Say wha?

By Pamela

Last week author Kelly Corrigan came to Dallas and unfortunately, we weren't able to hear her speak but I did enjoy this TEDx talk Susan told me about. If you have a few minutes, it's certainly worth your time to listen to her speak about literacy and what impact reading has on your life.

Here are some startling statistics she shares:

• After high school, 33% of graduates never read a book.
• After college, that number jumps to 42%.
• When the state of Arizona forecasts the number of beds they'll need for their prisons, they look to the number of kids in fourth grade who read well.
• The number one cause of divorce: poor communication. 
• The number one predictor of occupational success is vocabulary. 

It's no secret that reading results in a better command of language, and Kelly goes on to talk about how reading builds vocabulary. I'm so grateful my young life began with a mother who read to me. I went on to love reading on my own and count my school librarians as some of my favorite educators. Today, I don't read as much as I wish, but no place feels more like 'home' to me than snuggling up with a book.

If you are a parent, you have the awesome responsibility of fostering a love of reading in your child. My three started out gnawing on board books and eventually 'cut their teeth' on reading solo the BOB Books and later Berenstain Bears and Dr. Seuss. When we closed the cover on one story, we often switched on a CD to listen to Junie B. Jones' antics (Lana Quintal is fabulous!) or The Boxcar Children as they drifted off to sleep. While it's too soon to see if they'll become a statistic and not read after college, I certainly hope they'll love to read as adults.

I think Kelly's comments about communication resonated the most with me, and at times I'll write a word and pause to consider 'Is this the best word? Is this really what I'm trying to say?' and it's not about using a big $5 word either--one that looks or sounds impressive. Simple, direct, succinct can go a long way in communicating my ideas. Like my girl said the other day: "I possess an amazing vocabulary ... in other words ... I know a lot of words."

Writers need to communicate not only their ideas to readers but also to those with whom they interact. If you're part of a writing critique group, expressing yourself effectively is key to not only giving feedback but receiving it as well. If you hand off your work to a reader for critique, are you expecting a line edit? A copy edit? Changes tracked? Overall impression? The same goes with giving feedback to someone else. Make sure you outline your expectations and ask what's expected in return.

Joan and I recently participated in a webinar which included an agent's 'critique' of the first two pages of our manuscripts. We both got ours back the other day with similar feedback--what we considered to be fairly nonspecific comments at the bottom of the second page. Apparently 'critique' can be interpreted many different ways and we, perhaps unjustly, expected something more than we received.

So, before this becomes a post about how reading affects how we drive, what we eat, who we marry and where we vacation (trust me, I think I can connect these dots), I'll close with a final caveat: You'll never regret time spent reading--to your child, by yourself, to an elderly friend. The challenge begins with: What should I read next?

A Big Scare, A Few Scars, and a Three-Pound Bundle of Love

By Kim

In her post last Friday, Susan mentioned an incident that occurred at my children’s elementary school on the same day as the Boston Marathon bombings.

Here are the facts, as reported by the Dallas news stations. On the morning of April 15^th, 2013, a pregnant woman was shot and killed by her ex-boyfriend. The murder occurred a block from an elementary school, which was placed on lockdown until the suspect left the area. He was later located by police, and a long car chase ended back near the crime scene, where the suspect shot a police officer (who lived) and barricaded himself into another house near the school. The school was placed back on lockdown until the end of the day. The suspect was arrested about an hour after school dismissed.

When I returned home after a morning of running errands, I received an automated message that simply informed me the school was on precautionary lockdown due to criminal activity in the area. All children safe and accounted for. I decided to stick close to home until I heard back, but was not particularly worried. Then I received a second automated call. This time the principal’s voice contained a hint of distress. She said the school was again on lockdown as police tried to apprehend a suspect who had shot an officer and barricaded himself into a nearby house. All children were being kept away from windows.

Now I was worried.

While trying to find out what was happening , I learned about the bombings in Boston. What if the guy near the school had explosives and intended to blow up the house, and himself, in close proximity to my babies. He had killed a pregnant woman and tried to kill a cop. This is Texas. His life is over.

I paced as I waited for a third call. It came. Lockdown still in place.

Live web footage showed dozens of cop cars blocking off a familiar street. I knew exactly where they were. If disaster happened, the auditorium side of the school would bear the brunt of it. My second grader’s classroom is uncomfortably close. I prayed she was being kept in the gym.

Photo by Deborah Downes

When the lockdown lifted for dismissal it was like driving into a war zone. Police cars everywhere. Checkpoints. Frantic parents approaching on foot only to be turned away. Harried teachers and children standing in organized clumps on the lawn in front of the school. News cameras recorded everything from across the street. They’re like buzzards waiting for carnage, I thought. Thankfully, they got none.

