ADVENTURES IN NEW YORK CITY

The Boy In The Subway

The boy is sitting at the end of the subway car.  He wears a coat with a ragged hem, a dirty knit cap and a sign: Down on my luck Please Help.  He carries a banged up drink cup in which a few coins clink.  No gloves.  It is 29 degrees Fahrenheit.

Stepping into the late night train, my friends and I grab hold of the center pole between the doors.  I set my 45-pound pack on the floor at my feet, groaning, flexing my shoulders.  My friend chats with the man from the show we’ve just seen.  We are flushed with a good time, sweet drinks, good food, and a brisk walk.

As the train jerks into motion, the boy stands up and ghosts through the car—hoping.  I keep my eyes on my friend.  I think she is talking about a scene from the show.  Or maybe where she lives in Queens, a lovely two-bedroom apartment full of light and comfort.  I want to give something to the boy; to look into his tired face and into his dull, brown eyes and say, “Hello;” effectively saying—“I see you.  You exist.  I honor the light in you as another human like myself.”

Maybe he hears my thoughts.  I look steadily into the face of the man from the show and answer his question as the boy pauses at the end of the car.  And then I feel him ghosting back through the car, passing behind me, brushing softly against my clean, bright blue North Face jacket.

I slide my eyes to the side and watch him slump back into his seat at the end of the car.  He sighs.  His hands scrub his face and then hold his head up as his elbows come to rest against his knees poking through his torn, crusty jeans.

I can feel the single dollar bills burning in my pocket. My heart jumps about like my dog when she wants to go for a walk.

The advice I’ve been given from my New York friends replays in my head:

“Just ignore them.  So many of them are just scamming…”

But, how do we tell the difference?

“I work hard for my money.  They don’t choose to.  That’s their choice. There’re plenty of jobs in this city.  They could get one if they wanted to.”  “But, maybe they haven’t the skills, or the opportunities, or the strength or the courage or the know-how to navigate this crazy system like we do?

“You have to be careful.  I mean, every day you run into these people—you get used to it.  You can’t help them all.”  But surely, we could acknowledge them?  Or we could give some change to a few every day, the change from dropping dollars into the cashier’s hand at the lunch counter? 

The presence of these dirty, raggedy, brothers and sisters of ours dredge up shame in us…robbing us of the pleasure of our blessings—accusatory as we gather our comfort and privilege like a walled fortress around us.

I brightly engage in the conversation with my friends, hearing not a word I will recall.  The boy, I will remember.  I leave the train without a backward glance while tears burn behind my eyes.

I trail my fingers along the marble wall of the South Pool, over the names etched deeply there.  I nod to the Pear Tree.

We leave the park and head for the Staten Island Ferry.  As we churn through the waters I gaze at the Statue of Liberty, imprisoned on her tiny island. 

Manhattan falls away behind us, the Freedom Tower looming above the skyline.   

We are in the Financial District of Lower Manhattan—yet, there are hardly any people, and even fewer folk after we leave the Ferry landing for home.  Near empty streets.  Empty parks.  Only a few people on the subway.  I relax.  I can take it in now—deeply.  But it is too much still—all the stories, all the history, all this energy come together in this place, building up over a few hundred years.

The Gala Dinner and Meet & Greet last evening were very pleasant.  I finally found my Regional Advisor and met some others from Minneapolis/St. Paul area, including a man who had been in my second critique group.  He read the opening of his wonderful Middle Grade novel he’s working on based on a painting he had seen called Vegetarian Vampires.

I met a woman who lives not far from this hotel and has been working for several years on her book for Middle Graders about the coral reefs with a cast of intriguing and hilariously fishy characters.  I ran into several women who I had met in the critique circles.  One of them, Doris, had such a great story twist on Goldilocks that I could easily see her the next Mo Willems.  I have a collection of business cards now in my briefcase.  New friends.

This morning I find a platter of GF bagels on the Bagel table and the Food and Beverage Manager is standing nearby.  I smile at him.  In his thick New York accent he says, “I thought of you this morning and even though I was told to only bring them out if asked for, I thought I’d put out this tray anyway.”  Just then a young woman comes up and sees the tray with its little sign and says, “Oh!  Oh I’m so excited!  I’ve been having to go out every morning to find my own food!”  The Manager and I smile at each other.

The first speaker is author Kate Messner on The Spectacular Power of Failure.  This has been the theme of my life the past several years: how to live with, release, or generally not be undone by the fear of failing. Actually, it might be more accurate to say it has been the theme of my life.  Like, forever my life.  And most of my life I failed spectacularly at overcoming my fear of failing because I was trying to overcome it.  You can’t overcome, i.e. win out over Fear.  If you try and land a punch it’ll beat the snot out of you.  If you try and run away, it chases you down and eats you up alive.  I learned some years back that the only way to not be controlled by it was to do the lion and the lamb thing and lay down and take a nap on it’s belly.  Except I was too scared to shut my eyes.

