#SOL14 - #IMWAYR - The Summer of Letting Go

Last November I found myself in Boston for the annual NCTE conference. I love this conference, but let's be honest -- one of the huge perks of going is so I can fangirl all over the place like a... uh... fangirl? (Shut up, it's Monday.)

Anyway, because of Teachers Write! I already knew that Gae Polisner was a seriously rockstar kind of chick -- like, you guys, she may be one of the few remaining reasons I even use FaceBook. I prefer Twitter, but since all Gae's funniest moments seem to happen on FaceBook, I've decided to stick around a while. She makes me laugh, and I can use more laughter in my life.

Also, she is a brilliant YA author. (I'm a little jealous.) How do I know this?

Let's go back to Boston at NCTE, shall we?

I posted on some form of social media (I've slept since then, give me a break) that I was sad to have missed Gae's book signing session, you know, because she's awesome and maybe if I stand close enough to her I can pick up on some of her wondrous writing juju.

She posted back that she happened to have one little ol' arc of The Summer of Letting Go still, and would I like it.

Um, yeah!

Luckily we both happened to be hanging out in the hotel lounge (I was working, she was rubbing elbows with hoity-toity's because that's what rockstar authors do), and after spinning around and around each other crazily we managed to bump into one another.

The stars in the heavens sang, y'all.

Okay, well maybe not. (No really, they did.)

We talked about our boys and our dogs and I'm not even sure what else, and she said she'd bring the arc to her session the next morning for me.

Each word, every interaction, speaks to the heart of what it is like to grow up a mixed-up teen in a very mixed-up world.

And she did, with additional Polisner scribbles added as a lovely bonus. I consider it a work of art. And not just because it's so stinking cute, either.

Gae is as empathetic a writer of Young Adult fiction as she is in person. She is kind and true and all the very best bits of her sing out in her writing. I gobbled up The Summer of Letting Go on my plane ride home to Dallas, Texas, only setting it down long enough to walk off the plane and begrudgingly talk with my husband on the ride home because really -- Just let me read! (Sorry, Husband, you know I love you.)

In this book, Francesca (known as Beans to her family), was supposed to be watching her little brother, Simon, at the beach, when he drowns. Afterward, her family begins to drift apart and Francesca blames herself. Then she meets Frankie Sky, a boy that seems all too similar to the brother she lost, and her life may never be the same.

Although Francesca is hurting and feels as if she is also losing her parents and her closest friend, Frankie Sky is so full of life and mischief that his rolling antics add just the right lightness to this achingly beautiful and memorable story of loss and grief and life and learning how to tread water again after all the trauma begins to wash away. Polisner's treatment of Francesca and each of her relationships with the other characters in this story are powerful. I found myself reliving those confused days of trying to navigate friendships, boyfriends, and parents that seem too far away to help, and cried right along with Francesca through it all. 

This is a book I want to put in the hands of every teenage reader, if only to let them know that there are authors out there who get it, there are adults out there who can help, and there are books out there that sometimes (just sometimes) can help us understand that we aren't alone, even when we are hurting.

Go. Read. Cry. Laugh. Live.

Isn't that what all good stories are supposed to help us do?

Slice of Life: Stop, it's NaNoWriMo Time!

November is definitely my favorite month of the year. Why, you ask? Well...

• It begins one day after Halloween (candy and costumes, guys - c'mon.)
• It's (typically) less than 100 degrees here in sunny Texas
• NaNoWriMo mania means I get to writewritewrite my heart out!
• I get to spend every morning before school writing along side several 4th and 5th grade students -- no grades, no homework, just a bunch of writers with a shared purpose!

This year I used Animoto for the first time to make a video for all 150 students to watch. They were pretty excited!

Make your own photo slideshow at Animoto.

I'm eager to see how many show up on the 29th to learn more! This year I'm starting my club just a few days early to help students flesh out ideas and get the ball rolling. In the meantime, I thought it might be helpful to round up some handy NaNoWriMo apps and sites that will help all us wacky WriMo'ers get the job done!

