We have an illustrator !

Finally, I can share this news. I've had to bide my time while waiting for the contract to be signed and everything to become official, but now it is, and so I can shout it out : Dimitrea Tokunbo is working on the illustrations for my picture book.

Dimitrea is half Nigerian on her father's side, and American on her mother's side. How is that for serendipity striking again ? I see some kind of cosmic harmony in this Nigerian connection. It just feels right. And Dimitrea has a multicultural background, and that, to me, feels like life coming full circle.

Last, but far from least, she has an interesting illustrative background. Check out how she describes herself, below. How is that for poetry? I just love the way her words sing.

http://www.boydsmillspress.com/contributors/contributors/tokunbo_dimitrea.html

Well, actually, there is more : Dimitrea is also involved in The Children's Theater Company. Here is the CTC mission statement.

http://www.childrenstheatrecompany.org/about-mission.htm

Is that great or what ?
And you'll find Dimitrea somewhere in there if you scroll down.

http://www.childrenstheatercompany.org/about-staff.htm

Now, I just have to wait to see how She sees my Ifeanyi Amadi. I also have to let go of my baby as she works to give him a face, a body, and the physical presence and expressions that she, the artist, will be coming up with. More to come on that, I'm sure.

Good Bye, Ganesh... until next year !

After more than ten days of poojas, Ganesha's festival ended yesterday. Roads had been cordoned off. Most buses didn't run, and the few auto-rickshaw drivers who ventured in the streets charged double, even triple. The whole city resonated with the pulse of the beating drums, and everywhere, trucks, big and small, carrying Ganesh statues, converged towards the lake Husain Sagar, where huge cranes awaited the statues to immerge them in the water.

I try to imagine the botton of the lake, today, and think about something that my 3-year-old daughter said, not long ago, after she'd finished her lunch. "The bread, the ham and the cheese are inside my belly and they're all talking to each other now." Maybe all the Ganeshas are having a conversation. Or maybe it all looks like an underwater dump, crowded and dirty. A desolate factory full of broken statues piling up in the darkness.

I sound gloomy, and it's a shame, because I really like Ganesha and I also want to remember the joy and cheerful spirit of that festival. Here are a few more pictures, some hastily shot while driving... oops !

 

 

 

 

 

Vignette from India: Ganesh Chaturthi Festival

This Saturday, it was the festival of Lord Ganesh, celebrated on the birthday of the God with an elephant head. Ganesh is the God of wisdom and prosperity. He uses a mouse as his vehicle, the mouse representing our ego and the need to control that ego, has a broken tusk, and loves sweets.

 

During that festival, statues of Ganesh or Ganesha - some of them as high as 30 meters, which would be about 80 feet high - are installed in street corners and in homes, and those shrines are heavily decorated with lights, flower arrangements, etc.

Everyone is happy to show their Ganesh, and we had young people run after us and invite us to wander into back alleys so we could admire their statue. Of course, we then took pictures of everyone. The wonderful thing with digital cameras is that we can show the pictures on the spot. Everyone loves that, and there is always a friendly jostle as they elbow each other to be able to look at the pictures. My husband has even started printing some of these photos shot in the streets, so he can give them back to the people - usually children and young people - who so gracefully posed for us.

 

 

Prayer services - called Poojas - are performed several times a day. After 1, 3, 5, 7 or 11 days, these statues are transported on decorated floats to the nearest river, lake, beach, and immersed.

Why immerse these statues in water? I wondered. Here is what I gathered: all bodies of water (rivers, lakes, the sea) are sacred to Hindus. If you were to keep the statues of Ganesh in your home, or on the street corner, poojas would have to be performed everyday. Neglect is not tolerated. And so, once the poojas are over, the statues are immersed in water.

 

 

That last picture shows young people on their way to the lake for the immersion of their Ganesha. This is a joyous affair, and the procession is accompanied by drum-beats, songs and dancing.

As so often, here, in India, I watched all this with mixed feelings. Curiosity and fascination, of course. I love that Indians honor their culture. I love the mystical quality of these traditions. But then, I also looked at these men entering the filthy water of the lake and swimming in it. I looked at the piles of plastic bags on the shore, and I couldn't help but feel sad. Someone told me that in old times, the Ganesha statues were made of mud, of clay, and when immersed in the water, the mud, the clay dissolved in the water. Earth returned to earth. Same for the coconuts, the fruits offerings, the flowers: all biodegradable. Today, there is a whole industry behind the making of these Ganeshas, and they are painted, and all these statues end at the bottom of the lake, and it's definitely not good for the environment. Not to mention those plastic bags that contain the offerings to Ganesha. Once the puffed rice, the saffron colored powder, the fruits, etc, emptied in the water, the bags remain there.

There must be a way to strike the right balance. Yes to keeping old traditions alive, but while doing that, remember also the realities of today's world, one of them being that we need to stop using the planet as a dumping ground. Right now.

I found the solution...

