Breakfast with Sid Fleishman
Sid Fleishman passed from this life on St. Patrick's Day, March 17th. I had breakfast with him today. We've breakfasted together many times before. Sometimes he was the Whipping Boy or the Abracadabra Kid. Always, he's a good friend, welcoming and honest and approachable. Our first breakfast together was in January 2009. The morning after a writing conference is always tough—like the morning after a wild party. I wake with a head stuffed with impressions, ideas, information, and a vague feeling that I may not have used my time as wisely as I could. While conference hangover may not come with a headache and dehydration, it always takes a few days to recover. The morning after the SCBWI-Florida winter conference in Miami 2 January’s ago, my writing bud Marty and I were sitting in the hotel restaurant, debriefing and nursing our post conference headaches, when Sid Fleishman walked in. Cheryl Zach had accompanied him to the conference, but for whatever reason, she wasn’t there now. He, Sid Fleishman, was alone, looking around, and, so it seemed to us, looking a little lost.
Maybe because Marty and I were staring at him like expectant pups, Mr. Fleishman smiled. His smile was warm and welcoming, like one you’d give old chums. A few minutes later we were sharing his table. Mr. Fleishman –I’d never be so cheeky as to call him "Sid", although that is what he asked to be called. Considering the high esteem with which we regarded him, "Sir" seemed more fitting—Sir Sid with his twinkling eyes and open, curious, interested countenance wanted to know all about Marty and me: where we lived, what we wrote, how we came to be writers….
The three of us shared Southeast Asian connections: Marty had lived in Indonesia, as I do now, and Sir Sid, had spent time in Singapore, Jakarta and other spots in Southeast Asia. We talked about our families, our lives, our children. He shared a story about his son, Paul, and how, after a lifetime of no apparent interest in writing, one day, out of the blue Paul handed his father a story and asked if he wanted to read it and how he (Sid by now), had taken it, expecting it to be a usual teen story, and was totally blown away. Having grown up surrounding by writers, hearing writers talk writing, story, dialogue, seemingly by osmosis, Paul absorbed all he needed to write fabulous stories. As he went on to share how Paul was always pushing himself, trying new things, pushing his talents the admiration and love in Sid Fleishman’s words was more than fatherly—it was writer for writer.
As it inevitably does when writers get together, the conversation turned to books and writing. To issues Sid was having with a story he was working on. (There is something so comforting about learning “real” authors have trouble writing, too.) This led to my writing, specifically to a novel draft I’d buried after a confusing critique. No telling how many conferences Sid Fleishman attended during his lifetime of writing, publishing, and award-winning, how many eager writers, like me, he had met (including the several hundred at this weekend’s event) and how many writer’s stories he’d heard, he still encouraged me to tell mine. He listened intently, showing genuine interest in me and my story and its problems. He asked questions, gave suggestions, and sent me on my way eager to dig my story out of the drawer, dust it off and get back to it.
At the end of our breakfast, which stretched to lunch, Marty and I shared goodbye hugs with Sid Fleishman, our chum. And we felt like chums, new-old friends. And now, we say a final goodbye to our chum, Sid Fleishman. How fortunate we were to share this journey with him.
We'll meet for breakfast again, soon.
Hatching Plans, Or Not...
I was reminded of a children’s book yesterday. Can’t remember the title, or much of the story, but it’s the one about the bird who sits and sits and sits on an egg, expecting a chick to hatch one day. Instead, what pops out is an elephant or dinosaur, or something equally outrageous. Remember it? That's sort of what has happened with my—THE—pond. (It began as my pond, but it’s not any longer. Yesterday’s revelation cinched it.) As you may recall from previous pond reports, after a difficult couple of years, which read very much like the pond world version of Russian history—poisoning, eye gouging, vivisection, deception, death and rulers being overthrown—the pond is now dominated by a school of slimy, white-black-orange splotched eel-like fish with beady eyes and whiskers. Not only are they ugly, they skulk in the dark recesses of the pond and only dart out to gobble food. The only creatures who have managed to evade their wrath are algae eaters, sapu-sapu, “sweeper fish” as we call them. They must taste really foul.
