Hello everyone, I'm Ifeanyi, the main character in the soon-to-be-published picture book that's been mentioned, here, a few times. I'm being sneaky and surely, my authorly mother - that's Katia, the owner of this blog - will not be happy when she finds this post. She will go all stern and reasonable on me and lecture me about everyone at the publishing house doing their very best to make sure the book reaches the widest audience possible and doesn't turn anyone off for some silly reason. And maybe she's right. Still, my feeling is that the situation is serious enough to warrant a coup d'eclat.
What situation? Well, I hear that they are changing my name. Can you believe it ? I know that I'm a fictional character, but that doesn't mean I don't have feelings. The general opinion seems to be that my given name, the name that my authorly mother chose for me, is too difficult to pronounce and therefore unacceptable. What is so difficult about Ifeanyi, I ask? Ee-feh-ahh-nyi. See? Easy. Well, some people think it is impossible.
Imagine. Mother, who's supposed to be on holidays, and instead, has been busily painting walls and ceilings, got an email from the publishing house telling her that the decision had been made to change my name. She was given two options ; both options unacceptable in her opinion, and mine. She spent the day angry and upset, and was still feeling that way when she went to bed, and of course, she couldn't sleep. So she got up and spent the night trying to find me a new name that she liked, a new name which would be deemed acceptable... hear easy to pronounce. Jack, Jill, Tom, Jo, Dan, Bob, Bill, Tim... That kind. She found a new one. It seems that I now go by the name of Amadi.
Amadi means "free born" in my native language. I wonder if she's making some kind of a statement, here. As far as given names go, I'd say Amadi is just fine. And definitely Igbo. It does sound like home and when I say it, I can almost hear my ancestors' voices travelling on the wings of the Harmattan as it blows its dusty way from the desert. Still, it's going to take some getting used to. It's been a few years since I came out of my authorly mother's mind. I'm used to my given name. I LIKE it. It's a beautiful name ! It means : with God, nothing is impossible.
Mother - the authorly one, because I now have another mother, an artist busy painting me - has been telling herself that it was maybe an omen that she chose it for me in the first place : it will now help us prove that indeed, nothing is impossible, even getting used to a different name. Amadi is OK, really. She does come up with nice names.
I'm going to do just like her and repeat, again and again : I have two beautiful names. The first one is a name that only a handful of people know and use, people like my authorly mother, her close friends, and myself: Ifeanyi. And the second one is the name that will be used by all, the name that will come out in print in a book that will tell my very own story: Amadi. And later, when people know and like me as Amadi, maybe I can tell them that I have another name, my first given name, Ifeanyi, and maybe they'll like it and not think it's so impossible. Because nowhere in the world should there be such a thing as an impossible name. On the contrary. People all over should be curious and open to hearing new sounds, to learning new words and names. Nowhere should anyone be afraid to leave their comfort zone and try new things, to let their tongue taste new sounds, see how they roll off of it. Nowhere should anyone worry about sounding funny, about struggling with different combinations of letters and syllables.
My authorly mother is also using another trick to help her deal with this name issue. In her husband's country, Haiti, newborns are often given several names in order to honor family members. In the end, the name that everyone uses is often the very last one, and not at all the first one. And so it will be for me. Only, the giving of my second name kind of got delayed.
Signed : Ifeanyi Amadi
Friday, August 10, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
Enneagram Test
I'm taking an online class (writers.com) on building characters using the Enneagram, an ancient personality study that originated with the Sufis, hundreds of years ago. We've only had one lecture so far and I haven't even started working on my first assignment, but in order to do so, I've done a little research, and just completed a test.
I'm always a little wary of personality tests. In high school, I remember I tended to give the answers according to what I wanted to be, or rather what I thought I should be in order to be "good enough" - whatever that meant on any given day at the time. Thank goodness, my delusion was not as strong as my innate curiosity, and I always ended up doing the whole test again, this time replying as truthfully as I possibly could. I'm glad to report that life, and a few years on the couch, have helped me gain some confidence. Mostly, I want to learn so I can evolve, so when I do one of these tests, nowadays, I really try to be totally honest. I say that I try because I find it often difficult to know the answers. To a lot of the questions asked, I'll find myself thinking : well, it depends...
Anyway, here are the results on that particular test, and I'd say they do feel pretty accurate. I can't wait to learn more about the Enneagram.
Take Free Enneagram Personality Test
Take Free Enneagram Personality Test
I'm always a little wary of personality tests. In high school, I remember I tended to give the answers according to what I wanted to be, or rather what I thought I should be in order to be "good enough" - whatever that meant on any given day at the time. Thank goodness, my delusion was not as strong as my innate curiosity, and I always ended up doing the whole test again, this time replying as truthfully as I possibly could. I'm glad to report that life, and a few years on the couch, have helped me gain some confidence. Mostly, I want to learn so I can evolve, so when I do one of these tests, nowadays, I really try to be totally honest. I say that I try because I find it often difficult to know the answers. To a lot of the questions asked, I'll find myself thinking : well, it depends...
Anyway, here are the results on that particular test, and I'd say they do feel pretty accurate. I can't wait to learn more about the Enneagram.
Main Type | Overall Self |
 |  |
| Enneagram Test Results
Your variant is self pres |
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Summer break
Another school year has ended. My husband always finds it funny that the year in my personal calendar starts with the first day of school, and basically ends on the last, or rather, when I leave our host country to go back to Europe, the US, or Haiti, depending on where we are spending our summer holidays. But that's how things make sense for me. So, it's holiday time! Whenever I think that, I hear the voice of Sheila singing - a bit cheesy, retrospectively, but when I was growing up, boy, was she popular ! : "give me your hand, do take mine, yes and yes, school is over." This is a litteral translation, so very, very bad. Anyway, you have to be French, born in the Sixties, to understand.
No matter. It's that time of the year when most expats pack their bags and go back to their home country (countries in the case of our family), catch up with friends and family, and just enjoy summery activities. It's also a time for our children to get as large and varied a sample as possible of their parents' home countries and cultures !
This year, it's going to be France. We used to try to visit everyone, with the consequence that we spent our entire holidays plane and continent hopping and we came back more exhausted than when we'd left. No more.
So I'm flying to France for 6 weeks, and I'm really looking forward to it. I intend to eat as many types of cheese as I can, all the seasonal fruits that we don't find here, lots of fresh baguettes and croissants, lots of charcuterie, saucisson, etc, etc. I've already brainwashed my kids about that, painting - with words, of course - tantalizing images of velvety peaches and apricots, prunes with lovely names like Mirabelle or Reine-Claude, ripe, juicy berries in all shades of red, purple, and blue... Yum, yum, yum.
I doubt I'll be posting very much. I'll be participating in an online workshop on characters using the Enneagram. Dad, friends and family being around, chances are I'll have more time for myself than during the last two months! And the rest (of the time) I shall dedicate to:
a) writing - maybe
b) reading - definitely
c) playing lizzard in the sun, jumping in the pool with the kids, cycling in the countryside - absolutely definitely
d) gorging on French food, drinking lots of good wine - absolutely positively definitely
... not necessarily in that order, but you get the picture.
But before I leave India for these few weeks, I wanted to post some photos shot around Hyderabad. To inspire anyone who sees them to come and visit - just wait until we come back. And also to take with me, the way expats always seem to take away a little bit of all the countries they've lived in.
Have a great summer, everyone !
No matter. It's that time of the year when most expats pack their bags and go back to their home country (countries in the case of our family), catch up with friends and family, and just enjoy summery activities. It's also a time for our children to get as large and varied a sample as possible of their parents' home countries and cultures !
This year, it's going to be France. We used to try to visit everyone, with the consequence that we spent our entire holidays plane and continent hopping and we came back more exhausted than when we'd left. No more.
So I'm flying to France for 6 weeks, and I'm really looking forward to it. I intend to eat as many types of cheese as I can, all the seasonal fruits that we don't find here, lots of fresh baguettes and croissants, lots of charcuterie, saucisson, etc, etc. I've already brainwashed my kids about that, painting - with words, of course - tantalizing images of velvety peaches and apricots, prunes with lovely names like Mirabelle or Reine-Claude, ripe, juicy berries in all shades of red, purple, and blue... Yum, yum, yum.
I doubt I'll be posting very much. I'll be participating in an online workshop on characters using the Enneagram. Dad, friends and family being around, chances are I'll have more time for myself than during the last two months! And the rest (of the time) I shall dedicate to:
a) writing - maybe
b) reading - definitely
c) playing lizzard in the sun, jumping in the pool with the kids, cycling in the countryside - absolutely definitely
d) gorging on French food, drinking lots of good wine - absolutely positively definitely
... not necessarily in that order, but you get the picture.
But before I leave India for these few weeks, I wanted to post some photos shot around Hyderabad. To inspire anyone who sees them to come and visit - just wait until we come back. And also to take with me, the way expats always seem to take away a little bit of all the countries they've lived in.
Have a great summer, everyone !
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
The mystery of the illustrator's name, and ranting about the difficulty of waiting, waiting, waiting...
I don't like it. To wait. I'm not a patient person. At all. Which is probably why life, destiny, the Universe, call It however you like, seems to be testing me at the moment - BIG TIME. So I can grow, you know... Boy, sometimes, I wonder how much growing one has to do before they can consider themselves all grown-up. In my case, the process is taking its sweet time, for sure. Anyway, I was saying that life is testing me. Not only has IT decided that I was to be, for an undetermined amount of time, a full-time-at-home-mother-with-two-kids-on-summer-break-during-the-Indian-Monsoon (as if that weren't already taxing my energy - not to mention how it has reduced my writing time to almost nothing), but it also decided to play tricks on my computer and I now have LOST the little that I had been able to produce in the past few weeks! Am I entitled to throw a tantrum or what ? But that is not all. I must also wait some more before I can tell the name of the illustrator of my book. I'd like to shout out the news to the whole world - the one that's interested, anyway, and, well everyone else, too, actually. But I can't.
For weeks and weeks, I've been a good girl and kept my mouth shut. Well, I must continue to keep it shut, and wait some more. Did I mention I don't like to wait? Well, bear with me, because I'm going to repeat it: I don't like to wait. I understand, of course. Still, it's difficult.
I also would love to get in touch with said illustrator. Not to give pointers, or control the work, no, I swear. Come on, I'm not like that. Or am I? No, I'm not, or at least, I can control my controlling tendencies. Sure, I can! In the end, what matters is the book, right? I'm not unreasonable, you know.
