Tra-La, It's Here, That Lusty Time of Year!
"It's May, It's May....the lusty month of May/The time of month when everyone goes blissfully astray....It's time to do a wreched thing or two/And try to make each precious day one you'll always rue..."--from CAMELOT, Music by Frederick Lowe, Lyics by Alan Jay Lerner.
This is a gloroous weekend! Isn't it grand when spring blooms!!! NYC is fabulous! I'm visiting my daughter, Lexi. We spent the day day walking around, shopping, looking at people in all manner of costume, eating...such fun! We even stumbled upon a bunch of merry makers hoisting a ribbon and flower festooned May Pole. Loved it!. You can smell life in the air! Love blooming! Everyone and everything growing, streching up to the sun...love that! We are having an al fresco dinner in her tiny Soho apartment with the windows open and the music playing. The neighbors downstairs have pointed their computer/tv to the wall and are projecting car races on the side of the building. I am heading outside to sit on the fire escape, drink a glass of wine and enjoy! It's May, It's May...a Lively Lush Display!
Come on... Fluff Up! Spruce Up! Perk Up! It's spring....time of rebirth, regrouping, revitalizing... The time of "Yes You May!" Make it your YES YOU MAY!!!
I am saying Yes!....yes, Yes, YES!!!
Dad and Pop is Here! For Father's Day and Everyday!
Welcome Dad and Pop: An Ode to Father's And Stepfathers, fresh, shiny and new from Candlewick Press (April 28, 2010). The brilliant artist, Paul Meisel, has framed the story as a delightful whimsical scrapbook! Dad and Pop is a celebration of loving fathers and father figures--however they happen to come into a child's life. When creating the story, I particularly wanted to honor the men who helped my babies, Max and Lexi, grow into their own: Curtis, Steven and best bud, John; and my brother, Joe, who is an amazing dad to Devin and Grace!
So Much for Being a Rock Star...
I’m currently on a month-long “tour” of the states which began on April 7-8th with the Corpus Christi Book Festival. What an amazing event! The festival, which celebrated its 10 anniversary this year, is the combined efforts of public librarians, 2 colleges, and community sponsors, and results in more than 2000 Pre-K students meeting authors and illustrators, sharing stories and activities, celebrating reading and books! One of the delights of being a children’s book author is watching a reader's face alight when he/she recognizes my book. “You wrote the goldfish book?” They say, as though I had created one of the eight wonders of the world. And, at the end of a school visit, if I get hugs, waves and high fives from students, my day is made.
After visits to the CC Book Festival, Texas Library Association in San Antonio, and Field Store Elementary in Waller, having been hugged and high-fived a lot, I was feeling like a total children’s book “Rock Star" as I cranked up the car stereo and zoomed down to Victoria, Texas for a visit to Chandler Elementary. Lady Bird would have delighted in the roadsides festooned with gay wildflowers. The skies were bright, the roads were clear, and the music fine.
I hit the Victoria town limits sometime after 7:00 pm. Puffed up proud of myself for having arrived—without having to double back--but not quite sure where I was headed (since I had forgotten to Google Map the school) I followed signs to downtown. There are several large, wide columned, colonial style homes, what looks like army barracks near the town center, and an amazing castle-like stone, garroted courthouse/jail compound, and a town square, complete with gazebo a glitter with twinkle lights—which affirmed the feeling that I had arrived somewhere special. This was not your typical small Texas town; this was a town with history and mystery. A Thursday night concert was underway in the town square—icing on my happy cake. I pulled my car into a vacant spot and cut the engine.
When I opened the door, the night air engulfed me like a velour robe. Food and drink tents lined one side of the square. White clothed, round tables with twinkling lanterns, resembled a wedding reception, were clustered under one of the tents—a fundraiser dinner for the symphony (who knew Victoria even had a symphony!). Relishing the night, the small town feel, the spring in my step, after hours of tense driving, the folksy/country music blaring from giant speakers, I stepped out into the night.
Locals watched as I walked, wondering who I was, and what I wanted. One waved, another snapped my photo. I feigned pseudo-mystery woman.