• Write or Die: I'm a huge fan of both the desktop and iPad version of this writing block killah. The concept is simple: as long as you type, you're fine. Stop typing and the trouble begins! This is a great way to get out some fast writing bursts when you're lacking motivation or need some extra oomph to keep writing.
• Storyist is another great program for writers, available on iPad or Mac. Maybe it's the gadget lover in me, but I fell in love with all the options for organizing various story elements. And if you're a little on the... um, less than organized side, Storyist is a huge help!
• Okay, okay, I know. You want the free stuff. When it comes to free writing apps, there's a long list to choose from. Honestly, I like the extra bells and whistles Storyist provides me, and feel like if I just wanted to write without organization I could use my Notepad. Alternatively, I've seen people use apps like Evernote and Write 2 Lite for on-the-go writing.
• But most importantly, be sure to hang out on the NaNoWriMo forums for tons of advice, tips, and tricks! Being involved in a group of writers makes all the difference when it comes to reaching the finish line at 50,000 (or more!) words.

So what are you doing to prepare for the NaNoWriMo frenzy of writing?

Slice of Life Tuesday: A Manifesto Begins

I've learned a lot in the past six weeks, but mostly, I've (re)learned this:

I believe in a reader’s right to choose.

Strike that, I believe in a child’s right to choose.

I believe in a child’s right to be treated like a person, not a statistic. Not a test grade.

Choose how they learn best.

Choose how they represent their learning.

Choose what they want to read.

Choose how they write.

I believe in choice.

The choice to teach in a way that lines up with your beliefs and meets the needs of your students.

I believe in standing firm on your principles.

I believe in change.

I believe when we offer students the opportunity to be great, they amaze us with their excellence.

I believe teaching is about people, not numbers.

I believe we have lost our way.

I believe there is a way back. 

It is the still, quiet voice muffled beneath scores and paperwork and meetings and data.

The still, quiet voice that -- years ago -- urged you to become a teacher in the first place.

I believe that voice has a right to be heard.

And I believe we each have the strength to push that muffled voice from a whisper to a shout -- not just for ourselves; not for the weary eyes, aching feet, boggled brains and burnt out souls of all the teachers across the nation.

No, not only for them -- for me, for you.

I believe that voice has a right to be heard because our children deserve better.

They deserve rooms rich with conversation, laughter that rings through the halls, amazement in the pure joy of learning -- which, let’s be honest -- has been lost beneath the bubble sheets and reading passages and leveled books that bore would-be readers and scientists and Nobel Peace Prize winners at such extreme levels that we have shut down their minds.

I believe our children have the right to be allowed to learn.

I believe change is necessary.

And I believe change is impossible, unless we listen closely.

Listen closely to that still, quiet voice – the one that insists there is a better way.

Because there is. There is a way beyond boxed curriculum sets and test preparation. Beyond extrinsic rewards for minimal expectations. A way beyond what we have let education become.

And if you’ve forgotten your voice, if the demands placed on you have become so stringent that your passion for learning is barely a smoldering ember – put down your clipboard, leave the stacks of papers behind, push open that door and walk outside.

Seek out the playground.

Seek out the children digging in the dirt.

Seek out the boys on the basketball court and the girls doing cheers all lined up in the grassy field. (And yes, seek out the girls playing soccer and the boys reading beneath a tree.)

Seek out the Kindergarteners asking, asking, always asking for more.

Seek out the loner. The angry one. The kids poking bugs with sticks.

Seek out the wisdom in each child, the delight in their faces, the yearning for knowledge.

Fill your lungs with it. Smile, if just for a moment, remembering why you are doing this in the first place.

And let your still, quiet voice rumble and roar.

And be heard.

For you, for your students, for our nation.

Be heard.

Writerly Wednesday: Beware the Kraken?

Let's start with the important announcement of the day:

I am a big, fat liar-head.

After spending last week revising my current picture book manuscript, I felt like I needed to push it through my crit group one last time. Sadly, this means waiting a couple of weeks before I get to send in my YA chapters (which I promised last week I would do!), but it felt right to keep working on the picture book. The more I revise it, the less it feels like me and I wonder what that means. Is it not really picture book material? Should I pour more into it and sculpt it into a chapter book? Do I have any clue what I am doing? Is it all just complete crap? Or, of course, the most logical place for my brain to leap:

Maybe I'm not a writer, after all.

Yep, that's right -- I'm admitting it. When I have even the tiniest mouse-sized doubt enter my mind, I immediately jump ship -- and although I may be wading in ankle deep water, I'm envisioning sharks and squid and the Kraken all torpedoing straight for me. Death is imminent, my friends. Imminent.

