SCBWI Winter Conference 2014: The Lessons I’ve Learned

A night out with fellow SCBWI Winter Conference attendees... Photo courtesy of Uzi Barlev
A night out with fellow SCBWI Winter Conference attendees…
Photo courtesy of Uzi Barlev

I just returned from the 2014 Annual SCBWI Winter Conference in New York City. To get a better idea of the over all feel of the conference, I recommend the following:

The Official SCBWI Winter Conference Blog

Kate Messner’s Blog Post, SCWI Winter Conference: A Weekend with the Tribe

I thought I would share the lessons I learned at this year’s conference:

I attended the Friday Plot Intensive. I have done a few intensives with SCBWI, but this was by far the best. The intensive was moderated by the fabulous and energetic Emma Dryden, founder and owner of drydenbks. Author/ editor Jill Santopolo gave an enlightening talk on mapping both emotional plot and action plot with Freytag’s Plot Pyramid.

Lesson #1: Try a new way to organize my story. Jill had us write down our 10 point plot structure, and I’ve already put an enlarged version of Freytag’s Pyramid on the cork board in my office. I plan to try it out on my current work in progress. I’ve never been one to map or outline, but I made quiet a few connection with my subplots as I worked through Freytag’s 10 plot points! If you are interested in learning more about Freytag’s Plot Pyramid,  I thought Intuit QuickBase was a good resource.

Author Elizabeth Wein gave a talk on weaving plot and structure.

Lesson #2: If I am not engaged in my mind with the character I have created, my readers won’t be either. A great writing exercise from Elizabeth Wein: rewrite your first paragraph from the perspective of a newspaper reporter, a social worker, and then another character in the story. I was amazed at what I learned abut my main character, the setting, and the shape and feel of what my work in progress is becoming! I love having this tangible work next to my computer as I get back to writing. In fact, I would say that the best part of this year’s intensive was the writing exercises.

In her talk Chasing After, the incomparable and always inspiring Jane Yolen spoke of using characters to find your plot (my favorite method).

Lesson # 3: “Sit down and listen to the story. Don’t dictate it. Listen to the story and its needs.” -Jane Yolen. I was inspired by her challenge to “fly into the mist” and let character go out on adventure while I chase them down. What a joy! This is how I love to write, but the above lessons in charting out my territory are going to come in handy while I edit! My writing always feels like an untamed forest. I like the idea of creating a new wilderness, then returning with mapping techniques to chart out the territory a la Louis and Clark.

Kate Messner talked about “inventing the tools we need” to tell a story. She is one of the most giving artists I’ve ever come across. If you have the opportunity, I highly recommend you attend one of her classes.

Lesson #4: Kate gave a valuable writing exercise. She asked us to write down an answer to the following questions: What is my book about on the surface? What is it REALLY about? That undercurrent can be explored through subplots. I love subplots (sometimes too much) and I think this will be another valuable tool to organize my writing during the editing process.

The intensive also included a small group faculty-led critique of a story synopsis. Kate Messner was the facilitator at my table. It was the best round table critique I’ve ever experienced. The other writers were supportive, and I learned a great deal from each of them. I thought it might be helpful to share the synopsis I brought with me, and then the lessons I learned from the feed back of Kate and the other writers:

Sixteen year old Elin Anderson lives a pampered life with her pretty, artistic mother and her prominent doctor father as the Victorian world crumbles into World War I. When Spanish Flu strikes, death takes her mother. Elin survives, but she is changed. She now sees the world in the blurred colors of the impressionist paintings her mother always loved. As she learns to navigate life again, an accident brings an unexpected friendship with wealthy, disreputable Nolan Young. Elin’s father enlists in the war and sends her to live with her grandmother and her strange stories of the Northern Lights in the North Woods, but Elin desperately wants to return to Nolan and her indulgent city life. She makes a promise to Nolan she believes will always be easy to keep…until she meets Tobias, a strange boy who lives in the woods. Tobias teaches Elin to live on her own and to cherish the gift in her new vision. When Nolan comes to bring her home, she isn’t quite so sure what home means anymore. Elin discovers the truth in her grandmother’s strange tales. Not everyone who lights the path of her story will be there until the end.

