Paper Box Races

Lucci's Hideout

Cash's Hideout

Virginia Woolf famously argued in order for women to dream, create and write, they first needed a room all their own.  The text, A Room of One’s Own, was required reading for my undergraduate Women’s Studies students.  And while Woolf’s text and lectures ring true even now, over eighty years later, I can’t help but wonder watching my two young sons grow, imagine and create.  How many dreams were born from a brown, cardboard box?

PAPER BOX DREAMS

Brown paper box

baby boy of mine

with your great, big, paper box dreams.

Magic markered tires

baby boy of mine

speeding demon of the racing scene.

You ZOOM across the finish line

Prance and HOWL in the confetti rain.

Painted pirate ship

baby boy of mine

ruling captain of Cardboard Seas.

You SAIL swiftly through the night

As fearsome monsters lurk beneath.

Secret agent man

baby boy of mine

spying high atop your lair.

You CAPTURE villains and evil masterminds

The reigning champion of double dog dares.

Mighty explorer

baby boy of mine

mapping treasures in the sand.

You TAME the sphinx and the River Nile

snatching gold from mummies’ hands.

Brown paper box

baby boy of mine

with your great, big, paper box dreams.

SLEEP quickly into a desert’s night

lassoing dreams of cowboys on steeds.

Yes. Cool indeed.  Very cool Daddio.

So Lucci passed his days feverishly laboring over prose in the poetry lab at school and I spent our nights planning out and prepping the appropriate attire for the event.  We were so excited.  I pulled up live readings and clips of Kerouac and Ginsberg and photo files of beatniks at coffee houses.  Lucci said “uh huh” and “cool” as he multitasked amusing his mother while simultaneously playing his Nintendo DS. 

Not to be left out of the whole experience, Lucci’s little brother Cash begged to attend the poetry café.  A phenomenal idea, I thought.  All three of my angels literary prodigies.  Besides,  who can resist MATCHING OUTFITS!

The big day finally arrived.  I dressed my boys in layers of black turtleneck tees and sweater sleeves, black skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors and of course the obligatory facial hair.  I must admit though, outside of school, my boys routinely sport facial hair stylings and have various paint brushes for applying the black cream paint. You should have seen them during their Pirates of the Caribbean phase. Wow.

The big day finally arrived.  Tired of my prodding Lucci assured me that I could see his portfolio of work after the event.  He didn’t need to practice his selection for the café he said.  He knew all the words by heart.  His choice was going to be a surprise he said.  I would be so excited.

The event began and finally it was Lucci’s turn up at mike.  So handsome and in character I thought. In fact scanning the room, to my surprise Lucci was the only child in attendance sporting a partial goatee. Odd. Or carrying a copy of Howl. Bizarre. And, Cash was the only preschooler in the place with a full goatee much less a Starbucks. Perhaps the Starbucks was a bit much.

I sat eagerly awaiting the profound genius that was soon to spew from my middle child’s mouth.  And so he began:

“gardener
We gave you a chance
To water the plants.
We didn’t mean that way –
Now zip up your pants.”

Finished, he handed the microphone to the next child and smiled a huge teethy grin in my direction.  My four-year-old ecstatic at his big brother’s performance,  jumped to his feet clapping loudly and shouting. 

Shel Silverstein’s Gardener.  Of course he knew the words by heart.  He recited it every chance he got. In fact, he and his little brother routinely took it upon themselves to water my plants in same said fashion, waving to bewildered drivers. The cars slowing creeping by.

Following the conclusion of the café, I went with Lucci to his desk to view his portfolio of work.  I read one poem and another and another.  They were wonderful, insightful, second grade pieces.  Completely dumbfounded, I had to ask the obvious question.

“Lulu?” I asked calmly, not wanting to dampen the cheerful mood.

“Mama. Remember? Lulu at home. Lucci at school.”

“Right. Lucci baby, why did you choose to recite Gardener?”

“It’s my favorite. You know that,” he replied, taking pencils from his desk he began sketching artwork on his portfolio cover.

Screw it.  I was going in for the kill.  After all, my Angel Cakes just got up in front of an entire class and ripped Silverstein.  Granted, no one seemed to notice.  Unlike the kid who ripped Barney’s I Love You.  By the end of that number, every toddler in the room was singing along.

I continued.

“But Lucci, you have some great stuff in here.  Your stuff.  Stuff you wrote.  The Gardener is Shel Silverstein’s stuff.  Why wouldn’t you want to share a poem that you wrote? Let people hear your voice.”

