The Avengers!

The Avengers! Yes, today I"m going to see a film I expect to love, love, love. I mean, super-ego superheroes and Joss?

In case you haven't noticed I've had crush on Joss Whedon's creative view of life for a long time. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is  filled with wit and social awareness and those kind of deeper meanings that stick to you and follow you like a shadow. Not only did fans like me latch on to it from the start and watch episodes again and again, it became the focus of scholarly essays, symposiums, even college courses. Joss is both genius and geek with a career that proves it.

Here's a Whedon quote I love: "Make it dark, make it grim, make it tough, but then, for the love of God, tell a joke."

So who better than Joss to translate the long, rich comic-book lives of Iron Man, Thor, Hulk, Captain America, Hawkeye, the Black Widow to the big screen? And *rubs hands* pull them together to go against the Trickster Loki and his army.

I expect laughter and thrills while the planet is avenged!

Are you going?

* Next Day! Still hyperventilating. Is that hyperbole? Yes, but I love this movie so much I'm going back very, very soon. Wanted to buy another ticket as soon as I walked out but the lines were snaking all around. I won't spoil it by telling you anything except it's everything Joss Whedon brings to stories--wit, smarts, hilarity, well-balanced ensembles with developed characters, including the bad guy. The special effects rock, and the fight scenes, well, never seen anything quite like them. Still grinning, and that's not exaggeration.

And, be sure to sit through all the credits. There are a couple of surprises!

Holy con man!

Here is the miniest of mini-reviews. Just because.

When I wrote a review of WHITE CAT, the first book in this series, I was blown away by the concept of blowback--immediate, physical consequences of magic use.
 In RED GLOVE, I'm awed by how these characters and plot have been further developed by Holly Black. Brilliant comes to mind to describe this.
 How can I love Cassel so much despite his con games, despite his mob family, despite his lies? Because at heart he's trying so hard to be loyal and make the right decisions even in the face of deception, betrayal and threats from all sides--the kind of experiences that would make most of us hide under the covers and never come out. He keeps trying to fix the messes, and the author keeps digging him in deeper.
The end breaks my heart How's this for a line? "I can survive on memories..."

All fired up after this weekend

I hope your weekend was as good as mine. SCBWI Writer’s Days rocked. One highlight: a case-study panel discussion with debut author Sara Wilson Etienne, (HARBINGER), agent Michael Bourret of Dystel & Goderich, and editor Stacey Barney of Putnam/Penguin.

 For the first time, the event took place over two days. I signed up for a workshop on revision with Stacey Barney, in which she shared her editing process. Priceless. The newspaper reporter in me never dies, so I took notes. I’ll pass along some tips and quotes, because they’re too good to keep to myself.

The panel: Sara started writing HARBINGER a decade ago. “I didn’t know how to write dialogue, so I decided to just skip it,” she said, getting the first of many laughs from the crowd. She put it away for a bit, then added characters and got her page count up to about ninety pages. Then she discovered SCBWI and attended events, leaning more.

 Finally, she was ready to pitch and had a session with Michael Bourret, but she’d misjudged what to bring. “It was an elevator pitch, and we were meeting for half an hour. I was babbling.” But finally she relaxed and started talking about what she loved. “If you start to pitch, and it falls apart, don’t stress out. Agents are people, too.”

Another tip she offered was not to rush into pitching and querying. “It’s about patience and making sure you’re ready.” So, the next time she met Michael at a conference she told him she was revising and not ready to submit although he expressed interest.

Michael told us how he reacted, “Okay, this person is really taking her craft seriously, so when it showed up, I read it overnight, which doesn’t happen very often.” The manuscript went through a couple rounds of revisions between them, which took about a year.

When he considered editors, Stacey Barney came to mind. Even though he knew she might not go for the genre he thought she’d love the writing.

 “I trust him. I took it with me on vacation, sat by the pool, reading this book,” Stacey said. “The writing sold me. It was fresh. It felt special and imaginative.” She started making notes as she read. “If I care enough to have a pen in my hand on submission, I’m already editing, so I’ve bought it.” Normally, she reads through a new manuscript three times before fleshing out the editorial letter of places that need work.

“It was overwhelming,” Sara said when the letter arrived. “She’s great at giving you the good stuff first…I had a beer in hand. I recommend this to everyone.”