So let's review, shall we?

How I feel when doubting myself as a writer:

Actual level of threat when said writing is in "peril":

And even though somewhere in the extremely tiny logic-side of my brain, I know -- I KNOW -- I am being ridiculous... I still mope. I'm not sure if this has ever been identified in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, but it really needs to be. We can call it Writers' Hysteria Syndrome.

Please tell me I'm not alone here.

In other news, here are some nifty writerly websites I spent time at this week (when I wasn't throwing darts at my WIP, I mean.)

1. Query Shark - a crit partner sent me here, and it's genius. Really. You can trust me, regardless of how the above rant may prove otherwise.
2. Verla Kay's Blue Boards - I'm sure I've shared this before, but it's really worth the time if you're working on building your craft!
3. Jo Knowles' LiveJournal - I just finished reading See You at Harry's, which is wise and beautiful and funny and true, and you should read it too. Jo has been posting weekly writing warm-ups in conjunction with Teacher's Write, and they are always a great way to get started.
4. Stenhouse Blogstitute - this is a great site to follow if you happen to be doubly blessed as a teacher and a writer (hahaha). This week Jeff Anderson is the writer and he shares some great tips, including...

A writer in motion stays in motion.

Kind of difficult to argue with that, even if your logic-center is as small and whispery as mine tends to be. So I guess this week's lesson is simply this: The Kraken is less likely to get you if you keep in motion!!

Or something. I'll leave the lesson-learning up to you.

Writerly Wednesday

June was a writerly kind of month! There was...

• Kate Messner's Teacher's Write! Virtual Workshop (which is -thankfully- still happening!)
• North Star of Texas Writing Project's Young Writers' Camp
• A brand new Caffeine-Fueled Online Critique Group
• Fleshing out a new WIP, and
• Editing a close to finished PB manuscript

While each of these felt monumental in my growth as a writer and a teacher, I think I've learned the most about myself through our new critique group.

People. Let's be honest. Sharing your writing is hard to do. It's not like sharing a recipe, or a good shoe sale, or a brownie -- although, honestly, sharing brownies is pretty hard, also.

But sharing writing is different. We see it in our kids at school -- at the beginning of the year, when I offer the opportunity for author's chair, I am met with a resounding silent wall of dread. It takes time for them to dip their toes in and realize there are no sharks waiting to snatch them off to the deep, dark terror they are anticipating.

As adults, although we like to consider ourselves all grown up and mature and stuff, it's not so different.

For our first round of critiques, I shared my picture book manuscript with the group. There were a few good reasons for this: it's short, it's been through some revisions already so it's a quick and easy piece for me to work on, I reeeaaalllllly want to get it out into the hands of publishers, and I don't have a high level of emotional attachment to this particular piece. It wasn't blood, sweat, and tears to write. It's uber low-threat on the share factor.

And the critiques came back exactly as expected. They saw the same places I had noted that needed changes. They gave excellent advice. It was a nice, safe exchange.

But again. Let's be honest. It was a nice, safe exchange because I am scared to release my YA novel's hand and let it go skipping merrily down the street to meet other people all alone! In fact, after finally rereading it to begin revisions, I realized there is so much more work I want to do with it (so much that needs doing!) -- and I basically wilt when I think of showing it to anyone in its current state of imperfection.

In fact, I've been so upset over the necessary revisions on this novel, that I have pretty much ignored it for the past two months. Basically, I'm hiding it in a closet until I can deal. It's good I don't handle parenting the same way I handle writing. Yipes. 

However, serendipitous as my life has been lately, even though I have attempted to shove that sucker in the closet and move on to new things, my precious novel won't give up. It's in the latest news stories I see snippets of on Twitter and FaceBook, it's singing to me through my favorite songs, it's waving to me from books I am reading, and it's bubbling up and sitting right beside me in my dreams.

Apparently, my sweet little novel has decided she's done spending time in the closet.

Hai. My name is Kelly. And I am an Insecure Writer. And next Monday, when it is time to submit pages for critique, I am going to send in my baby -- the first chapters of this novel that won't let me go -- and although it may hurt, I am going to grow because of it.