My second grader told me she had spent four-and-a-half hours sitting “criss-cross applesauce” on the floor. She was told to hunch down and stay silent. The kids didn’t know what was going on, only that it was not a drill. She did not want to be left alone when she got home, and her legs hurt from being still so long, but was fine after being assured she’d never been in danger and that the bad guy was in jail.

My sixth grader had it far worse. The murder scene was visible from her classroom window. She chose not to look when she saw police cars surrounding the home, but a few of her classmates reported seeing a bloodied woman being loaded into an ambulance. Worse, those kids knew the woman was the mother of one of their friends, a boy in the next classroom over. He had already lost his father in Iraq.

Photo by Deborah Downes

My daughter’s teacher was understandably distraught, likely because the faculty and administration communicated over e-mail. She would have known the woman had died and that police had come to take her son away. Perhaps it was for this reason that my daughter was never told the suspect was not in the building looking for more victims. She was merely told to hide and keep quiet. She claimed never to have been scared for herself. She was frightened for her sister, whom she couldn’t get to. She was scared for her friends, and spent some time considering who in the room she would try to save if the room was invaded. She was most scared for ME, and how I would take it if something happened to her.

Yes, my eleven-year-old would be one of those people running toward the blast in Boston, trying to shield little kids. She would be one of the “helpers” Mr. Rogers mentioned in his now famous quote. I can only aspire to be so selfless, and am both proud of and terrified for her.

She, too, has recovered now other than for concern over the boy who lost his mom.

It will take me a bit longer to be fully okay. I remind myself every day how lucky I am that I can hold my children. That they are alive and whole and that no one had actually intended them harm.

I’m sure this contributed to what on the surface seemed like a rash decision this past weekend. The girls have been begging for about a year now, and I no longer had the will to object to something that shows faith in the future. We have added a six-week-old Boston Terrier to our family. She is deaf, but this only makes her more special to us. Freya is a fearless little girl, an alpha female to our zeta male, Thor. Who could resist this face?

Photo by Deborah Downes

Piling On

by Joan

Just one of many stacks of boxes

A few weeks ago I mentioned in a blog post that we put our house on the market and I got a jolt of reality when I learned I had no decorating sense. House staged and ready to go, comments from prospective buyers started rolling in: “Needs too much updating.” We were shocked – we had updated much of our house. 

Mom's gold wallpaper

We were like those old people who think their home is “hip” (when we were selling my mother's home, she absolutely refused that we remove the gold wallpaper and curtains – “That's good stuff!”) 

So, here we were, thinking it might be a long wait for the right buyer. 

The house in showing condition and busy season wrapping up at work, I looked forward to a little extra writing time and perhaps some quick weekend trips to enjoy the Texas five-minute spring. My husband would shoot some photos, I’d jot down some observations for future writing, and we’d have nice leisurely days.

On exactly April 15^th, we got a contract on the house (three weeks after we listed it). But oh, by the way, the buyers have three kids under five years old (including a one-month-old) and need to be in the house in two weeks because they’ve already sold their home. Suddenly, we had no place to live and no idea where we wanted to be.

The day after we learned we had to move in two weeks, my back went out. I could barely move, let alone pack or look for a place to live. After a few visits to the chiropractor, I was finally able to sit in a car and off I went house hunting. We decided to rent for a while, but when I began to look at single-family rentals I was gobsmacked at the disrepair and filth of the homes. Stained carpet, empty food containers in the bedroom, sagging floors (not to mention handguns on top of nightstands). One of the owners had the nerve to request we remove our shoes before walking through! I would have given anything for my mother’s gold wallpaper. At least her home was spotless and in good working order.

Finally, we found an empty-nester condo, with a perfect-for-us floorplan, great amenities and solid construction for peace and quiet. One slight problem… the current tenants can’t vacate until June 1, which means we’ll have to stay at a short-term rental for a month. The logistics of moving our house into half storage, half smaller place, half long-term, half short-term has driven me off my self-imposed sugar detox wagon. (Pamela, those frozen lemon cake balls are divine!)

Meantime, my mother fell and earned some ugly scrapes. We’ve been pleading with her to use her walker, but as a prideful eighty-nine-year-old and the spry one at her assisted living facility, she refuses. "I'm too young for one of those cotton-pickin' things!" Before I could take a breath, another family member headed to the hospital. Thankfully after a few days, she’s checked out and back home.

So the two weeks is ticking, ticking, and we’re packing like fiends. In the midst of this, a critique partner called and wanted an emergency read-through on a scene she’s turning in to an editor. So I woke early to read through for her and then got back to the packing grind. I’m not getting any writing done, but my new story is playing in my head while I load and tape boxes, and when a brilliant idea strikes, I stop and send myself an email reminder from my phone.

As I pack, I find memories of our time in this house and others. Today I found my son’s silver rattle, three boxes of Mother’s Day and birthday cards from my guys, and my mother’s typed recipe binder from 1992.