 Later, Sara talked about promotion and how her film and artist friends help her make a kick-ass book trailer and hold an art show of related works in an L.A. gallery. She also created a fake website for the story’s fictional school where she put up the artists’ work.

 If you wonder how to impress Stacey Barney think about these things she said in the workshop: “By the end of the first page, I want to feel invested in the character. I want a lot of heart and emotion to come across on the very first page.” “What’s the emotion you want them to walk away with? It’s not about the story it’s about how you’re telling me.”

 Here is her checklist for revision: Voice: compelling, prominent, tense? Characterization: personalities clear and compelling? Relationships: believable, important? Pace: slow, fast, how relate to plot points? Dialogue: does it develop character? Scene: 360-degree view? Setting: vibrant? Setting is a character. Writing: spare, lush, lyrical? What is the personality?

So, yeah, that’s a long checklist when you’re talking 300-plus pages of novel. But think how much tighter and dynamic the story would get.

There were many other good speakers, but I have to shout out Lee Wardlaw, who had us all rolling with laughter as she talked about what her cats taught her about being a children’s book author.

 Here’s a snippet from her award-winning WON TON, A Cat Tale Told in Haiku, about the adoption of a shelter cat:

 No rush. I’ve got plans.

Gnaw this paw. Nip that flea. And

 wish: Please, Boy, pick me.

(P.S. this is my first post with the new Blogger make-over, so I hope it doesn't publish wonky *fingers crossed*)

Weekend of loves

I've been waiting two months for this weekend when I'm going to SCBWI Writers Day in L.A. This was the treat I bought myself during the difficult days of my mother's trauma. It seemed so far away then and so much has happened in between.

Now, I'm shoulder-to-the-wheel to complete a synopsis for a mini-workshop Sunday with editor Stacey Barney, and I'm looking forward to Saturday's speakers who include agent Michael Bourret. Should be fun and interesting.

This weekend is packed with other events I hope get great turnouts, too.

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Heads up if you're in L.A. for the L.A. Times Festival of Books.

If y0u're in England, there's a celebration in Bristol of the life and writings of the extraordinary, wonderful Diana Wynne Jones.

Maggie Stiefvater alerted readers to this on her blog with her heartfelt appreciation to Jones.

I've written about my love of her books several times. She captures the wonder and imagination of children while grounding her fantastical stories in clever, wise ways.

One of my bookshelves is lined with her books. If you haven't discovered her, you've got lots of great reading ahead!

Publishers Weekly put this up. And GreenWillow Books.

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And last but way far from least is Earth Day. My beloved planet needs us to love her all the time, but, if you can, do something special this weekend. Plant a tree? Clean a park? Make a donation to organizations that preserve wildlife habitat?

Tip: Here's a picture of my handy clean-up pincers that I've used in lakes and along beaches that get trashed. You can find this tool in dollar stores. It's cheap and works great at grabbing stuff without you having to bend over or soil your hands.

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Wishing you a happy, productive weekend whatever you do. Even if it's relaxing in a deck chair!

Do you believe in magic?

I read three books recently that presented magic in ways I want to muse over. Each surprised me by how they explored what is real, what is not and what is left somewhere in between.

The books are BREADCRUMBS, a middle-grade by Anne Ursu; WHITE CAT, a YA by Holly Black, and THE WOOD WIFE, an adult mystery by Terri Windling that I recently wrote about.
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In BREADCRUMBS, Hazel, an adopted girl who's darker than her classmates, feels she never fits in, except when she’s imagining fantasy worlds with her next-door friend, Jack. But one day Jack turns as mean as other kids and then he disappears. Even though she is more fragile than ever, Hazel is determined to bring him back from wherever he went.

Because Hazel is well-read, despite her trouble concentrating in school, Ursu drops references to all sorts of fairy tales and fantasy books as Hazel takes in the world. It’s as if Hazel steps in-and-out of stories every day. She accepts an alternate universe as not only possible but, often, preferable. In fact, when she met Jack years earlier at age six, she was disappointed to discover his eye patch was only for show until she realized that it was the imagining that mattered. “This was a secret truth about the world, one they both understood,” Ursu writes.

Alone, Hazel follows Jack into an icy wood where a white witch has taken him. Although Hazel faces all kinds of deceptive and nasty characters, who are real enough to hurt her, she never gives up on saving her friend.

