Making A Masterpiece

Inspired by Van Gogh's "Starry Night" over the weekend, I've been wondering if we writers can paint our craft.

Can we add texture--thin in places, sparse in others--evoking an idea, a question, a feeling?
Can we make the story shine--the blues, the golds--in contrasting, then in blended elements?
Can we combine techniques that have been used before us, adding our own layer to the depth?
Will each detail, like brush strokes, add to the whole concept?
Can we reach wide appeal, but speak intimately to our reader? And when she finishes the last word, will she be breathless?
Will our work be remembered?

Under Water

Reesie (9) overflowed his second toilet this week, only this time, we didn't catch it as quickly. This time, the water ran and ran, flooding our bathroom, our bedroom, our closet and garage.

Yes, it's two days before Thanksgiving. Before we have five families over for the feast. And instead of thawing the turkey, we're pulling up carpet.

Dave and I could be mad, really mad.

But we're trying not to be. Instead, we're working together with the steam vac and mop.

We had to throw out all the kids' artwork I've been saving for 13 years (which is ironic, considering my last post). We had to throw out my school picture from first grade, Dave's firefighting books.

It was hard at first, but then it got easy. We tossed stuff into garbage bags without even looking at it.

There's now lots of nice space and a smooth floor between the white walls, like it was a decade ago when we moved in. I love it.

If you and I could do this with our writing, if we could let go of "stuff" and keep the essence of the room, what would that bring to our stories? How would our writing become more focused, richer, clean, and clear?

And honest to God, why, when it's snowing outside right now, does Reesie have the hose turned on?

Art Attack!

Art is everywhere, and I'm loving it!

This weekend in Eugene, Mary, Daney, and I went to an incredible art fair. There was pottery, paintings, silver, silkscreenings, soap. Weavers spun wool, glass blowers blew, and Young Bollywood dancers pranced across a packed stage.

When I came home, I framed and put up a few of the kids' pieces: Dominic's bright bald guy sitting on a couch with peace pillows, Daney's watercolor owl under the moon, Rees' colored pencil "Duk Bil Platapoos."

Tomorrow in class, I'm sharing my love; we're doing a lesson on writing essay titles with a billion little worksamples from Pacific Northwest artists.

One of the things I love about art is how long it takes. That it's a process. a quick change, making the world different, better.

I've planted all kinds of bulbs and perenialls outside. Nothing will pop for four or five months, but the seeds are all there, the color is waiting.

If you are in need of some reds, greens, and purples, if you're craving pretty, look up Catherine Denton's blog. You might win yourself some inspiration!

Yes, But Does It Have Literary Merit?

My boys were begging me to buy the new "Halo: Reach" game for the X-Box their uncle had just given them.

All I'd heard about the "Halo" games was bad, bad, bad. Bad premise. Bad violence. Bad language.

But I checked it out anyway. 4 1/2 out of 5 stars. A new "team" approach. Great graphics. For around 60 bucks.

The economics weren't an issue. Dominic said he'd pitch in $15, and a $20 gift card came with the purchase, so I'd really only fork over $35.

Like everything else that comes through our door, though, I wanted the game to have some kind of literary merit.

We bought it.

"Play with us," the boys then begged, after they'd "tried it out" for a couple of hours.

I did the usual Mom Thing: "I'll just watch you guys play."

Nope, they wanted me to play.

So there I was, sitting on the edge of the sofa, controller in hand, bumping my character -- Noble One?-- into a rock over and over and over.

"Mommy, follow me," Dominic told me.

I couldn't find him. I just kept running, er, jumping my guy into rocks and water and over bridges.

"Mommy, you're shooting me," Dominic said as kindly as he could. "Now you're just running into a wall. And why is your night vision on? And why are you throwing granades at yourself?"

Okay, this "Halo," it has absolutely no literary merit. But I can't tell you how long and hard we all laughed at my "skills."

Ptah

When I was an undergrad at San Francisco State, I took some fabulous art classes. One of them was a sculpture class which was assisted by Ptah*, a tall, wiry Rastafarian with a real smile.

Ptah was a graduate student. He was broke and 40-ish, and any day, any time, you could find him in the studio: helping strugglers like me, or mixing or firing the clay, or smoothing his art with his large, kind hands.

One day in class, Ptah told us to look at our works from a different perspective. From above, perhaps. Or from below. To turn it, and see it from the side.

I was making a big African head--maybe a planter?--that I thought was almost finished.

But when I turned it, I noticed that the chin and cheeks were under-defined and the nose was way too big.