And if I'm lucky, so will my novel.

I don't believe in...

Tuesday's quickwrite exercise over at Teacher's Write! Workshop had us looking at poetry! If you know me even the tiniest bit, you can imagine the inner carthweels of happiness I was doing. There are several amazing poems in the comments from Tuesday -- even if you aren't doing Kate Messner's workshop this month, they are definitely worth checking out.

The more I write, and possibly because my current WIP is so near to my heart, the more I realize that all the little (and not so little) hurts that I've "healed" from over the years aren't as gone as I believed. Writing through the hard parts is a little like letting the poison slowly be sucked from the marrow of these wounds. Perhaps finally taking on the challenge of writing this old-new story will mean some real healing can take place. It's an interesting revelation how intertwined the two are.

After reading Sara Lewis Holmes' unbelievably fun and witty poem, Credo, several of us tried out our own.

Here's my quickwrite response to an "I don't believe..." poem:

I don’t believe that kids should grow up,

unless I’m being honest,

and then I know they must, and they should,

and my heart beats a little faster and my

breath sort of stops in my throat

when I see these little grown ups

walk out the door and into their future.

I don’t believe in negative thoughts,

in fact, I don’t believe in them so much

that I watch them wink out of existence,

one. by. one.

But sometimes, in the darkest dark of night,

I worry those vanishing thoughts

are still alive somewhere,

and just might come back to haunt me.

I don’t believe in just one right way,

one black or white answer, a perfect solution

to save the day.

There are too many colors to paint, too many

notes to be sung, too many wondrous words

to settle on just one.

And I don’t believe in sitting still;

I’m a river, not a pond.

And life, well –

life is too twisty-turny,

filled with grown-up little kids, and

secret thoughts that wake your heart from sleeping,

and then,

there are all those words waiting to be written.

Sitting still just won’t do.

Home, Not Home

Have I mentioned how thankful I am for Kate Messner's Teacher's Write workshop? I'm finally making some headway with my latest WIP, and that familiar prickle is running along my spine, telling me this roller coaster will be off and running soon.

On Thursday, our quick write exercise had us looking at "home" and then rewriting our idea of home if it were changed to the point of no longer being home. I dropped my new MC into this quickwrite idea and here is what I came up with - completely rough and unedited! Eep!


"C'mon in! You're gonna love what I've done with the place!"

My father grins at me, wiping sweat from his dirt-smudged forehead. The Florida heat is stifling today, and it's difficult to know if my breath is so shallow from the blanket of humidity or my rattled nerves.

I follow, through the garage that remains stacked with boxes of Grandma's old fabric, and down the hallways that lead to the living room. White squares of paint blink at me from the otherwise cream-colored walls, reminding me that old family portraits and my grandmother's paintings once hung here. These halls are nothing more than an empty graveyard now. Little puffs of sawdust escape from beneath my feet with each step I take. I feel my stomach begin to tug itself inside-out, as if warning me to turn and run. But it's too late. I step into what once was my grandparent's relaxed sitting room and survey the damage.

Dad's gaze seems cemented to my face, and he watches me in that childish sort of "Look mom, no hands!" kind of joy.

I haven't been back in years, and as my stomach swirls around like a laundromat washer stuck on spin, I regret coming here today.

I squint my eyes shut in the glare of all this newness. My mind shoves it out; a film reel that's skipped a beat and come undone, spitting images out in a cacophony of light and color.

Inhale.
Remember.
Exhale.

I open my eyes, seeing the colonial style red cushioned rocker that my Papa basically lived in for as many years as I knew him. When we came to visit, his face was always buried behind a crisp newspaper, wisps of vanilla-scented pipe smoke trailing up from behind his paper screen. I'd poke my head around the paper and shout, "Boo!" and in response his whole belly shook with laughter. His often stoic face flushed pink, lips breaking into a wide grin, revealing the whitest teeth I had ever seen. As a child, I marveled at those mysterious pearl teeth. I decided he must have sat around brushing them all the time to keep them so shiny.

On a good day, Papa pulled me onto his lap and grabbed a new book from the ramshackle mountain of papers, magazines, and books stacked on the wooden table beside the rocker. We read together until Grandma called me to the kitchen to help with dinner. There was one television in their home, but it was rarely on. Entertainment came from shared work, books, and conversation.

