Hands Again
Seated in the cafeteria at a table with Jamie, Opal stuck her spoon inside a cup of vanilla pudding.
“What’s she doing in here?” Jamie asked.
Tagged with: discovery, imagination, opal, story, words
The Big Man with the Tiny Hands
Opal leaned against the mailbox, trying to catch her breath.
What was she supposed to do now? Her choices seemed so completely hopeless. She could either go back home, but that would just mean packing her things and staying with Aunt Mildred until Aunt Frances recovered. Opal had been there before, and she didn’t want to do it again.
Tagged with: discovery, narrative, opal, story
Standing Room
Opal Fenster wanted an aisle seat, but they were all taken. Opal insisted on sitting at the edge of most anything and could not be bothered to crawl over feet and legs only to land in what surely felt like prison.
Ms. Esterholt, the principal of Table Mesa Junior High School, stood at the podium tapping on a microphone.
Tagged with: discovery, narrative, opal, story
Shooting Star
Opal Fenster was trying to get comfortable in a sleeping bag on the side of a mountain on a cold December night. Her Aunt Frances said, “Camping builds character,” but Opal wasn’t buying it. Character could be found in a book or on a TV show, as far as Opal could see.
“Ouch!” she cried out as her spine landed on a rock.
Tagged with: discovery, narrative, opal, story
Leaves
The little girl kicked at the leaves in the gutter. All the way down the street and back up the other side, she waded through the stream of orange, red, and yellow. She liked how the leaves cracked and rattled. She liked how, when the wind blew, they jumped off the ground in groups, swirling and dancing, finally landing back on the street. One or two still clung to branches, as if they might escape their fate below.
Soon the neighbors would pile their leaves into bags and send them away somewhere. The little girl hated when that happened. The colors looked like jewels on the ground and in the sky. She wanted them to stay forever.
Tagged with: discovery, fiction, imagination, story
Again
The ocean showed its restless side. Waves leapt against the gray sky. The late morning sun lingered behind the curtain of overcast air. A little girl, in her one-piece, ran barefoot on the wet sand and stopped just at the water’s edge. She backed up as the surf licked her toes.
“It’s soooo cold,” she called out. Then she laughed right into the roar of the ocean.
Tagged with: discovery, narrative, story
Jacket
Loretta saw the jacket draped over the park bench. It was on her usual route from Kline Avenue down Bailey Road and then in through the gates of Clem Park and onto the dirt path that led through the hemlock grove. She looked around. Surely the jacket’s owner had just stepped away, left it there temporarily. But the dirt path showed no evidence of recent activity. Curious, she reached for the jacket, lifted it and held it out, as if she were in a shop, deciding. She liked what she saw: soft blue cotton, silver buttons, white thread on the seams and edges. She slipped it on. Just then, clouds rolled in, and the air changed. The hemlocks groaned in the wind. Loretta buttoned the jacket and pulled up the collar. Grateful for its warmth, she slipped her hands into the soft pockets, and her fingers happened upon a scrap of paper. She pulled it out—just a torn corner with the handwritten word, “Yours,” as if it were the end of a letter—the sign-off before a signature, “Yours,”—the comma hung there, as if waiting. Waiting. She searched through the pockets, hoping for more evidence, something. But that was all—the ragged edge, a piece of some letter—a story she would never know. The wind picked up. The hemlocks swayed, their tips reaching, brushing against the moving clouds. She read the word one last time, “Yours,”—and then let the scrap of paper loose on the wind.
Tagged with: discovery, fiction, narrative, story, words
Lightning
When the lightning came, it lit up the whole of the night. Not just the sky. In that instant, it was daylight. I got kind of disoriented like the way a pilot must when the horizon is no longer the horizon and when the instruments are more accurate than eyesight. I’m not a pilot, but that’s what I hear. And that lightning, it really did disorient me. It was like time changed gears. Like the rules were all new. Like I had a chance.
I used to watch westerns all the time, and there was always—I mean always— a “last chance” something: last chance stagecoach, last chance saloon, last chance watering hole. You name it, there’s a last chance for everything.
