experience.

One of the photos we examined from Lauren Greenfield's Girl Culture collection.

One of the photos we examined from Lauren Greenfield’s “Girl Culture” collection.

During the mini-course, we also looked together at a handful of photographs from Lauren Greenfield’s powerful “Girl Culture” photo collection, and we went through some case studies that explored dilemmas related to social media sites.  These case studies came from the Ethics Institute at Kent Place School.  Facilitators from Swarthmore College’s psychology department led an empowering Strength and Resilience workshop that helped the girls identify their strengths, and we watched some of Rachel Simmons’s BFF 2.0 videos, which are aimed to “help girls deal with the new friendship challenges posed by technology.”  Finally, the girls made their own BFF 2.0 videos, in which they explored and gave advice for navigating the issues of group texts, TBH (to be honest) and ratings posts on Facebook, and online gossiping.

We also made time to venture out to the Comcast Center and Reading Terminal for our lunches, and we fit in a trip to Rita’s for free water ice in honor of the first day of spring (despite the fact that we were all wearing our winter coats).  It was a great two days, and I enjoyed exploring the issues that affect middle school girls today with a group of open and thoughtful young women!

Why I [Fill in the Blank]

It’s always interesting to me that I can read the same book at different times and notice very different things about it.  Recently, I began reading Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely imagesTrue Diary of a Part-Time Indian for at least the third time.  I first read it several years ago, then read it with my eighth grade English students last year (and reading something I’m teaching really involves reading it more than just once), and am now reading it again with this year’s eighth grade.  This time, I was really struck by the main character Arnold’s description of why he draws cartoons.  Arnold explains:

“I draw because words are too unpredictable.

I draw because words are too limited.

If you speak and write in English, or Spanish, or Chinese, or any other language, then only a certain percentage of human beings will get your meaning.  But when you draw a picture, everybody can understand it.

If I draw a cartoon of a flower, then every man, woman, and child in the world can look at it and say, ‘That’s a flower.’

So I draw because I want to talk to the world, and I want the world to pay attention to me.

I feel important with a pen in my hand.  I feel like I might grow up to be somebody important.  An artist.  Maybe a famous artist.  Maybe a rich artist.

Just take a look at the world.  Almost all of the rich and famous brown people are artists.  They’re singers and actors and writers and dancers and directors and poets.

So I draw because I feel like it might be my only real chance to escape the reservation.

I think the world is a series of broken dams and floods, and my cartoons are tiny little lifeboats” (5-6).

After having read this novel more than twice before, I remembered a lot of parts of it in pretty specific detail.  But I did not remember anything about this powerful description of why Arnold draws.   On my current read-through, however, this passage struck me as the most compelling part of the first several chapters of the book.  I don’t know why this passage jumped out at me this time and didn’t before.  But once I focused on it, I remembered another piece I used to share with students, way back before I’d read Absolutely True Diary the first time: a short, poetic personal essay by Terry Tempest Williams called “Why I Write.”

This year, my students and I spent some time discussing Arnold’s reasons for drawing.  Then, we went around the room and read “Why I Write” together, with each student reading a sentence and then the next student taking over.  When I’d used “Why I Write” in the past, some students found it odd or confusing.  But this time, since we’d read Arnold’s very accessible reasons for drawing first, everyone seemed content to latch onto the lines that spoke to them and read past the ones that didn’t.  And once we were finished, I asked students to write their own “Why I [fill in the blank]” lists, about why they do something that’s extremely important to them.  Their lists were great—they helped me learn new things about some students, and many of them juxtaposed mundane reasons with profound ones and included opposites within their list (as Terry Tempest Williams does with sentences such as, “I write to remember.  I write to forget.”).

In fact, next time I’m discouraged with my writing, I think I’ll make my own “Why I Write,” list, and I also think “Why I [fill in the blank]” lists could be great tools for writers getting to know their characters.  It could be really telling for me to write a “Why I Bake” list for the protagonist of my novel-in-progress, or a “Why I Play Baseball” list for one of my secondary characters.  You should try one, too!  (And perhaps even post in the comments, if you are so inclined.)

I still think it’s important to change up some of the books I teach so that everything stays fresh, but this is the beauty of good books: depending on all sorts of hard-to-quantify factors, you pick up on different things when you return to them, so re-reading and re-teaching them never has to get stale.

The Value of Failure?

For the past few days, I’ve been thinking about the value of failure.

Sounds counterintuitive, I know.  But last week, I went with the other teachers at my school to the NAIS (National Association of Independent Schools) conference for a day.  I expected lots of information about how we can set our students up to succeed, but in two different workshops, the presenters talked about the importance of letting students fail sometimes.

One teacher was describing an impressively complex and student-driven project he calls the “World Peace Game,” and he explained that he sets the game up to “fail massively” at first.  Another teacher was talking about how she lets her students choose their own teams for a challenge-based learning unit, but only after she has set them up to “safely fail” at picking suitable groups for an earlier project.  That way, they can choose more wisely when the stakes are higher.