Grandma, I think to myself, and my eyes seek out the small gallery kitchen that I spent many childhood hours in, learning the basics of bread-making, vegetable peeling, and best of all, cobbler baking.

I always loved the position of Papa's rocker. From where we sat, Grandma's constant activity was a quiet comfort, like watching hummingbirds in flight. She was tucked just behind the kitchen bar, but still visible. Sometimes she hummed quietly to herself, and sometimes she merely worked in silence, only the clattering of measuring cups and bowls and knives against cutting boards to accompany the sight of her quick and constant motion.

Eventually these words would come quietly from the kitchen: "And where is my little helper hiding today?"

Papa and I grinned at one another as I slid from his lap to dash into the kitchen and report for duty.

Kitchen duty with Grandma might mean a trip to the garden to hunt down collard greens, tomatoes, and fresh berries, or it could be as simple as peeling potatoes while she prepped a huge salad. The great thing about working with Grandma was that she never forced a conversation. She shared the secrets of her recipes, spread apart lettuce leaves in the sink under a cold stream of water, explaining how to choose the very best pieces, and both amazed and frustrated me with her ability to use a spatula to transfer every last drop of cake batter from mixing bowl to pan. 

Standing here, on the cusp between the once cozy parlor and lesson-rich kitchen, I could almost feel them near again.

Papa's booming voice, reading my favorite fairy tales.
Grandma's wrinkled hands guiding mine as we kneaded dough together.

Inhale.
Remember.
Exhale.

But even the worst film glitch will eventually get back on track, spliced apart and mended to reveal a somewhat smilar picture. And when I open my eyes this time, the reality of Dad's monstrous renovation comes slamming into view.

Gone are the dark blue and burgundy sofas, the adored rocker, the deep cherry end tables, the tiny gallery kitchen with the scratchy bar stools I spent hours sitting at, watching my grandma at work.

I once laughingly referred to their house as The Home That Technology Forgot. No one in their right mind could say that now. The centerpiece of the newly wide, open space is a theatre-worthy flat screen TV, surrounded by a myriad of consoles, speakers, and devices I'm not even familiar with. White carpet practically sparkles beneath gleaming white chairs that rival my Papa's pearly choppers. The bar separating the living room from kitchen has been removed. In its place is a square, marble-topped island. A chrome pot rack is suspended from the ceiling just above the island. Grandma's old white stove, which held countless family meals and carefully prepared desserts, has been replaced with a sleek, alien appliance that flashes a bright blue code at me from its touch screen display panel.

There is nothing left here that resembles my sweet and solid grandparents. Nothing old and wise and funny. None of the childhood pieces I have worked for years to cherish and keep alive in a heart that otherwise could easily release the good and turn cold, forgetting what kept me afloat all those years.

Tears slip down my cheeks, betraying my need to appear unaffected by my father's selfish changes to my childhood safe place.

As usual, he misunderstands.

"Yeah, nearly brought me to tears too. Who knew this scrapyard could transform so much, right? It's a freakin' Cinderella story!"

He laughs, lost in his own amusement, and lumbers over to a slim, white laptop resting on a chrome end table.

I gulp back the words, grit my teeth against the anger that boils beneath my rib cage. 

"Let me show you the network I've got set up here," he begins, his back to me as his fingers slip across the keyboard.

Another deep breath, and I let my head hang in defeat. He has erased every good memory I have, filling this house with everything about him I've attempted to forget.

Something catches my eye through the doorway that leads into the hall. A stack of unframed canvases rest like falling dominoes against the wall, hidden in the shadow cast from a nearby ladder. My breath catches in my throat.

"Hey Dad," I call, my feet already leading me away from his spot at the computer, "what's this stuff?"

He half-heartedly glances toward me, one hand waving me away. 

"Eh. Just some old junk of Mom's that didn't sell in the Estate Sale. Salvation Army will be here in the morning to grab everything that's left. Now come check this out..." his words bleed away, and I hear the clicking at the laptop pick back up.

I squat by the hodgepodge of canvases, my fingers hungrily flipping through them one by one. This junk, as my father refers to it, turns out to be a collection of Grandma's oil and watercolor paintings. Brilliant beachfront sunsets, long-stemmed cattails bending in the breeze, endless sand dunes rolling across the horizon; all captured by my grandmother's steady hand. 