Learning to deal with the Fear of Failure that has controlled nearly every aspect of my life has been a long pilgrimage for me.  I guess I’m not surprised to meet up with it again here at the Conference.  Kate obviously said a lot of noteworthy things since I have five pages of notes from her address.  But a few jump out at me asking for stars and circles.

Be brave.  It’s okay to be afraid.  If you weren’t nervous about what you are attempting, it wouldn’t be worth doing.  You can’t have brave without scared.

As artists we set goals, and then we move the bar on ourselves…’I will write 10 minutes a day…finish the book by…get an agent…get published…win an award…if I could just.’  There is no end.  When we keep moving the bar, we cheat ourselves out of the pleasure of small successes.  Notice those small successes!  Celebrate them!

Athletes and engineers and children “fail” a lot and accept that as part of the process.  The only way to achieve what they’re trying to do is to try, fail, adjust, learn, keep going, do it again…over and over until they get it right.  We as artists need to have the same attitude.

Never, never give up.

Nikki Grimes, author of middle grade fiction written in verse is our final speaker of the day.  She speaks so beautifully, it is difficult to believe that once she was in the audience—new, hopeful, frustrated, scared.  She tells her story and she advocates for us to be patient with ourselves and our learning process.  Like anything beautiful, we have to be given time to grow, time to ripen, time to become—and so does our art.

The SCBWI Conference Day 2

Saturday morning the conference attendees have quadrupled—at least.  The Investors are gone; the writers and illustrators have taken over the entire floor.  We now have four ten-foot tables spread with bagels and coffee and tea.  No GF bagels.  I hunt down the Food and Beverage Manager for my personal plate of bagels I can eat.

Lin Oliver is our MC and she is very funny.  Sitting in this huge ballroom with hundreds of writers, I feel like I’m “home”.  All my tension ebbs and as Jack Gantos takes the stage to talk to us about his writing and the elements of writing and children and books, I am lost to all else.  Only this remains, this one thing I have wanted to be since I was a little girl of seven—a writer.

Jack is very funny.  We are laughing so hard some of us have to wipe tears off our cheeks.  As he tells us his secrets of how he writes his books, I hear the same core elements that I have heard before but Jack has adapted them to fit his style and personality.  And I receive permission to do the same—make these elements of writing work for me.  Develop good writing habits that work for me.

I am scribbling notes and ideas furiously.  But then Jack says something that causes me to go very still inside and I know this is a sacred moment for me.  He says, “The reason you read books is to change, to grow, to feel things, to learn.  This must happen in the story if it is to happen to you, the reader.  A good book is like an infection—it changes you.”  I am not sure why this is so important, but I write it down.

My morning breakout session is with an editor from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt ‘s Books for Young Readers.  Within the first few minutes of her presentation she says, “Picture Books really matter!  This is when children fall in love with books for the first time.  Children are learning about the world, forming impressions.  Picture books stick with us throughout our lives…”  First Jack Gantos, now this editor, addressing the deep down doubt that has held me back from fully giving myself to my children’s writing.  I miss the next few things she says because I am wiping some tears from my cheek.

The editor goes through the essential ingredients of good picture books.  It is heartening to me to see that I have instinctively known many of these and incorporated them into my writing.  But I see lots of room for me to grow, to come alive and to bring that life into my books.

The final gift of the morning is the special privilege those of us are given who attended this Houghton Mifflin session: we may submit a manuscript and it will be given special attention—i.e. it will get read and considered.  No slush pile.  No agent needed.  Should I send my ducks waddling over to H.M.’s Books for Young Readers?

The afternoon is also full up with information.  I am getting tired, but I find a seat at the end of the day to listen to a panel talk about banned books.  One of the speakers is Ellen Hopkins, author of award winning YA novels dealing with tough contemporary and extremely relevant issues.  She takes the podium and lights the place on fire!  Do I know that over 75% of banned and challenged books are children’s books?  No.  Do I know that YA books are the most targeted and that there are increasing challenges to books in high schools in the advanced and accelerated learning classes?  No.  Do I realize that the intellectual freedom of children is under severe assault—look at standardized testing and NCLB policies and zero-tolerance policies, just for starters.  Yes!  That one I knew!  “Banned books,” says Ellen, “is one sliver of this assault!”

