Tag: writing

Dear Dad . . .

Posted on by Betsy

It seems like forever since I’ve last posted on my blog. So much has happened over the past four months, and I apologize for not including you in my recent journeys. I have, in fact, been writing each and every day, for up to five hours at a time. In addition to working the long summer hours at the toy store, my brain was focused on ripping apart a beloved novel because I had a “bit of worry.” (I am forever grateful to the editor who used this phrase in their rejection letter, as their worry led to my worry.) I’ve spent May and June being brave, and doing something I’d never tried before. I bid a heartfelt adieu to a character in Savannah’s Mountain, and then found the courage to sit back and wait for Savannah to return to me. Whisper to me. And she did, and I listened, and I discovered that another character belonged within the pages of her story. As I tossed aside chunks of the manuscript, my father’s words echoed in my head. And this gave me strength and hope that I could face the challenge.

Set aside your personal feelings and do what serves the story best.

I hope, dear readers, to share more about this process and about other journeys, I’ve traveled since May. But for now, I have something important to do. I need to tell my father my good news: news he’s been expecting for almost twenty years.

 

 

Dear Dad,

It has been nearly a year since I last held your hand, stroked your head, and told you that it was okay to leave this earth. I know you wanted so much to hang on, and those words “I need to live long enough to see you published” stay within my heart. It is okay that you let go. You deserved to be in peace, without pain. And perhaps that is what needed to happen in order to allow each of us to grow. Since your death, I’ve worked even harder, and my writing has gone to places I’d never imagined. Maybe a bit of your immense talent was left behind on this earth, and now tiny pieces are growing within the hearts and souls of your family.

Lately, your presence is strong, and it brings me much comfort. Perhaps a bit of your spirit was in the dragonfly that insisted on sitting on our jade plant, twisting and turning his head, giving me a quizzical look. It stayed with me for nearly an hour, as if to watch and make sure I was writing on the porch and doing my work as I promised you I would. You may have been the butterfly that posed for over twenty minutes among our flowers or the red-tailed hawk soaring in the sky above me when I learned some good news.

These are moments when I look up at that great blue sky or wonder at the beauty of a sunset or lose my breath over a glorious full moon or take great joy at seeing your great-granddaughter in awe of a beluga whale. This is when I become the little girl sitting next to you in our backyard long ago, watching your fingers fly across a yellow legal pad as you tried to keep up with the setting sun. I remember swinging my growing legs, not knowing how the deep desire to write was finding its way from where you sat in a sagging lawn chair into my heart. This is when the creative seed was planted, only to grow and grow over the years, until I could no longer ignore the passion.

Now, it is still dark outside, and I have been awake since 4 a.m., because before I can go on to the stage of becoming a published author, I need to hear your voice and tell you what you’d been waiting for all these years. You saw something in me that I didn’t yet understand. At times, I still don’t. So I settle on my porch in a lawn chair and listen to one of the recordings of that wonderful, musical voice of yours. Hearing you speak gives me much comfort, and I thank you for letting me record you over the last year of your life.

Are you listening, Dad? I got the call, and I now have a brilliant and loving agent (Emily van Beek with Folio Literary), who speaks of my writing with a tone so familiar, I poured over all your emails, I can never delete. And there it was. My Emily’s words reflect yours. So perhaps you had a hand in this. Perhaps you sent her to me so I can be pushed, and will then ultimately give my best work to the world. Know that I am listening, and that I will continue to listen to you, Dad.

Know that I’ve kept my promise.

Lastly, I want you to assure that we are all good here on this earth: your children, your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. And Mom, we are watching out for Mom.

Not a day goes by when I don’t miss you, when I don’t give thanks for having had you in my life. I am so, so lucky.

I love you oodles and boodles and Skittles galore.

Your daughter, Betsy

P.S.- Dad, I’m doing great. I hope you are too.

How Writing Can Heal

Posted on by Betsy

Do you know the feeling when something wonderful is brewing? Something that will lead you to the heart of a story that you thought had promise, but the potential was yet to be discovered?

These past two months, writing has helped me grieve the recent loss of my father.  I refrained from blogging to focus on my work. I even forced myself to rise earlier than the sun each morning, so that I could write in peace. Not a small feat if you know me well. Having to get out of bed early and assure that my two daughters were awake for school was torture to me.

Now I write before the sun first appears, for up to four hours, undisturbed–except for our yellow tabby that slyly inches across my writing couch and thinks I don’t notice his paw reaching over to my laptop until he plops halfway across my body and the keyboard.

I scoot Joey away and write whatever comes to mind. Or welcome new voices that have popped up in the recent days, or revisit an unfinished manuscript. (In the past month, I have written two picture books without thinking about them ahead of time. In a way, they wrote themselves, one morning between my first cup of coffee and lunch.)

In this same vein, my younger middle-grade protagonist, E. B. Louise, returned to my world one morning at 5:45 am. Still curled beneath my covers, I was not ready for fall mornings, when it is too cold to get out of bed because the heat has not yet kicked in, and the thought of having to race across a wood floor in bare feet to use the bathroom made me shiver. I decided to test the strength of my bladder and stay beneath the comforter.