It's just that I love meeting interesting people involved in interesting activities. Also, this particular person presently spends a lot of quality time with my baby, and that naughty baby hasn't called, hasn't written, hasn't even sent an email to his mommy to let her know how things are going. Maybe he received the same marching order : Keep mum! Or maybe he's turning into a precocious teenager, sprouting wings and very happy to be away from old writerly me. Living with an illustrator is bound to be much more colorful - I just couldn't resist that one :) There will be different smells, too. Paint. Turpentine. I only hope he's not watching too much TV. Two daughters doing just that under this roof is quite enough.
Anyway, that's that. It's a good preparation for the day my kids leave for college. I know, I'm complaining that I can't write because they are around, and I'm already worrying about the day they'll go to college. What can I say? I'm full of contradictions. Aren't we all?
Where was I? Ah, yes, what makes it all worse is that I actually understand my editor's reason for not wanting me to get in touch with said illustrator right now (provided that said illustrator whose name I cannot yet disclose shows an interest in responding, of course. ) It had not occurred to me, and yet, it makes total sense. She wants to give the illustrator the space and time to immerse herself in the story, to wrap herself in it so she can make it hers. Because, Katia, don't you forget that you've written a picture book, and in picture book, there is the word "picture," and you have no talent whatsoever to draw pictures, remember? TWO names will appear on the cover. Not that I mind sharing the cover with another person. If I did, I wouldn't have written a picture book, come on ! And sharing the cover with someone with such an interesting background and interests is really exciting. I totally look forward to it. That is precisely the reason I'm dying to share all this information.
But I can't. Not yet. Did I mention how... DIFFICULT that is?
Anyway, in order to ease some of my frustration and avoid a messy implosion, I just disclosed 3 tiny pieces of information about the illustrator. Who's been paying attention here ? Yes, The illustrator is a SHE. She has an interesting background, even more so considering where the book takes place. Ha ha, hint, hint... And finally, she's involved in interesting things. You want to know more ? Well, you have to be patient. Yes, I know, it's DIFFICULT. But you can do it. If I can, anyone can. Soon... Soon... Soon...
For weeks and weeks, I've been a good girl and kept my mouth shut. Well, I must continue to keep it shut, and wait some more. Did I mention I don't like to wait? Well, bear with me, because I'm going to repeat it: I don't like to wait. I understand, of course. Still, it's difficult.
I also would love to get in touch with said illustrator. Not to give pointers, or control the work, no, I swear. Come on, I'm not like that. Or am I? No, I'm not, or at least, I can control my controlling tendencies. Sure, I can! In the end, what matters is the book, right? I'm not unreasonable, you know.
It's just that I love meeting interesting people involved in interesting activities. Also, this particular person presently spends a lot of quality time with my baby, and that naughty baby hasn't called, hasn't written, hasn't even sent an email to his mommy to let her know how things are going. Maybe he received the same marching order : Keep mum! Or maybe he's turning into a precocious teenager, sprouting wings and very happy to be away from old writerly me. Living with an illustrator is bound to be much more colorful - I just couldn't resist that one :) There will be different smells, too. Paint. Turpentine. I only hope he's not watching too much TV. Two daughters doing just that under this roof is quite enough.
Anyway, that's that. It's a good preparation for the day my kids leave for college. I know, I'm complaining that I can't write because they are around, and I'm already worrying about the day they'll go to college. What can I say? I'm full of contradictions. Aren't we all?
Where was I? Ah, yes, what makes it all worse is that I actually understand my editor's reason for not wanting me to get in touch with said illustrator right now (provided that said illustrator whose name I cannot yet disclose shows an interest in responding, of course. ) It had not occurred to me, and yet, it makes total sense. She wants to give the illustrator the space and time to immerse herself in the story, to wrap herself in it so she can make it hers. Because, Katia, don't you forget that you've written a picture book, and in picture book, there is the word "picture," and you have no talent whatsoever to draw pictures, remember? TWO names will appear on the cover. Not that I mind sharing the cover with another person. If I did, I wouldn't have written a picture book, come on ! And sharing the cover with someone with such an interesting background and interests is really exciting. I totally look forward to it. That is precisely the reason I'm dying to share all this information.
But I can't. Not yet. Did I mention how... DIFFICULT that is?
Anyway, in order to ease some of my frustration and avoid a messy implosion, I just disclosed 3 tiny pieces of information about the illustrator. Who's been paying attention here ? Yes, The illustrator is a SHE. She has an interesting background, even more so considering where the book takes place. Ha ha, hint, hint... And finally, she's involved in interesting things. You want to know more ? Well, you have to be patient. Yes, I know, it's DIFFICULT. But you can do it. If I can, anyone can. Soon... Soon... Soon...
Friday, June 29, 2007
A book about reading
I've been reading Francine Prose's "Reading Like a Writer. A guide for people who love books and for those who want to write them."
I'm urging all writers to rush to the book store this instant to buy a copy of the book, which is already on the New York Times Bestseller list, anyway, so maybe this is old news to everyone but myself. No library borrowing for that one : you want to have it on the closest shelf possible. I can't wait to finish it so I can read it again, more slowly this time.
Francine Prose has chapters on words, sentences, paragraphs, narration, character, dialogue, details, and gesture. And she illustrates her thoughts with carefully chosen quotes from authors as diverse as Chekhov, Kafka, John Le Carre, and Raymond Carver. She concludes with a humbling list of books "to be read immediately."
Why humbling ? Well, I did think I was rather well read until I saw that list. Not only have not read all the classics on it, but she even mentions authors whose names I'd never heard or seen before. Of course, one tends to read classics while in school, and having gone to school in France, my list of classics is bound to differ a bit from Francine Prose's - even though she does mention a couple of French authors - Flaubert, Stendhal, with her preferred translators - along with several Russians, Cervantes for Spain, Garcia Lopez Marquez for Latin America, and others... No matter: it's never too late to catch up. So that's my mission for the next few months. Actually, I'll probably re-read even the old classics that I read many years ago, only with a different goal.
At the last SCBWI conference in LA, last summer, Jacqueline Woodson - again ; I did say that she'd made a huge impression on me - said that we should all read our favorite books at least twice. The first time to satisfy our curiosity for the story, and the second time to study the writing, the way the author creates a certain emotion, the plot, etc. This is hard for me. At any given time, I have a good dozen books piling up on my bedside table - and on the floor, when there is no room left on the bedside table, just ask my husband - all waiting to be read. And I do tend to devour books because I want to know what happens in the story, and once I know, well, I just want to read another one. Got to work on that ever growing pile, you know ? It used to be even worse. Novels like Anna Karenina or Gone With the Wind I read in one or two nights when I was in high school. That's how greedy I was, how much in a hurry I was to know what happened... but not only that: novels with heroines like Anna Karenina or Scarlett O'Hara I actually read several times. Not for the writing, nope. Just because I couldn't get enough of these characters. They fascinated me. They lived in a world of passion in Anna Karenina's case, or they were so strong and so irresistible, in the case of Scarlett O'Hara... I so wanted to be like them, to live passionately.
I'm happy to report - or am I? - that I HAVE calmed down considerably. I don't rush through books the way I used to. I do stop to savour beautiful sentences, reading them several times. So, maybe I'm finally ready to revisit old classics and enjoy them in a different way. With my writer's hat on.
I'm urging all writers to rush to the book store this instant to buy a copy of the book, which is already on the New York Times Bestseller list, anyway, so maybe this is old news to everyone but myself. No library borrowing for that one : you want to have it on the closest shelf possible. I can't wait to finish it so I can read it again, more slowly this time.
Francine Prose has chapters on words, sentences, paragraphs, narration, character, dialogue, details, and gesture. And she illustrates her thoughts with carefully chosen quotes from authors as diverse as Chekhov, Kafka, John Le Carre, and Raymond Carver. She concludes with a humbling list of books "to be read immediately."
Why humbling ? Well, I did think I was rather well read until I saw that list. Not only have not read all the classics on it, but she even mentions authors whose names I'd never heard or seen before. Of course, one tends to read classics while in school, and having gone to school in France, my list of classics is bound to differ a bit from Francine Prose's - even though she does mention a couple of French authors - Flaubert, Stendhal, with her preferred translators - along with several Russians, Cervantes for Spain, Garcia Lopez Marquez for Latin America, and others... No matter: it's never too late to catch up. So that's my mission for the next few months. Actually, I'll probably re-read even the old classics that I read many years ago, only with a different goal.
At the last SCBWI conference in LA, last summer, Jacqueline Woodson - again ; I did say that she'd made a huge impression on me - said that we should all read our favorite books at least twice. The first time to satisfy our curiosity for the story, and the second time to study the writing, the way the author creates a certain emotion, the plot, etc. This is hard for me. At any given time, I have a good dozen books piling up on my bedside table - and on the floor, when there is no room left on the bedside table, just ask my husband - all waiting to be read. And I do tend to devour books because I want to know what happens in the story, and once I know, well, I just want to read another one. Got to work on that ever growing pile, you know ? It used to be even worse. Novels like Anna Karenina or Gone With the Wind I read in one or two nights when I was in high school. That's how greedy I was, how much in a hurry I was to know what happened... but not only that: novels with heroines like Anna Karenina or Scarlett O'Hara I actually read several times. Not for the writing, nope. Just because I couldn't get enough of these characters. They fascinated me. They lived in a world of passion in Anna Karenina's case, or they were so strong and so irresistible, in the case of Scarlett O'Hara... I so wanted to be like them, to live passionately.
I'm happy to report - or am I? - that I HAVE calmed down considerably. I don't rush through books the way I used to. I do stop to savour beautiful sentences, reading them several times. So, maybe I'm finally ready to revisit old classics and enjoy them in a different way. With my writer's hat on.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Exercise: One of my very first memories in a "fiction" format
Ok, meeting my own challenge, here. This is a " fictionalized" account of one of my recollections from my First Memories post. Consider it a draft (I'm the type to revise ad nauseum) and feel free to critique, everyone.
The shrill of the doorbell crashed through the silence that lay, thick, oppressive, throughout the whole apartment. Thankful for the diversion, Alia ran to the door, opened it, and found a soldier standing on the threshold. He held a cardboard box.
“Is this the home of Senor y Senora C. ?” he asked, looking ill at ease.
Alia sent a worried look back.
« What is it? » asked her aunt, walking heavily to the door.