I ERASED that sentence. CUT, and NO paste. Gone. No more m's to send the tongue on tripping trips. And you know what ? I think it works. I hope... Well, I sent the umpteenth last version to my editor, and we shall see.

One "m" too many ?

Here comes a perfect example of what I was moaning and ranting about in my last post. A tiny sentence. Just a few words. But after months and months of seeing it written a certain way, and finding it just fine, I just can't wrap my teeny weeny mind around its new appearence, or rather, its new sound. Anyone want to chime in with their thoughts ? Does that sentence bother you ? Do you see, hear, what I mean by "one m too many?"

The sun burned high in the sky by the time Amadi reached the first stalls.

It used to be :

The sun burned high in the sky by the time Ifeanyi reached the first stalls.

In this case, it's not the number of syllables that bothers me, but "time" and "Amadi" being so close together. My tongue trips over all these "m" sounds.

So, I keep coming up with alternatives. Only, now, I find myself changing everything around, even moving dialogues, and I'm freaking out. What ? That's what writing is all about ? I had no idea!

Anyway, here a few samples of my writing wanderings.

- The sun had climbed its blazing path up the sky when Amadi reached the first stalls. (Huh???)
- The sun burned high in the sky when Amadi reached the first stalls. (Obviously, that would be an easy alternative, except that I don't like it. But don't ask me why.)
- Amadi felt the sun beating down on him as he reached the first stalls.(And when doesn't one feel the sun beating down on them in Africa, if I may ?)
- The sun beat down on Amadi's shoulder as he reached the first stalls.(Forget about the sun beating on anyone's shoulders. Cliche. Obvious. Boring.)
- The sun had almost reached its zenith when Amadi reached the first stalls. (repetition of reached. Bad.)
- Amadi squinted at the sun, as he reached the first stalls. Almost midday. (Mm...?)
- As he reached the first stalls, Amadi squinted at the sun high in the sky. Almost midday. (Not sure. This is a contemporary setting. Kids don't look at the sun to find out what time it is. Either they have a watch, or in Amadi's case, they ask someone who has one. Right? Amadi, what do you say?)
- Amadi squinted at the sun, as he reached the first stalls. (Would he squint at the sun? Ifeanyi Amadi, where the hell are you ??? You just took off towards the market, and now what ? Will you squint at the sun ? Or not? How dare you write in my blog while I sleep, and remain totally mute when I need you to say something ! Anyway, upon reading the sentence again, I realize I don't like "squinted at". Too many d's and t's.)
- As he reached the first stalls, Amadi squinted in the sunlight.(there is no reason for the squinting being there. I mention the sun to give a sense of the passing of the time. It's almost midday. But in fact, I don't want Amadi too aware of that.)
- A little while later, Amadi reached the first stalls. (Pff!)


Well, Amadi is strangely silent and absent, today. Must be striking poses somewhere for his mother the illustrator, feeling all important. And I'm left with my m's. I think I'll go eat some ice cream, now. Or help my daughter find the piece of Lego she's looking for all over the house. Did I mention I also have a translation I need to work on ? But that's OK: deadline still far away so I have plenty of time to feel guilty about not working on that.

What's in a name ?

Still processing the change of name of my picture book character. Amadi turned out to be much better than me at this. But I have good reasons. More than ever, I realize the importance of each and every word in a picture book text. I already knew that, of course. But now, I'm experiencing it in a very real - and confusing - way. Whenever I try to read the whole text with the name Amadi in place of Ifeanyi, it sounds all funny - funny as in strange, not as in laughing funny, even though that would also be a problem, as the story is not exactly comic. I was very careful to choose a new name that ended with the same sound, foreseeing such problem, but I also had to LIKE that name, and in the end, I was unable to find one...
a) which I really liked, hear a name that spoke to me, a name that seemed to adopt my Ifeanyi
b) which ended with the same sound
c) which had four syllables.
I do like the name Amadi. But it has only three syllables. I find that disruptive. And I'm having a hard time deciding whether it's me still unconsciously resisting this name change, whether it's just old habit - I have written some 57 millions versions of this story over the past 5 years after all - or whether, really, it doesn't flow the way it used to. And I can't ask my critique group because they've also seen and read the old version with Ifeanyi a number of times. Plus, we are still on break. But it reminds me, if I ever needed to be reminded, how crucial the music of the text is in a picture book. Sentences not only have to flow in a seamless way, they must carry an internal tune. And I can't overdo it. I need to read it, try to make some changes, let it rest, go back to it. That's the only way I've found to deal with this problem so far.

Being an artist : Joy or Pain ?

A post written by Disco Mermaid's Robin reminded me of another post I had started writing and saved - it was that mad time in July when I was being a mom 24/7 - and sure enough, here it is, in my draft box :

I'm reading books on the process of writing, at the moment. About three at the same time. That way, I can follow the kids moving around the house - and they move fast - and not have to worry about where I left the book. One in the bedroom, one in my office, one on the table in the dining/living room, always readily available. I thought I'd quote some of the thoughts I found interesting.