A snippet: Maybe she could do it. In the real world Hazel was an ordinary thing, a misshapen piece with no purpose. Maybe here she could be a swan.

In the end, it isn’t the witch Hazel must defeat but the coldness Jack has let into his heart.
This is a story about real magic. How thoughts, wishes and dreams can alter our world and how believing in yourself not only helps you but others, as well.
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What I like most about WHITE CAT is the way Black makes the price of using magic so immediate and real. She’s always been masterful at urban fantasy, at finding the underbelly in any world she imagines. In this story, she makes magic prohibited and, therefore, a tool of crime families.
The word "blowback" and its descriptions alone made me love this book. Many fantasy stories talk of a price to be paid for using magic, but Black makes blowback instantaneous and appropriate. Kill someone? Lose a piece of yourself. Mess with their memory? Part of your own past slips away. Play with another's emotions? You become a basket case.

Magicians are called workers, and everyone in Cassel's family works magic but him. He attends a private school where he tries to fit in but still uses criminal cons he learned at home to earn cash. As he begins to question mysterious events around him, he discovers he's a pawn in a dangerous con and the only way out is to out-con the conmen.

A few tidbits:
The family legend says that Barron is just like Mom, even though he works luck and she works emotion. Mom can make anyone her friend, can strike up a conversation anywhere because she genuinely believes that the con is a game.
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My memories are full of shadows, and no amount of chasing them around my head seems to make them any more substantial.
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She looks at me so intently that I drop my gaze. Then she clears her throat and starts talking like I wasn’t just incredibly rude. “Memory magic’s permanent. But that doesn’t mean people can’t change their minds. You can make someone remember that you’re the hottest thing out there, but they can take a good look at you and decide otherwise.”

I’m behind in this series and plan to catch up with RED GLOVE and BLACK HEART.

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I already wrote my love letter to the poetic quality of THE WOOD WIFE here, so this time I’ll keep to the magic, which is steeped in the most ancient roots of earth. My favorite kind.

A woman, who lives between London and Los Angeles, learns she’s inherited property outside of Tucson from a poet who she only knows through years of correspondence. Once she arrives in the wilds of the desert, she feels a strange pull to the land, as if it holds some profound secret.
The longer she stays, the more layers of mystery peel away, only to reveal deeper mysteries. Here are little tastes of the writing from various characters’ POVs:

Shape-shifter: The voice of the wind was a rustle in the leaves, speaking in a language she’d once known and had forgotten. She did not have a name. She had not earned one yet. Or perhaps she had, and had forgotten that too.

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Cooper: There are poems in these trees, in the rock underfoot. I resist it, this slow seduction.
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Lines from a poem: Time is not a river; it flows in two directions…Time is a land I wander in, through smoke, through sage.

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Letter from Cooper: We spend whole days in the hills. The nights are dark and growing cold. I am learning to wait, to watch, to listen. I have never been a patient man. I’ve never been so empty of words, and never felt so full.
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Maggie: “He used words like they were an incantation, a spell, a glamour—do you know what that old word used to mean? A glamour was a kind of spell or enchantment. Somehow Cooper learned to speak the ‘language of the earth’ while he was living up here.”
Dora: “But those images in his poems: the Wood Wife, the Spine Witch, the boy with the owl’s face, the drowned girl in the river…Maggie, are you saying you think they’re real, not symbolic?”
Maggie: “Why can’t they be both?”

Finding beauty in the everyday

Some pix and musings from my stretch of shore.

Mussels are such unexciting shells that I never paid them much attention until I saw this. The sunlight had found the beauty and lit it like a small lantern resting on the shore.

For this walk, I'd taken my pincers and a couple of grocery bags. Before I'd gone a quarter mile I'd filled the bags with trash--plastic bottles, screw-on caps, a gazillion straws, cigarette butts, the occasional condom, a baby pacifier, cups, pieces of take-out plates, liquor bottles.

It's a never-ending task to clean a beach. The government trucks use giant rakes on the majority of sand, but there is always trash along the shoreline where it washes up. Sometimes I pick it up.

Sometimes I see the same hippie-guy or a grandmotherly-woman doing the same.

Each piece that doesn't wind up strangling or filling the intestines of a sea mammal or bird makes it worth the effort, even when it keeps on coming.

