Mirror, Mirror

This weekend I had the privilege of attending my first EMLA client retreat. Leading up to the flight on Friday morning I kept waiting to feel excited but couldn't move past jittery panic. Those head voices kept taunting, "This was a terrible idea. You don't belong there. You're a groupie and a hack. A HACK, I say!"

Of course every person I encountered was warm, accepting, funny, shining with intelligence and good grace and advice and creative energy. Still, it took me a while to quit acting like a groupie. At one point I got up the nerve to talk to one very gracious, articulate writer and the only thing I could think of to say was, "I really like your shoes."

Why is it so easy to be accepting of others and so hard to accept ourselves? Why are we so MEAN to ourselves?

The hotel bathroom had one of those free-standing mirrors that magnify your face by like 20 times. (And remind me later to punch whoever came up with that oh-so-flattering piece of ingenuity.) It finally dawned on me, glancing in that mirror and being horrified even though I knew it was a distorted reality, that I magnify my nonphysical shortcomings the same way, complete with bad lighting and a handy Big Book of Insults.

You know what? Nobody at the retreat was mean. Not one soul. They opened their arms wide and welcomed me, and something amazing happened. My little bubble of isolation and head voices couldn't withstand the awesomeness. I learned so much. I smiled and talked SO MUCH. I listened to people read from their work and yes, a little envy crept in but mostly I felt inspired and lifted, able to recognize room for growth in my own work and be excited about it without the customary negativity and self-doubt.

It was joy. I miss it already. After inheriting dozens of writerly siblings, you can’t help but come home and attack your work in progress with new vigor and clarity and…dare I say it? Confidence.

The Books That Shape Us

I've been thinking a lot about those few select, amazing books that define who we are. The ones we read over and over, whose characters own our hearts and souls. The books that come along at critical points in life, from childhood on up, to help us make sense of the world. Books that are beloved because they took us to magical places, or revealed certain truths, or held a mirror up for us to examine our lives, both trials and triumphs.

I've blogged before about childhood favorites, including Trixie Belden and Bread and Jam for Frances. Cleary and Blume were staples, along with Cynthia Voigt and Shel Silverstein. Others I didn't discover until college, like the Narnia books (I know!) and Lloyd Alexander's Prydain chronicles and Susan Cooper's Dark Is Rising series. A kid lit class in college opened my eyes to an entire world of authors I'd never known: Ursula Le Guin, Diana Wynne Jones, Roald Dahl, Zilpha Keatley Snyder, Frances Hodgson Burnett. I became a regular at used book stores. It was a second childhood, a Renaissance, that's still going strong--and still shaping who I am as both a reader and a writer.

The talent of today's authors is no less jawdropping. I have to fight with myself over every new Megan Whalen Turner book, whether to gobble it up or savor every page.

Where did it all start? With my mom. She passed away this summer, and the last few years of her life were so tough on her. Circumstances required that I assume the role of caregiver, and it deeply strained the relationship between us that I'd always cherished. But a little distance has granted me a wealth of perspective. I've been able to reflect on her legacy, on the many gifts she bestowed, not the least of which was a love of reading. I don't remember how often we read together, or how consistently, but I do know that after every doctor's appointment to treat my persistent tonsillitis, she took me to the drugstore to pick out a new book. She read aloud to me, classics like David Copperfield and Alice in Wonderland and Little Women. And she indulged my frequent trips to the library. She didn't mind that I brought home armfuls of books. She raised an eyebrow but didn't fuss during my many obsessive phases, from ghosts to poetry to classical LPs.

The past fews years I've been watching my oldest son, now 11, devour books. He prefers series, like Fablehaven and Harry Potter and The Secret Series (This Book Is Not Good for You), because he can revisit familiar characters like old friends. I can't help but agree.

However the landscape of publishing changes in the next decade, I hope he'll always have a book in his hand. And I hope my mom knows, somehow, that every time I pick up a book, a part of her is there with me.

Childhood Favorites, Part III

Bread and Jam for Frances appealed to me because I was a picky eater, and because Frances made up songs to work through her problems. The best word I can think of here is authenticity. Frances's actions rang completely true. We were of one mind, Frances and I. Why shouldn't a girl be able to eat the one thing she loves over and over and over?

And again, looking at it today I'm struck by the skillful use of color and simplicity. Funny how when you're young sometimes you can't express exactly why you like something. You just do. It's reassuring to know that on occasion, my younger self had excellent taste.

Childhood Favorites, Part II

Next on the list of awesome childhood books: Harold and the Purple Crayon, by Crockett Johnson.