There are several reasons why teachers might want to allow their students to fail.  Some kinds of failure can teach a specific lesson.  I still remember the “quiz” that taught me to read the directions carefully before beginning any assessment.  I was in elementary school, and the quiz had all sorts of complicated questions.  Most of us slogged through problem after problem, sweating and grumbling at our little desks, but a few kids just sat there contentedly, giggling at the rest of us.  Turns out the directions said to turn the paper over without answering any of the questions.  After failing at that task, I learned my lesson for good. (But I also felt pretty duped by my teacher.)

In addition to teaching specific lessons, failure can also lead to success.  As both presenters at NAIS suggested, when students experience failure (preferably without any drastic consequences), they can learn from their mistakes, take more responsibility for their learning, and figure out how to succeed later on.

And more than that, we’re all going to fail sometimes.  As the teacher who designed the “World Peace” game put it, failure is a part of life.   Things are going to go wrong, so we want to help our students become resilient.  One way to do develop resilience is to experience failure and see that you can deal with it.

I know this rationally, but it isn’t easy to watch kids struggle.  It isn’t easy as their teacher, and I’m sure it really isn’t easy as their parent.  It isn’t even easy for me as a writer to let a fictional person fail.  But I like the idea of allowing for “safe” failure, and I’ve been thinking about ways I can incorporate safe failures into my teaching.

This could be as simple as including difficult but ungraded writing challenges—things like writing a poem that follows a strict form or writing for a set amount of time and then having a set amount of time to cut the word count in half without losing content.  I can also work on setting the bar high for writing assignments and then being truly rigorous about evaluating the work, even if that means that students do poorly at first and have to revise one or more times before they have succeeded, or I can give students more flexibility in choosing groups, even if I don’t think their groups will work, to let them problem-solve and manage conflict.

Letting students fail is scary because it involves giving up some control, and it’s hard to ensure that the failure will really be safe. I mean, I can ensure that everyone will be physically safe, but is it still a “safe” failure if two students argue during failed group work and one really gets her feelings hurt?  And is it still a safe failure if a student ends up with a slightly lower grade for the marking period?  It’s difficult to factor in opportunities for safe failure when grades matter so much to people and everybody always feels short on time.  But if we really want to help students develop resilience, then maybe we do need to let them struggle and rebound sometimes…just as we writers have to let our characters suffer and bounce back in order to create compelling fiction, and just as we’ve all had to do, in large and small ways.

Going for 1000: Lessons from Rebecca Levenberg

Confucius said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” And that has become a mantra for Rebecca Levenberg.

A little over two years ago, Rebecca was hit by a garbage truck while riding her bike to work.  In the accident, she sustained severe injuries, and one of her legs had to be amputated.  In the last two years, Rebecca has learned to walk, bike, rock climb, and rollerblade with her bionic leg.  She’s also set an inspiring goal: to walk a thousand miles post-accident, one step at a time.

Last Friday, Rebecca caIMG_0367me to talk to a group of middle school students about her injury, her rehabilitation process, and her thousand-mile journey, and then we joined her for the end of her 950th mile.  As we walked, one student carried a sign that said “950,” and another carried a sign that announced, “Going for 1000.”

Rebecca gave us the “Going for 1000” sign to hang in my classroom, because, as she put it, we can all strive for our own version of walking a thousand miles.  For some, “going for 1000” might mean running a marathon.  For others, it might mean earning a certain grade in a difficult class, or—oh, gee, I don’t know—finishing a novel.

She gave us some excellent guidelines for setting goals.  She said that a goal should be:

  • challenging
  • realistic
  • specific
  • measurable
  • flexible

Her thousand-mile-journey goal fits all of these criteria.  It is clearly challenging and specific.  It is measurable, because she has a pedometer to track her progress.  It is flexible, because she can walk anywhere, including on a treadmill when the weather is bad.  Plus, she can walk a lot on days when she is feeling good, and she can take days off when she needs to.  And as long as she takes the journey one step at a time, the goal is absolutely realistic.

I was so grateful to meet Rebecca and have her speak to students, and I wanted to share these five criteria for goals along with Rebecca’s amazing story.  I hope they help you “go for 1000” in whatever way you choose!

Embracing Your Strengths, New Challenges, and Those Ever-Present Contraries

Recently, I stumbled upon two engaging, thought-provoking things that really resonated with me even though they seem almost to contradict each other: a blog post by middle grade and young adult author Lindsey Leavitt and a podcast in which young adult author Sara Zarr interviewed another young adult author, Siobhan Vivian.

In the blog post “Embracing the Cute,” Lindsey Leavitt explains that she looked at Goodreads reviews for her YA novel Going Vintage, which is coming out in March, and images-1 several complimentary reviews describe the book as “adorable,” “hilarious,” “fun,” and “quirky.” (You can read the first three delightful chapters of Going Vintage here, and Lindsey is lovely—she was generous enough to send me an ARC of her novel Sean Griswold’s Head a couple of years ago and then Skype with my students about her writing process).   Lindsey suggests that she might have bristled at these descriptions back in high school, when she resented being called cute.  But now she is trying to “embrace the cute” and accept that she gravitates to writing fun, quirky stories, and her strengths as a writer enable her to tell those kinds of stories well.