Tagged with: center, discovery, imagination, narrative, story, words
Rain
It rained. It rained and rained. It rained so hard the windows cried. It rained so hard the roof thundered. It rained for so many days the girl no long believed in the sun, no longer believed in the light. The rain came down so hard, it knocked leaves off of trees. It splattered dirt out of flowerbeds. It even took blooms off of branches, leaving red and yellow memories on the slick pavement.
And so she went out into it. All around her people scurried for doorways and bus stops. Some held umbrellas turned inside out in the wind. Some held newspapers over their heads. But she did none of these things. Instead, she stood perfectly still. She waited while the water soaked her clothes, her hair, her skin. She felt the weight of all that water, as if she might become rooted there on that city street.
Tagged with: connection, discovery, fiction, imagination, story
Passageway
“The brain has corridors”
—Emily Dickinson
She moved from street to street, from building to building, from floor to floor. She had done this for more years than she cared to count. In fact, she had grown tired of counting: one year became five became fifteen and twenty as fast as fists could unfold. The passage of time exhausted her, felt like running in place, eyes blinking, clouds covering the sun.
Tagged with: audience, discovery, fiction, imagination, narrative, story, words
Jules reached inside for a quarter or a tissue or a chapstick. Anything. Her pockets were empty. Not even a lucky rock. As a rule, Jules never left home with empty pockets. It was a thing she had. Pockets were meant to hold stuff. To make up for their emptiness, she put her hands there. A passerby kept his head down, his own hands lost inside his overcoat. In fact, all the passersby, men and women, looked just the same: sad, drawn, a bit lost. Jules could barely stand the gloom of it all—the gray sidewalk, the overcast sky, the cold air. Her empty pockets seemed even emptier. And so she dug deeper and deeper. She wanted to find something—anything. And finally, there it was, in the deepest recess of her pocket: a clear marble, the tiniest of crystal balls. Jules stood there, in the middle of the crowded city sidewalk and held the transparent orb in the palm of her hand. And people stopped to see what was there, what might be in store, what the future might hold. People needed something, however small, that was clear and round and easy to carry. Something to keep forever in their pockets.
Tagged with: center, discovery, fairy tale, fiction, imagination, narrative, story, words
Hope
The snow fell. It fell and fell. It fell so fast the air was white. It fell so deep, the ground was gone. There was only snow. The little girl stepped out onto what used to be her sidewalk, and she sunk. She sunk all the way up to the tops of her legs. She thought, “If this keeps up, I will be swallowed whole.” And so she shoveled through the night to make a path so that she could walk from here to there. And in the morning light she turned to see her walkway. But there was no walkway. The falling snow had covered whatever work she had done. She planted her shovel into a drift and leaned on its handle. She looked toward the sky, as if some answer waited there. But she could not see the sky through the snow. She opened her mouth to speak, and she saw her breath float out and disappear into the white expanse. That’s when she knew. And so she turned and shoveled her way back through the fresh-fallen snow. It was all she could do—to create the ground of each new step.
Tagged with: construct, discovery, fiction, learning, words
Ducks Swim
The cold air made her car cough. She followed the same path daily. Up the curvy road, over the hill, past the farm stand. Overnight, the temperatures had dipped to below zero. Even the pavement seemed harder. It occurred to her, just briefly, that nothing could live under such circumstances. Of course she knew that was absurd. Here she was breathing, driving. Still, the confinement of her coat—the static electricity of her scarf—made it all seem so plodding and old. It would be so much easier, wouldn’t it, to give in to hypothermia—that sweet, dark sleep? Before leaving the house, she had seen a cardinal in a backyard tree. A male—deep red against the snow. “Aren’t you cold?” she called through window. She stared a long time at its tiny body tucked neatly between branches of a Norway Spruce. Not a single feather shivered. Not one. And then, driving on that familiar road, she looked to her right and noticed a stream just beyond the local farm stand. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? And there upon it swam three ducks, happy and quacking and on with their day—as if it were just that—another day.
Tagged with: construct, discovery, story, words
One Morning Between Seasons
“If we don’t change the direction we are headed,
we will end up where we are going.”
