Last week I sat reading the classic children’s story The Velveteen Rabbit to Little O and I turned each page in anticipation, having forgotten the story of a toy rabbit who wished to understand what it meant to be real.
I’ll admit that I have wondered too, over the years, what it means, to get real, to be considered real when it’s said that someone is a real person, as opposed to, I guess, a fake one. I have wondered, particularly, what it means to be real at something. A
When I first started writing seriously towards publication (back in 2008) I used Inkygirl’s Wordcount Challenge. My goal, every single day, was to write 1000 words. If I didn’t meet my daily goal, I would simply pick it up again the next day. This is how I got through every first draft I’ve ever written. As life changed, as I shelved novels, slugged through revisions, and juggled multiple manuscripts, I made lists, instead, concentrated on chapters or scenes, switched my mind
I am not a religious person but I have always loved Easter. When I was a girl, we’d go to church the night before. My grandmother held my hands in hers to keep them warm, a small thing between us, always, because my hands are known, even to this day, for being ice cold. The Easter Vigil mass at St. Paul’s was spectacle. It was black night dark even inside, where we entered holding candles. We’d shuffle in the pews soundlessly, creating neat rows of soft, swaying light. The se
I rarely (or never) do link-ups here but diversity in publishing, particularly diversity in children’s literature, has been such a hot topic and I’ve been following the conversation with great interest. I’m asking the same questions of myself and my own work that others are asking, and have been asking for years. Where are the different faces? On the pages and behind them? I thought it would be interesting to share the conversation here and ask if you’ve been reading any arti
Today (and always) I am grateful for my friends because, in recent weeks, I have discovered how difficult it is to make new ones. I have felt like a child, walking into the new mom groups or the classes and even the email feeds, feeling, as I have always felt: that I never quite belong. And I remember that my awkward, stammering conversation, my melancholy, my rambles, my long silences, my way of feeling so frantic or uncertain I forget to think, my words a runaway tumbleweed
I didn’t get a photograph to capture today. I walked right through it, the sun on me like a cat. I felt something surge, that maybe spring, that sprout of soft purple crocus amongst the crush of leaves and yesterday’s snow and felt that wow, that what, that West Side Story’s Tony song of something coming, I don’t know. It’s been a long winter. The longest and strangest I’ve ever had, as a new mom, holding on to a new little thing that belongs to, not just me, but, the world.