Rohemon introduced the lele into the pond about a year ago—and the evil monsters promptly killed off every specimen other than the aforementioned sapu-sapu. The only reason I could fathom for Rohemon wanting them is for eating. Ikan Lele is a popular Indonesian fish dish. Assuming he was raising them for future dinners—not a stretch as we have raised other fish that turned into dinner—and as the pond was bubbling along nicely as a stock pond, I decided to let the lele be. And came up with a plan…
The Plan was simple: As soon as the lele were fattened up, we'd slaughter them all, pop their nasty carcasses in the deep freeze and restock the pond with friendly little spa fish. All that would be left to do is edge the pond with colorful pillows, turn on soothing music, pour some wine and sip away with our feet dangling in the water, watching the spa fish nibble the dead skin off our toes.
Ever since hatching the plan, I have been monitoring the lele, watching them grow, waiting for the day they would be big enough to eat. Soon, I told myself, a few days back, they look dinner size. Maybe sooner…
Then, yesterday, Rusnati shared news that blew my lovely fish spa dream to smithereens. The pond is suddenly swarming with weensy, slimy, vile, skittish, bewhiskered baby monster lele. And so it goes with eggs and plans.
Pond, bahhhh. Rohemon can have it!
Round and Round and Round...
I’m captive on Joni Mitchel's carousel of time. “We can’t return/we can only look behind from where we came/ and go round and round and round in the circle game…" she wrote.
I used to sing that song loudly, with extra emphasis on the repeated round and round and round. Now I seem to just be going round, going through the motions, but without the song. I miss that music, but I dread it, too. For me, music makes everything faster. And I am captive on this carousel. I feel it ticking as it turns and would so like to get off. There is much I want to do, to see, to experience, to accomplish. I don't want it to proceed in three-quarter time. It's fast enough now--too fast. Maybe, once upon a time I believed the ticking clock hands where merely marking time. Now I feel those hands closing, squeezing together, pushing time out like toothpaste from a tube. Day to day, round and round, every beginning the same: get up and go through the brush, wash, rinse, tone, make-up, dress routine followed by the same water with lime, coffee, cereal while I check e-mail routine. So, what? ...should we stop the carousel? Remove the batteries? Unplug it? And if we succeed, what then?
"...and the seasons they go round and round/the painted ponies go up and down..."
Neighhhhhhhh.
Thoreau on Reading
"To read well, that is, to read true books in a true spirit, is a noble exercise, and one that will task the reader more than any other exercise which the customs of the day esteem. It requires a training such as the athletes underwent, the steady intention almost of the whole life to this object."--Henry David Thoreau* (1817-1862)
Thoreau and others like him are why we push forward with our writing, dig for the better idea, the best conclusion, the most surprising and satisfying endings. They, too, are why we suffer through revisions--including hurtful critiques and difficult rewrites. We must strive to create our best work so readers will have something worthy of their steady intention.
Those of us writing for children must try even harder. Writers of adult literature create for an audience already committed to the "noble exercise." Childrens' authors, however, must convince young people that learning to read well enough "to read true books in a true spirit" is worth the rigorous training.
*Henry David Thoreau's given name was David Henry Thoreau. Figures that he was a writer; his father was a pencil maker.
Download 'Em Y'all: Teacher's Guide and Activities for Dance, Y'all, Dance!
Dance, Y'all, Dance Teacher's Guides and Activity sheets are now available for your enjoyment on my website. You'll find them by clicking on the Activities Tab. Including!
Dance, Y'all, Dance Texas Teacher's Guide, created by author, teacher, creative goddess, fellow VC grad and hostess of the Simple Saturday Craft Days (which are grand fun for everyone!), Debbie Gonzales!
Dance, Y'all Dance puzzles, mazes, word searches of varying difficulties so children of all ages can enjoy them, created by author, poet and puzzle diva Doris Fisher
Dance, Y'all, Dance Teacher's Guide--Even More To Explore, created by Author and Literary Specialist Tracie Vaughn Zimmer. Tracie has a grand website with interviews for writers, book reviews for readers and Teaching Guides to hundreds of books, from picture books (Including Not Norman, Spider Spins a Story, and Sherlick Hound and the Valentine Mystery) to young adult which are created especially with teachers and book clubs/groups.
I Just finished....listen to me!