She writes, “I don’t do gritty or profound or twisted or raw. I still love to read these kinds of stories, still love to understand other world views and backgrounds. But when I spend a year with a book, I prefer it to be something that makes me giddy and satisfied, an escape for me and for you. There are days where I question this, days that I wish I was more of something else, but that’s like wishing I was shorter or had thicker hair.”

I appreciated this blog post for a couple of reasons.  First, I also like to write fun stories that could be seen as light, and it’s easy to feel like that kind of story is less important than a book that is “gritty or profound or twisted or raw.”  Second, the post makes the point that writers should recognize and use their gifts—that we should embrace what we do well rather than beating ourselves up about what we don’t do well.

One of the best things about my MFA program was that my advisors helped me to become aware of my strengths as a writer.  I tried out lots of different kinds of writing and got lots of insightful feedback, and, in the process, I came to realize that I have certain strengths, like using humor and creating endearing, vulnerable-yet-strong characters.  (For the record, I also discovered and worked on many aspects of writing that are challenges for me—my MFA definitely wasn’t all about celebrating things I do well.  And see what I did there?  Using the word “challenges” instead of “weaknesses”?  Much less discouraging that way.)

Anyway, part of what I learned during my MFA is that I can write stories for different age groups and with different narrative styles and structures, but it makes sense to know that I have a couple of fundamental strengths and to look for ways to take advantage of them.  I think it also makes sense to write what brings me joy, not what I think other people would find most impressive (although obviously, no writing project is going to bring only joy). Like Lindsey, I like to read all different kinds of books, but when I think about what kinds of stories I want to write, I think back to the books I read over and over when I was growing up and the ones I want to read more than once now.  Those are the kinds of stories I can spend enough time with to try to write.

Soon after I read Lindsey’s blog post, I was very excited to find Sara Zarr’s “This Creative Life” podcasts, because I’m a big fan of Sara Zarr’s books, and I listened to an interview she did with another author I really like, Siobhan Vivian (Sara also has an interview with A.S. King, whom I blogged about last weekend!).  While Lindsey Leavitt’s blog post is about owning your signature style of writing, this interview is all about branching out and writing something completely outside of your comfort zone.

imagesSiobhan Vivian talks about writing The List, which was a scary project because it was so different from her other novels.  The List is written in third-person point of view, while her other novels are in first person, and it follows a daunting eight point-of view characters.  In the interview, Siobhan talks about how difficult The List was to write, but she explains that she eventually got to a point where she felt like she’d told the story she wanted to tell, and therefore she was proud of the result, whether other people liked it or not.  (And incidentally, lots of other people liked it.  I, for one, tore through it when it came out last spring and was just as into it when I re-read it this week after listening to the podcast.)    

On the surface, the main takeaway of this podcast seems contrary to the main takeaway of Lindsey Leavitt’s blog post: the podcast suggests that it’s scary and difficult to move away from the kind of book you gravitate toward writing, but the suffering and self-doubt inherent in writing something so different are worth it, because you might end up creating something really special.

But when I stop and think about it, I realize the blog post and podcast don’t really contradict each other after all.  Both are about blocking out what other people might think (or what you think other people might think) and writing what you truly want to write.  And writers can both embrace our strengths and sensibilities and try out different things.  Lindsey Leavitt’s books may all share a certain humor and quirkiness, but her tween Princess for Hire series is very different from her YA realistic novels, and The List diverges from Siobhan Vivian’s other novels in its tone and narrative structure, but it still focuses on girls in high school, navigating relationships and forging their identities.  And in fact, it took leaving my comfort zone and trying out different kinds of writing to discover that I had some consistent strengths.

One of my favorite articles about teaching is Peter Elbow’s “Embracing Contraries in the Teaching Process,” in which Elbow writes about all of the seemingly contradictory roles that teachers have to fulfill.  Lindsey Leavitt’s blog post and Sara Zarr’s interview with Siobhan Vivian reminded me that the writing process is just as full of seeming contradictions as the teaching process…and, well, I suppose the rest of life is, too.


Book Binges

I love it when I discover an author a little late in the game, after he or she already has multiple novels out, so that I can finish one and pick up another without having to wait too long.  A couple of years ago, I fell in love with Jaclyn Moriarty’s Ashbury High novels, and I read Feeling Sorry for Celia, The Year of Secret Assignments, The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie, and The Ghosts of Ashbury High within a couple of months (it would have been less than a couple of months, except I had to request many of them from other branches of the public library and wait for them to arrive).

All of these Ashbury High novels use an epistolary format: they include actual letters, imagined letters, transcripts from hearings and meetings, diary entries, emails, blog posts, exam essays, and more.  The format is creative and engaging, and, as a teacher, I appreciate that it puts readers into an active role.  Readers must sift through the materials we are given and decide which narrators and materials are reliable and how the pieces fit together.  It was fun to read these books in a short time frame because I knew what I was getting from each one—zany humor, big plot twists, and extremely endearing characters—and yet each one was different enough to surprise me (especially The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie, which has a jarring shift toward the end, and The Ghosts of Ashbury High, which features time travel and, as the title suggests, ghosts).