The band, comprised of a one-time rocker, folksy style female singer, pixyish keyboard player with a dark bob held back a sunglass headband, computer programmer-like drummer and geek bass guitarist, was...enthusiastic. While the band performed original compositions, each prefaced by a chatty introduction, I circled the square several times, watching couples and families enjoying the evening, then ducked under bands of yellow “caution” tape guarding the entrance to the Subway. An eager-to-close teenager smiled when I asked the way to Chandler Elementary. She consultedwith her co-worker, then gave clear instructions accompanied by descriptive hand-motions. “Go that way, turn that way---you’ll go through lots of light…and through the tunnel…when you get to the HEB Supercenter, you have to turn… if you hit the highway, you missed it.”
Hers were my kind of directions. Not only did I not “miss it,” I knew I had arrived when I spotted the Chandler Elementary Marquee glowing: “Welcome, Children’s Book Author, Kelly Bennett.” I slowed and rolled past,enjoying the sight. They were ready for me! Tomorrow was going to be a great day!
Feeling so like a rock star rolling into town the night before a big gig, I cruised into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn Express. After checking in, I wheeled the luggage cart out to my car—parked in the reservations only area, because the hotel clerk said I could—and began unloading my car. I hosted my 2 giant duffles, computer bag, bag of books, bag of snacks and sweater onto the cart then turned to check what I had missed. Behind me, I heard a car drive up. Then, a cart rolling down the road…”just another guest unloading, I figured, big deal.
The cart noise speeded up. “Fun! They’re running,” I thought.
However, rather than rolling toward the door, the cart seemed to be rolling away. “What????” I turned to see why.
It wasn’t another guest’s cart….It was mine! My cart was rolling down the drive…down the street…down toward the intersection—my cart, with my duffles, my sweater, my purse, my computer bag flapping in the breeze as it zoomed!
Clutching the grocery sack of take-away veggies, water, eye drops, my trash bag, phone, trash—an armload of who knows?—I full out, raced toward the cart. I had one chance to catch it.
As I ran, I had the feeling that this could not, no way, end well…either I was going to miss the cart, or I was going to lose my armload. But what else could I do? That cart was making off with my stuff….the sight of my cart colliding with an oncoming car flashed through my mind as I ran….
I reached out my arm, closed my eyes, and made a lucky grab for it….
It happens every time: No sooner does that fantastically great, fabulous head-swelling “Wow! You wrote the goldfish book!” Rock-star feeling hit than something—like a runaway luggage cart—deflates me.
…Gone…gone…gone…whoo-ohh-ohhh-oh...
Got 3 Minutes?
Really, what can you do in 3 minutes? Brush you teeth? Check Face Book? Put in a load of laundry? Or… The 4th Round of ALL THINGS CONSIDERED NPR’s 3 Minute Fiction Contest is closed. The challenge this round was for writers to send original works of fiction that could be read in three minutes or less and to incorporate 4 words into their stories: button, plant, trick, and fly—used in any form.
With the help of 1st readers from the Iowa Writer’s Project, Ann Pachett, author of the novels "Bel Canto" and "Run,” is judging the more than 3800 entries. While the reading/judging is underway, Ann tantalizes listeners with “interesting snippets” from entries each week on ALL THINGS CONSIDERED. During, Sunday’s chat with host Guy Raz, Patchett noted that she is “pleasantly surprised” by the entries, “stories have a good shape, something happens in them…” Imagine all that in around 600 words!
Notable Round 4 entries are posted on the website: www.npr.org/threeminutefiction, along with finalist and winners from the 3 previous rounds of the 3 Minute Fiction Contest.
3rd Round: Writers submitted original works of fiction inspired by this photograph.
2nd Round: Submissions were original works of fiction that begin with this sentence: "The nurse left work at five o'clock."
1st Round: Submission rules were simplest: original works of fiction that could be read in three minutes or less.
Have 3 unscheduled minutes? Read some short fiction. You’ll be surprised, impressed and inspired!
Sometimes it is Just About the Fish
And sometimes it’s not? I have tried to ignore the pond, put it out of my mind entirely, just give up and leave it to Rohemon. I had nearly succeeded too. Many people who have outdoor water features don’t feed their fish. The idea is for the fish to eat what fish in the wild do. In fact, many people in Jakarta keep water plants in pots with fish, or ponds especially as mosquito deterrents. As is their way, the mosquitoes lay their eggs on the water, and as is their nature, the fish eat the insect eggs. This easy care mosquito reduction system which works great as long as you don’t care whether your fish are happy or starving.