Lesson 5: Where does this story take place? Originally, I planned to set this story in an alternate world but while doing a brief scan of the internet before I got to the conference, I became intrigued World War I. Now that I’ve got a time period, I need a place! (Smacks forehead and goes beet red). The quick addition of these historical fact into my synopsis lead me to my next lesson…

Lesson 6: Do your research. World War I followed the Edwardian, not the Victorian Era (ugh, and I knew that!) Did the Spanish Flu epidemic fall into the dates of World War I? Barely, but yes it did, which leads me into the next lesson learned…

Lesson 7: Research holds magic. Kate Messner said this. When the intensive was over, I started researching World War I, the Spanish Flu and the influences of Modern Art in early 20th Century America more thoroughly, and I was met with magic almost right away. Not only is my story more accurate, but I’ve discovered a new plot twist with Elin’s father shaped by the timeline of history!

Now I have a story set in Minnesota during the short period of American involvement in The Great War and the Spanish Flu epidemic. This puts the parameters between April to November 1918.

Lesson 8: Aside from the great faculty, the best reason to attend an SCBWI conference is meeting your fellow writers. It’s cliche to say it, but writing is a solitary effort. Our stories come from our hearts and telling them is like sharing a secret. I find it hard to open up about the stories I write, but at SCBWI it is impossible to feel alone. I met another writer at lunch and told her about the feedback of my critique. It turns out she is also writing a novel set in World War I and is also a fan of art. She told me about a show at the New York Historical Society Museum.

New York Historical Society

The Armory Show at 100

The Armory Show took place in 1913. It was an epic exploration of Modern Art and while it was controversial, it did a great deal to raise an understanding of historical and contemporary Modern Art for an American audience.

As I walked through the exhibit, I became my main character Elin. I saw myself as a younger girl, five years before the story takes place. My parents took me by train to see the Armory Show because it was important to my mother. They argued about the inclusion of European artists. Did they overshadow the American contributions to the movement? My mother still loved Van Gough, although he’d been dead for more than twenty years. My father preferred the more realistic works. Father liked the American artists. He thought art should convey an idea through a subject. Mother liked the Europeans and believed art for its own sake could touch a deep cord in the human heart. In living through Elin’s eyes and Elin’s world…in experiencing what felt like an intimate moment with her family… I suddenly knew my characters better.

And Elin was disappointed in me. She doesn’t want to be seen as a girl who “desperately wants to return to Nolan and her indulgent city life.” Elin has so much more she desires and dreams about.

I opened the book from the Armory at 100, and discovered this chapter...
I opened the book from the Armory at 100, and discovered this chapter…

She is living in the dawn of women’s suffrage. In the outside action of Elin’s world, the definition of what it means to be a girl growing into womanhood is changing fast. Elin will have opportunities her mother didn’t have…and all the while in her emotional plot, she is struggling with the hidden guilt of believing her mother took her place with death. Women went to jail so that she could vote. Her mother died so that she could live. What is Elin going to do with the gift of these sacrifices? Now there’s the question I will have to answer!

On Saturday morning, I heard Lin Oliver, Stephen Mooser, and Jack Gantos. I attended two break out sessions: Seven essentials you need to know about Historical/ Period fiction with Kendra Levin, Senior Editor at Viking Children’s Books. In the afternoon, I attended another break out session: Seven essentials you need to know about Fantasy with Karen Wojtyla, Vice President and Editorial Director, Margaret K. McElderry Books. Eizabeth Wein gave a keynote address on authorial responsibility. The day ended with a keynote panel on banning books (one of my favorite subjects). The panel included Joan Bertin, Executive Director, National Coalition Against Censorship; Ellen Hopkins, Author; and Susanna Reich, Chair, Children’s and Young Adult Books Committee, Pen American Center. On Sunday, Kate Messner gave an incredible talk on The Spectacular Power of Failure. There was a keynote panel on picture books with Peter Brown, Raul Colon, Marla Frazee, Oliver Jeffers and Shandra Strickland that was moderated by the legendary Arthur Levine! Sharon Draper gave the final keynote, Creating the Dream through Fiction for Young Readers.

