Thank You

I'm finishing up an article for the May issue of Kentucky Gardener today, so I only have a moment, but I wanted to pop in and say Thank You to everyone who read and passed along last Thursday's post.  My hope is that by sharing it with others we will start a dialogue and maybe change the way we interact with each other.  Although we're different, we're also the same.  We all want to be loved.  To be heard.  To fall asleep knowing that our life mattered.  To know that somewhere, someone cares for us. 

So again, Thank You.

Reading is...

Happy Monday!  I hope you spend it dreaming!

Poetry Friday

It's Poetry Friday.  Normally I'd be sharing a clip of a poet reading his or her work.  Since yesterday I wrote about my daughter Grace, I thought I'd share some of my poetry (which she inspired) today.  To give you some context, the following pieces are part of a book-length collection of poetry I wrote about adopting Grace and finding out that she is disabled.  The pieces below have all been previously published.  In a few weeks, I might share some of the poems in the collection that haven't been published yet. 

I hope you enjoy!



An Autism Fairytale
(Published in the Summer 2011 edition of Poetry Quarterly)

　
Smooth and river rock-round, the girl’s voice spilled
like spring water from her lips as she danced

in word-puddles and slept in a sea of songs.
Like all gods, the sun was jealous.

One day, the girl opened her mouth and the sun
melted her voice like lemon drops on her tongue.

Moss grew up the girl’s throat, stretched over her lips,
her nose, her eyes. Her hair grew like ivy,

twined around her toes, and pushed into the ground
until she was rooted among roses and delphinium.

Her mother scraped the moss from the girl’s mouth,
and scribbled words on red tissue paper,

words like Please and Hope and Love and Mommy,
fed them to the girl like lavender ice cream,

then pressed her lips against the girl’s and blew,
as if the girl’s heart had stopped and not her own.





Lost
(Published in the Spring 2011 edition of Tipton Poetry Journal)

I often wonder about your words,
whether they are lost or hiding,
instead of stolen by autism.

Maybe they are in that space
between your molars and your tongue,
trapped between your heart and your mind.

Once, I stuck my finger in your mouth.
I pushed it back into that gap,
hoping to feel something--anything.

Instead, you bit me,
and I wore bruise-marks
from your tiny teeth for a week.

Sometimes I pick words for you,
tongue twisters--
she sells sea shells by the sea shore.

Although I would settle for less--
play, hungry, thirsty.
Home, love.

Mommy.

My grandmother was born tongue-tied.
A thin piece of tissue trapped her tongue
on the floor of her mouth.

She could not speak
until the doctor clipped it.
Nothing is holding your tongue down.

Maybe your words are in a cosmic
lost and found, sandwiched between
lost socks and dreams.

I would go there if I could.
I’d root through forgotten hats
and misplaced pens until I found them.


I’d bring them home and feed you
words until they overflowed,
dripping from your lips.

Then I’d catch them as they fell,
and save them like pressed petals in a book,
in case you ever lost your words again.





Written on Rose Petals
(Published in the Summer 2011 edition of Poetry Quarterly)
　

In my dreams you whisper
my mother’s words.

I want to sink into that place
where you speak and she lives,

but sunlight on the roof
or the sigh of roses wakes me.

Is it the sound of God listening?
Or your own small voice?

The one I still don’t know.
Maybe it’s a hymn

the stones share with you,
His name on their lips

the silent song you sing
as I pull you from bed

and we tumble up a hill--
do I shape you or do you shape me?

My back bends toward yours
as you straighten toward me.

I push your feet into cool clay,
stretch your arms to heaven,

and compose a hallelujah of silence.
You breathe me and I breathe you,

as if air and clay are enough,
as if your name is written

on rose petals that spring
from the ground at your feet,

a storm of prayers in minor
chords my mother sings--

she holds the stones
and they speak your name--

as I wash clay from your feet,
and carry you home.

Please Read This Post--One Book Thursday

My daughter, Grace

This is not a post I wanted to write.  I like things that are bright, and shiny, and beautiful.  I like uplifting, encouraging posts. 

This is not one of those.   