We like fat, happy fish, so we feed them. Every day. We go through about a bag of fish pellets a month. Monday-Saturday Rohemon feeds the fish. And I feed them on Sundays—or did when I liked the pond fish. But ever since Rohemon stocked it with those pretty fish murdering monster lele, I have been trying to ignore the pond all together. Sunday before last, I lapsed. I was out back pruning as I do many Sundays, and took pity on the pond fish—even though I detest the rotten, slimy ugly monsters. I sprinkled food pellets over the water and watched.
A few lazy algae eaters drifted up to investigate--even took a few listless bites. But that was it. Where was the sudden flash of orange splotched monster fish? Where were the Ikan Lele? Thinking the lele might be too scared to surface; I took a giant step back and watched from a distance. Nothing.
The lele were gone—all of them, even the babies. I must admit, I was little disappointed and a lot put out. Rusnati tells me everything—or I thought she did—she had certainly made a point of telling tell me about the babies. And the high price of fish food. And how the thatch from my sun shelter clogs the filter. And when I discussed my idea about turning the pond into a fish spa by stocking it with those tiny fishlets that nibble the dead skin off ones’ feet at the price of 200,000 for 20 minutes, a dollar a minute, at specialized fish spas, she spent about 5 dollars worth of spa time sharing how when she was young and her mother would go to the garden, Rusnati used to sit with her feet in the pond and a fish net handy, enjoying a book or snack while the fish nibbled her feet. And if a large enough fish happened to come close, she’d swoop in with the net and catch it to cook and eat with rice. Why hadn’t she told me the lele were gone?
Had Rohemon finally fattened them up enough to eat? Or had Warjo, the pool man, poisoned them like he had other fish in the past? Or had they been sold off to the highest bidder?--would I ever know? Did I really care?--was it worth launching an investigation?
“Well, I’ll fix this,” I decided, determined to show everyone who was boss. Before leaving town last weekend, I gave Aan 100,000 Rp, about ten dollars, and instructed him to buy me 10 lovely, big, fluffy new golden pond fish.
First thing Sunday evening, I rushed outside to the pond, expecting to see graceful golden fish fluttering about beneath the surface.
Nothing.
I know, I know: There is more to life than a fish pond. And there is way more to think about, to worry about, to spend my days agonizing over than the state of my backyard pond. But….but…
Your Daddy Was Just Like You has arrived!
It's here! It's here! Imagine me blowing one of those long, thin horns from Camelot with banners flying and fireworks bursting because that's how I feel! Happy Birthday to Your Daddy Was Just Like You!
On March 1st, I held my newest baby, a hard copy of Your Daddy Was Just Like You, in my hands for the first time. They shook as I turned the pages. This mother/grandmother love story has been a long time coming--over 7 years. Thanks to Susan Kochan, my editor, who saw its potential, it's born!
The idea for the book came from watching my son Max trying so hard to be a big guy and do all the stuff big guys could do, with his chubby cheeks red from exertion or frustration. It's my way of saying, "don't worry, you'll make it....your daddy wasn't always so strong, or smart or brave. He had to learn and you will, too!"
While the idea and words for a picture book may come from the author, it's the pictures that bring it to life. David Walker is a master at showing emotion..joyful bubbles float up from the bathroom scene; pouty daddy bashes about during his wild days, sad daddy pouts in the corner during Time Out--looking so perfectly adorable you want to laugh and cry at the same time! David generously shared sketches and discussed the illustration process during an interview last year. Check it out!
For me, the great joy in being an author comes from seeing kids and their people enjoy my books. My girlfriend Teri gave me sweet taste of that joy when she brought her nieces, Sofia and Isabella, to a recent book signing in Tulsa. I only had the review copy of Your Daddy then, but they wanted to read it and so we did. At the end of every "Just Like You," Isabella pointed to herself and said, "Just like me!" with a huge smile, "I do that...and that...or that!. The best birthday gift a book could receive:
Happy Birthday! Your Daddy Was Just Like You ...and you and you and you!
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!