Last year, I ended up finding three of the four Ashbury High books at a used bookstore images and purchasing them for my classroom library because I thought some eighth and maybe seventh grade readers might enjoy them.  I wouldn’t have thought they’d appeal to sixth graders, and I almost didn’t buy Bindy Mackenzie because it was a little pricey for a used book and I couldn’t decide if middle schoolers would “get” it.  (Silly me.)  But this year, to my delight, a few sixth grade girls have excitedly read Bindy MacKenzie and The Year of Secret Assignments. One even told me we should do a pen pal program, like the Ashbury High students do.   

Recently, I embarked on another book binge when I discovered the novels of A. S. King.  I started out reading Everybody Sees the Ants, on the recommendation of my friend and colleague Maureen, and I loved it so much that I moved right along to Please Ignore Vera Dietz and Ask the Passengers.  (I have a Kindle now, which is both convenient and dangerous—kind of like the bags of peanut butter pretzels I stocked up on at Trader Joe’s today that are now in the cupboard—so I didn’t have to wait at all between books this time.)

As with Jaclyn Moriarty’s novels, I know what I’m getting when I start an A.S. King novel: a smart, funny first-person protagonist who is dealing with some very tough circumstances; complex and flawed adult and teenage characters; and surreal elements.

I’ll admit that I don’t always know what to make of the surreal elements.  In Ask the Passengers, the main character Astrid is struggling to figure out what it means that she is maybe/probably in love with a girl.  She is neglected by her parents; disappointed by her best friend; and fascinated with philosophers, especially Socrates.  She imagines Socrates appearing in her day-to-day life, and she sends her love up to people in airplanes, because she feels like nobody needs her love at home.  King includes vignettes from the perspectives of people in the airplanes; these vignettes could be scenes Astrid simply imagines, but King suggests that the people in the airplanes might actually feel Astrid’s love and be impacted by it.

In Please Ignore Vera Dietz, meanwhile, Vera is coping with the death of her ex-best-friend, Charlie, and coming to grips with the secret of what happened the night he died.  King interrupts Vera’s narrative with chapters that feature “brief words” from Vera’s dad, Charlie, and even the pagoda in her town.  Even though he is dead, Charlie is able to communicate with Vera through her dreams, and to force her and other people to do things.

images-1And in Everybody Sees the Ants, Lucky Linderman is brutally bullied during the day, but in his dreams at night he visits his grandfather, a missing prisoner of war, in the jungles of Vietnam.  King suggests that Lucky’s dreams may in fact be real (or Lucky may be unreliable and possibly not quite sane, because he believes they are real; detaches from his traumas; and sees ants, who wear party hats and provide commentary).

The paperback version of Everybody Sees the Ants includes a Q and A between A.S. King and fellow author Paolo Bacigalupi at the end, and Bacigalupi notes, “You ride a lot of surreal edges where, as a reader, I found myself questioning whether Lucky had a grip on his sanity or whether he was completely off his rocker.  That strikes me as rich but also treacherous ground.  The safe choice would have been to make this a completely ‘realistic’ novel.”  “Realistic fiction that rides surreal edges” seems to me the perfect description of King’s style, in Everybody Sees the Ants as well as in Please Excuse Vera Dietz and Ask the Passengers.  It’s a much more precise and fitting label than “magical realism” (but, a little unwieldy for, say, a section of books in a bookstore or something).  I also agree with Bacigalupi that King’s novels tread “rich but treacherous ground.” Her unusual choices are thought-provoking and would lead to fascinating book-group or class discussions (and the educators’ guides on her websites include excellent questions I’d love to talk about with a group of students), but they also might alienate or frustrate some readers.

King’s books are a little mature in content and language to use in a middle school curriculum—on her website, King explains that most of her books are for ages 14 or 15 or up because of the content.  I’m not sure about assigning one in class, but I’m sure some of my students would be ready to read and discuss them, and I think young people are remarkably good at choosing books they’re ready for and focusing on the parts that resonate without worrying too much about the parts that don’t.  I’ve recommended Everybody Sees the Ants to my eighth grade students, and now I’ll try to get copies of all three novels for my classroom library and then sit back and be surprised by who gravitates to them.

How about you?  Anybody else indulge in any book binges lately?

Some Realizations from My Time Away from Writing

A little over a month ago, I wrote a blog post about how I hadn’t had time to write, wouldn’t have time for the foreseeable future, and was determined not to feel too guilty.  Now, finally, I’m getting back to my manuscript a little bit at a time, and I’ve realized some things.

1.) Writing is like exercising; it’s harder to force yourself to do it when you’re out of the habit, and you have to build your endurance back up.