“Johnny Cash wrote Folsom Prison Blues,” Lucci said.

“What? What does that have to do…”

“You know ‘I shot a man in Reno/Just to Watch Him Die/When I Hear That Whistle Blowin’/I hang my head and cry’” he sang.

Oh where was a Barney kid when I needed one.

“I know the song. What’s your point? Johnny Cash did write that song.  He wrote lots of songs and he performed lots of songs,” I said.

“Well,” Lucci smirked, as he shaded in his drawing,”If Shel Silverstein is good enough for Johnny Cash, then he’s good enough for me!”

And with that, he sat his pencil down, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

“Remember Mama? Who wrote A Boy Named Sue?  It wasn’t Johnny Cash, now was it?”

“No,” I mumbled. “Shel Silverstein wrote it.”

“Who?”

“Shel Silverstein.”

“Who?” he asked again, only this time cupping his hand to his ear for added effect.

“SHEL SILVERSTEIN WROTE IT!!!”

 ”Yep. But Shel Silverstein didn’t sing it, did he? Nope. Johnny Cash did.   Sometimes he sang it more than he sang his own stuff.  Mrs. Guzman said we had to pick our favorite poem to recite.  She didn’t say it had to be one of our own,” Lucci said, and slung an arm around my shoulder giving it a squeeze.

Outsmarted by a second grader.  Again. But let’s face it.   Lucci was right.  How many people go around quoting themselves or reciting their own prose?  If you do, please don’t post admitting to it. But seriously, my favorite quotes did not originate from my own mouth.  My favorite lines printed years before I ever picked up a pen.  And on cold nights I don’t curl up with my favorite copy of one of my own pieces in a literary journal, or my bone dry academic dribble. No, I curl up with a copy of my idols and their characters, drifting back into their lives. Lives I’ve read atleast 100 times before.

My son who loves to ask people the question “What color is a banana?” to which everyone incorrectly responds “yellow” had once again peeled back an exterior to reveal a truth inside. Lucci’s task had been to create a poetry portfolio.  He did.  To celebrate the culmination of the unit, he was asked to recite his favorite poem.  And just as sure as a banana is creamy white, in stark contrast to its waxy yellow façade, Lucci did.

Writing this post I think of another Silverstein poem, one close to my heart, and while Lucci is long asleep, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I reposted it here.

listen to the mustn’ts
Listen to the MUSTN’TS, child,
Listen to the DON’TS
Listen to the SHOULDN’TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON’TS
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me-
Anything can happen, child.
ANYTHING can be.

Amen Brother Silverstein.  Anything can happen.  Anything can be.

Happy writing!

Grey

 ” The world is run by those who show up,” he would always say. “Who  knows?  If you shoot for the moon, you just might land on a star.”

This Saturday I had the pleasure of attending the Austin SCBWI conference.  I had worked my San Antonio rotation seeing 57 doctors in 5 days, and hadn’t seen my kiddos since Tuesday.  I was exhausted,  recovering from a virus and feeling ridiculously insecure. And, to top it off I was surrounded by amazingly motivated and “plugged in” individuals.  These were the folks who blog daily, twitter hourly, and read constantly.  They knew everyone’s work. Subscribed to everyone’s blog. And perhaps knew the resumé and bios. of some speakers, well perhaps better than the speakers themselves.

I did not.

Sitting in the conference, I kept thinking of my oldest child.  My daughter. My brainiac.  She had recently been offered an invite to attend an exciting new program, which combines high school and college.  In essence, at 14 she would be enrolling as a college freshman.  By the time she graduated she would have either 60 college hours or an associate’s degree.  Her pick. 

I had spent two weeks pleading with her to attend. 

“Give it a year,” I would say.  “If you don’t like it, if you think it is too hard, or not what you expect,  then you can go to regular high school. No pressure. No questions asked.  But don’t let fear of failure or self-doubt stand between you and your dreams.”

And then pulling from my youth and the words my father had harped to me so many times as I shuttered  and ran from one opportunity after the next, I told her “Sissy, the world is run by those who show up.  If you shoot for the moon, who knows you just might land on a star. Don’t let fear cloud your sight and blind you to the brilliance of your shining star.”

Pretty good, right?  Not so much. 

 She barked and yelled and stomped about and did all of the things that a 13-yr-old should do and in all honesty I would have done  at her age as well.  But then, at the last minute as I was packing for my monthly road trip, she had a change of heart. 

Sissy decided to show up.