—Chinese Proverb (found on the inside of a bottle cap)
For weeks, the leaves glittered on the trees. Now and then, an overcast sky made everything like a dream. She had this idea—that maybe, just once, autumn would stay. The leaves would hang on in that in between world—winter might happen somewhere, but not here. The trees would not have to go bare. But then one morning as usual, she took the dog out. His paws rattled through dry leaves, gone brown and dry. She did not want to look up and see the bare limbs. So she kept her head down. The dog, accustomed to his daily route up the street, aimed his nose there. But she tugged at his leash, said, “This way today.” She pointed down the hill. The dog resisted, pulled hard against the leash—even sat down, stubborn and sure of his habits. He cocked his head the way dogs do. “C’mon,” she tugged playfully at the leash. And then, also the way dogs do, he looked up at some invisible noise. Her eyes followed his gaze. And there it was—one last red leaf twirling down toward them. She reached out to catch it, but the dog was faster. He leapt, and he caught it in his mouth. The way dogs do.
Tagged with: discovery, imagination, story
Saturday in New Jersey
Just returned from a writers/editors conference at Rutgers University. What a well-conceived, well-organized event—a one day conference during which writers, editors, and agents mingle. And I was most impressed with the editors I met—all of them young and passionate, intelligent and thoughtful. They love books. They love good writing. And they volunteered a Saturday to offer encouragement, advice, and feedback. Trying to market one’s work can often feel discouraging, but the Rutgers University Council on Children’s Literature has found a way to make it encouraging. For that, I am grateful.
Tagged with: connection, discovery, learning, marketing, moments, process, why write
The Scope of Imagination
I heard the tail end of an interview about the 100th anniversary of Anne of Green Gables. I had never read the book, so I found it at the library, and I am reading it now. The young orphan Anne cares a great deal about the “scope of imagination”—as she relates in this early scene:
Isn’t it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about? It just makes me feel glad to be alive—it’s such an interesting world. It wouldn’t be half so interesting if we knew all about everyting, would it? There’d be no scope for imagination then, would there?
Tagged with: discovery, imagination, learning, quotation, students
Past
In exploring the poetry of my past, I am discovering a part of my writer self that I thought I had lost. I want to find a way to reconnect what I am doing now with what I did then. And it is happening. I just finished one last draft of my novel—now called, tentatively, New Moon Falls. As I revised, I found that part of my writer self from years ago—the part of me that wrote this poem:
Fossil
Tagged with: connection, discovery, poem, process
"Aren't Us"
September 11th, 2001 has been on my mind lately. I just enrolled in a new drawing class, and so I have been looking through some of my drawing/painting exercises from past art classes, and I came upon pieces I had done in 2001, months before the horrible event. Looking at those dates—May 2001, August 2001—I could not imagine what it felt like to not know what I was about to know.
And the other day, in looking through an old textbook, searching for teaching ideas, I came upon a poem I had never read before:
Tagged with: connection, discovery, poem, truth, words
Hostage
I have been fascinated with the news of Ingrid Betancourt’s rescue from FARC, her Columbian captors. They kept her and many others in the jungle for seven years.
I watched her interview with Larry King the other night. She spoke haltingly. She apologized for her English. Something n her eyes caught me. She seemed both pained and impassioned. She looked—I don’t know how else to say it—like truth.
Tagged with: discovery, story, struggle, truth, words
A poem to center me/you
I cannot find my center. Or so I have been told. I scheduled a session with a chi running instructor so that I could learn to “run without pain”—as the chi running book suggests I can. Chi running is based on the principles of Tai Chi. My “coach” came over yesterday, and we walked down to the Arboretum for our session. He said, “I see by your website that you do not feel centered.” I said, “How did you get that from my website?” He said, “Some story you wrote about not finding home.” Of course, once he said this, I obsessed that my website makes me appear not centered.
In the midst of my uncentered life, I happened to listen to a podcast about Elizabeth Bishop, the poet. Her long time friend, Lloyd Schwartz has put together a new book about her, and that book includes a poem he transcribed from one of her notebooks before she died. I was a bit stunned to learn that she never knew he copied the poem; and now—it is there for all to see. Of course, I wondered about the ethics of his choice until I heard the poem. It is so good. Here it is. For a moment, it centered me. I hope it does the same for you.
Tagged with: center, discovery, poem
Bleeding Hearts
The Bleeding Heart Bush is a perennial metaphor. It blooms at this time of year; and in the morning, when I walk Gizmo, I stop and stare at one that rises from behind my neighbor’s small wooden fence—all those hearts bleeding.