I just finished being interviewed by Naomi Giroux for her podcast "Coffee with An Author" which will air at 10:00 am central time February 15th, 2010. It was an hour-long interview during which I discuss writing, my books and read Dance, Y'all, Dance. Those of you who know me may not be surprised to know how easy it was for me to blabber on for an hour....there are lots of "ummmmms" in there, and mid-way through we lost the connection between Bryan, Texas and Jakarta, Indonesia--go figure! So there are a few fun moments of "are you there????? Kelly??? Hello, Kelly???" All in all, Naomi made it easier than I ever expected. The best part is that mid-way through I read Dance, Y'all, Dance--so if you like to hear an author read her/his stories, forward to the middle, open the book to scene one and read along as I read aloud! "Coffee with an Author" is an interactive, live Internet talk-radio show that focuses on authors and writers of all genres and mediums, and a feature on Ijustfinished.com. Host Naomi Giroux explores the careers, advice, writing style and personality of each guest. Callers are encouraged to call (646) 716-9724 to listen or ask questions. The stream and archives are available at http://blogtalkradio.com/i- just-finished . "Coffee with an Author" is live every Monday at 10am (CST). The show is hosted on BlogTalkRadio, by Ijustfinished.com, and available on iTunes as well.
The Best Laid Plans
Indonesia has many things—some which can be found no where else in the world. Other things, which may be available every where else in the world, can not be found in Indonesia… As it happens this is the case with the one mandatory medication on my list. And, because my doctor is in Singapore, this also means that I have to go to Singapore to get my medications. This isn’t such a problem—especially as I fly back and forth to the US fairly often. There are several pharmacies in the Singapore airport and they are happy to refill prescriptions—without a prescription—as long as you show your passport and a ticket on a flight departing in less than 24 hours. It’s common practice among expats in Indonesia to ask friends to bring back med—not always comfortable being the one doing the asking (especially when the meds you’re asked to “pick up” are for man/woman issues)…but that’s another story. Unfortunately, this time around, I didn’t have a friend conveniently stopping in Singapore and my medication isn’t readily available. And so I fretted about having enough to last until my next scheduled trip to Singapore in March.
One night, the solution to my medication lack woke me. Duh…..I had booked a late flight to Singapore so I would spend as little time in transit as possible before catching the 2 am flight on to Houston. Why not just schedule an earlier flight? Singapore is an easy country to enter and exit, my bags would be checked all the way through, so all I’d have to do is rebook onto an earlier flight, catch a cab to the doctor, pick up my prescription, have it filled right there at the hospital, cab it back to the airport and wait around in the lounge with my computer, drinks and eats for a few extra hours….problem solved! I called the doctor, organized the prescriptions, called the airline and rebooked my flights, packed my bags and flew off to Singapore.
The problem with tight schedules—even not so tight schedules—is that delays happen, and did happen today. For undisclosed reasons, my flight from Jakarta left late, which got me to Singapore late. As preplanned, I called the Doctor’s office when I got of the plane. However, instead of the usually harried receptionist voice answering, I got a message saying the office was closed. That’s when I looked for a clock and saw that it was past 5—closing time. Remaining calm, I assured myself that my doctor is always at the office late. I have been there much later than 5 pm, 7 pm even and still waited. So, I pressed on—on past baggage claim (because I didn’t have to worry about bags) on to the Immigration (with no lines I whizzed through) on to the Taxi queue (which meant one other man and me) and onto the highway, all the while reassuring myself that the doctor would be in his office and I would get my prescriptions, or if worst came to it, I’d take my almost empty box to the hospital pharmacy and beg them to call the doctor for a refill. But somewhere in the back of my mind, even while reasurring, I was worrying. That’s the only reason I can find for what happened next.
I had the nicest cab ride ever. My driver, Kao, a nice-looking chatty Singaporean in what I thought was his mid-30s but was actually his 40’s, with 2 daughters and a wife, dropped me at Mount Elizabeth hospital. I rushed inside, attacked the elevator button and it uncharacteristically responded by delivering an Up elevator immediately. I speed walked down the deserted hallways to my doctor’s office—which was, thankfully, relievedly open! I rushed in, said “hi.” The receptionist said “hi.” The nurse said, “her prescription is in the box.” The receptionist fished it out. Wee exchanged “See you in March! Happy New Years!” and I started for the door. That’s when then the other nurse, Betty, came out pushing a wheelchair in which a woman about my age, with bed flattened hair and an anguished face sat. The woman didn’t look up, just rode past clutching her plastic bag of medications. The woman’s husband followed behind. And behind him wheeled a computer bag that looked exactly like my computer bag….My Computer Bag!!!
