Happy 2024!

Welcome to January 2024!

Thinking about resolutions or goals (or whatever stock-taking units you like to use), I feel hopeful, energized, and—well—wary. It’s easy to be cynical when you’ve planned a “new you” many times before. When my kids were small and homemaking tasks dominated my to-do list, I found help wresting order out of chaos at FlyLady.net. Haven’t checked in with her for years, but I always found FlyLady so relatable. She frequently talked about planning baby steps, building habits a little at a time, so we wouldn’t orchestrate a huge reform plan only to crash and burn. At resolution time I think about crashing and burning a lot.

But 2023 had a big aha moment for me, courtesy of Kara and Laura, my daughters and co-conspirators in productivity. We’ve been doing body doubling and frequent check-ins and lots of very focused cheerleading. We’ve also analyzed each other up the wazoo, and they helped me see that I have a talent for seeing details and even predicting the future! But of course I can’t take action on everything I see. No human could follow up on it all, but I was wasting energy on guilt and/or anxiety about the hundreds of things I know but can’t prevent, prepare for, or fix. I’ve been working to cut down on the guilt and anxiety part.

This relates to how I interact with my own to-do list and short-term goals. I could be doing ten of the hundred items on my list at once, but I’d still kick myself for “ignoring” the other ninety. This year, I resolve NOT to give in to cynicism by giving up on goal-making, I resolve to appreciate my big vision (it’s great that I know the next hundred things I want to do!). And I resolve to celebrate when I am doing the first ten things, or even—baby steps!—the first one.

Wishing you a happy, healthy, and (reasonably) productive 2024!

It's Not All Bad

It’s NOT all bad. I’m doing agent research so I can send out more queries. (If you don’t know what that means and you’re curious, comment and I’ll say more.) After previous forays into cyberspace and my own notes, I’ve decide agent research is a depressing prospect for an ambitious sheep (Monty Python. See 2:12). Usually I discover a favorite agent has just closed to queries, or a new agent who has caught my eye doesn’t represent picture books, etc.

But I’ve got to remember days like today! Yes, I crossed one or two agents off my list. But I also got to undo the “Doesn’t list PBs as an interest” on one agent’s record thanks to a RECENT agent spotlight interview on Natalie Aguirre’s excellent blog, Literary Rambles. So, in defiance of the prospects (and my healthy imposter syndrome) I’ll be sending off a query straightaway!

X marks the spot?

Like most people on Twitter, I had a love/hate relationship with the platform. Loved the community/hated the way even my friends would miss my posts. Loved keeping up with the news/hated having to be so careful to recognize rogue news sources (and actively work to keep their headlines out of my head). Loved knowing what was going on in kidlit/hated trying to figure out which cancel-culture campaigns were warranted and which were unfair pile-ons.

Then Musk bought Twitter and took it private. Strike one.

He hosted Ron DeSantis’ presidential campaign event. Ugh, strike two.

Then he welcomed Tucker Carlson. Strike three, I’m out.

Well, most of the way. I sign on very rarely, and only with a specific purpose. But I hold on to my handle with the hope that this too shall pass, the company will again be held publicly (and held accountable for doing more rather than less to keep the site relatively truthful and safe), and I can again in good conscience enjoy the community of those I follow and those who follow me.

Of course, now that Musk has gone off the deep end (I assume—I have not sought out his explanation) and thrown away the Twitter brand, replacing it with X, my doubts about the future of the platform outweigh my hopes. One day I may feel required to delete my account completely. I’m not sure what it would take, but I expect I’ll know it if I hear about it.

Meanwhile, I miss Tweeting. I always composed more Tweets than I posted, often just in my head, no keyboard involved. But it occurred to me, I do have THIS platform. My own, that I pay for every year anyway. So, in addition to posting the occasional essay, I’ll start using this blog space for micro-observations and life updates as well.

A Cat Mystery

I’m a fan of mysteries, including cozy mysteries, but I haven’t dived into the cat-cozy genre yet—except that recently, I lived through an actual cat mystery that still has me wondering. My neighbors had a big orange cat who walked past my living room window, where I often sit to write, multiple times a day. Changing his name to protect the innocent, like any good true crime writer, I’ll call him Fat Cat. 