My hands close over a selection of the paintings and I lift them to my chest. I stand, fresh tears demanding their way forward, and turn away from my dad. I slip though the hall, unnoticed. The heat slams against me when I return through the garage, embracing the treasure in my arms. I slide back into my rusted out Toyota Camry -- the same car my Grandma helped me buy not too many years ago -- place the paintings in the seat beside me, and back out of the driveway.

A smile catches itself on my lips, and I can't help but think of Papa's whole-faced grin, and the way he stood beside the stunted palm trees in the yard each time I left, one arm around Grandma, so tiny beside him, and one hand in the air, waving enthusiastically. I always honked in response, acknowledgement, but not a goodbye. I never wanted there to be a goodbye. I always knew I'd be back again soon enough.

This time, as my car glides past the yellowed yard, I wave. I wave until the house slips behind me, winking out of sight from my rear view mirror.

Slice of Life Tuesday: Summer Words & Story Blurbs

Summer feels delayed this year. Maybe it's because while other teachers were tidying up their files and locking their doors for the last time of the 2011-2012 school year, I was packing my room into boxes and moving all my many teacherly items to a new room.

Or perhaps it's because my oldest son graduated from high school this year, and we spend the week following the last day of school in a whirlwind of ceremonies and celebrations, which included a triple-helping of family gatherings. 

We rock out, even when graduating.

All of these things have me tilted slightly off-balance. It's not my normal June. There was no neat and tidy exit from school, no final day dance-off in the kitchen at home with the kids, no 48-hour sleep-a-thon signaling the beginning of a cozy month (or two) to write lazily through my days.

Instead, the boys and I have slowly crept into summer. I feel as if I have my hands out before me in the dark, worried I'll slam into something that sends me hurtling back towards no-summer-land. It's weird. So hopefully you'll pardon me for being even more addle-brained than normal.

I'm ever-thankful for Kate Messner's (free!) Teachers Write! workshop, which is helping me ease into summer. Each day there is a different writing activity to explore, and there's even a FaceBook group of over 700 members sharing writing and mumble-grumbling when the writing doesn't come so easily. And did I mention it's free?

I'm still a little behind, working on an outline for my new-old work-in-progress, but I love reading the amazing words all the other teacher-librarian-writers are sharing. It takes a whole lot of courage to put your writing out there for others to see, but the growth from this scary little act is unreal. It's hard to explain, really -- but when you think that this is what we ask our students to do on a daily basis -- share! grow! learn! take risks! -- it seems only common sense that we step out of the shadows and do the same.

So, in the spirit of sharing, here's a bit of what the Teachers Write! workshop has me working on this week. I'm mostly just throwing words on paper, trying to scratch out the details of a story that has to be told. I've written and rewritten many versions of this story through the years, collecting bits and pieces and putting them together in the only way I know how. In the past two years, it became clear to me that this is THE story. The one I have to tell, because it's been trying to get out for so long.

Anyhow -- enough blabbing. Here's a rough snippet of the setting I played with last night:

Gulf Breeze Elementary was more sand than school. It seeped into our halls, permeated the carpet, and mingled with our textbooks. The playground was a white, sandy expanse of land filled with all the normal recess necessities: swing set, parallel bars, jungle gym, kickball field and a whole lot of forest lining the farthest edges of our dusty recess paradise. For a loner like me, it was easy to get lost just beyond the thick evergreen branches at the edge of our playground. It was easy to create a world that belonged only to me. A world that was safe. From my haven in the trees, I dug in red clay until my hands were stained ochre right up to my knobby little wrists. I etched out pictures and traced words in the sand with sharp, broken twigs. Games of tag danced by, just feet from my hidden sanctuary in the shade. I listened as their words giggled past me, only to be lost in the trees, “Missed me, missed me, now ya gotta kiss me!” And I watched from afar as girls with golden hair and skin hooked one leg around a high chin-up bar and sailed round and round, spinning like pinwheels, their long hair making colorful streamers in their wake.

It's difficult sometimes to remember that I'm not seeking perfection when working on a story. I'm seeking words -- feelings, glimpses of character, the story revealing itself word by word. Throw all those words out there into the open, mix them around, and let perfection come from the creative imperfection of the process.