In my early-to-mid twenties, I ran a few marathons.  I now find this fact hard to believe, but I have the finisher’s medals in a box somewhere to prove it.  Anyway, I remember feeling pretty indignant when I did my first training run for the second marathon.  How was it possible that I could not run three miles?  I’d run 26.2 only months before!  With a hurt Achilles tendon!  They gave me one of those snazzy aluminum blankets at the end to put over my shoulders!   It was a big deal!

But none of that seemed to matter after I’d taken some time off.  Luckily, my body and brain knew deep down that they were capable of running for an inordinately long time, since they’d done it before, so I was able to get back into shape faster than I had the first time around.  I’m hoping the same goes for writing.

2.) It’s one thing to keep your conscious mind from feeling guilty for not being as productive as usual and another thing to make sure your subconscious gets the message.  The other night I dreamed that I hadn’t actually graduated from my MFA program yet, and it was time for workshop, but I hadn’t submitted anything or critiqued any of anyone else’s pieces.  It was terrible.

3.) I need to increase the “Oh no, don’t do that!” factor in my novel.  I had this epiphany Nice-and-Mean-coverwhile I was reading Nice and Mean by fellow VCFA grad and teacher Jess Leader.  I’d read and enjoyed the book a couple of years ago, but I was reading it again to prepare for a mini course on middle school girl culture that I’m co-leading in March, during which a group of students will read the book and Skype with Jess.

I re-read Nice and Mean in a night, and part of what compelled me to finish so quickly was that each of the two first-person narrators does something that made me, as a reader, think, “No!  This isn’t going to work out!  There’s going to be trouble for you!”  One of the narrators, Marina, hatches an ill-advised plan to get revenge on a friend who keeps undermining her and generally driving her crazy, and the other, Sachi, keeps a secret from her parents.

I knew how things worked out in the end of the book, but I didn’t remember the details, and I experienced that delicious internal conflict of both wanting to look away from the disastrous results of not-very-wise decisions and needing to read on to know that the characters would be okay.  One important element of an effective “Oh no, don’t do that!” factor, I think, is that the reader should see why the character is behaving as she is and sympathize with—or at least understand—her motivations.  Even though Marina’s revenge plan is cruel, for instance, I felt her frustration with her friend and knew that she wanted to prove her own worth, so rather than being alienated by her “mean girl” behavior, I found it captivating.  I felt exasperated with her and protective of her, all at the same time.

In the first full draft of my novel, I already had my main character make a questionable decision to sell out a new friend, but now I think that if I change the order of some scenes so that the decision comes a bit later, and and if I play up certain dynamics, I might be able to induce that unpleasant-but-engrossing “No, don’t do it!” sensation.

4.) It can take a long, long time to figure out a character.  I’d always thought character development was my strong point, because I tend to see a character first and then the plot comes later.  Like, much later.  But when I looked back at the revisions I’d done on my novel this fall, I realized that I have to rethink some core things about my protagonist.  When I started revising in October, I made changes to a couple of secondary characters to increase conflict and tension.  I see now that changing these secondary characters changes some of my protagonist’s formative experiences, and that impacts her outlook and her motivations in subtle but definite ways.

It’s possible that I’m just delaying getting back to the actual hard work of revising scenes because that feels very daunting right now (see number 1).  But I think I’m actually working through things that tangled me up before. And I really couldn’t figure out these dynamics earlier—it took pushing through a draft, trying to fix a problem, and then seeing how the solution impacted elements that had seemed like they were working.

I don’t know about you other writers out there, but I both love and fear this process of figuring out how to make a novel work.  I love the puzzle of troubleshooting problems, but I am also sort of terrified by how unwieldy and out-of-focus the whole puzzle sometimes feels.

But just when I’m feeling especially overwhelmed, I read a wonderful book or see a beautiful movie or play and am inspired to keep on trying.  In fact, I’d better get back to trying now, so my subconscious won’t deliver more guilt-nightmares tonight.


Short, Fun Projects to Energize Student (and Adult) Writers

I’m working my way through the first seasons of Dr. Who, and last night I watched an episode called “The Girl in the Fireplace.”  In that episode, the Doctor passes through time windows to 18th century France to protect a young woman being stalked by extremely creepy looking clockwork droids.  For the Doctor, only a few minutes separate his trips to protect the young woman.  But for the young woman, years pass between each of his visits.  She realizes that he can jump into a page of her life, as if her days were bound together in a book, but she is stuck on the “slow path,” living out each long day in order.

See? Creepy.

See? Creepy.

It’s a great episode.  However, I don’t know about you, but I don’t often feel like my day-to-day life is a “slow path.”  Days seem to pass especially quickly on vacation, but even during a work week, I’m amazed at how fast Friday arrives (and then I’m really amazed at how soon Sunday evening comes).  It’s hard to believe that the school year is almost halfway over!

Even though time seems to pass so quickly, I don’t like to rush my classes through assignments.  For writing assignments, especially, students often do best when we move along fairly slowly, spending time on each stage of the writing process.  And when we’re reading books as a class, I don’t want to assign too many pages of reading every night because my students are so busy, and reading carefully can take a long time for many of them.  If I give them too much reading, it’s as if I’m encouraging them—forcing them, even—to have to skim.  But I also think it’s important to vary the pace.  If we spend too long on each unit, English class might begin to feel like a long, slow path indeed.