So here I was at yet another writer’s conference. I didn’t have a critique session, because I had to wait and make sure Santa was paid before registering for the Houston or Austin conferences, at which point all critique slots were filled.  I wasn’t the childless children’s book author, of which there were many in the room.  I wasn’t the empty nest children’s book writer of  which there were also a few of in the room.  And then I  did not fall into the last category of married homemaker children’s book writer, furiously pursuing her dreams of publication between the hours of eight and three.

No.  I was the single mother of three children’s book writer, who writes in brief spurts in between sales calls or between the hours of midnight and two while her children sleep.  I hadn’t done my homework and reread every book every speaker had ever written prior to the conference just in case an opportunity for conversation might arise while waiting in line for the potty.  But I had been finishing up Percy Jackson with my seven-year-old emerging reader. I was rereading all of the S.E. Hintons with my thirteen-year-old and in sleepless moments of delirium I have been known to read and reread Who Flung Dung and Once Upon a Potty with my four-year-old  as we laugh ourselves to tears and tinkle. 

In fact I have read some form of bedtime story or novel excerpt every night for the last thirteen years.  Not for research but for investment.  The investment of growing minds.

So here I was sitting at this conference, my usual insecure mess, listening, observing and feeling for the most part intimidated. I thought about how I doubted myself out of Naropa following a tour of the MFA program in my 20s, certain that my publication in college literary journals was somehow a fluke.  Besides who could resist titles like The Milk of a Snake/ The Poison of Honey or Jesus, Lithium, Phone Sex and Thoughts of You.  Catchy titles, I would tell myself that is all.

 I doubted myself and somehow revelled in the loathing of  my MFA classmates back at the university, bitter that my former fiction writing professors had invited me to audit their  classes.   Having lied,  I told my professors that I did not have a presentable portfolio to submit and therefore could not formally apply for the MFA literary program, and besides I had already been accepted to the Women’s Studies program.  I couldn’t possibly do both. 

In fact,  once I did apply and receive my scholarship and teaching stipend for the Master’s program in Women’s Studies I still felt that I somehow was an imposter.  I did not belong.  I was too happy, too optimistic to possibly belong in literary or academic circles.  And one thing I knew for certain, was that constant praise only produced more enemies, happily awaiting my next slip or fall.

But in all honesty I’ve never really minded falling.  Some of my best lessons I’ve learned flat on my face, or on scratched up hands and knees.  It was success, momentary success, all eyes on me success, allowing for open critique, me at the center of the three ring that was what terrified me. In fact I felt relieved when I gave birth to my daughter in grad school.  She was a preemie, needing constant care.  It was time to put my dreams behind me once and for all.

Six years later came Lucci her brother, and then Cash my youngest followed two years after that.  I had officially become a non-dreaming adult, occasionally painting, constantly cooking, tirelessly working and obsessed with raising beautifully brilliant children.

In fact, if it hadn’t been for another fall, I fell and skinned my uterus I would joke.   If it hadn’t been for an emergency hysterectomy three years ago, following a heartbreaking couple of years  I might never have come back to my dreams. My star. The reason God put me on this earth in the first place.  I was born to write.

Flat on my face, and missing a part or two, I finally decided to show up. I picked up a pen and scribbled the words a  SingleMotherof Three production on a notepad and from there picked up where I had given up over ten years earlier.

Sitting in the conference, between speakers and notes, I smiled, as a speaker said the words my father had also spoke so many times before during my youth.

She said, “Be fearless. Keep writing because talent ALWAYS rises to the top.”

Be fearless in your writing. In your passions.  In whatever it is that drives you.  Let’s all plan on showing up for 2010. Who knows if you shoot for the moon, you might just luck up and land on your star.

Happy writing!

Grey

     I for one have been bitten by both dog and humans, but for some reason still choose to socialize with the later of the two.  Well in all honesty, I’m not a huge fan of dogs and perhaps that might off set the whole bite ratio. But still it is okay.  Many children’s book authors are not big fans of children.  Many don’t have children.  Some refuse to dine with, or sit near any of them on airplanes. And, I would venture to guess have rarely if ever been bitten by any.  They do, however all seem to love dogs.  Odd.