Strutting or prowling according to his mood and purpose, Fat Cat acted like he owned both our front and back yards. I didn’t mind one bit. He was a beautiful cat, and I figured he could be an unofficial part of our rodent management plan. I didn’t think too much about the hazards he faced daily. Coyotes in particular are infamous in our neighborhood, but it was clear Fat Cat relished his freedom. He was, indeed, a fat and happy cat. 

In December, Nora, a sweet black Labrador mix, joined our family. My daughter Laura (whose love of dogs I talk about in one of my Five Minute Memoirs, "That Joy") adopted her from a rescue org via Petfinder. With Nora frequently in the yard, whether doing zoomies or just sunbathing, I was not surprised Fat Cat stopped walking brazenly across our back patio. I didn’t see him much in the front yard either. 

I supposed the feline had changed his habits in response to the new canine presence, but then our neighbor contacted us: Fat Cat was missing. He hadn’t returned home for a few days. Would we please keep an eye out?

Of course we would. And we did, but time passes so strangely during the pandemic. I intended to check in on Fat Cat’s family after a few days, let them know I hadn’t forgotten him and was still on the alert, when suddenly he had been missing for weeks already. They were cold weeks by Southern California standards, and we’d had a couple of rainstorms, too. Especially with all the coyotes about, I doubted a domestic cat could survive so long on his own, even an experienced outdoorsman like Fat Cat. Sadly, I realized my check-in was going to be more of a condolence call.

A few days ago, I was still getting up the gumption to talk to my neighbors when I saw a Twitter post about someone who found their lost cat after two months. It gave me hope. For a moment I thought it was also a way to start the conversation with my neighbors. “Your cat might still be alive out there, somewhere!” Then I realized it was a pretty tone-deaf comment. While my neighbors would be happy for the person who got their cat back, they wouldn’t be consoled by the wafer-thin hope of having the same good luck. 

Then yesterday I returned home from having coffee with a friend and found the back gate open. Also open: the screen that closes off the driveway entrance to the crawl space under our house. We check our screens fairly routinely, making sure they are secure (rodent management again!). But today, on the driveway in front of the opening, there was a bowl of milk and a tin of cat food. Turns out my daughter and the neighbor had got together to tempt a kitty out from under the house. We all hoped against hope it was Fat Cat.

We had not heard a peep, though our neighbor had heard some meowing at night for a week or so. Nora was the heroine: taking a break from sunbathing, she had nosed around the driveway, either sniffing out, spotting, or hearing a cat hissing weakly at the screen from the inside. Laura helped the neighbor set up the snack at the opening and then took Nora into the house so the cat wouldn’t be scared to exit. Soon a happy text came from the neighbor: the cat had come out, and he was indeed theirs. Fat Cat was no longer fat, but he was home!

Had he been trapped under our house the whole time, or just for the week they heard meowing? Poor guy could see his home through the wire mesh. What did he find to eat in there? Water must have been driven in through the grates during the rainstorms, puddling enough afterward to keep him alive. But how did he get in, when the screens were all in place? I feel a bit guilty, trying to remember if we unthinkingly replaced a dislodged screen around the time Fat Cat went missing, and wondering how we could have missed his meowing and other noises while he was under the house. But I don’t think we did anything wrong.

It’s a stretch to call the crawl space “cozy,” but it remains a mystery how the cat got in. It was the best luck that Nora found him while there was still a chance for a good outcome. He ate three cans of cat food right off the bat after getting home yesterday, starting the work to return to his usual rotund form. He’s going to the vet soon for a check-up, but it appears that Fat Cat, his humans, his neighbors (us!), and our cozy cat mystery got a much-hoped-for happy ending.

Lessons Learned

I’ve figured out over the last few years that I learned some lessons too well.

As in, I never re-assessed. I learned something about how to be in the world but didn’t consider that the world (or I) may have changed in a way that made it obsolete. I also didn’t really think about the likelihood that I may have picked out the wrong lesson in the first place. Imagine: leaning on these lessons means my current happiness is partly dependent on the analytical and emotional intelligence of fifth-grade me!