Art and Fear, Observations on The Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking, by David Bayles and Ted Orland

"Often the work we have not done seems more real in our minds that the pieces we have completed."

That phrase certainly hit home. How easy it is to forget the thousands and thousands of words and phrases that we crafted, the drafts, the stories unfinished, to only remember the few pieces that are deemed good enough for submission, and to despair, to think it's not enough. But every single word written, whether it belongs to a completed story or not, participates in our process as writers.

The second chapter's title is the same as the book, and begins with a quote by Stephen DeStaebler.

"Artists don't get down to work until the pain of working is exceeded by the pain of NOT working."

Jane Yolen would probably disagree (Take Joy) and yet, I think both approaches are true. My biggest challenge is to start ! To actually sit down at the computer to work on my writing, rather than finding every possible excuse to procrastinate - like this blog ? That's the painful part for me. Once I actually start working, I forget the time, I forget the world, I can even forget my family - well, not quite, but almost. And even though it's work, that work does give me joy. What's painful is the guilt I feel, the unease, the judgemental voice I hear in my mind, telling me that I ought to make time, I ought to organize myself better, I ought to write. I think that what Stephen DeStaebler means is that when the voice becomes strident, forceful, unbearable, the artist has no choice but to get down to work.

What I can add, after having been almost totally disconnected from the writing world for a few weeks, is that it's easy for everyday life to take over - especially when there are little children around, but not only - and muffle the voice of the writer. Which is probably why all books and quotes I've read about the creative process seem to agree on at least two things : the famous butt on chair rule - write everyday, no matter what, even if it's only for ten minutes - and find time to "being" as opposed to "doing" in order to reflect, to meditate if you are into that, or just do nothing, walk and look at the world, at the trees, the sky, whatever, the goal being to connect with our inner self, where creativity - our whimsical muse - is seating, waiting, or coquettishly playing hard to get.

Well, now that I know what to do, guess I just have to do it, right ?

I'm back...

... and don't ask me where these past weeks disappeared to, because I have no idea. I was sitting at the computer, posting pictures of India and fantasizing about peaches and saucisson, and next thing I know, I'm back at the computer, suffering from jet lag - I usually sleep, at 5 am - and even though I recall eating peaches, saucisson and so much more, I can't believe it's all in the past already.

Highlights of the summer ?

I went horse riding and I was actually riding the horse on my own, as opposed to sitting stiffly on some enormous polo beast and requesting that the young man holding him remains with me at all times, which is what happened the few times I tried, here in Hyderabad. Of course, I didn't have the proper gear, so I made quite an impression, riding with my bright pink Converse...

 

I painted one of the bedrooms of our house from top to bottom in a lovely trio of shades - white, green bamboo and chestnut brown - and got so manic about it - we had guests coming and I wanted it ready AND perfect - that I was still at it at 9 PM, trying to see, on the ceiling, the spots that I had not yet covered with fresh white paint, and I still have pains in my hands, more than two weeks later. But the room looks really nice, doesn't it ?

 

Look at the Palais des Papes, in Avignon, in the pinkish twilight : pure magic.

 

I went back to Paris, the city where I was born and lived until I was 16, for the first time in more than ten years. I had forgotten how beautiful it is.

 

 

We discovered the new project just launched by the city of Paris - after Lyon where it's been a smashing success : Rows of bicycles await customers, who pay a fee to rent them, and later leave them at another of the many parking spaces created around town. With the kids and the stroller, it wasn't an option, but I can't wait to try.

 

Something else that definitely wasn't there last time I was in Paris: a Starbucks coffee ! Est-ce bien raisonnable?

 

Lows ?

I was so busy redecorating, entertaining guests and eating peaches that I had to withdraw from the Enneagram online class I was taking. But there will be another class in November, and this time, I'll be there from start to finish.

I had to imagine my friends having an absolute ball at the SCBWI conference in LA, and then read all about it in their blogs, but that's OK. Next year...

I had to give Amadi a stern lecture about not using people's blogs - not even mine - without asking first.

I did not have a minute to write a single line. Bad, bad, bad girl. I have to get back to work. NOW !

What on earth is wrong with my given name ?

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

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.

Main Type	Overall Self

Take Free Enneagram Personality Test

Enneagram Test Results Type 1 Perfectionism |||||||||||| 47% Type 2 Helpfulness |||||| 28% Type 3 Image Focus |||||||||||| 42% Type 4 Hypersensitivity |||||||||||||| 60% Type 5 Detachment |||||||||||| 48% Type 6 Anxiety |||||||||||| 43% Type 7 Adventurousness |||||||||| 32% Type 8 Aggressiveness |||||||||||||| 58% Type 9 Calmness |||||| 29% Your main type is 4 Your variant is self pres

Take Free Enneagram Personality Test

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 !

 

 

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...

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.

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.

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.

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..."

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.

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.

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.

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.