At any rate, while we have all at one time or another been bitten by humans, and in my case children which is a special sub-group of humans, I/we still choose to write about and for them.  And, while we can not control the humans that come into our lives or their character as it unfolds before us. We still possess an amazing ability to create characters on the page.  We have the ability to see them, describe them, fill them full of ideas, hopes and dreams.  We guide their driving beliefs. Take their internal struggles and carefully craft external conflict.  We build them up and some of us tear them down.  We create dialogue that makes a reader laugh or sometimes cry.  And for those of us who are fortunate enough to see our beautiful characters to fruition and publication, we get the remarkable opportunity of introducing them to a larger world.  It is there that they go on to become a part of other lives, some similar characters some not.

I’m rambling.  While I can say, dogs rarely bite me, and sometimes more often than not, humans do. I still choose to write about humans, both good and bad, and expose those characters to humans both good and bad. In a greater belief that my characters may oneday live on, off of the page if only briefly in the lives and minds of a larger readership.

Happy writing.

Grey

Anyway, since I am in confession mode, I feel that I must now make another, rather embarrassing confession.  Let’s call this Confession #2:  I am terrified to write. 

In fact, I was talking with a friend just last week and she asked if I had watched any of the Oprah coverage.  I had not.  Actually, I don’t really watch television.  I only take the papers on Sunday, and hope that if anything is of real significance it will be listed in a story’s inverted pyramid, as I rarely sleep and have found that being shocked and terrified to death just moments before bed, is in fact in no way a recipe for a good night’s sleep.  No boys and girls it is not.  Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.

So again, I was unaware of all of the uproar concerning Oprah’s recent weight gain.  Apparently she has regained 40 pounds.  My friend continued that Oprah discussed the issue directly on the show and made a renewed commitment to a healthy lifestyle.  And so continued the tirade.  How could Oprah being single, no kids, no husband and filthy rich have body issues that out of control. 

And without thinking, my immediate response was “She must be writing a book.”

Puzzled, my friend continued.  “So then what about Madonna, kids, middle of a divorce,  also filthy rich, currently touring.  She’s 50 for God’s sakes.  And look at her!  She has a body that most women, even some men would kill for.  What was that quote that Guy Ritchie said the other day that you were all over?”

“I said that Guy Ritchie supposedly told a close friend, that spooning in bed with Madonna was like trying to snuggle up to a piece of grizzle,”  I replied, and for a moment paused, once again lost in the imagery of it all.

“So,” my friend continued, “Ms. Oprah must be writing a book?   Madonna has written books.  I remember because they were children books.  I bought some for my daughter a couple of years back.  And, she is up on stage singing every night half-naked with a guitar — not hiding in the closet with a box of Oreos.”

“True.  But Madonna is in her comfort zone.  She is up on stage, singing the things that made her rich.  She needs no affirmation.  Those aren’t new songs.  She is on tour playing her classics.  It’s like a cross country ego stroke.  She isn’t playing even the most recent stuff.  And I can assure you she isn’t up there reading excerpts from those sad little books.”

“She had Carnie Wilson on the show, as well,” my friend continued.  “She gained all that weight back from her gastric bypass.  I think she did a master cleanse before she popped up on the show and the camera couldn’t show her from the chest done either.  She was hiding it all.  Let me guess, she’s writing a book too?”

“No,”  I replied, “an autobiographical album.”

Granted, I have no idea of what Carnie Wilson, Oprah or Madonna currently have in the works.  I don’t claim to have any inside scoop on anyone’s creative portfolio.  I do however know, that as creative beings we often times set up our own personal roadblocks between ourselves and the goals in which we were born to obtain.  Even amazing, seemingly strong, successful people, have issues and at times rampant insecurities — especially when they choose not to reside in the realm of comfort (i.e. Greatest Hits Tours, Best Selling Books Tours) and instead choose to constantly push the boundaries of their creative processes.  Whether it be a gallon of rocky road, or an hour of tmz.com, we all place roadblocks between what we are doing and what we should be doing.  

Which leads me to Confession #3:  I often search the mundane in attempts to avoid the relevant sitting directly beneath my nose. 

Now if you will excuse me, I am off to research 3D vintage, moving jewelry charms.  More specifically: 14k koi charm w/bail, moving tail, emerald (or ruby don’t want to be too specific) eyes and pearl bubble poised in mouth.

Happy Creating!

Grey

My children are my universe. Tymme 14, Lucci 8, and Cash 5, are wonderfully smart, and beautifully naughty little beings. They amaze me daily and, I fear, age me hourly.

I have the very special privilege of working for a company in which I believe and whose products greatly improved the quality of life for my middle child.

And recently, for the first time in over 10 years, I waded back into the sometimes murky, often dark and scary, but always exciting waters of writing. Now, if only I could find the time for sleep…