In both seventh and eighth grade, the couple of weeks between winter break and the end of the second quarter felt like a good time to do something different and creative in a short mini-unit.  I can’t actually take credit for coming up with the eighth grade mini-unit, because a student gave me the idea.  She lent me a copy of Sarah Durkee’s novel The Fruitbowl Project and suggested that it would be fun to try out our own version of the project together. fruitbowl

The first part of The Fruitbowl Project introduces an eighth grade writing class in New York City.  Their English teacher invites her cousin’s husband, a rock star, to visit the class and talk about how he writes songs.  He offers an analogy: a song (or any piece of writing) is like a bowl of fruit an artist might paint.  The bowl of fruit is a stable, definite thing that the artist wants to represent, but the artist can use all different colors and techniques to depict it.  Similarly, writers start with a basic story and play around with point of view, genre, and style, and can tell that story in an infinite number of ways.

In the first part of The Fruitbowl Project, the class comes up with a basic story, about a boy who drops his pencil during a reading test and bumps a girl’s elbow.  The second part, then, is an anthology of the students’ versions of this story.  The anthology includes the boy’s perspective, the girl’s perspective, the teacher’s perspective, a limerick, a sonnet, a rap, a screenplay, a fairy tale, a preschooler’s version, a newspaper article, and a whole lot more.

I shared excerpts of The Fruitbowl Project with my eighth grade students, and then together we came up with our own basic story, which involves two shopping carts colliding in the toy aisle at Target.  For the next few days, eighth graders will be writing their own versions of the story we’ve created.  They’ll be writing from all different perspectives (including that of the baby in one of the shopping carts and a toy inside the other) and in all different genres (including text messages back and forth between two characters and a cross-examination).

For the seventh grade mini-unit, we read two short stories with multiple first-person narrators: “Jeremy Goldblatt is So Not Moses,” by James Howe, and “The Arf Thing,” by my good friend Val Howlett, who was generous enough to share her writing (which my students loved and deemed “funny but sad”) with us.  In both stories, the narrators have very different voices and perspectives, and they’re all responding to an important event that has already happened (but that the reader doesn’t get a full explanation of until late in the story).

Now, seventh grade students are writing their own stories with multiple first-person narrators and a revelation in the second half of the story.  Because we don’t have a lot of time to work on this project and students have a lot of end-of-quarter work in all of their classes, I’ve put students into groups of three or four instead of having them write their stories individually.  Groups have enthusiastically come up with a story idea, narrators, and an outline together, and then each student is writing two or three narrators’ short sections.  They’ll compile their sections together next week.

One nice thing about this project is that I get the benefits of group work (students’ enthusiasm, less work for each student, and less volume to grade during crunch time for me), but I can still evaluate students on their individual work.  (As someone who wasn’t all that crazy about group work when I was a student, I always like to make sure that students are held accountable for their own contributions.) There are logistical issues, of course, because some kids have been sick, but so far the benefits of the group assignment have outweighed the challenges.

I’d love to hear about any short, energizing assignments other teachers out there like…or short, energizing projects you writers use when you need a break from the long, slow path of a longer endeavor.  Happy 2013!

No Time to Write and the Skewed Guilt/Happiness Balance

For the past few weeks, I haven’t had time to write creatively.  I pushed through the end of the rough draft of my novel before school started, took a month or so off while a couple of smart and generous writing friends gave me feedback, and then dove into the process of re-envisioning and revising.

Revisions were coming along slowly but surely.  Without the urgency of a monthly MFA deadline, I found I couldn’t muster the energy to write at night.  But I took to waking up an hour early and getting at least a little bit done every morning, before the rest of my day began.

Then came mid-November.  I got to a tricky part of the novel, and my non-writing commitments picked up big-time.  Don’t get me wrong: the past month has been an incredibly exciting and fulfilling one, and the next couple of weeks promise to be the same.  I’ve attended engagement parties for people I love, taken weekend trips, moved in with a completely wonderful guy, had my mom visit, and hosted a couple of lovely gatherings.  And now I have Christmas with my family, a great friend’s wedding in Florida, and a trip to Uruguay to look forward to.  No complaints there.  But with all of these exciting occasions in my non-writing life, my writing has sputtered out.  During November and the beginning of December, I kept trying to push on, although not with much success.  But for almost three weeks now, I’ve barely glanced at my work-in-progress.

Rationally, I know this is okay.  During the last two years, when I was teaching and working on my MFA, I had to say no to a lot of fun-sounding things because I needed to block out evening and weekend time to complete my MFA work.  Now, I have more flexibility.  And pretty much every story I’ve ever tried to write has been, at its core, about a character who yearns to connect with and feel loved by someone else.  So it would feel pretty misguided to prioritize writing over teaching kids I care about and spending time with people who are important to me.

