A Wild Imagination

"I'll probably vomit, you know.”


I say this to my husband, avoiding eye contact.

I had just shared my student’s comments about publishing my writing with my husband, who just nods and smiles knowingly, as he's been trying to get me to send things out for publication for months. His smirk of a smile irritates me, and I roll my eyes.

"You don't know how hard it is!" I say. "There's research! And you have to write query letters and find the right people to send it to! It doesn't just happen overnight!"

And still he smiles.



Stupid smiling husband who thinks he knows everything.

And it's not as if I've never looked into it. I follow author blogs! I read agent and publisher websites! I know things, for goodness sakes!

I've been to the website for the SCBWI so many times I have their logo burned into my retinas. I haven't joined, because, you know, then I'd feel like I should go to the critique groups and then I'd have to actually share my writing with people.

Yes! With people! Is there anything more horrifying than that?

He doesn't even look at me.

"At least it'd give you something new to write about."

"I mean it! And I'd cry! I'd go to share my stuff, start crying, throw up, and die of embarrassment. Right there, on the floor of the super awesome writer's meeting."

He sort of half glances at me.

"It could happen," I say. I force my smile to rein itself in. Even I know I'm being ridiculous, but if he sees me smile, he wins this round.

He sets his book in his lap, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "It could happen, I guess. They might kick you out for that. I probably would. But then you could write a new book about all the mean people, and it would be so good they would buy it and you could laugh at them!"

He wins. I can't help it; I'm laughing even though I don't want to.

But this publishing thing is just a fiasco. Have you ever seen those TV shows where some crazy dude is trying to solve a murder on his own, so he has approximately 800 yards of yarn strung back and forth all over a room connecting one newspaper clipping to another, with maps and headlines and big bold circles around the important bits?

Yeah. That's how I feel when I peek out from behind the curtain and view the big bad world of publishing.

My Yellow Brick Road

World Read Aloud Day was a huge hit yesterday, and our Skype with Navjot Kaur certainly stole the show. After a few minor audio complications, we were off and running! I am so thankful we had the opportunity to trade emails beforehand because Navjot was able to tie in some special connections from her book while talking with my class about things we've been learning. She had them spellbound for nearly an hour, which pretty much makes her magical in my book.

After the read aloud, hands were popping up all across the room -- 21 eager 4th graders ready to ask questions. Everything from "what inspired you to become a writer," to "where do your ideas come from," to "have you ever cried when your book was rejected." I definitely have a class filled with writers!

We ended our conversation with her and had about 5 minutes to reflect on the Skype session before we had to jump up and run off to recess.

And my kids completely shocked me with where the conversation went.

"Soooo, Mrs. Mogk," one of them began, "You have books you've written."

21 heads nodded at me, eyes wide.

"Well, yes," I say, unsure of where they're going.

"But... you haven't even tried to get yours published?"

21 students fold their arms and glare at me accusingly.

(Okay, fine, maybe I'm exaggerating a little.)

"Oh. Well, they aren't quite ready yet..."

"But you have stories! You read them to us all the time! And you finished your NaNoWriMo novel! You told us!"

21 little bodies start bouncing up and down, shouting things at me in rapid succession.

"Navjot Kaur said she kept sending out her book even though she CRIED sometimes when it was rejected!"

"You said you want to have a book published, so you should do it!"

"It would be SO COOL to have a teacher that was an author too!"

"Navjot Kaur said sometimes you have to believe in your story even when no one else does!"

I had a full-blown fist-pumping riot brewing in my room.

I laughed. Partly because I didn't know what to say, partly because they were right.

Thankfully, it was time to line up for recess.

At home, I started browsing publisher sites, submission guidelines, the how-to's of picture book publication. I felt a little dizzy. A little unsure of where I'm headed.

A little like Dorothy on her yellow brick road.

Am I ready for talking trees and flying monkeys and mean ol' witches?

I certainly hope so.

Ode to My Mama

Here are some things you need to know about my mom:

She took my sister and me to the library every week of our childhood. Seriously. What the United States Postal Service is for your mail? That's my mom and literacy. Girlfriend isn't playing around.

Every holiday, without fail, was made special by Mom. Yes, every one of them. We even had visits from The Great Pumpkin.

The woman can sing. I'm not talking about your run of the mill karaoke style jams. When mama sings, people listen. Partially, it's because they have no choice -- I mean, when a middle-aged woman is throwing down Joan Jett opera-style, you can't help but notice. As a teenager, this was the bain of my existence.  But on those days when I'm feeling bummed and have a ton of housework to do? Easy fix. Slip on some earbuds, turn on the iPod, and belt out some tunes. I'll never be asked to sing at weddings, as she once was, but I've got some pipes! I'm pretty sure I got those from her.

If you need a prayer warrior, call my mom. She has a direct line. She'll hook you up.