Fifth grade was a tough year. My best friend had moved away over the summer, and it turned out that the rest of “our” friend group had been putting up with me for her sake. I was cut free. No one wanted to sit next to me in class, and no one ran out to the blacktop with me at recess. A confident kid up to that point, I didn’t know I had built a reputation as a know-it-all (the irony!). By the end of fifth grade, after a whole year of observing the particular ways my classmates teased and excluded me, I understood: I always knew the right answer or the right thing to do, and I’d tell you all about it, whether you asked me or not. And that was super annoying.

After figuring out the problem, I strategized. In the fall I would go to a middle school where two-thirds of the kids had never heard of me. I could start over. I had learned a lesson--my confident, in-charge self was insufferable!--so I left that self behind, as best I could. When I started sixth grade, I stopped correcting other kids when they got an answer wrong or broke a rule. I hid my best test scores and tried not to use my high-octane vocabulary. I was trying to be humble, but I actually slowly taught myself to be invisible.

Because of this or in spite of this, I had a pretty good time in middle school. I made lifelong friends, but I didn’t understand it wasn’t necessary to squash myself to do it. All these years later I suspect I didn’t even succeed in being a “new me,” but I wasted energy second-guessing everything I said and did, and I lost some of that precious confidence I’d had. I’m easier to get along with since I realized I was an annoying know-it-all, but my “lesson learned” put the emphasis in the wrong place. The lesson should have been about empathy and perspective, not about my own worth.

My husband saw that my middle school experience had taught me another lesson: if I listened to others’ complaints and changed myself to suit them, I would be happier. He tried to warn me about it once.

“You’re really bad at taking criticism.”

How could he say this, to me of all people? Me, who was always ready to listen, who constantly evaluated comments from friends and strangers alike to figure out what part of my personality needed tweaking next? We didn’t resolve the argument at the time. His comment just turned into a hard nugget tucked down into a pocket of my gut. Years later, some other discussion pulled it out again. 

“What do you mean I can’t take criticism?” I said. “No one tries harder than I do to acknowledge my own problems and try to fix them.”

“Exactly my point,” he said. “You don’t take criticism well because you take it all to heart. You should pick and choose.” (Wow, all the years I wasted that corner of my gut being angry about his “accusation”!)

There’s an obvious analogy here with writer’s critique groups. I remember the first fiction writing class I took. After I submitted my work, every comment from my teacher and classmates felt like an order rather than an insight. By the time I had incorporated all the suggestions, my story didn’t feel like my story any more. Now, with lots of experience, I give myself at least a few days after a critique group meeting to see which comments resonate with me. Lesson learned: only internalize and act on suggestions that make my story feel more like my story. 

The most recent “a-ha!” I’ve had regarding lessons that need revisiting also applies to writing. Remember how I used to call out classmates if they broke the rules? You can imagine, then, how hard I was on myself. I had already discovered that being a superior rule-follower led to success in school. This understanding served me well all the way through graduation, but it’s past time to let it go. Learning the rules is part of becoming an expert in any specialty, but being an expert means knowing when to break them. I’ve worked hard to learn the rules of writing YA novels and picture books. But it’s time to give myself permission to break those rules--and trust that I am enough of an expert to choose wisely as to when, and which ones.

Snooze Button

[Radar tone] - “Water the blackberries” - SNOOZE.

Nine minutes later: 

[Radar tone] - “Water the blackberries” - SNOOZE.

I’m in the middle of something. But it’s getting hotter and hotter outside. The plants are wilting.

[Radar tone] - “Water the blackberries” - STOP.

That radar tone is...not annoying enough. I don’t want to get used to it. I don’t want the alarm to lose its power to attract my attention.

I love putting a plant into the earth--digging a hole, settling the plant inside, patting down the soil on top. I don’t enjoy watering the plant afterward. I’ll do it for a week, maybe. Two weeks is pushing it. Three weeks? Unless the plant is directly next to a spigot or I’m motivated by something beyond the plant itself (see: my husband’s birthday blackberry bushes), the poor thing is probably going to die.

This is representative of other parts of my life. I love organizing and planning. Maintenance and execution? Not so much. But I really do want to do most of the things I plan! Recently, I discovered a new technological aid for accomplishing a variety of life-maintenance tasks. I learned I could set and name multiple alarms on my phone and make them repeat on pretty much whatever schedule I wanted. 