As Susan said in her lovely Friday post, “… step back and take the time to focus on who we love and the joy in our lives, instead of the latest tragedy. Because when I look closely at the past seven days, my life has still been filled with beauty and art, not just the bombardment of tragedies.”

Yes, I've had a piling-on week. But in light of everything that’s going on in the world, my snowballing drama reminds me I have a full life, lots of friends and family to love, and books to read—and write!

Dreaming Big

By Susan

On Wednesday of this week, a good friend posted on Facebook about dreaming big. She wrote a great status update about her father's influence on her life and how we often forget that their big dreams for us used to be ours too, and how important it is to continue reaching.

As I read the update, I was on an Amtrak train from New York City to Boston, where I am now, for the Association of Writers and Writing Programs annual conference. I couldn't help but think about my own big dreams and the reality of the week I am experiencing right now.

I flew in to New York on Tuesday to meet with my agent and her assistant for lunch. I met them at Writers House and beyond the initial giddiness of meeting them in person, I was also quickly impressed with the calibre of agents within the walls of Writers House. I didn't have to remind myself to be incredibly thankful that my agent 1) actually read my query, 2) actually requested a full manuscript, 3) actually read said manuscript, 4) called me before she even finished reading it to offer representation, and 5) stood by me and became my biggest fan while I took on a year's worth of revisions that became an actual rewrite.

We left Writers House and went to eat at Maysville, a bourbon-themed restaurant right next to her office (coincidentally named for a town 30 minutes from my Kentucky hometown,) and we proceeded to have a two-hour lunch. I was thankful that we were joined by her assistant--who I highly suspect had a lot to do with helping my query letter and manuscript make it into my agent's hands--and we talked and laughed and became friends over the course of oysters and chocolate cake and a celebratory glass of bourbon.

I couldn't help but be struck by my own paralysis--not that long ago--at the thought of sending a query letter to an actual agent. What if I had never sent her the letter? After all, I'd had so many fears! That 1) she was out of my league, 2) my manuscript really sucked, after all, and 3) I was faking it and had no idea what I was doing. I was reminded again to continue dreaming big.

After another meeting Tuesday night with the freelance editor who prompted me to rewrite the novel, I settled in for the night in a trendy boutique hotel in New York's Flower District. The next morning, I headed for Boston.

Heading for Boston by myself on a train wasn't something I'd ever envisioned myself doing. Yet this conference, I'd heard, would be swarming with novelists and agents and editors, as well as educators and poets and writers like me--a person with a manuscript under her arm who's dreaming big. And it has been absolutely that--there are 12,000 writers here. Over 720 vendors and booths on two spacious showroom floors. There are Pulitzer Prize-winning poets presenting, and authors like Alice Hoffman and Don Delillo and Cheryl Strayed are wandering the halls with the rest of us.

For a writer, this conference is Literary FanGirl Heaven. And although I've seen lots of famous writers, I haven't actually met any. I'm wandering like the newbie that I am--wishing I'd taken my writing seriously when I was twenty instead of forty, wishing I'd gotten that MFA, wishing I was somehow up to the challenge of being a real writer. And then I realized that without dreaming big, I wouldn't even be where I am at this very moment. I wouldn't have gotten on a plane by myself to New York, or taken a train to Boston. Truthfully? I wouldn't have finished the manuscript, either--because that in itself was beyond my reach a few years ago.

Yet here I am. If I look up from my computer screen, I am surrounded by writers. Some look no older than teenagers, and some are clearly well-into their 80s (like last night's keynote speaker, poet Derek Wallcott, who is 83 and incredible.) And even though I've not met anyone famous, nor have I hobnobbed with the next big thing, I know one thing for sure. I'm surrounded by people who take their words seriously enough to show up and engage with other writers. And collectively, we're all somehow following our dreams--whether it's to teach a college class, or write a poem or a novel, or to pursue an MFA.

And it's a good place to be.

It's Retreat Time!

The front of our house

By Kim

I’m writing from our 4th annual What Women Write retreat! We’ve chosen a different location each year and have found all houses come with their quirks. Our house was comfy enough the first year, but it creeped us out a bit that the owners remained on-site, albeit sequestered to a little apartment within the house. Year two we had a lake house that worked well other than a couple of uncomfortable beds. Last year we crammed into a house set up for scrapbookers instead of writers. This year we have another lake house, and every one of us walked in and exclaimed this would be the best one ever. It is gorgeous, there’s a view, a hot tub and a great den with comfy recliners.

What it lacks are quiet places to hide for those of us with deadlines or lofty word count goals. Julie and Susan’s enormous closet may get some use this weekend. Last year, I would have taken over that space immediately.

This year I have no word count goals. My manuscript is in the query process and the most work I intend to do while here is some research for my next novel. I may draw or paint a bit, too. And read, of course.