I am going to sum up what I learned from them into one final lesson (although they were all so much more too)….

Lesson # 9: Be brave and write! I used to spend a great deal of time in front of my computer asking myself who I thought I was to believe I could write a book. Now I wonder who I think I am to hear the call to write and not answer.

I hope the lessons I’ve learned at the 2014 SCBWI Winter Conference will give some sense of what it was like to be there. I’ve included links to everyone I mentioned and enjoyed reading more about each of them now that I am home.

Be brave and write!

She’s a River

 Close up of the painting Ophelia Artist: John Everette Millais Source: http://daydreamtourist.com/2013/06/03/ophelia/
Close up of the painting Ophelia
Artist: John Everette Millais
Source: http://daydreamtourist.com/2013/06/03/ophelia/

 

She’s a river
You want to ride her
Along her smooth crystal waters
Through her raging turbulence
All the way

Dive inside her
Hidden below her surface
Drift apart
To the bubbling hope of distance
You drank from her edges
She drew sinuous lines through your world

You think you can forget her
She’ll grow inside you
Alive like holy water
Heady as wine
Warm as whiskey
A traveler to your dark spaces
Your hidden world
Your lonely places

Build your dams
Hold her back
Keep her captive
Tell her you don’t believe

Every night
You swim in her curves
Almost young again
Until you wake
Afraid she’ll drown you
Pull you under with her stones
It’s in her nature
She’s a river

Let Her Fall

Falling Star Witold Pruszkowski (1846-1896) National Museum of Warsaw
Falling Star
Witold Pruszkowski (1846-1896)
National Museum of Warsaw

She will live to fall again
In a leap across the cracks
To greener pastures
(or a dance along the edge)
Over nowhere places
Lost in time spaces
She will fall
From the apple tree
laughing
From grace
singing
For him
believing
The ground she fears
The end she knows
Worse if she holds on
To the memories
laughing
With regret
singing
In emptiness
believing
One last leap
Her footing lost
Balance gained
To catch herself
Cracked open
Not broken
Resurrected
She will live
Let her fall

When She’s Gone

Porträt einer Prinzessin Ginevra d'Este

Listen
You will hear her story
Awake on a breath of night wind
The wings of a butterfly
In that first unfolding
Whisper the colors of her dress
As a prism of light through your window
You wave her down
when she’s gone

Even then. But what now?
Time has taught clichés
A heart truly can break
and ache
and burst
A heart can get hungry too
or greedy
or full
Maybe all at once
sometimes

Give in too late
Promise too early
Stay silent with secret dreams
Drift with thoughts like ghosts
Faded under morning light

In emptiness, that well-worn verse
If you cared…then you would
But if is a superstitious guess
An eyelash wish
A breathless unknown

to reach beyond. What to do?
These scars
Our armor
Over tender skin
The hurried answer
The question lost
Maybe all at once
sometimes

Collect the noise of the Universe
Lift your head above the chatter
Find a raw and hopeful voice
Faded under morning light
A breathless unknown

woven through the commotion
Whisper the colors of her dress
As a prism of light through your window
You still wave her down
when she’s gone

Even then.

Listen

The Moon’s Last Song

The Lady in the Moon

The Moon, she appeared
Unbidden
on the tips of winter branches
while the grey line of dawn
Gave shape to the earth
The Wind beneath her
Swept through the forest
Never still

Look up!