Having a wake up alarm is not new, but now I also have several others, like this one: “9:30AM Water blackberries, Tue Thurs Sat.” I set alarms for personal development, such as “4:00PM, Check goals, every weekday.” I have an alarm for medication that’s due every evening in that sweet spot between dinner and bedtime, when it’s so easy to forget. 

I was once the kid who wouldn’t notice the class had gone to recess if I were reading a book. My powers of deep concentration atrophied over years as a parent, when I feared I would make a big mistake like forgetting my child at school pickup time if I got too immersed in work. Even though my nest is empty, many of the brain habits remain. Finally, with the oh-so-adjustable alarms on my phone, I feel free to lose myself in concentration again. If I have a webinar coming up or an appointment to keep, I can set an alarm and label it. When my alarm rings, the label gives me the context I need as I poke my head out of whatever rabbit hole I’ve gone down.

So, I know I’ve got to watch it with the snooze button. I need these alarms. Yes, they are tiny tyrants that I have to answer promptly if they are to remain useful. But they really give me freedom: the freedom to keep to the schedule I want for myself, the freedom to maintain things that really matter to me--like my husband’s birthday blackberry bushes. 

Good Enough?

A podcast I enjoy is Book Friends Forever by Grace Lin (@pacylin) and Alvina Ling (@planetalvina). I discovered it a few months ago and have been catching up on old episodes as well as listening to current ones. Today I was listening to Episode 27 in which both women celebrate twenty years in publishing. What advice would Grace give her pre-career self now? For one thing, she would tell herself not to be so judgmental and critical of other creators’ picture books. The books served a purpose, even if the art wasn’t perfect by her fresh-out-of-art-school standards. 

Something fell into place for me as I listened. Like Grace before she learned better, I judge other artists based on a limited rubric, in my case built not from art school but from classes and books, conferences, webinars and Twitter threads. The intangibles get left out of the rubric because that’s the nature of intangibility! Then the monologue in my head goes like this: My work is awful. I see that such-and-such book is bad in lots of the same ways mine is. If my book isn’t good enough, how did THIS one get published? Who had the gall to query an agent with THAT?  

I’ve heard Ira Glass (@iraglass) talk about The Gap, where an artist’s appreciation for high-quality work makes them disappointed by their own art while they are developing their skills. I’ve counseled others many times:  don’t reject yourself--make the college admissions officer, the coach of the elite team, or the potential boss do the dirty work. But listening to Grace, I realized it’s time to stop judging my own work with such negativity, and without regard for any intangibles I have to offer. I myself need to be the person who has the gall to put my work out there, even though I haven’t yet closed The Gap. Let the agents, editors, or readers decide to reject it.

…Or not.

Political discussions on social media: thoughtful or bot-full?

When should I jump into the fray on social media? Do I have a responsibility to speak out every time I see something I believe is wrong? I don’t want to waste energy that I could use to speak out through my creative work instead -- and I’m not sure if I’m ready to face the fallout. 

When I read an upsetting political post, I go through an internal checklist. My first question is: do I know the original poster? If not, I usually assume that a post inflammatory enough to get my attention was made by a bot that only exists to stir up trouble. I decline the bait. If the OP is an online acquaintance or real-life friend, it’s not so simple to decide whether to respond or walk on by. I want to offer support for people who have been marginalized and bring attention to ideas that help society move toward equality and compassion. But conflict -- ugh. My pulse races, I get all hot, and I can’t concentrate on much else while I’m waiting for the clapback. And what if I fail to convince anyone? What if I do a lousy job and leave the discussion in an even worse place?

Often I compose a comment, but before hitting reply, I have to think: do I have the time and energy for this? I end up censoring myself probably more than half the time. Hopefully my real friends will meet my comments with respect, but trolls could still jump in and attack with vitriol and speed. It’s easy to feel bested by the sheer volume of their replies, which is of course their point. I try to post only arguments and data I have vetted with sources I trust, but the friends I disagree with tend to trust sources I don’t. Meanwhile, a skirmish with trolls who are satisfied using random memes and anonymous rants to back up their opinions may be completely futile.

I can still choose to engage, remembering I can opt out whenever I want. I can continue a discussion that reflects mutual respect and thoughtfulness, or I can bow out without fanfare or apology if the OP or any trolls lose track of logic or civility. I admire activists who can think on their feet and hold their own in arguments during protests, hearings, and cable television interviews. I have to admit, social media is a relatively comfortable space for me to hone my own powers of persuasion. I could censor myself less often.