Here’s what everyone else is doing this morning:

The back of our house

Susan has her feet up in a recliner, computer on her lap, pen held between her teeth, and she appears deep in thought. Of all of us, she’s the one under the most pressure this year with a self-imposed deadline to send major revisions back to her agent. I suspect she’ll need that big closet soon, or perhaps she’ll go sit at the end of the dock. Yes, it’s December, but this is Texas and she’s tough!

Julie has the couch here in the den and is also typing away on blog posts and interview questions in preparation for the February lunch of her debut novel, Calling Me Home. (Have you pre-ordered your copy, yet? If not, you should, because it is fabulous.) She claims the house will be a lot quieter this year because she has no time to carry on conversations.

Elizabeth is also typing away. I heard whispers about a short story last night, which may or may not be true, but she was the last to bed and the first to rise, so ideas must be swirling around in her brain. Maybe she'll share them when we do critiques.

From the end of our dock

Joan has the living room to herself at the moment. The last time I glanced at her computer screen she had her completed novel open, or maybe the synopsis. I know that, like me, she plans to brainstorm ideas for her next book. Both she had I are querying right now and pray for a rejection-free weekend.

I’m not entirely sure where Pamela is – I believe in the bedroom she is sharing with Joan. She has a deadline on an article and so is having to work a bit on her paying gig before she can open her manuscript.

Check back at the blog next week and you’ll see several of us weigh in on the retreat. Pamela will likely have given the page a facelift with our new group photo as well.

Chris Cleave at the DMA

by Joan

Last week, Chris Cleave spoke about his new book, Gold, to an intimate crowd of a hundred at the Dallas Museum of Art. As usually happens when authors we love come to town, an email trail buzzed through the What Women Write wire when his Dallas date was announced. As it happened, Julie and I were the only two available and so we enlisted our husbands to join us.

Susan introduced me to Cleave when Little Bee came out. “He’s brilliant!” she said. I was blown away. Reading just the first paragraph or two was enough to make me question my chutzpah in dreaming my book might one day share shelf space with his exquisite writing.

"Most days I wish I was a British pound coin instead of an African girl. Everyone would be pleased to see me coming. Maybe I would visit with you for the weekend and then suddenly, because I am fickle like that, I would visit with the man from the corner shop instead—but you would not be sad because you would be eating a cinnamon bun, or drinking a cold Coca-Cola from the can, and you would never think of me again. We would be happy, like lovers who met on holiday and forgot each other’s names.

A pound coin can go wherever it thinks it will be the safest. It can cross deserts and oceans and leave the sound of gunfire and the bitter smell of burning thatch behind."

Cleave is as enchanting in person as he is in his writing. He’s engaging, clever, funny and wholly appreciative of his readers. He amused us with previous book tour questions (what does the queen keep in her purse?) and generously shared the inspiration for his novels and his emotional connection to his characters. For all his awards and bestselling books, he was humble and soft-spoken. A regular guy, a dad, a husband, a lover of literature and a former journalist on the hunt for a good story.

He refers to his writing as “investigative reporting crossed with fiction.” Meeting women refugees in London compelled him to share their plight with the rest of the world and the novel Little Bee was born. Charlie, the Batman costume wearing boy was based on his own son, who wanted to fight crime. Cleave’s novel, Incendiary, is a raw look at one woman’s search for answers after suffering horrendous tragedy. She is flawed and broken and has nothing more to lose, yet manages to keep living. The book is unputdownable.

To research Gold, he took up competitive cycling and trained for months, learning to press so hard during a race, he thought his heart would stop beating if he pedaled one more rotation. In the book he examines endurance and rivalry, which he says is close to hate, but also close to love.

After the talk, we bought copies of Gold and queued up to meet the author. Our husbands waited patiently on the sidelines and even managed to snap a few photos.

When we finally made it to the table, I was star-struck, stammering and rambling about his genius writing. We told him about What Women Write, about Julie’s book coming out in February, about our annual retreat where we write all day and critique all night (with a few breaks for photos and wine). He graciously chatted with us and afterward, Julie and I agreed we’d met a rock star. A brilliant rock star.

Here's what NPR wrote about Gold: “If Olympic medals were awarded for dramatic stories about what drives athletes to compete and succeed, Cleave would easily ascend the podium. Gold does for sport racing what Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild did for high-risk adventure: It demystifies its allure, giving readers an inside track on a certain type of compulsive mindset. But Gold is also about time, ambition and love, three life forces continuously jockeying for supremacy. Novels, like racing, depend on careful pacing, and Cleave calibrates his performance with the skill of a real pro, carefully ratcheting up the intensity as he finesses curves and heads into his final laps. . . .”

If you have not read his work, I encourage you to get yourself to a bookstore.