Growing up, my mom's goofy childlike antics were soo embarrassing. After all, I was 15 going on 50. I never quite knew how to be a kid. Apparently I age emotionally in reverse, because now? If you peek in my window around dinnertime, you'll see what I was growing up with. Every once in a while I pause, a little mortified -- I've become my mom! -- and then quickly go back to the dancing, singing, giggling antics of my own. I learned from the best. May as well use it.

She sends cards. Like, way more than the normal card-giving status quo. You could open up your mailbox one day and have a card for Groundhog's Day and a "Just Because I Love You" card waiting there for you at the same time. Who does this?? My mom, that's who. It's basically impossible to be around my mom and not feel unconditionally loved.

If you're dying for a good home-cooked meal, don't go to her. Mom, you know this is true, so don't even pretend to be offended! She will, however, stock her pantry with every one of your favorite ready made foods, drive 30 miles to find the perfect meal, and send you an insane amount of Christmas goodies for you to enjoy over the holidays. Oh, and if you're having a party? Yes, invite my mom. She makes THE best seven layer dip, chocolate eclair cake, and weird-yet-delicious blueberry cream cheese glob of dessertesque food you will ever taste. So, lesson here? My mom is more of a party girl than a wine and dine sort of chick. Go figure.

Oh, and you should know this. She is an amazingly talented writer. When I was a senior in high school, she took a writing class and shared her writing with me. It may have been one of the first times I realized we had some pretty important things in common.

There are many, many more things I could tell you about my mom. How she caught me hiding two baby birds when I was eight and called the Vet to help me put them back in their nest. Her unceasing praise and encouragement for every single thing I've ever told her I wanted to do. The countless surgeries and therapy sessions she shuttled me back and forth from when I was a kid. How she held my hand when I was in labor with my first son. How she's held my hand limitless times through the years when I have stumbled, fallen, and picked myself back up again.

My mom always tells me that I am all the things she always wanted to be. Strong. Independent. Brave. A go-getter! In fact, she told me all these things again just last week.

Here's the thing I need to tell my mom about herself: I am all those things because of who she is.

So thanks, Mom. A million words do not begin to describe the gifts you have given me, the lessons I have learned, the love I have gained.

Happy Birthday. Don't forget to make your wish when you blow out the candles tonight.

So Quickly

They grow up.

Your mom warns you. "Don't blink, it all goes so quickly," she says. "One day you're changing diapers, the next you're sending them off to college." And she shakes her head. She chuckles.

You think she is crazy.

It all goes so quickly? What a joke! What is quick about diapers and dishes and the ever present disaster in this house? Quickly. She's off her rocker.

You're convinced you'll have these moments forever. Relaxing together after Kindergarten, reading stories at bedtime, cheering at soccer games, hunched over homework.

These days are long. It's only the night that goes quickly. That last stolen glance into the bedroom; peaceful sleeping faces nestled against Star Wars bed covers. You yawn, mentally ticking off your list of to-do's before you too, can sleep.

But still, her words echo in your mind.

You close your eyes.

Middle school dances, pizza parties, last minute research papers; an uncomfortable itch starts to settle in your mind.

Was she right?

You blink.

There are high school schedules to figure out, which may as well be a corn maze attempted with a blindfold. You sit side by side deciphering the wide world of electives, thankful that they still want your help for something besides movie money.  Suddenly: Driver's Ed, dating, football games, first jobs, and then; an order form for a cap and gown?

It all goes so quickly, you think.

Why didn't anyone warn you? You need more time to prepare!

You chuckle. You shake your head.

And want, fiercely, to call your mom.

The Problem

The problem with writing is this:
there are too many words, too many
ideas; popping up like springtime dandelions,
ripe to be carried away by the wind.

This was nudging itself around my head while I tried to sleep last night. It's still barely a seedling, but I'll play with it... if I don't lose it, or forget the words, or worse, accidentally delete it...

I've been thinking a lot about organization of writing and what to do with all the ideas, all the words, all the fragments that I've collected.

Do I start a new journal for every new story? I new file folder? Buy a hard drive just for my writing?

I need to do something. Right now I have journals, files, documents, napkins (seriously), you name it -- strewn through my life like a breadcrumb trail.

And honey, we're not gonna make it home on bread alone.

So I pose this question, friends: how do you organize your writing? I'm ready to learn.

Secret Stories

So. Did you know that I have three picture books, one novel, an embarrassingly large amount of poetry (no, really - when I die and they find all these journals, my grandkids will probably rename me the crazy poetry-gram), and HA, untold abandoned novels in progress -- all hidden away in the deepest depths of my computer, or under my bed, or tucked into a bookcase?

I mean, seriously, people. I've been writing since ... well, let's just put it this way: in the summer between second and third grade I practically forced my mother to teach me how to write in cursive. I was seven, you guys.