She was drying her hands on her housedress, but as soon as she saw the soldier, she let out a piercing wail and ran back to the lavadero. The tiny balcony held a sink with an inclined board where Tita Lola washed the laundry before hanging it to dry on the circling line that ran outside from one end of the balcony to the other. Alia loved making that hanging line turn as fast as she could.
The soldier looked visibly distraught. Alia didn’t know what to do, what to say. Her aunt cries seemed to rebound off the walls of the narrow patio outside the lavadero, and a few neighbors showed inquiring faces. Alia went to her aunt and gingerly touched her arm.
“Tita?”
Her aunt made a visible effort to compose herself, and after what seemed an eternity, she walked back toward the soldier and took the cardboard box. She lay in on the table, opened it and found some photographs, papers, and a belt. She grabbed the belt, and let out a whine of wounded animal, before she rushed back to the lavadero. But this time, she banged her head against the walls. She paced the narrow space and banged her head against each and every wall, letting out scorching cries. Alia could see the neighbors at their windows looking in with concerned faces.
“I need a signature,” said the soldier, clearing his throat and showing a piece of paper.
Alia looked at him.
“Maybe you could sign?” he added, glancing again toward the lavadero where Tita Lola was now sobbing as she could never stop.
Alia hesitated. She looked helplessly toward the patio, where the neighbors now seemed to be exchanging comments on how to get her aunt’s attention, some even trying to talk to her from their balcony.
She nodded, took the paper and the pen that the soldier gave her and scrawled some letters that were supposed to represent her aunt’s last name. What difference does it make? she thought. Tita can’t write, anyway.
The soldier pocketed the paper and the pen, and left with an obvious look of relief. Alia closed the door after him, and walked to the lavadero where Tita Lola, still crying and moaning, and holding the leather belt tightly to her chest, had pushed her back to the wall and let herself slide down to the floor next to a pile of dirty laundry. The shirt she’d been washing was dripping water on the tiles.
The neighbors had gone back inside their apartments and silence had returned. Alia felt it seeping into her throat and lungs, making it hard to breathe. She squeezed in next to her aunt and sat on the wet floor. And she waited.
The shrill of the doorbell crashed through the silence that lay, thick, oppressive, throughout the whole apartment. Thankful for the diversion, Alia ran to the door, opened it, and found a soldier standing on the threshold. He held a cardboard box.
“Is this the home of Senor y Senora C. ?” he asked, looking ill at ease.
Alia sent a worried look back.
« What is it? » asked her aunt, walking heavily to the door.
She was drying her hands on her housedress, but as soon as she saw the soldier, she let out a piercing wail and ran back to the lavadero. The tiny balcony held a sink with an inclined board where Tita Lola washed the laundry before hanging it to dry on the circling line that ran outside from one end of the balcony to the other. Alia loved making that hanging line turn as fast as she could.
The soldier looked visibly distraught. Alia didn’t know what to do, what to say. Her aunt cries seemed to rebound off the walls of the narrow patio outside the lavadero, and a few neighbors showed inquiring faces. Alia went to her aunt and gingerly touched her arm.
“Tita?”
Her aunt made a visible effort to compose herself, and after what seemed an eternity, she walked back toward the soldier and took the cardboard box. She lay in on the table, opened it and found some photographs, papers, and a belt. She grabbed the belt, and let out a whine of wounded animal, before she rushed back to the lavadero. But this time, she banged her head against the walls. She paced the narrow space and banged her head against each and every wall, letting out scorching cries. Alia could see the neighbors at their windows looking in with concerned faces.
“I need a signature,” said the soldier, clearing his throat and showing a piece of paper.
Alia looked at him.
“Maybe you could sign?” he added, glancing again toward the lavadero where Tita Lola was now sobbing as she could never stop.
Alia hesitated. She looked helplessly toward the patio, where the neighbors now seemed to be exchanging comments on how to get her aunt’s attention, some even trying to talk to her from their balcony.
She nodded, took the paper and the pen that the soldier gave her and scrawled some letters that were supposed to represent her aunt’s last name. What difference does it make? she thought. Tita can’t write, anyway.
The soldier pocketed the paper and the pen, and left with an obvious look of relief. Alia closed the door after him, and walked to the lavadero where Tita Lola, still crying and moaning, and holding the leather belt tightly to her chest, had pushed her back to the wall and let herself slide down to the floor next to a pile of dirty laundry. The shirt she’d been washing was dripping water on the tiles.
The neighbors had gone back inside their apartments and silence had returned. Alia felt it seeping into her throat and lungs, making it hard to breathe. She squeezed in next to her aunt and sat on the wet floor. And she waited.
MeMe : 8 facts/habits about...
Well, what do you know, I've been tagged by none other than Jay, from the Disco Mermaids (I asked for it, but still, isn't it totally cool?) So, here is the rule of the thing called MeMe ( and it is definitely not a grandma:)
By now, you’ve probably seen (if not answered) the 8 facts/habits MeMe that’s been going around: Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed. At the end of the post, the player then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.
Here we go:
1: The first time my mother left me alone in our apartment to quickly run an errand, she sternly commanded that I do not open the door to anyone. She was secure in the fact that very rarely did people ring the door at that hour. As irony would have it, the postman came ringing. I knew better than to open the door, but curiosity had me drag an armchair across the floor so I could look at the peep hole and see who it was. Of course, the post man heard the racket. "Is anyone there?" he asked. And yours truly to reply in a very convinced tone of voice: "No, there is nobody."
2: My father used to play a game with me. He'd send me to the next room to see if he was there. I always went, because, even though I could see he was here, well, you never know, do you?
3: I believed in Santa Claus until I was 9 years old. My friends at school would tell me; my 6-year-old sister! would tell me; but I was adamant that they were thoroughly mistaken and they would pay the price one way or another. In the end, my father decided to address this worrying issue himself and he took me to my piano class, walking - one hour each way. He figured he'd need that much time, and he was right. I argued the whole way there, and then, the whole way back, about how and why I knew without possible error that Santa Claus does indeed exist. And then, I cried and cried and was very upset at the whole world.
4: I have seen the tooth fairy, except that it was The Little Mouse, as we call her in France ( one of the reasons my father had such a hard time convincing me that Santa doesn't exist, by the way. I knew better, you see.) Anyway, The Little Mouse lifted the rolling shutter of the hotel room we were staying in, in the south of Spain (she was very strong and fit) and she scurried next to my pillow, and I SAW her! I can still see her in fact.
5: I'm very stubborn. Proof? I once got lost in the dark at the foot of the volcano Mount Bromo in Java, with only a tiny useless flashlight. We were supposed to walk there and climb to the top of the volcano to watch the sunrise, but it was pouring, and the tour guide had everyone climb into a jeep instead. Only, I wouldn't hear of it, because I had payed for a walking tour (Mm, I like to believe that I have matured a bit since then, even though I was already 29 years old at the time. Thing is, I had a weight problem and I figured that particular walk would make me shed 10 pounds all at once. Yeah, I know...) So, the guide just drove away with the other tourists gaping at me, and I found myself alone in the dark and the rain. Another jeep rescued me, later on, after I'd waddled in the mud, and even though I did get to the top of Mount Bromo, breathed the sulfuric vapors, and enjoyed the view, I missed the sunrise. That's what you get for being so hardheaded.
6: When I gave birth (naturally and very noisily as well, Robin) my husband had the order to get me a steak, medium RARE if you please. He had to argue with the birthing center chef because their policy did not allow them to serve meat that was not thoroughly cooked - I call it carbonated, myself ! But my husband can be very persuasive, and I did get my rare meat, in the end.
7 : I was held at gunpoint twice in a week, in Haiti. First time, in a dark alley, as I walked back to the guest house I was staying at. Second time, I was sleeping peacefully in my bed, minding my own dreams, and this guy wearing a bandanna on his face shines a flashlight in my face. That woke me up, all right, and I remembered with horror that I had no UNDERWEAR on beneath the flimsy sheet ! Only a top. It's true, I swear. Now, don't let that influence your opinion of Haiti, OK? I ended up marrying a Haitian man - no, not that one ! ttt - and I love Haiti.
Jay, thanks for tagging me. That was really fun. I feel like I flexed my writing muscles. Only now, there are only 10 mns left before I have to go fetch my daughter at her play group. :)
Oups, no, I have to tag EIGHT people !! Not sure I know that many bloggers. I'm just a debutante, you see. OK, Rilla, you are tagged, again. Natasha, you are it, too. And Janee, want to try?Agh, just checked your blog and you've already been it ! Ok, I'll keep on looking. Have to go, now.
By now, you’ve probably seen (if not answered) the 8 facts/habits MeMe that’s been going around: Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed. At the end of the post, the player then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.
Here we go:
1: The first time my mother left me alone in our apartment to quickly run an errand, she sternly commanded that I do not open the door to anyone. She was secure in the fact that very rarely did people ring the door at that hour. As irony would have it, the postman came ringing. I knew better than to open the door, but curiosity had me drag an armchair across the floor so I could look at the peep hole and see who it was. Of course, the post man heard the racket. "Is anyone there?" he asked. And yours truly to reply in a very convinced tone of voice: "No, there is nobody."
2: My father used to play a game with me. He'd send me to the next room to see if he was there. I always went, because, even though I could see he was here, well, you never know, do you?
3: I believed in Santa Claus until I was 9 years old. My friends at school would tell me; my 6-year-old sister! would tell me; but I was adamant that they were thoroughly mistaken and they would pay the price one way or another. In the end, my father decided to address this worrying issue himself and he took me to my piano class, walking - one hour each way. He figured he'd need that much time, and he was right. I argued the whole way there, and then, the whole way back, about how and why I knew without possible error that Santa Claus does indeed exist. And then, I cried and cried and was very upset at the whole world.
4: I have seen the tooth fairy, except that it was The Little Mouse, as we call her in France ( one of the reasons my father had such a hard time convincing me that Santa doesn't exist, by the way. I knew better, you see.) Anyway, The Little Mouse lifted the rolling shutter of the hotel room we were staying in, in the south of Spain (she was very strong and fit) and she scurried next to my pillow, and I SAW her! I can still see her in fact.
5: I'm very stubborn. Proof? I once got lost in the dark at the foot of the volcano Mount Bromo in Java, with only a tiny useless flashlight. We were supposed to walk there and climb to the top of the volcano to watch the sunrise, but it was pouring, and the tour guide had everyone climb into a jeep instead. Only, I wouldn't hear of it, because I had payed for a walking tour (Mm, I like to believe that I have matured a bit since then, even though I was already 29 years old at the time. Thing is, I had a weight problem and I figured that particular walk would make me shed 10 pounds all at once. Yeah, I know...) So, the guide just drove away with the other tourists gaping at me, and I found myself alone in the dark and the rain. Another jeep rescued me, later on, after I'd waddled in the mud, and even though I did get to the top of Mount Bromo, breathed the sulfuric vapors, and enjoyed the view, I missed the sunrise. That's what you get for being so hardheaded.