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On the far south end of the beach I walk is a fenced-section where old-timey sand dunes still exist for nesting endangered California least terns. In this shot, they've left the fenced area to search for food by the water's edge. The photo is not in great focus but it was as close as I could get (with only my phone camera and no zoom) before they took to the air. You can still see how many there are.

When these shy birds burst into the sky, their black-and-white plumage creates an amazing visual of shifting light.

They're too fast for me to get that shot, but here's a haiku:

least terns flee safety

fences--white-and-black cloud of

fluttering petals

A novel of poetic beauty

Sometimes prose is poetry. As National Poetry Month kicks off, I want to shout out THE WOOD WIFE, a book that’s new to me but has been around since 1996 and won the Mythopoeic Award.
I ordered it after reading a good review and because I’m a fan of Terri Windling’s skill as an editor of many fantasy and horror anthologies. One of my all-time favorites is THE FAERY REEL, which she co-edited with Ellen Datlow.
I haven’t finished reading THE WOOD WIFE (about 2/3 inhaled), so this isn’t a review. It’s more of a love letter to a story that keeps fascinating me and to words that make me pause and sigh.
And because it’s about a fictional poet, Davis Cooper, and filled with snippets of his poetry, it’s perfect for National Poetry Month. The book isn’t a verse novel it’s just filled with poetic language, pieces of Cooper’s poems and musings on arts of all kinds.
The hills call in a tongue

I can not speak, a constant murmuring,

calling the rain from my dry bones,

and syllables from the marrow.—THE WOOD WIFE, Davis Cooper

This story is as elusive as its shapeshifter characters, making you question what is real, what is imagination. But it is solidly set. Windling, who is also an artist, paints the scenes with vivid words that carry the reader to the wild desert and hills surrounding Tucson:
She turned slowly, and saw the great white stag pick its way up the rocks of the creek. His eyes were black as a starless night. His hide was velvet, his horns were ivory, he was made of more than flesh and bones. He gathered the dying light of the sky into his being, like a radiant star.

The protagonist, Maggie Black, is forty and a respected poet herself who inherits Davis’s house after his strange death, which appears to be murder. She goes to check it out, not intending to stay but interested in the mystery and any writings he may have left behind. She finds herself enchanted by the desert and its magic and drawn into something beyond time and space.

The Drowned Girl leaves wet footprints,

plaits her hair with pond weed, fingers

white as milk, as death, as loneliness,

upon root, wood, black stone…--THE WOOD WIFE, Davis Cooper

At one point Maggie is surprised to figure out that she’d always seen Davis’s poems as set in England where he was born. But instead of lush, green woods, she realized he was writing about the desert landscape. Her new friend, Fox, responds: “What does it matter whose head those images came from? ‘Poetry is a conversation not a monologue,’ Fox quoted Cooper in a passable English accent. “A writer can only put the words on paper; the vision has to come from the reader, right? It’s language, not paint, not film. That’s the beauty of it to me.”

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Anyone want to have a conversation on poetry, on this book, on the beauty of language?

Give the Earth an Hour

Earth. Home planet. So far, the only home planet we've got.

From space (photo is courtesy of NASA), those brilliant gold splashes are our cities burning electricity at astounding rates. There's also that pretty aurora for your viewing pleasure. It really is a mighty fine planet to which we are so fortunately attached.

Tonight we can all make an effort to cut a bit of that electricity consumption (save fossil fuels, limit pollution and such good things) during World Wildlife Fund's Earth Hour.

From 8:30-9:30 p.m. wherever you are turn off all non-essential lights and appliances. (Nobody should put themselves in danger, just think about what you really need to use). Walk with friends? Candlelight dinner? Reading with one light?

Some cities will have Earth Hour events. For more information and photos around the world of lights going off check: http://www.worldwildlife.org/sites/earthhour/index.html

Or on Tweeter #earthhour

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Any ideas, thoughts on this?

Katniss hits the bullseye (and apple)

Did I love it? Yes.

Was it perfect? No.

Did I go see it more than once this weekend? Yes.

Am I eager for the second film? Yes.

I was an early fan of The Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins, inhaling each of the books and then dying to read the next, only to have to wait and wait. So it stands to reason that I had a lot of expectations and trepidation when I went to see the film adaptation.