She knew where to find him

Why,
asked The Wind
Why do women come
and pin their hearts to my sleeve?
Women should come
and go
As casually as me

The Moon, she lifted
her silver veil
The Wind saw her face
her body
The promise of a new-born sun
Reflected on her skin

Well,
she said
I am not any woman
I am The Moon
My right arm the ebb
My left the flow
with the strength to shift oceans
I don’t change men
I change my mind

Oh, Wind
You injured man
You soul unchained
I’ve known hurt too
By hope
and love
and life
I have my dark side

Look up!

Don’t you see it?
Hope
and love
and life
Those are our prayers
Greater
More abundant
Alive
In every moment
Casual
Profound
Weighted in counterbalance
Our separate truths in opposition
Stretched like that horizon
and so we grow

Or we would still be yesterday’s creatures

The world needs The Wind
Your storms and summer breezes
All I want
Is to live the last breath of this night

Look up!

Roll me through the trees
Lift me to the stars
When you whisper
Forgetful
along my mountains
into my valleys
I can forgive any man
even The Wind

The Moon, she smiled
A woman can open herself wide
she knows the men who wait
standing ready at her gate
Interest or disinterest
She won’t need to rise
to the occasion like a man

A woman, she knows
Men are easily had
She keeps her gate closed
Until she has chosen

A woman, she knows
Men can be dangerous
She keeps her gate locked
Until she is safe

When she opens her gate
you are her guest
She has chosen you
That choice is a gift

Accept my gift
or leave it here in my lap
I know how to tend it myself

Hold my offer
as casual as you please
but never

Never tell me how to hand it over

Come,
or find your own way home

Beginnings, Endings and the Surprises in Between

Snowflakes by Wilson Bently

When I was a little girl, I had a recurring dream that a beautiful woman with dark hair smiled benevolently down at me.

“Would you like to see your life?” She asked. “How you live, and how you die?”

I can be a bit on the impatient side. I’ve always struggled with the urge to read the last page of the book first, so I let the woman take me by the hand. She led me into an ornate theater. Twin angels stood on either side of red curtains.

“Just say the word,” she waved toward the angels, “and they will open your life for you.”

As I sat in my velvet seat, I began to have my doubts. I was curious, but to lose the anticipation of Christmas mornings and new school years might be a terrible price to pay for having it handed over upfront. Eager as I’ve always been to know how everything turns out, there is nothing I love more than the surprise of a new beginning. To have loss and fear and hurt discovered at once didn’t sound so great either. And death? I didn’t want to think about my life ending at all.

“No,” I said.

And the dream disappeared. Every time.

A few weeks ago, I was standing in a little Chicago toyshop buying stocking stuffers for my children. My cell phone rang, and I dug through my purse for it. As usual, I couldn’t find it under all the mess, and I missed the call. It was the doctor’s office, and I’d been waiting for the results of a recent CT scan of my kidney. When I called back, the receptionist transferred me straight to the doctor.

As soon as I heard her voice, I knew something was going to be wrong.

“The good news is that the CT scan shows it is only a benign cyst on your kidney.”

I let out a huge breath. It wasn’t a tumor.

“The bad news is that the CT scan also picked up the lower half of your lungs, and they are covered in the same cysts.”

“What does that mean?” I dropped my basket of gifts and stepped outside, surrounded by the noise and the wind of the city. That will always feel like home to me.

“Well, it’s very abnormal. I had to consult with the pulmonologist. He thinks it is consistent with a very rare lung disease called lymphangioleiomyomatosis. We need to schedule you immediately for a CT scan of your lungs, and the pulmonologist is clearing his schedule to make room for you as soon as possible. This is urgent.”

Urgent.

Nothing about my body had ever been urgent. I’ve had colds and flus, a broken nose and plenty of torn muscles. I’ve given birth twice. Never urgent.  I was a dancer. I thought my body was under my control.

Urgent

I heard the word over and over in the rhythm of the train ride back to where I was staying. I heard it in the hum of my computer as I waited for it to turn on. I heard it in the click of the keys as I typed LAM into the Google search bar.

