Writing Conference

Literary “summer camp” is how explained my week away from my 7- and 2-year-old daughters. And that's exactly what it was—summer camp for adults. Several of my writing friends and I have been planning this for several months. We signed up for the same workshop at the conference, studying writing under Julianna Baggott. We rented a condo nearby. I flew my mom in to take care of my kids. We planned everything. Christie even wrote a ridiculously detailed itinerary (which I loved, by the way) about what our literary week would be like.

And it hasn't disappointed. Ninety-five percent of the conversations have been about writing and reading and reading about writing. We have free writes each morning, where one of us chooses a topic and we all write with our pens (not on our computers) about that for several minutes. We've attended readings, book signings by the resident authors, afternoon panels about getting published and creating and perfecting our “craft” as they like to put it here.

I even got up today and read in the open mic session. “Who here are you ever going to see again?” was one of the comments that gave me the courage to pencil my name in on the list. Well, that and Julianna Baggott told me to do it (If someone tells you to jump off a bridge. . .) Oh yeah, and there was one other thing that gave me the courage—the fact that the agent I met with on Tuesday (beautiful Eve Bridburg) wants to read my entire 82,000-word manuscript. So I did it. I got up there and I read my opening line about hating flowers and the next two pages. It was scary and my voice shook and I stumbled over some words, but I did it. And it feels good to have done somethng that is so uncharacteristic, kind of like jumping off a bridge and the adrenaline that goes along with that.

My head is so crammed with good literary advice, motivational stuff, metaphors, images, descriptions. I just want to get home and continue writing, writing, writing. But my head's spinning and I'm having a hard time concentrating. I want to read—oh, but I want to write. And I kind of want to make this week I've looked so forward to last just a little bit longer—even though I miss my kids with a fierce passion I've kept kindled inside. I can already picture the joyous reunion tomorrow afternoon—there's hugging and kissing and hugging and laughing and maybe a little crying. Whatever, I'll take it.

And I'll take home all that stuff I'm learning—about the “what happens” not being important but “how it happens,” where a novel should begin, and all those marked-up copies of my first chapter of “Isle of Arden,” my take on As You Like It for young adults. I'm currently on page 154. It's a light airy thing, something that's really fun to write after spending the previous three years working on something so dark that my eyes watered as I explained the plot to the agent. “I know this is unprofessional,” I'd said to her as I wiped my eyes, “but it's just so close to me.”

“Send it to me,” she'd said.

“You mean like the first three chapters?” I'd asked.

“No, the whole thing. I want to start reading and not stop.”

I don't think she could have known how she just made my world. As I explained to my writing friends shortly after as I was nursing my headache of happiness later that afternoon, the beginning of my list of priorities goes something like this: “my family” and right underneath it is “publishing the book I spent the last four years petting and primping and loving and holding so close to me I had a hard time breathing.” Way after that comes my house, car, the closets full of European designer clothes for my girls, and all the rest of that materialistic stuff.

Well, for now I guess I'm going to have to halt on page 154 of Isle of Arden and start thinking about polishing and shining the manuscript because Eve wants it in at least a month. I've got to get going on that. I'm anxious and excited and can't believe I almost backed out of coming this year. I thank my talented writing friends Christie and Rachel and Annalisa for coming too. And for being my friends and as E.B. White says at the end of Charlotte's Web, “It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer.” My writing friends are both.

Music, Always More Music

I was reading in a book recently (it was Devil in the White City, if you're interested) and the author was describing someone (I think it was Olmstead, the landscape designer from the Chicago World's Fair) as someone who was a musical prodigy because he sang before he could speak. I don't necessarily think that my baby is a musical prodigy; however, she was singing and humming long before she could speak.

It must have something to do with all the music in our house. Bianca practices the piano once a day, I practice once a day, and then there's usually singing (sometimes by me) or Steve Songs on PBSKIDS or Backyardigans any other time.

Portia loves music and she's always singing. When I put her to bed or down for a nap, she usually doesn't fall asleep right away. But she doesn't cry either. She's usually singing until she falls asleep--any number of songs like the Chipmunks Christmas Song (yes, still), Rubber Duckie, Do As I'm Doing, or some Portia-original.

She doesn't always love when I sit down to practice the piano though, because that means I won't be holding her (although believe me, I have played with her in my lap in the past). But most of the time, she cries when she hears the first measure of the Nocturne I'm learning. I figured out how to get her to encourage my practicing. I sit down right after lunch, when she knows that it's time for her nap, and I ask her whether she'd like to take a nap now or hear a lullaby. She says a lullaby, which I begin playing, while she runs off to play with her toys. As soon as the last chord is hit, Portia runs out and says, "I like that song," and then politely asks for "More Lullaby" or "More Nocturne." I can usually get a good half hour of practice in with her encouraging me each time while she's getting out of taking her nap. This works before bedtime too.

My other favorite time Portia sings is right before I put Portia to bed, I sing her a lullaby and rock her. Just once. And most nights, she sings along with me. I posted a video below of our nightly ritual on the evening of her second birthday. (I apologize in advance for my singing; I said I like music, not that I'm good at making it!)