Man, I loved that book. Elegant simplicity. Delightful ingenuity. Infinite possibility. I couldn't wait to turn the pages, to see how Harold would draw himself into or out of each new predicament.

Looking at it now I'm amazed at the brilliant use of space and color, at how masterfully those two elements spark the imagination, inviting the reader to step into the book and look around. It was a shared experience: me and Harold, side by side, out for a stroll in the big, wide world.

Childhood Favorites, Part I

This week I felt an impulse to revisit a few of the books I loved as a kid. No doubt there are many I've forgotten, and some I look at now and think, "Bzuh?". Tastes change and memories fail, but there will always be standouts that leave a lasting impression. Today I pay tribute to the irrepressible teenage detective, Trixie Belden.

Trixie was fearless and smart (though her brothers had to tutor her in math, if I remember right). She wasn't traditionally pretty, like Di or Honey, but cute in her own way--at least Jim thought so! Even 25 years ago the books were hopelessly dated, but I couldn't get enough of them. Who could resist a flawed, likeable heroine who solved mysteries and whose favorite word was "Jeepers!"?

Reading Habits

My daughter's current bedtime story of choice is OLIVIA.

I don't know whether to be thrilled at her excellent taste in books, or terrified that she thinks of Olivia as a kindred spirit.

Our oldest just tore his way through the first four Percy Jackson books and wants to see the new movie on Friday. This makes me insanely happy. He's read all the Harry Potters and Artemis Fowls and Fablehaven books. He's halfway through the Prydain chronicles. I could use some recommendations on middle-grade boy series. We have the Dark Is Rising books but they're not quite to his taste. Maybe the Tripod books? Hmm. Time for a trip to the bookstore.

Our seven-year-old claims not to like reading, but he loves dogs even more than Mario Kart, so we're reading dog chapter books every night in hopes of getting him hooked. It's kind of like a puzzle, finding the right book for the right kid.

What a wonderful problem to have.

Sleepy Sunday

I was 20 minutes late for church today because I drove right past the exit because I was daydreaming, and the next exit is 10 miles down the road. This is not the first time I've done this. *shakes head at self and sighs*

Also I wanted to share a cool quote I read on Harold Underdown's site, The Purple Crayon:

"The children know. They have always known. But we choose to think otherwise: it hurts to know the children know. If we obfuscate, they will not see. Thus we conspire to keep them from knowing and seeing. And if we insist, then the children, to please us, will make believe they do not know, they do not see. They are remarkable--patient, loving, and all-forgiving. It is a sad comedy: the children knowing and pretending they don't know to protect us from knowing they know."

-- Maurice Sendak, preface to I Dream of Peace (UNICEF, HarperCollins l994). With thanks to Sara Jane Boyer.

Over Sea, Under Stone

So I'm finally getting around to posting a book review. I decided to start with my all-time favorite children's book, Over Sea, Under Stone by Susan Cooper. This cover is gorgeous, by the way, and one I've not seen before. It's by David Wiesner of Tuesday and Flotsam fame (LOVE his work!).

I pulled this out recently for another read and decided to take a red pen to it to decipher what made me fall in love with the story. First, the easy stuff:

-Bored siblings looking for trouble
-Mystery, adventure, chases, old books, treasure maps

-Humor

-British kids using expressions like "Smashing!" and "Rubbish!" and "It's jolly difficult."

Simon, Jane, and Barney, with the help of their mysterious Great-Uncle Merry (a.k.a. Merlin), must evade the terrible Mr. Hastings and recover a relic linked to King Arthur. The kids are smart; they're determined and sneaky. They tell each other to shut up and fight over stupid stuff. But their bond also grows throughout the book. The tension is top-notch, the setting enchanting, the descriptive passages rich and full.

And I love the chase scene with Simon and "the boy Bill" that goes on for pages and pages.

Yes, it was written in 1965. Yes, some of the language is dated. But, like The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, I could read it again and again and always find something new to love.

I've heard people say they prefer the other books in the Dark Is Rising series, the books steeped in Arthurian lore that focus on the character Will (an Old One like Merlin), but I love the idea of normal, "real-life" kids getting mixed up in an otherworldly mystery with only their wits and courage to guide them. Good stuff.

Farewell, Mr. Alexander

Lloyd Alexander, one of my all-time favorite authors, passed away May 17. I had the chance to meet him in college, and it was an experience I'll always treasure. What a cool guy.

My college roommate, Helena, and I took a course together focusing on his work. She blogged about the experience here, much more eloquently (and with a better memory for detail) than I ever could.