A few days ago, I finished reading The Book Thief.  I know, I know, I'm waaaay behind the times.  The book was published several years ago.  That's what having four kids does to you. 

If you don't know, The Book Thief  is about a young girl living in Nazi Germany.  Appropriately enough, the book is narrated by Death.  The Book Thief is full of tender, beautiful moments juxtaposed against the horrifying backdrop of Germany during WWII. 

I could not read this book in one sitting.  I would read a little and have to walk away.  But just as much as I had to walk away, I had to come back. 

Let me tell you why. 

A few years ago, I spent two weeks in London.  I toured fascinating places like the British Museum, Westminster Abbey, Harrods Department Store (hey, I like to shop!)...and The Imperial War Museum (IWM). 

Touring the IWM is difficult.  The exhibit showing how children were evacuated from London during the Blitz made my throat swell shut.  What if that had been me and I had to send my children away to keep them safe.  Could I do it? 

Honestly, I don't know.

Then came the Holocaust Exhibit.  I knew it wouldn't be easy.  My mother taught history.  I grew up in a house where we talked about the past as a way to prevent such horrifying things from happening again.  Dear Reader, I thought I could handle it. 

I was wrong.

The lights were dim as we entered the exhibit.  No one spoke.  I wound past a pile of black discarded shoes.  Survivor's stories.  Newspaper clippings.  A wooden funeral cart with use-worn handles. 

Across from the funeral cart was an impossibly white, child sized dissection table.  Above the table was a picture of a naked boy.  His body curved like a question mark.  His eyes were spaces a bit too far apart.  His tongue lolled from his mouth.  His stomach had caved in on itself. 

He was five. 

A plaque next to the picture explained that he was taken from his mother and sent to an institution.  Later, his mother received a letter saying he had died of a "respiratory illness".  The dissection table with the drain in the middle said a respiratory illness did not cause his death. 

He looked like my daughter, Grace. 

I looked from the table to the picture of this boy, so like my daughter, and I cried.  In the middle of the room, I sobbed for this boy someone labeled broken, worthless.  I cried for his mother who never got to hold her child again.  He wasn't worthless to her. 

This child was one only boy among millions killed because someone decided they were "wrong".  Jews.  Homosexuals.  Romas (Gypsies).  Slavs.  Dissenting Clergy.  Jehovah's Witnesses.  Anyone deemed "undesirable". 

People with physical and/or mental disabilities.  Like my daughter.

250,000 mentally and/or physically disabled people were murdered during the Holocaust.  People like Grace. 

So why am I telling you this?  Because I'm concerned, Dear Reader.  I'm concerned about the way we talk to each other in this country.  One both sides of the political aisle we are labeling each other.  Look at the list of people above who were rounded up and killed during the Holocaust.  It contains people vilified by the American Left and people vilified by the American Right. 

Dear Reader, Nazi Germany started with words.  As Markus Zusak writes in The Book Thief: "The words.  Why did they have to exist?  Without them, there wouldn't be any of this.  Without words, the Fuhrer was nothing."

Words have power.  The power to build up and the power to tear down.  In our rush to win, to be right, we seem to have forgotten this.  We choose the words that come out of our mouths, and too often we're choosing to wound instead of heal. 

It hurts my heart.  And it scares me.  The anger in this country--this country that was built on the freedom to be different, to disagree with each other--terrifies me.  It needs to stop.  Right now.  Not after the election.  Not tomorrow or the next day.  Right now. 

 We are not enemies.  We are brothers and sisters.  Mothers and fathers.  We are different, but different is a good thing.  Different makes us strong.  Different is why people from all over the world come here.  Because they believe in the dream of a place where all men are created equal.  All men.  Not all men who agree with you, or look the same as you, or speak the same language you do.  All.  Men. 

Dear Ones, we need to stop.  We must stop.  And it's so easy.  Really, it is.  I'm not asking you to change your opinions, or agree with someone you disagree with.  As I said above, our differences (including our differences of opinion) make us great. 

I am asking you to think about your words.  I'm asking you to choose words that heal.  Words that build up.  Words that create.  Leave behind words that destroy and tear apart.  If you agree with this post, please pass it along.