This post will include spoilers, so stop reading if that's an issue. I'm going to keep this simple and just list my impressions, positive and negative, however they emerge.

Jennifer Lawrence nailed Katniss Everdeen. She was tough and courageous, yet vulnerable and scared. She was confused but still opinionated and outspoken. Even though she could appear hard, deep down she fiercely loved the people she cared about. All of these emotions flowed naturally from Jennifer, making her mesmerizing on screen.

Stanley Tucci was delightfully disturbing as Caesar Flickerman, the reality show host of the televised Hunger Games. He could plaster on a toothy smile of dazzling dimension while talking up the kids being sent to fight to the death in the games.

The scenes of the Reaping and of Rue's death carried considerable emotion and were not melodramatic in any way. Again, Jennifer did a smashing job.

Elizabeth Banks and Woody Harrelson brought wonderful layers to the eccentric characters of Effie and Haymitch. Amandla Stenberg was a charmer as Rue, while Lenny Kravitz fit Cinna as if made for the part. In fact, the casting was good all around.

However, that said, I think the story line would have been enhanced by more character development between Katniss and Rue, Katniss and Cinna and in what Katniss really thought/felt about Peeta. Some of this felt rushed, and I realize that a film has a finite number of minutes it can run, but, perhaps something like the flashback of the mine disaster could've been cut to allow a few lines more to develop these relationships. In particular, the cave scene came across as shallow, not at all what was happening inside Katniss in the book, so that it seemed we lost the manipulative aspect of the games.

And that brings me to my major concern. The book is about tyranny used to control people through starvation and fear. Somehow, the film lost sight of that during the games, never really showing how hard it was for Katniss to find water and food. Here is one place I think the medium of film could be used to advantage by having a short cut to Caesar on television commenting with his false sincerity that Katniss has been without water for two days, will she find it or is this the end of the Girl on Fire? Or something like that, which wouldn't take much film time at all.

Anyway, it's easy to sit in the audience and crit something that took such enormous skill, energy and planning. Despite my complaints, the movie meets most of my expectations and is wonderful, gorgeous, breath-taking and quite satisfying. Hence, the going to see it more than once and still wanting to see it again.

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Have you seen it? Agree or disagree?

Life in balance

one passage of time,

bright day equal to black night,

a world in balance.

(Photo courtesy of NASA)

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Today's vernal equinox--the first day of Spring--arrived at its earliest time since 1896.

As the sun crosses the celestial equator, the time between sunrise and sunset is about twelve hours--a balanced day, in perfect halves.

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With Spring comes thawing, hatching, blossoming, renewal of life, as well. Time to unfurl and reach for the sky.

The precision of the universe, the cycle of birth and death and birth, the beauty of continual creation renews me, too.

Happy Spring to all.

Shadows

shadows of a life,

passed, linger around edges

of each new day

Words are hard to find today

My mother died today.

Quietly, they say,

while someone put lotion on her feet.

She did not always find peace

in this world.

I pray she's found it now.

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After all these hard miles, Mom,

I love you still and forever.

Who lives here?

Who lives here within the skirts of the deodar cedar?

I found this Audubon box nestled in an environmentally-protected park and let my imagination run. No clues came from surrounding sounds:
crows caw, ducks yak-yak,
thrum of water over stone,
whistling songbird

It’s early for nesting, of course, but looking at the tiny, empty home made me remember the excited sensation I had as a kid whenever I discovered some secret place where an animal or fairy might live.

Places-we-live is on my mind a lot lately. I’ve moved my mother to a board-and-care, because her condition deteriorated and she needs 24-hour care. I spend half my time at my home and half at hers, where I’m sifting through a lifetime of memories, good and bad.

Can a home be built of memories? I think it can.

I finished my fairy tale!

Happiest of valentines to myself. I just wrote the last line of my YA fairy tale. 82,300 words ending in tears and laughter.

My little dragon was cheering me on these last few days. I think I wrote about 4k to get to the finish line.

My beta readers will be hearing from me as soon as I make a final sweep and swoop through the book.

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However, I'm still dealing with my mother's health and personal issues, meaning I'm about to go away for a few days again. No Internet at her place, either.

So I'll catch up with you all soon as I can.

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Wheee!