6: When I gave birth (naturally and very noisily as well, Robin) my husband had the order to get me a steak, medium RARE if you please. He had to argue with the birthing center chef because their policy did not allow them to serve meat that was not thoroughly cooked - I call it carbonated, myself ! But my husband can be very persuasive, and I did get my rare meat, in the end.
7 : I was held at gunpoint twice in a week, in Haiti. First time, in a dark alley, as I walked back to the guest house I was staying at. Second time, I was sleeping peacefully in my bed, minding my own dreams, and this guy wearing a bandanna on his face shines a flashlight in my face. That woke me up, all right, and I remembered with horror that I had no UNDERWEAR on beneath the flimsy sheet ! Only a top. It's true, I swear. Now, don't let that influence your opinion of Haiti, OK? I ended up marrying a Haitian man - no, not that one ! ttt - and I love Haiti.
Jay, thanks for tagging me. That was really fun. I feel like I flexed my writing muscles. Only now, there are only 10 mns left before I have to go fetch my daughter at her play group. :)
Oups, no, I have to tag EIGHT people !! Not sure I know that many bloggers. I'm just a debutante, you see. OK, Rilla, you are tagged, again. Natasha, you are it, too. And Janee, want to try?Agh, just checked your blog and you've already been it ! Ok, I'll keep on looking. Have to go, now.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
The shamelessness of the writer
Oh, my, oh my, what have I done ? After writing the last post, I remembered I had already began working on a draft about one of the experiences I reported : the scene at my aunt's apartment, when the soldier came to deliver my cousin's effects. Somewhere, I had seen a line recommending writers to write about their first experience with death. So, I dug that file out, put on my critique's hat, got the machete out, and started reading and revising. And almost immediately, a thought struck me ; here I am, using a very painful event for my family, something that happened almost 40 years ago, and yet, my aunt wore black clothes up until recently( when she started wearing grayish colors again), my aunt who could never dust the portrait of her son smiling in his uniform, the last picture that was taken of him, without tearing up. So, here I'm using this and turning it into a writing exercise !!! How moral, or rather, how immoral is that ?
It reminded me of something I read a while ago about Truman Capote. I'm pretty sure it was him, even though I can't recall the title of the book. The essence of what I remember is that he had very few friends because he used everything and everyone around him in his writing. He just couldn't imagine not doing so. And I just found another quote in Bonnie Friedman's Writing Past Dark. The quote is from the Tao Te Ching : "Care about people's approval/and you will be their prisoner." Another quote from Friedman's book, by Charles McGrathe, when he was an editor at The New Yorker : " If you want to be a writer, somewhere along the line you're going to have to hurt somebody. When that time comes, you go ahead and do it." Mm. Even for a blog ? But of course, it's not only for the blog. I'm writing because I feel the need to write. Because I can't think about anything else, basically. I mean, I do : every day, I go about the business of living, of bringing up two kids, etc, but I can't help looking at everything and everyone, wondering whether I can use it or them in my writing. It's like a disease. Or rather, an obsession.
And as I write these words, I realize that I'd better stop writing about the fact that I want to write, and start actually WRITING. So enough of that. Well, no, I'll add a last quote from Friedman's book about writer's block, in a chapter aptly titled "Anorexia of Language": "I could not write until I could risk appearing ugly." ... "When I embraced imperfection, silence dissolved. The inner absolutist, the fanatic mistress of restraint who, suffering, defines herself through refusal, at last departed, or rather receded into me, which is of course where she'd come from in the first place..."
It reminded me of something I read a while ago about Truman Capote. I'm pretty sure it was him, even though I can't recall the title of the book. The essence of what I remember is that he had very few friends because he used everything and everyone around him in his writing. He just couldn't imagine not doing so. And I just found another quote in Bonnie Friedman's Writing Past Dark. The quote is from the Tao Te Ching : "Care about people's approval/and you will be their prisoner." Another quote from Friedman's book, by Charles McGrathe, when he was an editor at The New Yorker : " If you want to be a writer, somewhere along the line you're going to have to hurt somebody. When that time comes, you go ahead and do it." Mm. Even for a blog ? But of course, it's not only for the blog. I'm writing because I feel the need to write. Because I can't think about anything else, basically. I mean, I do : every day, I go about the business of living, of bringing up two kids, etc, but I can't help looking at everything and everyone, wondering whether I can use it or them in my writing. It's like a disease. Or rather, an obsession.
And as I write these words, I realize that I'd better stop writing about the fact that I want to write, and start actually WRITING. So enough of that. Well, no, I'll add a last quote from Friedman's book about writer's block, in a chapter aptly titled "Anorexia of Language": "I could not write until I could risk appearing ugly." ... "When I embraced imperfection, silence dissolved. The inner absolutist, the fanatic mistress of restraint who, suffering, defines herself through refusal, at last departed, or rather receded into me, which is of course where she'd come from in the first place..."
First Memories
There seem to be various games of tag going on in the children's literature blogosphere. They are called meme. My first reaction was to read that the French way : meymey - kind of, I'm not good at phonetics - which means grandma. But I wonder if it's not meme, as in me, me ??? Or is it a short for something else? No idea. Anyway, Linda Accorn, from Just Like the Nut started one about My First Memory. Rilla, then, tagged me, and so, it's my turn to write about my first memory.
Now that's a tough one, because I have basically no recollection of my childhood. Really, I don't remember anything until I'm at least 6 or 7. Or do I? Upon much brain raking, two souvenirs finally scrambled to the surface. Since I don't know which one came first, I'll recount both.
Here I am, age 5 or 6.
1 : I'm standing in line with mom at the butcher's shop in Paris. When our turn comes, the butcher asks my mom what she wants. His tone of voice is rather gruff. My mother, who is Spanish and speaks French badly and with a thick accent, asks for something, and the butcher sighs and rolls his eyes and asks her to repeat because he didn't understand. He exchanges exasperated looks with the other customers in line, and my mother turns to me, looking rather helpless. I repeat the order and the butcher gets what we need, and when he hands the meat to my mother, he says something. I don't remember exactly what, only that it is insulting - something along the lines of : foreigners should just stay in their country. What I do remember is the ambivalence I felt. I hated that man for being so mean to us, of course. But I also hated my mother for not speaking French properly. People always noticed us everywhere we went, and I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.
2: We are in our apartment in Paris, a small apartment on the third floor of a small old building, and my mother has just received the news that her nephew died in a car accident. He was 19 and doing his military service in Spain. I don't know whether we already had a phone at the time. Maybe we got a telegram. Anyway, mom starts crying, and runs to my parent's bedroom, and I remember standing at the open kitchen window with my dad. It was early summer and the day was beautiful. I ask him why Mom is crying and he tries to explain to me what has happened.
Another early memory related to the death of my cousin takes me to Spain, a few weeks later(funny how it all comes back, now) : I'm in my aunt's apartment - my cousin's mother - and the doorbell rings. My aunt opens the door and sees a young man wearing a military uniform standing there with a cardboard box. She cries a horrible sound and runs to the lavadero - the small terrace-like laundry room that usually opens onto a patio, in Spain - and starts bumping her head on the walls and wailing and all the neighbors put their heads out. I'm standing there, not knowing what to do, and the young soldier is also standing there with that box in his hands, looking like he just wants out of there.
It's all rather sad and makes me wonder if I don't have some fun first memories ? I'll have to think about it some more. Anyway, as I was writing these, I kept thinking, ok, I'm writing a first memory, but the writing is not good, and, most of all, it's flat. It's true, but flat. So, I have an idea for an exercise.
How about trying to fictionalize our first memory? Turn the flat reality into a little piece of reasonably good writing. It doesn't matter if we have to bend the truth a bit or even a lot. Let's use that episode and turn it into a good piece of writing. Whether we call it fiction or not is up to us.
Whoever tries that exercise, let me know and if you have a blog, paste the link in the comment section - I believe this is the way to do this. And you can ask others on your list of children's writers to do the same. More tagging. Thanks, Rilla. This is fun.
Now that's a tough one, because I have basically no recollection of my childhood. Really, I don't remember anything until I'm at least 6 or 7. Or do I? Upon much brain raking, two souvenirs finally scrambled to the surface. Since I don't know which one came first, I'll recount both.
Here I am, age 5 or 6.
1 : I'm standing in line with mom at the butcher's shop in Paris. When our turn comes, the butcher asks my mom what she wants. His tone of voice is rather gruff. My mother, who is Spanish and speaks French badly and with a thick accent, asks for something, and the butcher sighs and rolls his eyes and asks her to repeat because he didn't understand. He exchanges exasperated looks with the other customers in line, and my mother turns to me, looking rather helpless. I repeat the order and the butcher gets what we need, and when he hands the meat to my mother, he says something. I don't remember exactly what, only that it is insulting - something along the lines of : foreigners should just stay in their country. What I do remember is the ambivalence I felt. I hated that man for being so mean to us, of course. But I also hated my mother for not speaking French properly. People always noticed us everywhere we went, and I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.2: We are in our apartment in Paris, a small apartment on the third floor of a small old building, and my mother has just received the news that her nephew died in a car accident. He was 19 and doing his military service in Spain. I don't know whether we already had a phone at the time. Maybe we got a telegram. Anyway, mom starts crying, and runs to my parent's bedroom, and I remember standing at the open kitchen window with my dad. It was early summer and the day was beautiful. I ask him why Mom is crying and he tries to explain to me what has happened.
Another early memory related to the death of my cousin takes me to Spain, a few weeks later(funny how it all comes back, now) : I'm in my aunt's apartment - my cousin's mother - and the doorbell rings. My aunt opens the door and sees a young man wearing a military uniform standing there with a cardboard box. She cries a horrible sound and runs to the lavadero - the small terrace-like laundry room that usually opens onto a patio, in Spain - and starts bumping her head on the walls and wailing and all the neighbors put their heads out. I'm standing there, not knowing what to do, and the young soldier is also standing there with that box in his hands, looking like he just wants out of there.
