Dana K
Hello there and thank you for taking the time to do this for us!I am wondering…before you had submitted your first manuscript and once you had an idea, what kept you from planting those seeds of doubt in your head that often stop me in my tracks?DanaCynthia Lord
Doubt is my middle name, Dana! But I’ve come to see that *revision* is actually where books become wonderful. My first drafts are just a framework, an exploration of a story and characters. It takes some faith to write even if you don’t feel confident, but knowing it doesn’t have to be right the first time through is also freeing.And you can play little games with yourself, if they help. I *named* that judgmental inner editor voice in my head. When I was growing up, I wasn’t very good at penmanship and we had a stern teacher for that named “Mrs. Cathcart.” She would swoop around behind us and she had a rubber stamp with four sides: “Handwriting 1,” (the best) to “Handwriting 4″ (the worst). She’d come up behind us and BAM! her hand would suddenly appear and stamp “Handwriting 3″ on my paper. It was demoralizing, because I had to finish the page even though it was already judged as not good enough. And that’s how it can feel sometimes when I’m writing a first draft. That inner editor slaps “Writer 3″ on my page.But I named my inner editor Mrs. Cathcart and when I’m doing a first draft, I send her away on vacation. I imagine her on a cruise sipping umbrella drinks, hanging out in the deck chairs, asking the waiter to rub some sunscreen on her, etc. It has to be some place *good* so she doesn’t want to come back! Then if I feel her creeping in, I tell her it’s not her time yet, and I send her somewhere else fun. I’ll call her home when I’m ready for her. It’s goofy but that actually helps to take some of the seriousness out of the whole thing and allows me to do that first draft.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
7/9 Q and A with author Cynthia Lord...
Monday, July 7, 2014
7/7 Mini-Lesson Monday, Week 1 of Teacher's Write...
summer library trip
fluorescent lights
padded feet down the ramp
the squeak of the standard issue library step stool
small fingers pushing the keys of the keyboard, one-finger-at-a-time
faded Berber carpet playing summer's anthem of flip flops smacking against the soles of bare feet
ticking clock, harried mothers, hands on hips...Mom? Mom! Mom.
summer reading tickets clenched in fists, eager children gazing that wall of "junk drawer" prizes
VHS boxes mixed amongst DVDs and books on CD, old and new coming together like the grandmom tenderly sharing a book with her grandbaby
plastic bucket seats and worn out cushions
make shift book bags hung over shoulders, ready to be filled until they are too heavy to carry
musty and stale, the air smells of books and my childhood
My 8 year old girl sits, face in a book, alongside the play table of Thomas trains and tracks as pudgy hands dig for the perfect one to zoom around, she pushes all the clanking of wheels, the squeals, the grandmom reading to her grandbaby, the clock ticking and she reads and she reads and she reads
summer library trip
fluorescent lights
padded feet down the ramp
the squeak of the standard issue library step stool
small fingers pushing the keys of the keyboard, one-finger-at-a-time
faded Berber carpet playing summer's anthem of flip flops smacking against the soles of bare feet
ticking clock, harried mothers, hands on hips...Mom? Mom! Mom.
summer reading tickets clenched in fists, eager children gazing that wall of "junk drawer" prizes
VHS boxes mixed amongst DVDs and books on CD, old and new coming together like the grandmom tenderly sharing a book with her grandbaby
plastic bucket seats and worn out cushions
make shift book bags hung over shoulders, ready to be filled until they are too heavy to carry
musty and stale, the air smells of books and my childhood
My 8 year old girl sits, face in a book, alongside the play table of Thomas trains and tracks as pudgy hands dig for the perfect one to zoom around, she pushes all the clanking of wheels, the squeals, the grandmom reading to her grandbaby, the clock ticking and she reads and she reads and she reads
Freshly Sharpened Pencils (a picture book work in progress!)
These are actual photos of my Nana Pauline and I playing cards at her dining room table,
an inspiration for this book!
Ooh Child (a poem)
One song,
chosen for this very moment
blaring loud…
Ooh, ooh child
things
are gonna
get
easier
alone, just me
and the road
adrenaline,
speed,
mixed
fear and peacefulness
take over all
reasoning –
expectation and
momentum build
lift off - at
the crest of the hill
a split second
of air
between the
tires and
the ground
Ooh, ooh child
things will be
brighter
the view -
breathtaking
of gold and
fire -red
of apple-green
and
dusty brown
leaves of fall
then I am falling,
landing,
realizing
but mostly
hoping
that everything
is going to be
okay
I am safe
grounded
untouched
unscathed
I can go on,
right?