8-10 year life expectancy

Diminished quality of life

Lung transplant

Suffocation

Those were the words that stood out as I sat alone and tried to comprehend how what I read on the screen applied to me. I couldn’t. I went out and drank far too much wine instead. After that, I went for lashing out at people I care about for things that didn’t really matter. Everything seemed so immediately important. Every happy moment was ten times happier and every hurt feeling ten times more painful. My skin and heart and mind were supersonic and there was no way for me to control it. Why was everyone else so healthy and willing to thoughtlessly waste my time?

I know that wasn’t reality, but it was my reality.

At 5:00 pm on the night before Thanksgiving, I sat in the pulmonologist’s office for my official diagnosis of lymphangioleiomyomatosis. I actually beat some odds. I passed all the breathing tests, and I am still in the very early stages of the disease. Researchers have learned a great deal about LAM over the last few years, and I am in a great place to beat those 10 year odds. No one knows when or if I will ever suffer the debilitation of LAM. It’s too rare a disease, only 1500 cases diagnosed in the US.

And I’m still dancing in The Nutcracker this weekend so it doesn’t have me yet.

I haven’t gotten over that immediacy of life part yet. I’m still quicker to happiness or anger or sadness. I still feel the need to say what I might have held back before, or do what I might have left undone. I’m not the same person I was before that Tuesday afternoon phone call. I suppose it’s going to take some time to discover this new version of the best and the worst of me.

I’ve been going once a week to the Chinese acupuncturist. On my first visit, he flicked his needles all over my body and dimmed the light.

“Sometimes life brings us a challenge that is bigger than we think we are,” he said. “But we still fight.”

He patted me gently on the knee, closed the door, and left me alone to do just that.

As I lay there, I thought…this is my life! The one that waited for me behind the curtain when I was a little girl. The moments between beginnings and endings that I’ve been able to watch unfold with the precious gift of time.

This is my life.

Maybe it was just a little girl’s dream, but I’m glad life didn’t fall into my lap all at once. I’m glad I’ve been able to collect my memories and carry them with me one at a time. And I do carry them. All of them. The people I’ve met are precious to me. I used to think love was my greatest weakness and that when the world stopped amazing me I’d have an easier time of things. Now that I know how fleeting life is, I’m glad I still have a sense of wonder.

Last night, I had a new dream. I was in my backyard spread out on my back in the snow, but it wasn’t cold. There was a white cloud above me, and I watched it give birth to new snowflakes. They fell toward me, taking shape as they got closer, each one a beautiful, individual surprise. Every flake landed on my body. Some felt wonderful as they melted against my skin but some of them burned too. I knew if I got up and went inside, I wouldn’t have to feel anything at all…but I wasn’t ready. It was worth it to witness the beauty and wonder between the beginning and the end.

I’m sorry lymphangioleiomyomatosis. I know you want to take my breath away, but you’ll have to get in line. Life already got here first.

The Moon

The Moon Image
Moon Lady
Judy Pfeifer, 2013

The Wind, he swelled
to meet The Moon
She came through the quiet night
Alive and awake
Plucked from ashen skin
while sleep fell over the world below

like dew
from leaves
Trembling
under wind swept fingertips

The Moon, she lifted
Empty
like a vessel
Full

like a poet

Hidden behind her silver veil
Tired and free
and lonesome
Losing ground
Gaining space
She traveled with her mysteries

Home again
to spin silver linings into clouds
As best she could
(She only has two hands)

No matter how she waxed
No matter how she waned

The Moon, she remembered
How The Wind whispered
Over her curves
Along her edges

He will be your undoing,
sang the stars
A Greek chorus
Ladylike voices
Oh, I know,
she replied
I want to be undone

Hidden behind her silver veil
Shy and frightened
and eager
through the dark night
She fell to him

Tender heart woven safe
behind her words

Will you come again?
she called
Will you be my lover?