What about close friends? I developed a Trump-era rule: social media political arguments with close friends are a no-no. Even in person, I avoid conflicts with the people I care about most. Online would be worse. My friend wouldn’t hear the tremor in my voice indicating how seriously I’m taking a discussion, how much I’ve invested in changing my own mind from what I learned growing up. My deepest fear is that political arguments may expose a difference in our values that endangers our friendship. If the difference is actually there, though, surely it bears examining? Yet, each of us takes social media (and politics, for that matter) with a different sense of seriousness and responsibility. I have convinced myself social media is not the right place for me to examine my lifelong friendships. 

But -- the stakes are high. We’re talking life and death when we’re talking about supporting Black Lives Matter or protecting social programs or Trans rights. If I could find the courage to toss out my rule, I’d be giving close friends a chance to explain or reconsider problematic posts. And I’ve been in my conservative friends’ shoes. If it weren’t for people who spoke up to me with patience and respect, who listened as I worked through misunderstandings and doubt about systemic racism and other human rights issues, I might still be asleep. Instead I’m on a path toward being “woke.” I’m educating myself,* hoping to be ready to have better conversations in the future, online and in person, sharing some of the lessons I’ve learned about race and privilege. 

One more question. When I make the effort to comment, and keep myself from hitting “Delete,” does my response make the difference I hope it makes? The other day a friend posted a racist meme complaining that there is less outrage about the heinous murder of a white child than there is for the murder of George Floyd. Treading lightly, I commented that the murders were both horrible, but that I must speak out about Floyd's case because he was murdered by a public servant, in my name. My friend responded by expanding the scope of her concerns, and I left her to it. It’s her page. The next day, I saw that she had posted another even more egregious meme on the same theme. I was disappointed. 

Did my response make a difference? My friend probably thought it was annoying, mystifying, or simply irrelevant. But my words will matter to others. Once in a while I hear directly from someone who felt supported by my participation in a social media argument. Or, at a family gathering, a niece or nephew has mentioned appreciating something I posted, when I had no idea they had even seen it. Energy spent on social media — engaging not with bots but thoughtfully with real people, whether online acquaintances or lifelong friends — is actually very similar to energy spent on my creative work. I would never expect my books to have a universally positive response. I remain hopeful that some readers will be moved by the posts I stick out my neck to make, as well as by the books I write.

*I’m currently reading So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo, and highly recommend it for this exact purpose, preparing to have better conversations about race. You can buy it from your favorite Black bookstore (currently backordered at Mahogany Books) or via Indiebound or check it out from your library.

Welcome!!

I’m finally ready to write a blog!

I always have a lot on my mind. My husband and I had that surprising conversation several years back, the one where we discovered just how different people’s interior lives can be.

Me: Wait, you don’t have words streaming through your head all the time?

Him: You do? How tiring.

Me: Of course I do. You can’t just sit there and not be thinking of anything.

Him:

Me: I mean, what happens, you see pictures?

Him: No.

Me:

I have one long soliloquy running through my head. Occasionally, I open my mouth and share some of it with the people around me. It can be confusing for all of us when I forget they’re joining a program that’s already underway. Other times, I wonder why they ignored my latest pronouncement—until I realize I didn’t make it out loud. You may have guessed: if I get on a roll, I leave my voice switched to “On” for extended periods, and my companions get quite an earful.

This may be one reason my family is encouraging me to write a blog.

Already, when I dither over posting or deleting my latest tweet or Facebook comment, they tell me, “Put it on your blog.” Now, that suggestion may become a more general fallback position. If they want to know what’s on my mind, they’ll be glad to join you, Esteemed Blog Reader, in occasionally checking in here instead.

For new visitors to my inner monologue, you can expect a lot of socio-economic-political thoughts. DIscussions of writing craft. Favorite a-ha moments, from reading, writing, and life. Family is absolute Number 1 on my mind and in my life, but I’m not used to posting much about my personal life on social media. I imagine I’ll be more open here on my blog, but I want to continue to be careful about sharing stories that really belong to my children or grandchildren. So we’ll see how that goes.

I’m interested to see how often I post. I guess we’ll find out together! Glad you’re here.