An update

Sometimes we need to be stripped down to our bones, laid bare and open to the elements in order to remember who we are.

Since my life tumbled into chaos and high stress when my mother broke her hip, I felt as if I lost my own life in taking care of hers, but actually I've learned some things.

First, take care of what you have to and then turn off the anxiety and do what you love. For me, that's writing and being somewhere in nature. I've found those moments and some of them have been really rewarding.

Despite the many hours of settling my mother into a new reality, I've made huge strides in my fairy tale manuscript, found a new inspiration, wrote a short short for a contest, enrolled in a writer's event I wanted to attend. All of this has been spirit-raising.

There's a great graphic my daughter shared with me that asks:

Do you have a problem in your life?

No. >Then don't worry about it.

Yes.>Can you do something about it?

No. >Then don't worry about it.

Yes. >Then don't worry about it.

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The solution is to do what you can and let it be.

In doing what I can this week, I go back to my mother's to take her to a followup with the surgeon, to have the electricians check out her wall socket, to meet with a board&care home, but then I also plan on an afternoon with my critique partners and another event with a lot of co-workers from the newspaper where I used to work. Some of this, some of that, and steps forward for all.

I'll be offline at my mother's, so I may not update again all week. My best to all of you and thanks for reading.

To the moon but still on Earth

No, I haven't gone to the moon, but it feels like a million miles from life's troubles, at least for a little while.

I'm on vacation in San Clemente where wondrous things pop out of the ocean when the tide is low, like rocks covered in patterns and tiny creatures.

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Is there a face in this hunk of stone?

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Definitely, a face on this one.

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This isn't a tall cliff. Just a small rock shot from low vantage point.

I love the way my mind sees miniature worlds within the rocks of this tide pool area.

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Tons of sea life spend most of the time submerged where we don't see them. But when the tide pulls out, they are exposed. What are their lives like?

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old man egret waits,

shoulders hunched, watching for his

sunset dinner

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A couple finds a rocky perch as the tide begins to flow back in and the sun sinks into the sea.

I found wonder and peace roaming the beach. I also have read through more than half of my 80,000-word manuscript as I start editing and finding the right ending for the fairy tale I've been working on more than a year.

As you know, I've been sidetracked by some serious life issues, but this small vacation is lifting my spirits and hope to high levels. This is a working vacation of the best kind.

I'll still be absent a lot from the blog world. My best to all. (Sorry for the weird spacing. Blogger wonkiness)

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Finding solace & haiku

Oh, the aloe is on fire! Isn't this one a show-stopper? Just around the corner from our house in Venice is a gorgeous, Craftsman-style house, surrounded by aloes. The home belonged to the late Jerry Leiber, who wrote the lyrics for classic hits like "Hound Dog," Jailhouse Rock," "Kansas City," "Smokey Joe's Cafe" and tons more.

When he was still living, I was delighted to see him at the grand piano when I strolled past one day.

Walking, photographing and musing are some of my favorite things to do as you no doubt have noticed on this blog.

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You've probably also noticed how often I post beach photos. I can't help myself. Walking along shorelines is one of the places I find solace. I love the murmur of small tides, the rush of booming high surf, watching kids race in or surfers tear up a wave.

And then there are the things I find. This time it's just the way the late afternoon light was shining through a piece of kelp.

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sliver of stained glass

caught by the descending sun--

window to the sea

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Finally, I may be absent a lot in coming weeks. My mother broke her hip and isn't responding quickly to rehab. I not only need to keep an eye on her, but I may need to find long-term care, which is daunting. Meanwhile, I have a week vacation coming, luckily near where she is, so I will be trying to work on my manuscript, as well.

As soon as things settle down, I'll post less sporadically and come visiting you, as well. In the meantime, I wish you all well in writing, publishing or wherever you are at the moment. Peace.

Watch where you step

I'm much better this week and attended one of my critique groups yesterday. A discussion arose that I'd like to continue here.

My illustration is a stingray I found on the beach. Even out of the water, these poisonous creatures blend in to the background. Stingrays don't go out of their way to strike people with those venomous glands on their barbed tails. But if you step on one, you'll likely get stung.

This discussion has nothing to do with sea creatures. It's about stepping into trouble as a writer, especially if we write for middle grade through YA. We need to be alert, as we wade into our stories, about a lot more than plot, character development, pacing and grammar.