It needed some serious work. Revision.

Twenty-one years later, I've been thinking about how I can apply all this to writing.

Can anyone help me pay homage to Ptah and use his advice?


*The last day of class, we found out that Ptah named himself after the Egyptian God of Creation.

Fabulous Fiction

My friend Karlee and I have this little debate sometimes about which is better: fiction or non-fiction.

And tonight, when Dave and I watched the quirky comedy The Invention of Lying, I really thought about the real differences between the two genres.

Non-fiction is straightforward, clean. It tells us what to believe. There's no wrong, no mess, no controversy.

Fiction, on the other hand, uses the higher-order thinking skills that Benjamin Bloom defined and categorized over 70 years ago: interpretation, evaluation, analysis. With fiction, we are pushed to wonder, to question. We react emotionally. We feel. We make it personal.

Fiction is created. It takes imagination and some serious hard work to produce.

It is exaggerative, enhanced with stylistic devices like metaphor, hyperbole, and setting. It welcomes ownership and debate; promotes thought; and fills the human need to study, to understand.

To me, this is what reading is all about--when the actual reading itself is secondary to the interpretation and emotion and discussion that comes from it. To not have truth all spelled out, but to find it for myself.

Getting Fancy With Felt and Sequins

Today was hot and muggy, but thunder-y and dark, too.

So we spent the whole day having fun making these:

They took a lot of thread, and patience, and commitment. The kids were so proud!

Each one has a little bit of that kiddo's personality.

These will definitely go in our yearly Day of the Dead display at the library in November.

I always forget how good it feels to make something. $17 of materials brought us incredible joy!

No Limits

Last night before the Oregon Shakespeare Festival plays started, we watched the Green Show, a free 30-minute performance every Sunday-Tuesday.

It's different every night: taiko drummers, washboard bands, Thai dancers, acapela, comedians...

Yesterday, we were lucky enough to see Jen & Nate, acro/arial artists, who have performed for Brittany Spears, Prime Ministers, and at Disney World.

Jen and Nate spun, swung, and bounced. They narrated between acts.

There's something really extraordinary about this duo. Check out this link to see what it is, and to be truly inspired.

In the Trenches...After Being in the Trenches

Today, I taught in tennis shoes. The sleeves of my sweatshirt were pushed up, and my hair was pulled back in a ponytail. By 9:30, I had chased a(bad) cup of coffee with Diet Coke on ice.

A half-hour later, I was in front of 30 eager community college writing students, denying my exhaustion to share what I'd learned over the weekend at the SCBWI Western Washington Illustrators/Writers Conference. So between each pair of students I'd set a different postcard from a conference illustrator's portfolio sample.

Our class opened with a quickwrite. The students each had to tell the story behind the postcard. After they revised, they read to their postcard partner.

Of course, the stories were wildly different. Is there any better way than art to prove plural perspectives? It's all about interpretation.

After two classes, I was wiped out.

I can't begin to imagine the hours of work the Conference committee puts in to pull off a show like that--and to make it look as smooth as it does.

This year was abundant with inspiring writers and artists, agents and editors. Wasn't this blue just invented for author Mitali Perkins?Mitali's keynote was another good reminder of having faith in vision and voice.

And here's fan-favorite teacher/librarian Chadwick Gillenwater. That guy was all smiles 48 hours straight. I loved him even though he wouldn't spill how I could get a "Diva" name tag like his.

I posted this previously, but she's so noteworthy, I'll say it again: Egmont editor Elizabeth Law rocks. I mean, what New York editor just plops down at your lunch table and asks what you want to know? "L-Bone" is witty and real, and she lives for "Glee." Just don't submit anything about dreams to her.

Jordan Brown, HarperCollins editor, is also pretty awesome. He plugged and plugged and plugged the success writer's achieve by taking risks in their work.

Clarion Editor Lynne Polvino took a big plunge, herself--by suggesting that before the recession, the children's book market was overpublished. Interesting...

Harvey Klinger agent Sara Crowe was brave, too. She courageously left a nine-month old at home in New York to share her wisdom with us: to really know our characters.

And new-to-California agent Michael Bourret? If he'd let me, I'd be his best friend.

Arree Chung won the Art Award for his fantastic creations, including this ninja:

I could've used today to re-read my pages and pages of notes. I could've re-written some scenes, revised some plot points, taken some risks and refined my vision.

But I had to wait till tomorrow.

Because today, in tennies, I was in the trenches.

And, it was good.