But then there’s the gut-level, irrational part of me that feeds on guilt and isn’t appeased by this reasoning.  The part that says, “You need a schedule!  If writing is important to you, you need to make time for it no matter what!”  And, “You think you’re busy now?  Think of all of the people who write and work and have kids!  You don’t have to take care of anybody but yourself, you whiner.  Suck it up!”  And even, “If you don’t keep writing, you’ll never finish this novel and you’ll probably forget everything you ever learned and your MFA will have been useless!”

Not so helpful.

I’ve always been sort of glad that I feel guilty when I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing, because it means that I usually get back to work in order to get rid of the guilt.  But maybe working-to-pacify-guilt is not the best model.  As a teacher, I know that I can usually motivate students by recognizing their successes and supporting them as they encounter challenges.   I should probably try the same approach with myself.  Sure, I feel happy when I accomplish something, like finishing a rough draft or figuring out how to fix a subplot that wasn’t working.  But I feel the guilt and frustration of not accomplishing what I wanted to accomplish so much more intensely than I feel the joy and satisfaction of doing something well.  And judging by my conversations with writer friends, I don’t think I am alone in this imbalance.

So I am going to try to silence that nasty, undermining voice inside me by stating my fears out loud or writing them down and then dealing with them one by one.  I am going to try to remember something Grace Lin said when she was Skyping with my students: that she doesn’t write every day—sometimes she can’t—but then she’ll write and write on days she can.  I am going to try to shake up my guilt/happiness balance so that I feel at least as proud of myself when I get something done as I feel disappointed in myself when I do not.  And I am going to hope that when I do have time to return to my novel-in-progress next month, I will see the tricky parts with fresh eyes and feel my love for my main character more strongly than ever.

And to my friends who are also struggling to find time and energy to write, I hope that you will be able to confront your mean, guilt-feeding voices and trust that all of the writing lessons you’ve learned are there inside you, too—they just don’t make quite as much noise.

How Structured Writing Assignments Can Unleash Creativity

In July of 2011, I was beginning the third semester of my MFA program, and I had some very definite goals.  I was going to start a new teaching job, so I knew the first few months of the school year would be especially busy.   To make the beginning of the year more manageable, I wanted to push through an ambitious amount of MFA work—my full critical thesis and a completely unreasonable number of pages of my new novel—before September.  So when my new advisor, Mary Quattlebaum, asked me to write a fractured fairy tale in addition to working on my critical thesis and novel, I wasn’t entirely thrilled.

But that fractured fairy tale turned out to be one of the most important writing assignments I’ve ever completed.  The project had clear guidelines: to take an existing fairy tale and make it my own by changing the perspective, setting, or other elements, and to tell my story in no more than 1,000 words.  At a time when I was wrangling numerous academic sources and big ideas for my critical thesis and trying to wrap my brain around how to structure a novel, it was a relief to have a short assignment with clear expectations.  I learned some helpful and transferrable writing lessons as I wrote and revised my fractured fairy tale—lessons about crafting a surprising but logical ending and managing multiple characters—and the stakes felt low, so I was able to relax and have fun. I made the story funny, and once my advisor Mary had seen the humor in my fractured fairy tale, she encouraged me to enhance the humor in the novel I was beginning.

That fractured fairy tale assignment showed me that structured creative writing projects can set writers up to experience success, take their own individual approach, and enjoy the writing process.  It seems like the best way to spark young writers’ creativity should be to give them a chance to write whatever they want with no restrictions.  Open-ended writing opportunities are valuable, too, but I’ve found that giving more controlled writing assignments with clear criteria can free students up to be creative and relaxed.

My sixth grade students are currently working on a very specific writing assignment, and I’ve been amazed by how original and full of personality their stories are.  We read Donna Jo Napoli’s novel Bound, which tells a Chinese Cinderella story, and then we read picture books that tell other Cinderella stories: Adelita: A Mexican Cinderella Story, The Way Meat Loves Salt: A Cinderella Story from the Jewish Tradition, and The Korean Cinderella.  We decided on several elements that all these Cinderella stories share: a main character who is separated from his or her parents; one or more helping characters; one or more cruel characters; a special event the main character wants to attend; an article of clothing/possession/feature that proves the main character’s identity; and an ending in which the main character finds a romantic partner, family, friend, or passion.

The variety in my students’ stories is remarkable.  One student is writing about a gingerbread Cinderella named Gingerella whose father was eaten by the king.  One is writing about a mouse Cinderella named Henry, who gets separated from his family when they are on the way to the National Subway Dwelling Mouse Association’s annual ball.  One is writing the story of how Prancer became one of Santa’s reindeer, one is writing about a boy with a wand that is supposed to grant wishes but keeps backfiring, and one is writing about a shy girl whose beautiful singing voice catches the attention of her “prince” when she sings at a masquerade ball.

It’s been fun to break down the key structural elements of a classic story and then see all of the variations they can come up with.  And these key elements provide a skeletal story structure, so students get experience writing a piece with a clear beginning, middle, and end, and they can be freed up to focus on developing vivid scenes within that structure.  Plus, in January, we’ll get to experience another take on Cinderella’s story when we go to an inventive production of Cinderella at the Arden Theatre, where a very dear friend of mine is starring as one of the stepsisters.  I’m looking forward to our discussions analyzing the story structure and creative choices after we see the show!