Ellen goes on: “Children deserve the right to read.  Books give you insight and knowledge.  Is it the truth?  Put it in!  Write bravely!   We know who we’re writing for—we have a responsibility to our readers!  We have a responsibility to the children!”

I came to New York with an intention: I wanted to resolve for myself whether or not it is my purpose and path to write for children.  I have had this desire in me for as long as I can remember, one that I have alternately ignored, played with, worked hard at and abandoned.  But always I have returned, like the night bugs to the light.  When I do, joy and pleasure wells up inside me.  If I go home from this conference with nothing else, having this nagging question answered for me would be enough.

I write for children because children matter, because books matter, because children need good books.  Good books open up our imaginations, help us process the world around us, stimulate creativity and critical thinking.  I write for children because they deserve good books.

The SCBWI Conference: Day 1

Friday morning I rise, refreshed, excited and hungry.  I do my meditation and some yoga stretches; take my shower.  Content that I look relaxed, refreshed and professional, I take up my binder with my manuscript and my notepads, my pens and pencils, my business cards, hotel key card, credit card, some money and my phone.  I descend to the Ballroom level and exit into a hive of busy conference attendees.

On one end are the SCBWI pre-conference attendees; hopeful writers and illustrators come to have their work critiqued by peers and the publishing gods—various and sundry book agents and editors.  On the other end is a conference of investors.  The investors have a 30 foot long spread of breakfast delights: fruit and meat and eggs and yogurts and custards and cereals and breads of all kinds, teas and coffees, juices and water.  On our end is a 10 foot long spread of bagels, coffee and tea.  Nothing is gluten free.

Ask and you shall receive, it is said.  I checked in and I asked, “Who can I speak to about providing a gluten free option for those of us who may need that?”  I was told there was supposed to be a gluten free option.  When we brought it to the attention of the Food and Beverage Manager, I was brought a gluten free bagel on a plate—just for me.  The fruit from the market in the lobby cost me $4.00.  I asked if please, the next two mornings would they have a platter of them out as I was certain in a crowd this large I wouldn’t be the only gluten free person.

The morning panel was so memorable I don’t remember a thing and haven’t any notes.

Critique session one I brought my story, Don’t Pick the Apples, Robert.  Written 30 years ago and pulled from my dusty files some 10 years ago, Robert and his apples have undergone so many revisions they’ve gotten shiny.  A little bloody too.  Robert’s story was chopped to in half some months ago following a Picture Book workshop in Minneapolis.  Apparently it was a wound worth suffering. The only critical feedback given was that I should think more like an illustrator and try to eliminate the descriptions in the text that will be shown in the illustrations.  That of course leads this non-illustrating writer to asking a dozen more questions.

At lunchtime I head for the entrance to the Grand Central Terminal and its Dining Concourse, joining the bustling crowd outside the hotel.  After yesterday’s walkabout I had written my author friend my impressions of NYC: “NYC is intimidating and SO crowded and busy!  I haven’t seen too much of it…  Won’t be sad to return home to the snow and forests and empty spaces.” 

She had written back a challenge:  “Just so you know, you are talking to a New Yorker who loves NYC.  So I hope you will see the beauty in all the bustle and boundless creativity of humanity that is on display wherever you turn.”

I find myself looking at the people through different eyes today.  I note the incredible diversity of face and style.  There are policemen and workmen; beggars and well-dressed men in expensive suits, women fresh from designer boutiques; mothers dragging noisy children; teenagers bopping to the beat only they can hear.  In the space of two buildings I quickly count 30 people.  All are moving purposefully and quickly, hardly breaking stride if a tourist suddenly makes an unexpected turn or stops dead-center.  The people and the traffic combine into an amazingly intricate dance of color and light.  I wonder about the stories each one of these people are living out.

The Dining Concourse is more crowded than the streets, everyone weaving in and out of each other’s space.  I imagine that I can see the trails of energy with each passing person.  I get some wild mushroom lentil soup and head back to the hotel.  It is quieter there.

In the afternoon I offer my little story Duck, Duck, Goose to another group of peers and an editor for their feedback.  I get a perfect 10 with the qualifier that I should drop the last four lines—they aren’t needed.  I sit quietly smiling; inside I am dancing on the table!  It has been a long, four and a half year journey to this conference in New York.

Later as I head up to my room with a salad from Grand Central—and a chocolate shake to celebrate—the doubts start whispering…the ones I came here intending to resolve.  So what’s the big deal about a silly little story about ducks?  Do you think writing stuff like this matters?  Don’t you think you should spend more time writing stuff that’s important?  You want to change the world…how you gonna do that with silly ducks and little boys who love apples?