I can, really.
I can, are you
sure,
go on?
I
think I can.
Some day, yeah
we’ll get it together and we’ll get it
all done
Some day
when your head is much lighter
Some day, yeah
we’ll walk in the rays of a beautiful
sun
Some day
when the world is much brighter
My Hopeful Picture Book Idea: Noticing
The waning sun
hangs patiently in twilight’s last hour, casting a golden orange slow-glow on
her bedroom wall.
To
most eyes and ears, it has been an ordinary day – full of nothings and no
matters. To her, it was a celebratory
day. Perfect. Memorable.
A string of small moments seared into her mind.
Would
others have noticed what she had? No. It is unlikely. But she, as a young soul and self-proclaimed
writer, noticed more than most. You see,
that’s what writers and young people are supposed to do – they notice the small
details in life that others do not. What
others might take for granted. The small
details that most completely miss
because their feet move too quickly and their eyes and ears are simply, yet
mournfully, closed.
She
lays in that golden orange slow-glow of twilight and remembers…
Hearing
her Mama’s laughter in the morning – from the porch…loud,
and with the
occasional….snort. Laughter that makes
you want to laugh out loud too, even if you missed what was just…so…funny.
Scooping
up that ugly rock by the creek’s edge – now resting lovingly amongst her most
highly-regarded treasures on her bureau.
A rock, her expert stone-seeking brother would have skipped right
past. But no, it deserved
attention. It had personality, like
she. It told a story.
There
was the vanilla scent caught, of a neighbor-lady strolling by, that flashed
memories of her Nana, long gone, but always taking up a whole huge and gigantic
part of the young girl’s heart.
A
smile-to-yourself-moment, a surprising discovery actually, of a never-ever
before seen guest to the birdhouse. A
smallish, brownish grayish mouse – its feet grasping a slender branch, a twig
really. Its tiny paws perched oh, so, daintily on the ledge, enjoying the seeds
and sunshine, thankful to its feathered friends for a few moments of space and
peace.
And
lastly, yummily, there was the still lingering taste, the unforgettable taste,
of “breakfast for dinner” – peanut butter banana chocolate chip pancakes –
Daddy’s specialty, cooked just for her and only for her.
As
twilight’s golden orange slow-glow has all but faded, the girl sends a wondering,
a message really, into the darkening sky for all the children of the world to
breathe in…for all those who are listening, really listening….
What
will you notice this day and the
next?
Sweet
dreams, wonderful world.
Writer's Notebook: A Mother's Pride (working title)
I hardly remember the title of the song or the
memorized line of the solo I sang in the junior high chorus concert. I can’t recall how I sang it or the applause
at the end. What I do remember was my
mom (carnations in hand) waiting for me afterwards – hugging me tight and her
words, whispering into my hair, “I am so proud of you.” The moment, ending
abruptly as my best girl friends ran up screeching, their moms in tow. As we giggled about nothing, the moms surprised
us with the words, “Let’s go to Friendly’s for ice cream.” A school night? It was late and a dark-black sky, that
matched our choir skirts, surrounded the bright moon. We arrived and noticed the clock hands
inching towards nine. When we were
escorted to our seats, the moms motioned us to sit at one table, alone. This was too much for us giggling and
screeching and squealing girls. We were
in a state of exhilaration, still on high from the concert and in complete
amazement that we were eating ice cream past bedtime. My peanut butter cup sundae arrived and my
mom stole glances at me, smile plastered on her face. I wanted her to be sitting beside me, but the
lure of girl independence held strong to my bones. That night, peanut butter and fudge smell on
my skin, mom said goodnight, telling me once again, how very proud she was of
me. We hugged, holding each other longer
than usual – she wanting to hold onto her baby – me, wanting to never let go of
my mother’s pride.
Teacher's Write
I joined Twitter about a year ago, and (a theme is evolving here) I dropped the ball. Recently, in a rainy day bout of boredom, I visited My Twitter page and was enamored by a retweet referencing #teacherswrite. It had all the elements of just what I have been searching for of late: inspiration, a place to be a writer, and some positive love from supportive teachers. Ahhhh. Sounds good, right?
The first post by Jen Vincent of Teach Mentor Texts, asked us to share why we are writing and our goals. She even replied to my post which feels awesome! Link to Jen's first post
The first post by Jen Vincent of Teach Mentor Texts, asked us to share why we are writing and our goals. She even replied to my post which feels awesome! Link to Jen's first post
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