rabbit hill festival of children's literature

My first Rabbit Hill Festival in Westport, CT was fantastic! The focus was on historical fiction and nonfiction. Susan Campbell Bartoletti, Tonya Bolden, Candace Fleming, Dennis and Judy Fradin, and Gary Schmidt all gave talks. They shared their fascination with history, their process and what guides them as they write.

Gary Schmidt was amazing to listen to. He is a gifted storyteller and held the audience spellbound. I was primed to hear him as I had just read Trouble and Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy.

Gary said writers have to “recognize that all characters must become multi-dimensional and develop. They have to do more than change.” On language, he reminded writers that “every word has to do more than carry its own weight. It has to do more than it seems, perhaps through rhythm or pacing.” If you ever have the chance to hear Gary Schmidt, don’t pass it up.

Look for Rabbit Hill’s 10th anniversary next fall!

historical fiction to savor

I’m trying to read more middle grade and young adult fiction. There are so many wonderful books and not enough time! I’ve just come across author Gary Schmidt, first reading Trouble, and now Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy. I enjoyed both, but savored Lizzie Bright and understand how it won both a Newbery and a Printz Honor. It’s a beautiful book based on an historical event in Phippsburg, Maine.

At the turn of the 20th century, the town elders evict a community of former African American slaves from an island. The white community considers them a blight on the town and a deterrent to hoped-for tourism.

Turner Buckminster, the new minister’s son, is saddled with every rule you can think of and more. Harassed by his peers, he makes friends with Lizzie, granddaughter of the African American leader. Their friendship and Turner’s relationships with two old women sustain him while he fights for justice even when his reverend father is manipulated by the elders.

Through Turner’s voice, Schmidt sprinkles humor throughout a very serious story. Coastal Maine is so lovingly depicted that you can feel the damp fog and the sucking mud of the clam flats.

I can’t wait to read another Schmidt book. I’ll hear him speak at the Rabbit Hill Festival of Literature in Westport, CT this weekend.

memory bank

We don’t always get the chance to revisit scenes of our childhood memories. This summer I went in search of a fire pond in Lincolnville, Maine. Fifty years ago, I fell into this pond and was rescued by my uncle. I remembered that I had lost my sneaker and Uncle George dove back in to retrieve it. On one grace-filled day this September, I stood on the dock of my pond. It looked so much smaller than in my memory.

Cattails and rushes crowded the pond’s banks. Reflected pines pierced the clouds. I tried to re-capture the moment, imagining my arms and legs flailing through the lily pad stems. But Uncle George wasn’t in the rowboat about to take me for a row. Nellie wasn’t standing on the house stoop wearing her long black dress and high button shoes. I can’t go back, but the memory is a treasure in my memory bank. My mind is refreshed with details. I can see the spot more clearly and my imagination can do the rest. Fine fodder for a writer! I need to write down more memories.

what if...

Advice of the week: Listen. Ideas come from all corners. This week I was stuck! I struggled with bridging two chapters in my Hildegard story. How do I get across what was happening in my character’s life at this time? I needed her to interact with someone, but I resisted introducing a new character who had no purpose to the story. Then my husband said, “What if… .” See, I’ve trained him! His idea is brilliant. It helps anchor the ending, too.

Writers work in different ways. Some keep their work close until finishing a draft. Others like to talk out the plot. I guess I work best alone until I’m stuck. Then I’m up for brainstorming (or in this case, complaining about the impossibility of my task) and listening to possibilities.

the leaves respond

“Come,” said the wind to the leaves one day.
“Come over the meadow with me and play.
Put on your dresses of red and gold,
for summer is over and days grow cold.”

This song came to me as I drove up I89 yesterday. My mother always sang it at this time of year. Trees seem to change their dresses daily, each costume deeper and more brilliant than the one before. The wind tugs and pulls, weakening the seams until the garments fall apart at October’s end.

The Leaves Respond

The red silk rustles down by the cattails
and muffles the murmur of the golden gabardine.
The russet taffeta swishes around like she owns the meadow.
“Haute couture doesn’t play,” they say.
They sashay, twirl, dip and bow,
each one’s zipper and buttons secure.
The leaves deepen and reach their peak.
They pose and ignore the wind’s call.
“See our fall collection,” they announce,
then gather their gowns around their knees
when the wind teases apart their seams.