While other kids were playing freeze tag and zooming down the streets on their banana-seated bicycles, I sat in the seat of the large picture window in our living room, pen in hand. I practiced my looping letters again and again, the sun warming my back as I filled page after page.

In elementary school, I devoured books like most kids eat up Saturday morning cartoons. I have my mom to thank for that. There wasn't a week that snuck by without us visiting the library. To this day, every time I enter a library I am filled with a sense of giddy contentment.

By the time I reached middle school, my best friend and I were writing plays nearly every day after school, dragging my kid sister by the hand to act them out with us. Granted, these plays were inspired by the Sweet Valley High series most of the time, but still, I was writing.

In high school I spent most of my time in class working on stories, oblivious to what was going on around me, and my evenings behind the computer, writing poems and short stories, saving them in a hidden file that only I could see.

I never shared my stories with anyone. They were too personal, not good enough, just a silly hobby, and many other lies I wrapped myself in as I was growing up.

Read. Write. Repeat.

That's the short story of my life.

And now, at the ripe old age of 36, I'm finally sharing what I write. I'm editing my completed novel and learning everything I can about the weird world of publication.

I can say, without grimacing (most days), that I am a writer.

It took a long time to get here. And there are still miles and miles to go.

And honestly, I'm not sure I would have found the courage to consider publishing a book or even say, "I'm a writer," had I not been fortunate enough to find the National Writing Project. This amazing body of believers has done more for my self confidence than anything else I've ever been a part of. Oh, and my husband, who almost daily asks me if I'm working on my story. His fierce confidence in me holds me up when I'm looking at the words I've written as if they're a three-headed monster dressed in drag.

So that's my secretiest secret. I'm a writer. I hoard books and quotes and words like a dragon guarding her richest treasures.

Only, it's time to let the secret go -- this chameleon has to stop hiding.

Beginning to Wonder

Today I (finally) picked up a copy of Wonder by R.J. Palacio. There's been such a buzz about it online recently that I've been dying to get to a store and dive in. We've talked about it in class; the kids are super eager to read it and compare it to Out of my Mind. Because of all the hubbub surrounding it, I expected greatness. What I did not expect was to be pulled nearly 30 years into my past, sucking back tears within the first few chapters.

I begin each year with my new batch of fourth grade students the same way -- the story of my very own first day of fourth grade.

Beyond any other year in school, it's my most memorable first day. It stands out above the beginning of middle or high school, and is even more vividly stamped in my brain than the first day of school in Soesterberg, The Netherlands. And being in a brand new country was pretty impressive, so I think that speaks loudly about my 4th grade memories.

Fourth grade was a year of new things: new house, new school, new state (we had just moved from Florida to Nevada); oh yeah, and one other thing -- new face.

Perhaps I left that detail out. On our family road trip that lead us to my dad's new assignment at Nellis Air Force Base, we were in the type of wreck that leaves your car flipped over on the side of the highway, resembling a small burnt-up toaster.

Fortunately, we all lived through it.
Unfortunately, half my face tried to fall off in the process.

So I began my new school as a pale, sickly, stitched up, bald spotted (head injuries are the worst, man), fraidy cat with dark circles under my eyes. I was pretty much a fourth grade zombie. That might be a point in my favor today, but back then zombies weren't exactly in.

This is the image in my head on each first day of school with my own students: staring through the window on the classroom door; one hand poised to grab the doorknob and walk in, one foot ready to tear through the school and run all the way home.

I actually love sharing this story with my students, because I think it tells them a few things about me --

1. I know what it feels like to be different.
2. My first goal every year is to make sure everyone feels safe socially and emotionally. All that other crazy academic stuff will fall into place after that.
3. I'm real.

They always respond the same way -- shocked that other kids were so mean to me, amazed that I look "normal" now, and ready to share their own scary school stories. It's a great way to start -- we get all the first day of school anxiety off our chest and happily move on.

It's an important story to share, and I'm glad there are authors like Sharon Draper and R.J. Palacio willing to write it all down.  I've tinkered with my own kid-sized Frankenstein story through the years, told in various ways, wondering if it's a story worth finishing.

And I think the first few chapters of Wonder have given me my answer.

Read Across America: A Seussified Day!

Today I sat back and watched my class fall into reading all over again.

We read the new pop-up version of The Lorax.

They loved it!

We watched the old version of the cartoon....

Many happy children!

We shared our favorite Dr. Seuss books to our First Grade buddies...

Then we drew our favorite part of the books and helped our buddies write their thoughts...

And everyone had a great time working together!

Suddenly it was time to go home, so we packed up our books, gave out some hugs and high fives, and promised to read through the weekend.

All in all, not a bad Friday.

And on Monday? On Monday, I get to tell my kids that they'll be skyping with author Navjot Kaur for FORTY-FIVE MINUTES on Wednesday!!  I am super hyped and I know they will be too!! I am so glad we got involved for World Read Aloud Day -- can't wait to share this special time with them.