But I am The Wind
I run free
Your arms will never hold me

The Moon, she said
If I wanted a rock
I’d call for a rock
Stable and hard
and unmoving
The weight of him to hold me
Always
in the place I left him

I didn’t call for a rock tonight

I called for The Wind
His mind his only boundary
His north side bitter
with need so sharp
covered in quills
I can’t reach it

He shifts from the south
Warmth along my hidden valleys
and I forget his wanting
lost in my own

You sinner
You saint
I called for you
because I want The Wind

tonight. I can’t give you tomorrow

Who knows why?
He couldn’t refuse

The Wind, he swelled
to meet The Moon

My First Anniversary in Three Stories

cover 3

 

Once upon a time, I slipped away from my friends and ended up walking all night through the streets of Chicago. As dawn softened the sky, I sat down on a set of concrete steps and looked up. A solitary, tenacious star still hung between two buildings in spite of the city lights and the strength of the sun. That star in the sky and me on the concrete ground, both of us searching for the lonely courage to linger where we didn’t belong. I tried to share the feeling of that moment with somebody once. I wanted to turn it into a story of the deepest part of myself, but all I came to was a medieval map of the edge of my world. The great mystery of myself beyond what I can explain, an unexplored ocean written in ornate and ancient hand…here are dragons. Travel there and you will be lost.

Did you know that carbon and oxygen are attracted to one another? If you don’t, you aren’t alone. It turns out carbon and oxygen aren’t aware of it either. Oxygen might rub right up against carbon, and they still won’t remember they’ve bonded before. It takes something earth shattering, catastrophic or wild for them to change their solitary perception. A bolt of lightning from the sky crashes into a tree. The carbon in the tree starts to tremble. The oxygen in the air begins to shake. They move faster and faster until they collide and …snap…they remember how good it feels to connect. A flame born from the heat of attraction. Maybe that’s why stories are best told around a fire. Those burning embers of carbon and oxygen match that strange inner light of imagination. In life we knock around forgetful of one another. In stories a sudden spark of creativity reminds us how good it feels to be found again.

And speaking of found…a group of tourists once embarked off the California coast for a day of seal watching. They found the long, dark shadow of a great white shark lurking beneath the boat. A nervous chatter spread through the crowd. The captain reminded them that sharks eat seals, which means seal season is also shark season. Things calmed down until a mother orca and her baby where spotted alongside the boat. The orca are top predators, but would this mother be any match to the cold, calculated powers of a great white? Mother and child disappeared below the dark water. The shark’s fin circled ominously above. The mother orca burst through the surface and crashed against the side of the shark. In the blink of an eye, she had the great white turned on his back in her mouth. When a shark is turned upside down, he falls immediately into a catatonic state. Unable to fight, the great white was easy prey. The orca killed him in an instant before the amazed and horrified eyes of a group of tourists.

How was an orca able to defeat the primal king of the ocean? A shark travels and hunts from the instinctual information of his limbic system. Orcas live in ornate and complex communities. They learn and grow through language. Orcas tell each other stories. It was the creative use of her ancestral tales that made the orca the victor that day.

When an orca tells a story, does she ever come to the end of her song and fall into the inky dark of her own great mystery? I wonder if she resonates with a language that can reach beyond the dragons to the beauty and destruction of a life well lived, to the freedom of being lost and the wild, catastrophic pleasure in being found.

That would be one great story.

One year ago today, I wrote the first entry to this blog. It has taken me on quite a journey. Here’s to the uncharted mysteries of life.

 

 

Unbroken Line

Backyard

 

Morning dawns
Spring’s breath has left the buds
to follow her time-worn path
This unbroken line
Back to the cold of winter

New from old
Old to new
With stories on their tongues
And hearts across their sleeves
The ancient women sing

For winters past and coming springs
The whisper of a lover’s game
Under a sun chased moon
To press time westward across the sky

A woman’s breath beneath her hand
The guarded slip of her tongue
Stories played in a hidden heart
while winter sighs around her fire
This aging woman sings

For winters past and coming springs
The whisper of a lover’s game
Under a sun chased moon
To press time westward across the sky
Survivors in unbroken line
Drawn from me to you

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