It's all rather sad and makes me wonder if I don't have some fun first memories ? I'll have to think about it some more. Anyway, as I was writing these, I kept thinking, ok, I'm writing a first memory, but the writing is not good, and, most of all, it's flat. It's true, but flat. So, I have an idea for an exercise.
How about trying to fictionalize our first memory? Turn the flat reality into a little piece of reasonably good writing. It doesn't matter if we have to bend the truth a bit or even a lot. Let's use that episode and turn it into a good piece of writing. Whether we call it fiction or not is up to us.
Whoever tries that exercise, let me know and if you have a blog, paste the link in the comment section - I believe this is the way to do this. And you can ask others on your list of children's writers to do the same. More tagging. Thanks, Rilla. This is fun.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Vignette : Transportation or the art of balance
I was in the car, today, looking around, totally enthralled by the ever going spectacle around me - I've been living in India for almost 3 years, now, and I don't know that I'll ever get tired of it, nor used to it - and I decided to write little vignettes about life here and post some photos. I've taken to carrying a camera everywhere I go. One always has to be prepared. So, today's post will be about transportation.
Indian people seem gifted with a supernatural sense of balance. One comes across the most extraordinary sights in the streets and on the roads. Entire families riding a motorcycle : dad, mom, and up to three kids, with mom barely holding onto anything - I mean, she seems to simply perch there, more often than not sidesaddle, her dupatta or sari floating behind her. Sometimes, a child sleeps in her arms, totally oblivious of the noise and traffic. Lone men - or sometimes more - on bicycles carrying loads so enormous that the rider seems to disappear and one wonders how it all manages to move forward. Auto rickshaws filled way over their actual capacity, with people hanging outside. Of course, there are lots of accidents. But people have to go about their lives and that means going places. And so, life goes on.
Indian people seem gifted with a supernatural sense of balance. One comes across the most extraordinary sights in the streets and on the roads. Entire families riding a motorcycle : dad, mom, and up to three kids, with mom barely holding onto anything - I mean, she seems to simply perch there, more often than not sidesaddle, her dupatta or sari floating behind her. Sometimes, a child sleeps in her arms, totally oblivious of the noise and traffic. Lone men - or sometimes more - on bicycles carrying loads so enormous that the rider seems to disappear and one wonders how it all manages to move forward. Auto rickshaws filled way over their actual capacity, with people hanging outside. Of course, there are lots of accidents. But people have to go about their lives and that means going places. And so, life goes on.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Full time mother
Monsoon is here, in Hyderabad, and what a relief that is ! Temperatures have dropped, humidity is up, and last evening, I was walking around the house feeling the cool floor under my feet - it gets so hot in this part of the world during their summer that even the door handles become warm - breathing in the fresh air and feeling blissfully comfortable for the first time in months.
Now, where have I been, and doing what ? First, I got really ill. Some virus that gave me the most horrible nausea and made me so weak I could barely stand for more than a few minutes at a time. Not pleasant. And while this was happening, my nanny decided she didn't feel like working anymore. So, I'm now a full time mother, and even though it makes me realize how stressful my usual life is in comparison, I'd still rather go back to my hectic schedule. I don't like the feeling I have that I'm not being productive at all. And I'm not the type of person who can just sit at the computer and say, ok, I have 30 mns and I'm going to use each and everyone of them to write. I need to know I have several hours ahead of me. I need to ease into the mood. And once I'm in it, just leave me alone and don't you dare interrupting me, whoever you are. Go explain that to a not quite 3- year-old or her not quite 7-year-old sister ! Also, my computer turned out to be riddled with viruses in spite of good old Norton, and so I had to reinitialize the whole thing and then wait for the service provider guy to be willing to show up and set up my Internet connection again. In the meantime, I was using my husband's laptop with a wireless card and it was so slow, not to mention the connection being constantly cut, that I couldn't use it for anything other than writing a few emails.
So, what else is new ? And how come I'm able to find the time to write a blog, today ? Well, I'm doing what I swore I would NEVER EVER EVER in my lifetime be caught doing : I'm using the TV as a baby sitter. Tttt. Bad mom. But I'm not going to apologize. Tough times call for tough measures, so there.
The only good news. I woke up this morning with an idea for a Picture Book. I was still in that hazy land between sleep and full alertness - well, yes, I do reach the state of alertness at some stage during the morning - and these words floated in my mind, and I saw a very vivid picture, and then another. I kept mentally repeating the words, so they would not disappear into the realm of my subconscious. It's happened so many times. I often dream that I'm writing the perfect book. I mean, in my sleep, the plot is just outstandingly brilliant, the writing flows, and it's pure bliss. And then, I wake up, and I've forgotten everything, or, just as bad, what I remember makes no sense whatsoever. Don't you hate that? But not this time. I've written the idea down. Let's see if it evolves into something.
Well, this is a catch-up blog. Feels like a journal entry, but I need to get back into the flow. I'm off to work on my writing, now. I have about half an hour, maybe less, before Barney's DVD ends and the little one comes down the stairs demanding some attention. Let's see if I can use my new situation to try and reverse what I mention above about not being able to work within a short time frame. Life is about learning lessons, evolving, becoming better, etc, etc, right ? Like good wine. Let's see what I manage to do with my vintage.
Now, where have I been, and doing what ? First, I got really ill. Some virus that gave me the most horrible nausea and made me so weak I could barely stand for more than a few minutes at a time. Not pleasant. And while this was happening, my nanny decided she didn't feel like working anymore. So, I'm now a full time mother, and even though it makes me realize how stressful my usual life is in comparison, I'd still rather go back to my hectic schedule. I don't like the feeling I have that I'm not being productive at all. And I'm not the type of person who can just sit at the computer and say, ok, I have 30 mns and I'm going to use each and everyone of them to write. I need to know I have several hours ahead of me. I need to ease into the mood. And once I'm in it, just leave me alone and don't you dare interrupting me, whoever you are. Go explain that to a not quite 3- year-old or her not quite 7-year-old sister ! Also, my computer turned out to be riddled with viruses in spite of good old Norton, and so I had to reinitialize the whole thing and then wait for the service provider guy to be willing to show up and set up my Internet connection again. In the meantime, I was using my husband's laptop with a wireless card and it was so slow, not to mention the connection being constantly cut, that I couldn't use it for anything other than writing a few emails.
So, what else is new ? And how come I'm able to find the time to write a blog, today ? Well, I'm doing what I swore I would NEVER EVER EVER in my lifetime be caught doing : I'm using the TV as a baby sitter. Tttt. Bad mom. But I'm not going to apologize. Tough times call for tough measures, so there.
The only good news. I woke up this morning with an idea for a Picture Book. I was still in that hazy land between sleep and full alertness - well, yes, I do reach the state of alertness at some stage during the morning - and these words floated in my mind, and I saw a very vivid picture, and then another. I kept mentally repeating the words, so they would not disappear into the realm of my subconscious. It's happened so many times. I often dream that I'm writing the perfect book. I mean, in my sleep, the plot is just outstandingly brilliant, the writing flows, and it's pure bliss. And then, I wake up, and I've forgotten everything, or, just as bad, what I remember makes no sense whatsoever. Don't you hate that? But not this time. I've written the idea down. Let's see if it evolves into something.
Well, this is a catch-up blog. Feels like a journal entry, but I need to get back into the flow. I'm off to work on my writing, now. I have about half an hour, maybe less, before Barney's DVD ends and the little one comes down the stairs demanding some attention. Let's see if I can use my new situation to try and reverse what I mention above about not being able to work within a short time frame. Life is about learning lessons, evolving, becoming better, etc, etc, right ? Like good wine. Let's see what I manage to do with my vintage.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
I'm in good company
I started reading David LaRochelle's Absolutely, Positively NOT. The main character's struggle is poignant, and yet, the way the author tells his story is hilarious. Anyway, Steven has a line I can't resist posting here:
"Mornings would be beautiful if they didn't happen so early in the day."
Ha ! Absolutely, positively true. I could never understand people who jump out of bed at sunrise and cheerfully go about their activities. My father in law is like that. Up at 5 am, and whistling all over the house. Wait a minute : my own mother is like that. What is it with these people? Getting out of bed before 8.30, 9 am is torture, and when forced upon people, should be declared a punishable crime.
I say.
"Mornings would be beautiful if they didn't happen so early in the day."
Ha ! Absolutely, positively true. I could never understand people who jump out of bed at sunrise and cheerfully go about their activities. My father in law is like that. Up at 5 am, and whistling all over the house. Wait a minute : my own mother is like that. What is it with these people? Getting out of bed before 8.30, 9 am is torture, and when forced upon people, should be declared a punishable crime.
I say.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
I have a problem
The smart pants out there who know me are probably thinking that I have more than one, but this is a strange one. The whole of yesterday, I thought I'd become Rilla. Maybe I need to stop reading her blog. Imagine: I had two arguing voices in my brain.
Now, I've always spoken alone and aloud. Yep. I actually think that many people do that: more than are willing to admit it anyway. I can't spend two minutes alone in a car without having whole conversations with myself, absent people or imaginary characters. And I can't stand in front of a mirror without launching into an argument with whoever happens to really annoy me at any given time. I rehearse conversations. Or I re-enact conversations after the fact, especially when I feel I missed an opportunity for a good retort. You know how it is. Punchy lines so often spurt out once we don't need them any more. Maybe that's why I love writing. I can rehearse, revise and polish as much as is necessary.
Anyway, last night, after a truly horrid day, here is what went on in my mind:
- You are a horrible mother. How could you scream like that at poor M? Yes, the potty training is taking forever, but she's not even 3, for Pete's sake. And K. didn't see your foot when she dragged that stool all over it. You didn't have to scream at her, too.
- I'm tired, that's what I am. These kids, sometimes, they drive me up the wall. How dare they get sick at the same time, anyway? And the nanny, too ? What is this: a conspiracy ? I had things to do. For weeks, I've been stuck with my translation, deadlines and what not. Now that I have some time, I wanted to prepare a bunch of submissions. I had to check the Children's Writer's and Illustrator's Market book, publishers' websites, editors' infos, blogs, and what not, in order to target the right persons. This takes time. And I wanted to do that today, because then, tomorrow, I can actually WRITE. I'm supposed to be a writer, and all I've been writing lately is blogs! I don't want to be the author of a sole, lonely book. I have to work on new stuff. How can I do that with two sick children constantly interrupting me for the pettiest things? Maybe I wasn't meant to be a mother.