Skyping with a True Pro

Last Thursday afternoon, thirty-nine seventh graders crowded into my classroom.  I handed them index cards with the questions they’d prepared ahead of time, signed on to Skype, and set up the projector.  Soon, Kate Messner’s face appeared on the screen, and we began our virtual author visit.


Photo courtesy of FSS (thanks, Sarah!) because I was a little too frazzled making sure everything went smoothly to remember to take one.

The day before, we’d finished Capture the Flag, the first book in Kate’s middle-grade mystery series.  During our Skype session, students asked great questions about how Kate handles writer’s block; where she gets her ideas; whether she has a dog that inspired the dog in the novel; whether she likes Tootsie Rolls as much as another character in the novel does; and why we can’t yet buy Hide and Seek, the next book in the Silver Jaguar Society mystery series, when she already had a copy in hand to show us.  Then they got to hear the beginning of Hide and Seek, which is due out in April.

Kate Messner is truly a virtual author visit pro.  She taught middle school English for many years, so she has experienced Skype visits both as a teacher and as an author.  Our Skype visit was valuable not only because it was an exciting opportunity for students to connect with the author of a book they’d just read, but also because it gave me some ideas about Skyping best practices, for future virtual author visits I coordinate for my students…and maybe even for author visits I conduct myself some day, I hope!

Kate has written some articles in School Library Journal about virtual author visits: this one from 2009 includes a list of authors who Skype for free, and this one from 2010 expands on the benefits of virtual author visits.  Kate also emailed me a book order form before the Skype session; interested students filled out the form and brought in a check, and then I sent all of the forms and checks to an independent bookstore Kate chose.  She will go to that bookstore to sign my students’ books (as well as books that students from other schools have ordered), and then the bookstore will send the personalized, signed books to me before the holidays.  So we’re really getting almost all of the perks of an in-person author visit at no cost to the school and with minimal hassle.  Amazing!

Drawing to Learn: Visual Projects in the English Classroom

Recently, I got the chance to visit middle school English classes at another school as a professional development opportunity.  It was really helpful to step outside of my day-to-day routine, see what other teachers are doing, and then reflect on my own practices.

One teacher gave me some great ideas about independent reading projects. She showed me samples of student work for a couple of different assignments.  One was a literary analysis wheel, with a rotating window and several different segments, including things like themes and powerful language.  And one was a character analysis poster, with a summary, character traits and examples, and a background design that highlighted something important about the book.

I’m not particularly artistic, and when I was a student, I dreaded assignments that forced me to make a diorama or redesign a book cover.  As a writer, I squirm when someone advises me to storyboard a scene or draw out the shape of the plot in my novel.  And as a teacher, I don’t often think of artistic assignments, and if I ever do, I worry that they’re not as rigorous as more writing-intensive assignments.  But as I was looking at the students’ posters and literary analysis wheels, I was impressed by the original finished products and struck by how much critical thinking they’d done to create them.

So a couple of days after my visit, I did an experiment with my seventh grade students.  We’re just finishing Okay for Now, which has a prominent drawing subplot, so it seemed especially appropriate to try out an art-related assignment for that novel. I gave students some large white paper and asked them to create a visual representation of the plot, which includes many, many subplots.  I offered them the example of a story with three main subplots, which could basically be drawn out as a braid, and I gave them one guideline: to label the different subplots on their poster.  They came up with some great designs.  One group drew the plot as a flower, and they thought through which subplots would be the roots, the leaves, and the petals.  Another drew a paper bag with a smiley face, like the one on the book’s cover, with items representing each subplot spilling out of it.  Another drew a different bird for each subplot, because the main character draws several birds throughout the novel and each chapter is named after a bird.  And another drew a jacket that plays an important role in the story, with subplots as parts of the jacket and threads unraveling from it.

I’m planning to use a larger art-related project with my eighth grade students, too.  The eighth graders have been reading Gilgamesh in history class and learning about Joseph Campbell’s ideas about the hero’s cycle.  In English class, we’re going to read Paper Towns by John Green and analyze how it conforms to the classic hero’s journey and how it does not.  I’m going to give students this image of the hero’s cycle, which I first saw on Laurie Halse Anderson’s blog, and then have them create their own image that charts out the protagonist’s journey in Paper Towns.

Neither of these projects is replacing a writing assignment, but we’re at a busy point in the year (because of the crunch time between the holidays and because the seventh graders are working on a major search project in history class), so I have to assign less ambitious, less time-intensive writing assignments than I would otherwise.  This kind of artistic project will complement smaller writing tasks, and it seems like it will give students another way to develop and show off their understanding of topics we are working on.  Plus, it will result in some lovely work for me to hang in the classroom!

Teachers, what kinds of assignments do you include to complement writing assessments and offer students the opportunity to use different skills?  And writers, how do you use drawings or charts to support your writing process?