Remember the boy at the IPW.  He died because of someone's words.  Let's stop hurting each other.

Please.

Gregory Maguire Amazon Interview

I absolutely adore Gregory Maguire.  He's best known for his Wicked series--which is Fantastic, if you haven't read them, get to a bookstore now!  I also have to give a shout out to one of his (slightly) more realistic books, The Next Queen of Heaven.  It's a funny and beautifully written tale of kindness and self-discovery.

Since Mr. Maguire is also an adoptive parent, I love him all the more.  Below is a recent interview he gave.  His remarks about his kids keeping him grounded really made me laugh! 

Enjoy!

Progress Report

Yesterday I promised an update on The First Book.  There's a lot of information out there about query letters, selecting agents, making sure everything is perfect before you query, but not much about what happens after you sign with an agent.  I suspect it's because the process is slightly different for every author so what happens in my case may or may not happen in yours, and it's difficult to write a one-size-fits-all template for the process. 

Here's how it's working for me.  When I first signed with Dan, we talked about some of the changes/edits he had in mind.  As I've said before, they're pretty extensive.  One of the biggest is changing the POV for one of the main characters from 3rd person to 1st person.  If you're a writer, you know this is more than just changing pronouns.  It completely changes the lens through which that character (and therefore the reader) experiences the story. 

My novel is told through 3 points of view, so making this change meant I had to go in and rework almost a third of things.  That's okay.  I like working, especially when the changes make the story better.  Which I think (hope!) they did. 

I made those changes right before Christmas and sent everything off to the editor I'm working with.  After the holidays, she started working on it, graciously fitting me in to her already tight schedule.  (Have I mentioned everyone is so nice?  Really, there's no reason to be afraid when querying.  Book People are generally Good People.  Go forth and query without fear.) 

After sending off my manuscript, I sat around feeling stressed for a week or so.  This is what I do to relax.  I tell myself I'm taking some down time, and then sit around worrying that I'm not doing anything.  One week of down time was all I could take.  To de-stress, I started a second book.  By the end of this week I should have about 20,000 words. 

As for the first book, right now I'm waiting to hear back from the editor.  Possibly by the end of this month, but as I said, she's fitting me in around books she's already scheduled.  I just popped up out of nowhere, and she agreed to help.  (I love her for that!) Things could easily get pushed back a bit. 

So, that's where things stand.  Hopefully in a week or so I'll have a manuscript with lots of red marks all over it.  I feel a little bit like a kid waiting for Christmas.  Which is strange, I know, but as one of my professors once said--A good critique is a gift.

He was so right.  A critique is the best gift I could ask for, and I can't wait to unwrap it. 

Squash Your Internal Editor

This is one of those days I don't feel like writing.  I don't even want to think about it.  In fact, just thinking about it gives me a sick little feeling in my stomach.  It's as if a little man is sitting in there, stirring things up, whispering, "The sun's out and it's January.  January.  That's a sign.  Don't write today.  It's not going to be any good anyway, so pack it in."

The man does not confine his remarks to writing.  He also whispers about my parenting skills, my cooking skills, and anything else that happens to wander through my mind. 

Welcome to my own brand of craziness. 

This little man crops up more than I care to admit, and he's never happy.  If you're reading this blog, I suspect you have some experience with this.  You might not be a writer.  You might be a mom.  You might be a college student.  Whoever you are, I'm willing to bet you've got your own little man filling you with negativity. 

So how do you deal with such confidence-sapping thoughts?  This is how I handle it, and it's pretty simple.  Whatever he says, I do the opposite.  "Don't write today."  I write.  "Sit on the couch and watch TV because there's nothing worth doing anyway."  I get up and do something.  "You're the worst mother in the world."  I kiss my kids. 

It's not always easy.  Sometimes (like today) I have to force myself to write (or whatever).  But I always feel better after doing something.  Even if today's writing is horrible, at least I've done something, and I can be proud of that. 

Try it.  I promise you'll feel better and that negativity will slip away from you like water down a drain.

Tomorrow, I'll post an update on the first novel.  See you then!