- Yeah, well, you are soooo not patient! All you care about is your computer, your writing, the blogs, emails and reading books and articles about the process. As Jane Yolen said, just "WRITE THE DAMN BOOK" already. Stop looking everywhere for the magic formula. Get organized. Stop wasting so much time. And if the kids are sick, forget about the writing for one day. Why didn't you just put the submission process aside, and stay with them, instead of constantly running up and down the stairs whenever the little one started wailing - quite a pair of lungs she's got that one. She'd make a good opera singer.
- What? Spend the whole day playing with dolls? Constructing Charminars - that's how my little one calls whatever thing she builds with her blocks ? Watching "Dragon Tales"? Are you kidding? I can't do that. I don't know how to do that. I forgot.
- Exactly : lousy mother. And in the end, you don't get the work done, and you traumatize your children.
- I did get the work done. I sent out 4 submissions and 4 queries !
- Yeah, but at what price ? Did you see the look on M.'s face when you got so angry at her?
- Well, did she have to poop in her pants, right after she peed in the previous pair? I'm only human, you know.
Etc, etc.
I went to bed feeling dejected and utterly miserable. I got up twice to go and kiss the girls - who look so angelic in their sleep - and whisper that I love them. Thank goodness, I had a good book waiting for me. I'm reading "Tears of the Giraffe" from the No 1 Ladies Detective Agency series, by Alexander McCall Smith. Just the right dose of down-to-earth philosophy to help me settle into sleep. Today, I'm back to square one. Both kids still sick, still no nanny, and maybe I should just write this writing day off, but... I can't. I'm thinking that once they're all grown-up and they curse me whenever they have to pay their psychotherapist, I'll show them this post. I'm just a struggling, not very patient mom trying to balance priorities in her life : children, family, work, AND writing. Because even though I love them both to death, the writing also nurtures my soul and makes me feel like I'm achieving something for myself. And contrary to some other mothers-writers I know, I cannot get up at 5 or 6 am, when everyone else is asleep, to write. So, pipe down, the two arguing voices, up there, and get out of my brain. That was Rilla's idea, anyway. I'm going back to talking to absent or imaginary people, depending on the mood and circumstances.
Now, I've always spoken alone and aloud. Yep. I actually think that many people do that: more than are willing to admit it anyway. I can't spend two minutes alone in a car without having whole conversations with myself, absent people or imaginary characters. And I can't stand in front of a mirror without launching into an argument with whoever happens to really annoy me at any given time. I rehearse conversations. Or I re-enact conversations after the fact, especially when I feel I missed an opportunity for a good retort. You know how it is. Punchy lines so often spurt out once we don't need them any more. Maybe that's why I love writing. I can rehearse, revise and polish as much as is necessary.
Anyway, last night, after a truly horrid day, here is what went on in my mind:
- You are a horrible mother. How could you scream like that at poor M? Yes, the potty training is taking forever, but she's not even 3, for Pete's sake. And K. didn't see your foot when she dragged that stool all over it. You didn't have to scream at her, too.
- I'm tired, that's what I am. These kids, sometimes, they drive me up the wall. How dare they get sick at the same time, anyway? And the nanny, too ? What is this: a conspiracy ? I had things to do. For weeks, I've been stuck with my translation, deadlines and what not. Now that I have some time, I wanted to prepare a bunch of submissions. I had to check the Children's Writer's and Illustrator's Market book, publishers' websites, editors' infos, blogs, and what not, in order to target the right persons. This takes time. And I wanted to do that today, because then, tomorrow, I can actually WRITE. I'm supposed to be a writer, and all I've been writing lately is blogs! I don't want to be the author of a sole, lonely book. I have to work on new stuff. How can I do that with two sick children constantly interrupting me for the pettiest things? Maybe I wasn't meant to be a mother.
- Yeah, well, you are soooo not patient! All you care about is your computer, your writing, the blogs, emails and reading books and articles about the process. As Jane Yolen said, just "WRITE THE DAMN BOOK" already. Stop looking everywhere for the magic formula. Get organized. Stop wasting so much time. And if the kids are sick, forget about the writing for one day. Why didn't you just put the submission process aside, and stay with them, instead of constantly running up and down the stairs whenever the little one started wailing - quite a pair of lungs she's got that one. She'd make a good opera singer.
- What? Spend the whole day playing with dolls? Constructing Charminars - that's how my little one calls whatever thing she builds with her blocks ? Watching "Dragon Tales"? Are you kidding? I can't do that. I don't know how to do that. I forgot.
- Exactly : lousy mother. And in the end, you don't get the work done, and you traumatize your children.
- I did get the work done. I sent out 4 submissions and 4 queries !
- Yeah, but at what price ? Did you see the look on M.'s face when you got so angry at her?
- Well, did she have to poop in her pants, right after she peed in the previous pair? I'm only human, you know.
Etc, etc.
I went to bed feeling dejected and utterly miserable. I got up twice to go and kiss the girls - who look so angelic in their sleep - and whisper that I love them. Thank goodness, I had a good book waiting for me. I'm reading "Tears of the Giraffe" from the No 1 Ladies Detective Agency series, by Alexander McCall Smith. Just the right dose of down-to-earth philosophy to help me settle into sleep. Today, I'm back to square one. Both kids still sick, still no nanny, and maybe I should just write this writing day off, but... I can't. I'm thinking that once they're all grown-up and they curse me whenever they have to pay their psychotherapist, I'll show them this post. I'm just a struggling, not very patient mom trying to balance priorities in her life : children, family, work, AND writing. Because even though I love them both to death, the writing also nurtures my soul and makes me feel like I'm achieving something for myself. And contrary to some other mothers-writers I know, I cannot get up at 5 or 6 am, when everyone else is asleep, to write. So, pipe down, the two arguing voices, up there, and get out of my brain. That was Rilla's idea, anyway. I'm going back to talking to absent or imaginary people, depending on the mood and circumstances.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Movies from all over or: how to get a headache !
No news on Ifeanyi's front. Last I heard, they'd found an illustrator, but were waiting for things to become official before they disclosed a name. Audrey sounded very happy about it, though, so I'm curious, expectant, etc, etc. The feedback about my last draft was positive, but as far as the name is concerned, opinions were still divided. The suspense remains.
And since I don't have anything more to report on that front, I shall digress and share something I've been thinking about. It still has to do with multiple backgrounds and what that does to a person, so maybe it's not such a big digression from my favorite themes.
A friend of mine commented that in my profile, I don't mention a single French movie. Mm! How bizarre! as Louis Jouvet said in "Drole de Drame". See, I do know my French classics. So, why is it that when I was thinking about my favorite movies, only American ones popped in my mind?
There was a time when I went to the movies almost every day of the week. And when living in Paris, on the Journée du Cinéma - it's a yearly celebration in France : for one day, you pay for one movie, and you can see as many as you like for a very small entry fee - I would actually see FIVE ! Yep, that's how compulsive I can be. It required careful planning, some running, and a good knowledge of the Odeon area where you can find dozens of movie theaters crammed in the same neighborhood, but I did it. I saw all types of movies. French. Italian. American. German - I was a big fan of Fassbinder, for a while, especially his Lili Marleen with Hannah Schygulla - Chinese, Japanese, British, African, Portuguese... I mean, basically anything that got good reviews I tried to see. Lots of old black and white movies, too. And, of course, many of the movies I loved were French ones : because they were great, because the story happened to have a particular resonance in my life at the time that I saw them, because I loved the subject, the actors - I also did the typical groupie thing in my teens : swoon, hang posters in my room, and the whole fan thing. My favorite, for years, was Alain Delon. Now that I'm supposed to be all grown-up, I'm no longer fond of him because I really dislike his political views. But hey, I was young-er, and was he handsome !
Anyway, why didn't these movies come to mind when I was listing my favorites ? Did I mention only American movies because I was in my English mode, read : writing in English?
I lived a chunk of my life in the US, and my time in New York was the most happening, exciting, interesting time I've had, so far. I was born in Paris, I grew up there, and yet, New York is home. I still think of Park Slope, Brooklyn, as my neighborhood. I mean, I physically miss the place. Whenever I land at JFK and we come out of the airport, I feel like I've just been punched in the heart and I'm being lifted from the ground all at the same time. Pure elation. HAPPY ! Now, don't get me wrong : I would not give up the chance of living in India for the world. Yeah, I should have the ability to be in several places at the same time. Unfortunately, I don't.
So, my point??? Here it comes : Do people adapt so much to their chosen environment that they can experience some kind of internal distancing, maybe even dichotomy? Do I unconsciously switch my "Americanized" self on when I speak and write English, to the point that my other selves move into the shadows ? In other words, are mixed background people composed of several distinctive personas rather than a kind of amalgamated single entity? Or maybe I'm seeing too much into this and I just suffered from temporary memory loss.
Another anecdote comes to mind. Years ago, I was visiting Montreal with friends and we'd met a local who took us around town. When he found out I was half Spanish, he immediately started speaking Spanish to me. Of course, I replied in Spanish, and after a while, he exclaimed : "My God, you sound so different when you speak Spanish. It's like you are a different person." Well, let's see. My mother's family is from Malaga, in the south. Background : poor, working-class. That's where I spent most of my summers growing up. So, my spoken Spanish is not your average Castellano, but rather a popular Spanish with an accent from Andalucia. On the other hand, I learned English in London, working as a nanny for rich families who did speak a very upper class English, and to this day, even after years in the US, I cannot say tomayto, I say tomaaahto. My accent is the result of a wild mixture of influences : it sounds somehow French - but not Inspecteur-Clouseau-like even though I can easily render that one :) - but also British, American, even Indian, now. Is it possible that I put on a different cloak, depending on the language I'm speaking ? And what about when I'm writing ? Does the fact that I chose one language over another one mean anything? And what would that be?
This requires further exploration, and I may post some update on the subject... IF I come up with some brilliant discovery or conclusion.
In the meantime, I feel I need to own up to all the Katias in there, and so, I officially declare that I do have French movies in my list of favorites. I love most of Claude Sautet's movies. And Truffaut. Some Lelouch. As for Alain Delon, I actually liked him best in his Italian Visconti movies - I also adore Visconti, by the way. And I'm a big, big fan of Pedro Almodovar. Red, by Kieslovsky, is another favorite. And Zhang Yimou's movies. And I'm back to American, because I realize I didn't mention Cassavetes, and how could I possibly forget him? So, there. A nice global mix. As Malkovitch/de Valmont said to Pfeiffer/de Tourvel, in Dangerous Liaisons: "It's beyond my control" :)
And next time, I won't even try to list all my favorite anything. Because it's a recipe for recurring headaches!