Because behind every story is a message, even if it's as basic as find-your-inner-strength-and- survive. The thing is, when you write for kids, any message may have a huge impact, even more than it does on an adult reader.

I want to be clear that I'm not saying we should be turning novels into platforms for a message, but there is no way to write an engaging story, with any depth, that doesn't have life experiences that lead to character growth, and, therefore, to a message of sorts.

This discussion is about abuse--whether it's parental alcoholism or drug use, a pedophile or a date-rapist--and how a writer deals with it in story. I'm not opposed to these topics. In fact, I was livid when there was a move to ban Laurie Halse Anderson's SPEAK, which is a tastefully written, harrowing tale about the fallout to a teen-age girl who is raped.

Kids need these kind of stories available to them, especially if it helps them deal with a situation already happening, let's them know they are not alone and that they aren't a bad person because something bad has happened to them.

They know a whole lot more about bad stuff than parents realize. What they need is guidance in processing that information. This can come through parents who have good communication with their children, through other trusted adults, or through books that don't hide the bad but show how to survive it.

That leads to the next part of the discussion. Dealing with it doesn't mean the author has to kill off the bad guys. We all know that lots of times in real life they get away and justice is not achieved. This is particularly true in historical fiction where the judicial system may have been weighted against the victim.

So what to do? I believe the answer lies in the personal growth of the protagonist, that somehow even if justice is thwarted, the protagonist learns an important thing and is now stronger and more able to avoid or survive bad things when they come.

Without that the story is too bleak, hopeless, and no kid needs that. In fact, I think the reason YA and middle grade stories have become so popular with adult readers is that there is usually that sense of hope.

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This was a bit of a ramble. I'd like to know if you've given this topic consideration and what you think. Any books you think work particularly well?

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P.S. I'm afraid my desire for discussion is on hold. My mother had to go in the hospital and I'm on the way there. Not sure how long I'll be gone. I'd still appreciate comments, but I may not respond right away. Thank you for reading, anyway.

Time out

This is what I'm going to do--watch my Buffy DVDs for hours on end. You see, I've been sick and I want to be somewhere I love.

I've been lucky to rarely get colds or flu, but I've caught some bug that has laid me up. I've already watched some Supernatural, Doctor Who and Cowboys and Aliens. All fine, but now I want Sunnydale's demons and angels and witty, kick-butt heroines.

Forgive, please, my lack of presence on blogs and Twitter for a bit. See you soon.

(P.S. I had to come back an edit out a typo. In original post I wrote Sunnyvale. Sigh. My brain's been scrambled, but it's coming slowly back--hence the noticing of the mistake...)

Frankie's No-Kiss fest

I just entered the No-Kiss Blogfest hosted by Frankie Diane Mallis. I thought I'd pass this year, but it's too fun! From its title, you probably get the idea--some sizzling moment that doesn't result in a kiss.

Since I decided to enter moments ago, this is super-fast. I lifted a short scene from a high fantasy novel that is shelved. (painting by Renoir) Hope it tantalizes:

The two men carried Samuel, who was limp as dough, out of the room. Fiona stared at the fire awhile, then stood, stretched, and wandered around out of curiosity. A tapestry covered one wall. It was faded and thread worn, but she admired the skill of the artist who created a lush forest. In its background were snow-peaked mountains, above which circled large birds.

On a side table was a small box with exquisite enameled roses on its lid. Fiona opened it and smiled when it began to play tinkling music. She started to dance by herself, to spin in exuberance, and immediately collided into Brendan, who had returned so quietly she had not heard him come up behind her. She reached out to shut the box, mortified.

“No, leave it open. This music is made for dancing.” He bowed slightly from the waist and held a hand out to her. She was astonished but took it, like any well-bred woman.

He pulled her close, closer than she had ever danced with a man. She could feel the warmth of his body and his breath against her unbound hair. Her heart fluttered. Her cheeks flushed. In fact, heat seemed to spread throughout her.

“You smell like lavender. My favorite,” he said softly. Did his lips brush her ear? He drew her so near she thought a feather would scarce fit between them.

They glided across the gleaming oak floor, again and again. He finally whirled her to a stop next to the music box and shut its lid.

*

That's all, folks. Hope you're stepping lively in 2012!