My Talented Young Writer

Last night was the Talented Young Writers program. Bianca shared a poem she wrote:

Flowering Forest

I chase the trees, tree after tree, to the flowering meadow.
I'm not chasing trees, flowers are chasing me! in the flowering meadow.

They come and they go, every ripe pretty tulip.
They hear and they see, they can chase after me, in the flowering forest.

My Miranda Tulips

Shortly after Miranda died, a group of women in my neighborhood came over with spades and shovels and bulbs. One of them had found a tulip in a catalogue called a Miranda tulip. They dug and planted and the next spring, my beds were overflowing with white and red tulips. They were beautiful and they come back every year right around Miranda's birthday and I treasure them.

Last spring, I was a wreck when I went outside and saw most of my tulips without their heads. I couldn't believe it. I wondered who the heartless kids were that had cut my tulips. The stems were chopped off in a straight line, looked like they had been cut with a scissors. I realized a little later that of course it was the deer with their straight teeth. The deer devour my strawberries and tulips are edible (and I guess delicious, which is a good thing to know in case of an emergency).

This weekend, we had quite a storm. It rained and hailed and Bianca noticed yesterday that a lot of my Miranda tulips had snapped near the heads and were hanging from their stems. Bianca and I went out and gathered each one of them we could find and filled up bowls with water (as the stems left on the head were only about an inch long and regular vases wouldn't work). They're beautiful still, and I've decorated my house with them. I've got a trifle bowl filled with them in my kitchen, and Portia, Bianca, and I each got a single tulip for our bedrooms. In a small way, I feel like I'm decorating my house with little reminders of Miranda. Like our house is filled with her presence (or presents, whichever way you want to look at it).

Bianca thinks the crevices fill with water and so it made the tulips too heavy for their stems, which sounds about right to me. Bianca played a big part in the rescue mission and for that, I'm grateful. I wouldn't have known they were there if not for her venturing out in the rain yesterday to check on some mother's day present she's storing out there (don't tell her, but I know she's steeping some flower petals in water trying to make me home-made perfume).

I noticed some more hanging this morning as I returned from jogging. So I grabbed them and filled another bowl. I don't know if my attempt to save every bit of life related to Miranda (including these tulips) is the result of my guilt at not being able to save her life almost four years ago. It probably is. I still wonder if I made the right decision--if I had kept her on life support just a little longer maybe she would have made it through. I know what the doctors told me, but I can't help but wonder.

I know she's gone--for now. But I still look forward to springtime, her birthday, when a little bit of life (in Miranda's name) peeks through the soil and surrounds me with beauty. And I'll try to keep it around me as long as I have the power to.

A different birthday celebration

Each year, I get a recorded phone message on April 27. It's Geoffrey the giraffe (from Toys 'R Us) singing happy birthday to Miranda. The first year after she died, I thought it was just plain mean. Now, I don't get angry. I actually listen to it and hang up the phone quietly. And that's when Miranda's birthday begins.

It's always a sad day for me. I try not to do too much. I try to think a lot and look back at pictures and read about Miranda. It's the one day of the year that indulge myself in the memories of Miranda that I try not to let affect my day-to-day life.

Tonight, we'll eat a little dinner as a family, eat some cupcakes that have become a tradition on Miranda's birthday, visit the cemetery, bring her little gifts,talk about her a little more than usual. And we'll be sad. Not because we can't enjoy the good memories of her, but it's just impossible not to think and wonder about what she'd be like today. Turning five. Going into kindergarten next year.

And that's it. That's our celebration (or mourning really, if you want to be technical) that I let myself have every year.

I once thought about calling Toys 'R Us and asking them to please stop calling on her birthday. But now I look forward to it, Geoffrey the giraffe hasn't forgotten Miranda the way most of the world has. I guess I'll just let that be for now.

Portia's Two!

Yesterday was Portia's second birthday. We did a small family party (just the four of us). We had pizza for dinner, which is one of the only meals I can consistently get Portia to eat.



In lieu of a birthday cake, we did a Razzleberry Pie. Portia loves pie and that's what she said she wanted when I asked her if she wanted cake or pie.

Then came presents. Since our present was her big-girl room, there wasn't much in wrapping paper. Fortunately, Bianca's been working on Portia's present for the last six months. Here's Portia with the owl that Bianca made for her.

Thank you much

I pride myself on having polite babies. I used to hear it a lot when Bianca was a baby--how polite she was with her please and thank you(s). I taught them by saying please and thank you to them; they likewise learn to be polite. It's been a bit rough with Portia. She started saying "thank you" early on but then turned to saying "welcome" every time she needed to say thank you. We understood what she meant. She finally went back to saying thank you. But she doesn't just say thank you, she says, "Thank you much." It reminded me that the word "very" is actually superfluous. We don't really need to use it as often as we do.

It also reminded me of this quote by Mark Twain that I have listed on my goodreads profile: "Substitute 'damn' every time you're inclined to write 'very;' your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be."

Maybe she's a step ahead. She's cutting out the superfluous word before anyone need tell her. I should be grateful she's not saying damn. That wouldn't be very polite, now would it?