And since I don't have anything more to report on that front, I shall digress and share something I've been thinking about. It still has to do with multiple backgrounds and what that does to a person, so maybe it's not such a big digression from my favorite themes.
A friend of mine commented that in my profile, I don't mention a single French movie. Mm! How bizarre! as Louis Jouvet said in "Drole de Drame". See, I do know my French classics. So, why is it that when I was thinking about my favorite movies, only American ones popped in my mind?
There was a time when I went to the movies almost every day of the week. And when living in Paris, on the Journée du Cinéma - it's a yearly celebration in France : for one day, you pay for one movie, and you can see as many as you like for a very small entry fee - I would actually see FIVE ! Yep, that's how compulsive I can be. It required careful planning, some running, and a good knowledge of the Odeon area where you can find dozens of movie theaters crammed in the same neighborhood, but I did it. I saw all types of movies. French. Italian. American. German - I was a big fan of Fassbinder, for a while, especially his Lili Marleen with Hannah Schygulla - Chinese, Japanese, British, African, Portuguese... I mean, basically anything that got good reviews I tried to see. Lots of old black and white movies, too. And, of course, many of the movies I loved were French ones : because they were great, because the story happened to have a particular resonance in my life at the time that I saw them, because I loved the subject, the actors - I also did the typical groupie thing in my teens : swoon, hang posters in my room, and the whole fan thing. My favorite, for years, was Alain Delon. Now that I'm supposed to be all grown-up, I'm no longer fond of him because I really dislike his political views. But hey, I was young-er, and was he handsome !
Anyway, why didn't these movies come to mind when I was listing my favorites ? Did I mention only American movies because I was in my English mode, read : writing in English?
I lived a chunk of my life in the US, and my time in New York was the most happening, exciting, interesting time I've had, so far. I was born in Paris, I grew up there, and yet, New York is home. I still think of Park Slope, Brooklyn, as my neighborhood. I mean, I physically miss the place. Whenever I land at JFK and we come out of the airport, I feel like I've just been punched in the heart and I'm being lifted from the ground all at the same time. Pure elation. HAPPY ! Now, don't get me wrong : I would not give up the chance of living in India for the world. Yeah, I should have the ability to be in several places at the same time. Unfortunately, I don't.
So, my point??? Here it comes : Do people adapt so much to their chosen environment that they can experience some kind of internal distancing, maybe even dichotomy? Do I unconsciously switch my "Americanized" self on when I speak and write English, to the point that my other selves move into the shadows ? In other words, are mixed background people composed of several distinctive personas rather than a kind of amalgamated single entity? Or maybe I'm seeing too much into this and I just suffered from temporary memory loss.
Another anecdote comes to mind. Years ago, I was visiting Montreal with friends and we'd met a local who took us around town. When he found out I was half Spanish, he immediately started speaking Spanish to me. Of course, I replied in Spanish, and after a while, he exclaimed : "My God, you sound so different when you speak Spanish. It's like you are a different person." Well, let's see. My mother's family is from Malaga, in the south. Background : poor, working-class. That's where I spent most of my summers growing up. So, my spoken Spanish is not your average Castellano, but rather a popular Spanish with an accent from Andalucia. On the other hand, I learned English in London, working as a nanny for rich families who did speak a very upper class English, and to this day, even after years in the US, I cannot say tomayto, I say tomaaahto. My accent is the result of a wild mixture of influences : it sounds somehow French - but not Inspecteur-Clouseau-like even though I can easily render that one :) - but also British, American, even Indian, now. Is it possible that I put on a different cloak, depending on the language I'm speaking ? And what about when I'm writing ? Does the fact that I chose one language over another one mean anything? And what would that be?
This requires further exploration, and I may post some update on the subject... IF I come up with some brilliant discovery or conclusion.
In the meantime, I feel I need to own up to all the Katias in there, and so, I officially declare that I do have French movies in my list of favorites. I love most of Claude Sautet's movies. And Truffaut. Some Lelouch. As for Alain Delon, I actually liked him best in his Italian Visconti movies - I also adore Visconti, by the way. And I'm a big, big fan of Pedro Almodovar. Red, by Kieslovsky, is another favorite. And Zhang Yimou's movies. And I'm back to American, because I realize I didn't mention Cassavetes, and how could I possibly forget him? So, there. A nice global mix. As Malkovitch/de Valmont said to Pfeiffer/de Tourvel, in Dangerous Liaisons: "It's beyond my control" :)
And next time, I won't even try to list all my favorite anything. Because it's a recipe for recurring headaches!
Friday, May 4, 2007
My editor, Audrey Maynard !
I finally worked out the courage to send this blog's link to my editor at Tilbury. I was worried about... agh, I'm always worried about something : that she might be annoyed about my resisting the name change, that she might discover that I'm French and Spanish and no longer want to work with me, that... I don't know what else I might have come up with. I'm very much like Woody Allen's characters that way : totally, neurotically anxious. Wish I were only half as funny. :)
Well, she LIKED it ! She did! She sent me a really nice note, and even shared some info about her. I'm so very lucky. I suppose it's only normal that the person who liked Ifeanyi's story enough to want to publish it, would share so many of my views, would even get invested in the type of project that I have so much respect for.
Check out what Audrey does when she's not selecting/editing/helping publish good books ( and, yes! that implies that my own book will be good, too)
http://www.mainehumanities.org/newsletter/fall-02-p4.html
There are so many wonderful people out there who strive to open the world for our children, to broaden their horizons, to make sure they see the whole picture and learn values like tolerance, the importance and richness of difference and diversity. Everyone can do it at their own level, using their own sets of skills. And what may feel like a drop in the ocean can then turn into streams, and rivers, and more. Am I getting carried away? It's the tide of optimism. May it stick around for a while. I like it when I'm up-beat. Up-beat is good.
Well, she LIKED it ! She did! She sent me a really nice note, and even shared some info about her. I'm so very lucky. I suppose it's only normal that the person who liked Ifeanyi's story enough to want to publish it, would share so many of my views, would even get invested in the type of project that I have so much respect for.
Check out what Audrey does when she's not selecting/editing/helping publish good books ( and, yes! that implies that my own book will be good, too)
http://www.mainehumanities.org/newsletter/fall-02-p4.html
There are so many wonderful people out there who strive to open the world for our children, to broaden their horizons, to make sure they see the whole picture and learn values like tolerance, the importance and richness of difference and diversity. Everyone can do it at their own level, using their own sets of skills. And what may feel like a drop in the ocean can then turn into streams, and rivers, and more. Am I getting carried away? It's the tide of optimism. May it stick around for a while. I like it when I'm up-beat. Up-beat is good.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Fate? Coincidence? And who are you climbing trees with this week?
Last summer, I attended my very first SCBWI conference in Los Angeles. It was exciting, fun, inspiring, and totally exhausting. By the time I crashed into bed, I was so full of all that had happened during the day that my mind continued to buzz all night long and I barely got any sleep. I met people who came from all over the world. I heard many different languages being spoken among conference attendees. Thanks to that, and to the genuinely friendly atmosphere, I felt totally at ease, and that's rare enough to be mentioned, as I'm at my most awkward in big groups and crowds.
Where is this going, you ask? Well, on the second evening of the peer critique group session, I arrived a few minutes late and was shown two tables where I could sit. I hesitated a fraction of a second and chose the second one. I sat as discreetly as I could and took out my manuscript. After a few seconds, I noticed that the woman sitting next to me was staring at the address at the top of my first page. I looked at her and found her eyeing me with an air that was part unbelieving part suspicious.
She: "You live in Hyderabad?"
Me: "Yes."
She: "Hyderabad, India?"
Me: "Yes." (starting to think : so what's wrong with that?)
She: "That's my hometown!"
Me, eyes now wide open: "Really ?"
You can imagine the rest.
Coincidence? Fate? Just another proof that our world is so much smaller than we imagine it to be? I'm not a religious person, but I believe in signs, in life sending us signals and even tests. And I don't believe in coincidence, not this type of coincidence anyway. What where the odds that I, currently living in a south Indian city, would sit next to THE person (out of the 600 + attendees) who grew up in that same city, at a children's writers' conference in Los Angeles, California, half a world away? And that it would be precisely at a peer critique group where she was bound to see my address on the first page of the manuscript ? I mean, I sat next to a lot of people at that conference, and we sometimes exchanged a few words, but my situation is so complicated - French and Spanish, writes in English, lives in India, currently vacationing in Florida in order to see my husband's family as the situation in Haiti no longer permits that we travel there with our small children... stop to catch my breath - that I usually chose to give a short cut or it would have taken too long to explain it all within the few seconds or minutes we had between talks or riding the elevator. The way I see it? Life, destiny, wanted me to meet this new friend.
Anyway, Rilla came to Hyderabad to visit family over Christmas, and we saw each other. We ended up climbing the very old Golconda fortification walls at sunrise AND a very tricky, slippery 500-year-old African Baobab tree that I had been unsuccessfully trying to locate for some time. We had an absolute ball, and here we are, in the early Hyderabad morning light, talking, talking, talking :
Where is this going, you ask? Well, on the second evening of the peer critique group session, I arrived a few minutes late and was shown two tables where I could sit. I hesitated a fraction of a second and chose the second one. I sat as discreetly as I could and took out my manuscript. After a few seconds, I noticed that the woman sitting next to me was staring at the address at the top of my first page. I looked at her and found her eyeing me with an air that was part unbelieving part suspicious.
She: "You live in Hyderabad?"
Me: "Yes."
She: "Hyderabad, India?"
Me: "Yes." (starting to think : so what's wrong with that?)
She: "That's my hometown!"
Me, eyes now wide open: "Really ?"
You can imagine the rest.
Coincidence? Fate? Just another proof that our world is so much smaller than we imagine it to be? I'm not a religious person, but I believe in signs, in life sending us signals and even tests. And I don't believe in coincidence, not this type of coincidence anyway. What where the odds that I, currently living in a south Indian city, would sit next to THE person (out of the 600 + attendees) who grew up in that same city, at a children's writers' conference in Los Angeles, California, half a world away? And that it would be precisely at a peer critique group where she was bound to see my address on the first page of the manuscript ? I mean, I sat next to a lot of people at that conference, and we sometimes exchanged a few words, but my situation is so complicated - French and Spanish, writes in English, lives in India, currently vacationing in Florida in order to see my husband's family as the situation in Haiti no longer permits that we travel there with our small children... stop to catch my breath - that I usually chose to give a short cut or it would have taken too long to explain it all within the few seconds or minutes we had between talks or riding the elevator. The way I see it? Life, destiny, wanted me to meet this new friend.