My Computer bag, packed to bursting with make up and medications and jewelry and camera and my computer and my files and my books and my presentation materials had been with me throughout the flight, the airport, immigration, taxi queue. I distinctly remember my delightful cab driver—whose name I wish so desperately I had asked, whose receipt I wish fervently I had taken—deposited in the boot of the taxi…
Heart racing, blood pounding out Morse code “idiot idiot idiot….” I hurried back downstairs hoping my driver was stuck in the taxi line waiting for a fare…after all, it had only been a 15 minutes at the most. He wasn’t.
I rushed to the first blue cab I saw and motioned for him to roll down the window. I explained what had happened and asked if he could call the dispatcher as quickly as possible because the cab driver couldn’t have gotten far. The cabbie did not look at me—refused to turn his head, but did shake it. No he couldn’t/wouldn’t help me.
“But, do you have the dispatch number?” I asked.
“No,” he said, motioning me away.
“Can’t you call them?” I asked.
“No,” he waved me away.
“What do I call?” I pleaded. “I need help.”
“Call 8-0-0” he instructed.
I backed away, pulled out my phone and dialed 8-0-0. I got one of those beepy, your call can not be completed signals…. I tried again. Same thing.
My computer, my jewelry, my books, my presentation were in the cab that left. And it had been blue….the same blue… I raced forward and planted myself in front of the shotgun window. I tapped and motioned for him to roll it down. He did. I explained that 8-0-0 had not done anything and I needed a number to call. He motioned for me to leave him alone. I repeated that I needed a number. He waved me aside, motioning that there were people the queue behind me who wanted a ride…
That was exactly what I needed to know.
I moved in closer to his window. “I am not moving,” I said. “I am going to stand here until you give me a card, a number, something, some place I can call to get my bag back…”
He motioned me away again.
I told him I wasn’t moving again.
He looked past me as a woman got into the cab behind him.
I repeated, “Give me your dispatcher number.”
He said, “It’s on the side of the cab.”
I looked. It was. If only he had said that to begin with.
So I let him go and went inside to the relative quiet and dialed the number. I was anything but calm as I punched buttons—and then repunched the buttons after having selected the wrong options. But finally, the operator came on the line. And I told him that I had left my computer bag on the cab. And he put me on hold and left me listening to music through one ear, with the other ear plugged because I wasn’t hearing very well—especially not over my thumping, pounding heart. And then the operator returned and asked my information, and asked me for a local number, which “I don’t have,” I explained, because I am a tourist in Singapore with only my Jakarta number, and only a few hours before my flight leaves (while I said this, I thanked, for the first time, rather than cursed the 2 am departure time of my Houston flight.)…Then the operator asked—in the slowest possible speak ever---what my bag looked like and what was in it?
And I considered understating the contents. But then thought, shoot, this is my bag filled with lots of really valuable stuff, which I could live without, and I could replace (as I had, thank you, Curtis, backed up my files before I left) but replacing anything/everything or going without to the States would be a hassle, to put it mildly, so why minimize this sitation? I spelled out exactly how important this bag was to me. And then asked why was he wasting time asking all this information—just put out the dang call to the Taxi cabs…now….pronto…. ahora-tita… before I lose it and start crying.
And he asked if there was a number where I could be called back and I repeated that I was a tourist, with no place to go and no number other than the Jakarta number…And he put me on hold.
I prayed as I listened to the hold music. Prayed for help. Prayed for strength. Reasoned with myself reassuringly, reminding myself of all I had, and that I could live without anything, everything in that bag if need be…but please don’t make me…..
And then another dispatcher clicked in. And I told her about my drive: that I caught the cab at Terminal 2 at about 5:05 exactly (because Singaporeans are exact) and all I could rememember about the driver: that he has with a wife and 2 daughters, is tall and thin with very close cropped hair, looks to be in his mid-30s and used to live in Ocean Beach, San Diego and work in the food and beverage industry, but returned to Singapore because his mother wanted him home and had been driving a cab for 6 years—and had dropped me off at Mount Elizabeth hospital about 5:20 and had not given me a receipt (although he had asked, and I, for the first time in my life, had refused—stupid, stupid) and I did not know the cab number… it was blue….