Anyway, Rilla came to Hyderabad to visit family over Christmas, and we saw each other. We ended up climbing the very old Golconda fortification walls at sunrise AND a very tricky, slippery 500-year-old African Baobab tree that I had been unsuccessfully trying to locate for some time. We had an absolute ball, and here we are, in the early Hyderabad morning light, talking, talking, talking :
And my point? Well, I just love that story so much that I can't resist telling it over and over again. And because I just LOVE it when life sends me surprises like that. I consider them an invaluable gift. Because even though Rilla is part American part Indian living now in California, and I'm part French part Spanish living now in India, even though our backgrounds differ quite a lot - our childhoods couldn't have been more different, even if she also read in the dark at night - we share a common passion for writing. We both have an interest in multicultural themes and issues. And I think that we all need to meet, talk and laugh with people who come from different backgrounds - social, religious, racial, etc - and chances are we'd better understand how we can all get along.
At that same conference, one of the authors who really stood out for me was Jacqueline Woodson. The world needs more authors like her, who actively seek not only to denounce, but also to bridge the gap between people. She gave a great presentation, and read her last picture book SHOW WAY. It was so beautiful I had tears in my eyes. Someone asked her a question : "Do you think there are still fences in America today?" She was referring to JW's picture book THE OTHER SIDE, where two girls living in a segregated town strike a friendship in spite of the fences that separate their worlds.
At that same conference, one of the authors who really stood out for me was Jacqueline Woodson. The world needs more authors like her, who actively seek not only to denounce, but also to bridge the gap between people. She gave a great presentation, and read her last picture book SHOW WAY. It was so beautiful I had tears in my eyes. Someone asked her a question : "Do you think there are still fences in America today?" She was referring to JW's picture book THE OTHER SIDE, where two girls living in a segregated town strike a friendship in spite of the fences that separate their worlds.
Jacqueline Woodson's answer (I quote from memory, so if anyone who was there reads this and thinks that some words are not exactly the ones she used, please, don't sue me :) : "If you haven't had dinner with a black person or a mixed race person at least once in the past week, then, I'd say there are still fences in America today."
How simple, and yet, how very powerful ! Can the whole world do that ? Make sure that we have dinner - or climb trees - with people from a different race and/or religion, and/or sexual inclination... at least once a week ?
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Contract in the mail !
I no longer have to remain cool as a cucumber - considering that it's 113 degrees Fahrenheit, here in Hyderabad, it required quite an effort. I can jump, do cartwheels - well, maybe not - and kiss everyone around. I received my signed copy of the contract in the mail, today. I wonder if we are all like that. Worrying constantly that something will happen to make the publisher change their mind. I was. Now, I can safely start worrying about something else. Considering my extended proficiency in that area, I don't expect it will take me more than an hour or so to come up with something new :)
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Publicity, Marketing, Hurray !
Nice morning surprise: I got an email from the person in charge of publicity and marketing, at Tilbury. This is starting to feel so real. I signed the contract, and yet, I think that until I have it back in my hands with the signature from the publisher, I will want to remain as cool as a cucumber - HA ! Still, they are thinking about publicity, marketing, asking for a PHOTO ! It is all so totally, outrageously unreal ! I love it.
About the title : I'm having a change of heart. I have tried to be reasonable. Truly and sincerely, I tried to find another name. I pushed my "authorly" needs and wants aside for the sake of the book. I spent hours on the net, searching Igbo names and their meanings. I exchanged countless emails with my friend in Nigeria, and she sent me more lists of names, even asking her patients to contribute their stories and knowledge about their own names. All to no avail. No other name feels suitable. In the process, I found several sportsmen on the web who bear that same given name. It's Ifeanyi, by the way. One of them is a football player in the Cincinatti Bengals team ! So, I'm trying something new. Hopefully, the editor and the publisher will accept that. Letting go, yes. Absolutely. If it will benefit the story in the end. But I have to be able to live with that. I've been having nightmares where I'm reading my stories to a classroom full of children, and I blurt out Ifeanyi instead of whatever new name I might have come up with. Most importantly, the character must adopt that new name in a seamless way. It must fit him. It must feel natural and obvious. So far, this has not happened. Maybe he's meant to be Ifeanyi, and Ifeanyi only. It's a lovely name, anyway, with a lovely meaning that suits him and the story : "nothing is impossible." More to come about that, I'm sure.
About the title : I'm having a change of heart. I have tried to be reasonable. Truly and sincerely, I tried to find another name. I pushed my "authorly" needs and wants aside for the sake of the book. I spent hours on the net, searching Igbo names and their meanings. I exchanged countless emails with my friend in Nigeria, and she sent me more lists of names, even asking her patients to contribute their stories and knowledge about their own names. All to no avail. No other name feels suitable. In the process, I found several sportsmen on the web who bear that same given name. It's Ifeanyi, by the way. One of them is a football player in the Cincinatti Bengals team ! So, I'm trying something new. Hopefully, the editor and the publisher will accept that. Letting go, yes. Absolutely. If it will benefit the story in the end. But I have to be able to live with that. I've been having nightmares where I'm reading my stories to a classroom full of children, and I blurt out Ifeanyi instead of whatever new name I might have come up with. Most importantly, the character must adopt that new name in a seamless way. It must fit him. It must feel natural and obvious. So far, this has not happened. Maybe he's meant to be Ifeanyi, and Ifeanyi only. It's a lovely name, anyway, with a lovely meaning that suits him and the story : "nothing is impossible." More to come about that, I'm sure.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
About foreign names in picture books
I'm currently working on the last edits on my very first picture book, to be published next year by Tilbury House, Publishers. Yes, hurray ! And Yes, I still can't quite believe it. I regularly check the emails I exchange with the editor, reading them again to make sure it's all happening in the real world, and not only in my dreams.
So far, the editing process has been rather smooth. I really like my editor, even though I wish I knew more about her. But of course, she is very busy. Same with the publisher. Only bump on the road, so far? (Of course, there had to be a bump somewhere.) They would like me to change the name of my main character. Change WHAT???
I was first told it couldn't appear in the title. No foreign name in the title, especially one which pronunciation can be tricky. Now, Uma Krishnaswami - my teacher extraordinaire, and someone whose name is bound to appear from time to time in these virtual pages - once said that she regretted keeping Chachaji's name in the title of her picture book Chachaji's Cup. So, I decided to be very mature about it. I said "Fine. No name in the title."
I was already congratulating myself on being so reasonable and wise, when I was asked if I could possibly change the name completely ! That's almost like asking me to start calling my daughter differently, after I spent five years calling her by a name I happen to like or I wouldn't have chosen it, right ? This is the kind of issue that comes up in multicultural litterature. Or so I'm discovering.
I chose to tell the story of a boy who lives in an African country. He has an African name. Sometimes, foreign names are easy to pronounce for the Anglophone. But of course, I didn't choose one of those. I never even thought about pronounciation. I just liked the sound of that name, and that was it and the character must have liked it too, or he wouldn't have stayed alive, I don't think.
I have not yet resolved the dilemma. But you know what? I will again try to be mature and reasonable - now that my best writers friends have weathered the worst of my "freaked out" moment. I will try to find a new name for my boy ; a name that will better serve the story in the end ; either because it will be easier to pronounce, or because I will have found a way to avoid that pitfall. Writing - and being published - like so many other things in life- is so much about letting go.
So far, the editing process has been rather smooth. I really like my editor, even though I wish I knew more about her. But of course, she is very busy. Same with the publisher. Only bump on the road, so far? (Of course, there had to be a bump somewhere.) They would like me to change the name of my main character. Change WHAT???
I was first told it couldn't appear in the title. No foreign name in the title, especially one which pronunciation can be tricky. Now, Uma Krishnaswami - my teacher extraordinaire, and someone whose name is bound to appear from time to time in these virtual pages - once said that she regretted keeping Chachaji's name in the title of her picture book Chachaji's Cup. So, I decided to be very mature about it. I said "Fine. No name in the title."
I was already congratulating myself on being so reasonable and wise, when I was asked if I could possibly change the name completely ! That's almost like asking me to start calling my daughter differently, after I spent five years calling her by a name I happen to like or I wouldn't have chosen it, right ? This is the kind of issue that comes up in multicultural litterature. Or so I'm discovering.
I chose to tell the story of a boy who lives in an African country. He has an African name. Sometimes, foreign names are easy to pronounce for the Anglophone. But of course, I didn't choose one of those. I never even thought about pronounciation. I just liked the sound of that name, and that was it and the character must have liked it too, or he wouldn't have stayed alive, I don't think.
I have not yet resolved the dilemma. But you know what? I will again try to be mature and reasonable - now that my best writers friends have weathered the worst of my "freaked out" moment. I will try to find a new name for my boy ; a name that will better serve the story in the end ; either because it will be easier to pronounce, or because I will have found a way to avoid that pitfall. Writing - and being published - like so many other things in life- is so much about letting go.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Blog One, Action !
Alea Jacta Est ! - or how I can't resist showing off whatever remnants of Latin my brain has managed to retain after all these years. In other, simpler words : That's it. I finally created a blog. MY blog. And already, I can see this might just eat up an enormous chunk of that elusive and frustrating thing called "my time." Just coming up with the title of the blog took me well over an hour, and I still wonder about it, but then, I was never good with titles. Still, I feel like I just accomplished something.
So, why did I want to have my own blog? I imagine it as a new tool. I process my thoughts better when I write. I see this as a place to muse and share news - hopefully good ones -information and tips I gather here and there, about the process of writing. As an expatriate writer living in India - until we move elsewhere - I figure this may be a way to continue building my own writers' community. I won't necessarily visit every day, or even every week. I don't quite know how often I'll be posting. But I like the idea of having my own little forum, of contributing my little message in a bottle to the ocean of our children's writing virtual community.
So, why did I want to have my own blog? I imagine it as a new tool. I process my thoughts better when I write. I see this as a place to muse and share news - hopefully good ones -information and tips I gather here and there, about the process of writing. As an expatriate writer living in India - until we move elsewhere - I figure this may be a way to continue building my own writers' community. I won't necessarily visit every day, or even every week. I don't quite know how often I'll be posting. But I like the idea of having my own little forum, of contributing my little message in a bottle to the ocean of our children's writing virtual community.
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