I think...
And she put me on hold.
And the hold music changed to an admonition “please wait for the operator…but if you would prefer immediate service visit our website. You can book a taxi on line…” And I waited, and fretted, and paced, and wished I could straighten this out on line, and watched out the window in hopes that the cab driver had noticed my bag and returned to return it…and waited…and prayed….
Then the music stopped and the operator voice told me they had, in fact, located my cab driver...Kao, and gave me his number.
Kao laughed when he answered and said we had “both forgotten my bag and he would return in 10-15 minutes.”
And I waited and watched. And he did. And I took my bag and thanked him. And gave him some money to compensate him for the trip back and his honesty. And then we said goodbye and I went inside to finish my business with the doctor, which had in fact been finished while I was waiting for him to come back with my bag.
So all I did was go inside to use the restroom in hopes that he ( the cab driver, Kao) would leave while I was gone, because I was suddenly very embarrassed.
But he was still there—first in the queue. So I climbed back in his cab. And we laughed and chatted. And when I left, he reminded me to “keep a watch on my bag” and I replied “I’m buying handcuffs.”
And so it goes with the best laid plans: they can sometimes are waylaid…
An Accidental Diarist
"If you want to write for yourself, get a diary. If you want to write for a few friends, get a blog….”James Patterson told Jonathon Mahler, author of the Jan. 20, 2010 New York Times Magazine article, “James Patterson Inc.” Patterson, the corporation, the Guinness Book of World Record-holding author of more New York Times Bestsellers than anyone, whose books, since 2006, sell at the rate of one in every 17 novels sold is a writer’s E.F. Hutton: when Patterson speaks, we listen.
And so I am considering his words. I don’t keep a diary, because I am not just writing for myself. I actively seek publication. I want my stories to be read by the multitudes, hoards, even. I do keep various on-and-off journals, what some might call “diaries.” My travel journal keeps me company on holidays. In it I record where I’ve been what I have done and seen and eaten, where I laid my head and if it’s worth going there again. My creative journal is on when the GGs, my creativity group, is meeting. We are currently, not meeting, so that journal is currently off. And I keep writing journals, one for each long project and an idea journal for snippets and starts—that one is always on and often switched off.
Jan 1st, 2009, I began this blog for exactly the reason Patterson said people should blog, because I wanted to write for a few friends. I didn’t set out to writing a blog. It began in 2005, as e-mail vignettes about my Jakarta life. I had only just moved from Houston to Jakarta. So many odd, exciting, new experiences were happening and I wanted to share them, so I did. My friends and family obviously enjoyed reading Jakarta News because they shared my notes with friends who shared them with other friends and before long, my list had grown to spam size—which is exactly what was happened! E-mails from me where re-directed to spam boxes. My Jakarta News was Spam??? Horrors!
That’s when someone suggested I start a blog. I know the person (who shall remain nameless) suggested a blog because then a wider audience could easily access my Jakarta News. It was supposed to take Jakarta News out of the Spam box and solve my delivery problems. Instead it practically Stopped. Me. Cold.
I became acutely, consciously and social-consciously aware that my notes were no longer intimate or semi-private. Anyone could read them! Gulp... And so, no longer comfortable writing about my Jakarta life, I began writing what I felt comfortable and free writing about—my writing life.
Turns out, my writing life isn’t nearly as interesting as Jakarta News. While before it seemed that everyone was reading, or wanted to read my stories, it now seems that no one is or wants to read what I post. But still I go on, and on, week after week, posting a blog entry. The irony of it is that while I never intended to—or wanted to—keep a diary. It seems I am. I have become an Accidental Diarist.
The last part of the Patterson quote I opened with continues: “…But if you want to write for a lot of people, think about them a little bit. What do they like? What are their needs? A lot of people in this country go through their days numb. They need to be entertained. They need to feel something."
For me, figuring out what I like, what I need, what I feel, what entertains me, happens as I write. And the confines of a blog give this rumination process boundaries. My hope is that anyone reading my diary might recognize similarities between their journey and mine, my discoveries and theirs. And so, with Patterson’s definitions in mind, the diary—or blog—goes on. Read it or not. Comment if you will. Regardless, I’ll be writing…