E. B. Louise started to yak, yak, yak at me, and then it felt like a heavy encyclopedia had been dropped on my head.

“You know,” she said, while I rubbed the not-real swelling knot on my forehead, my covers pulled to my chin. “You are not paying attention to me and I need to finish my story.”

Let me tell you, if my dad were still alive, I would have called him for advice–right that very moment, even though he was not a morning person. He preferred to write after midnight.

“I’m stuck,” I said and pulled the covers over my head.

“Get unstuck.”

“Can’t you see that I am sleeping?”

“Makes no difference to me,” said E. B. Louise.

As much as I love the darn kid, she does not give up. I think this makes me love her even more.

I slipped on a fuzzy bathrobe, poured myself a cup of coffee, and then planted my bum in my writing chair. While my computer warmed up, I watched a bird peck at the corner of my window. Peck. Peck. Peck. With the E. B. Louise document open, I stared at the words.

Nothing happened.

I glanced up at my dad’s Pinocchio collection that now sits on the top shelf of my bookcase, and this is when the kid started to yak again, though she sounded like me.

“You know,” began E. B. Louise, “when you start to shake, mostly in your belly, like you did right before you learned you got the part of Maria in West Side Story, it means something wonderful is about to happen. Do you remember that feeling, the same one you are having now?”

I nodded, feeling ever so crazy, and wondered if I needed to find a good therapist before lunch rolled around, possibly breakfast.

Instead, I sat there and listened to the kid, until a distraction was called for, because my head was spinning. Clearly, I was not fully awake. And I preferred—this early in my day—to not feel crazy. So I lay on the couch in my writing room and opened to the first page of Clementine and the Family Meeting, because I needed to worry about someone else, and exactly what was this family meeting about? (I admit to loving Clementine by Sara Pennypacker possibly a little too much.)

So I was worrying about Clementine, and her brother Bok Choy or Brussels Sprout or Cabbage (whatever his name is at any given time of day), as well as trying to ignore E. B. Louise and  . . .

Then I heard my dad talking. “You need to rewrite the E. B. story in first person.”

Well, I thought, I already have a lot going on today, and who knows what Clementine will learn at this family meeting and I am not sure how I am going to react, and to be honest, I am exhausted from being awoken out of sleep by an encyclopedia (not literally) being dropped on my noggin.

I think, at this point, the Blue Fairy winked at me. But before I could dash for the phone book to look up Therapists For Those Who Are Mourning and Slightly Confused About The Lines of Reality, inspiration tugged at me. Hard enough, that I put a bookmark in the newest novel about Clementine and returned to the document at hand.

I began to rewrite in first person, and suddenly it all made sense. E. B. Louise bounced onto the page, and within the first paragraph, she had me.

Why hadn’t I seen this before?

Do you know the feeling of standing up to your ankles in the ocean and then a huge wave hits you and you are pulled under water, which scares you, because you can’t swim, but you find yourself laughing at the exhilaration of the unexpected moment?

This is how it felt when after weeks and weeks of missing my dad, I remembered what it was like to lose myself in writing for children.

The wave hit me hard, and the joy of dancing with words and images, knowing I was creating something wondrous, rushed back. Though it is hard to define, you feel it in your core; your belly quivers.

E. B. Louise struggles with her own loss: the loss of her beloved grandmother. Suddenly this child was showing me the world through her eyes, and how she was coping; her undying love for her  too-small elephant slippers, and how truly funny and unique she is. (My dad saw the very beginning of this piece, when I only had a voice that had come to me while raking leaves outside.)

He said, “You know, the slippers are her story.” How right he was.

I have been trying to tell this story of hers, when all along, I should have handed E. B. Louise the reins, sat back, and let her speak, so I did exactly that.

E. B. Louise talked so fast, I could barely keep up. I typed and typed, remembering how much I love spending time with her, and more importantly, what it felt like to laugh.

I even heard my father’s laughter. Musical. Rich. Filled with playful delight and joy.

Two pages of revisions done, my fingers paused on the keyboard; I looked up at Pinocchio and Geppetto. The Blue Fairy and Jiminy Cricket.

I took Pinocchio off the top shelf and twisted the figure, as if to make him dance, remembering how much joy it gave my father. These beloved Pinocchio figures, including Mickey Mouse, once adorned his writing space, and now sit in mine. He gave them to me when I helped pack up his many manuscripts into boxes, that now remain undisturbed in my house. Until the time is right and I am strong enough to open them.

The figures remind me of my father’s spirit, his passion for writing. 

They remind me of the promise I made before he died.

They remind me that characters need to feel real, as real as the boy Pinocchio becomes, because children, our readers, deserve no less than our very best.

In the early morning, I feel the most connected to my father’s wondrous spirit. Outside the world remains silent and dark, and the owls still call out to me. But inside my writing space, with Pinocchio cheering me on, I am creating, all the while surrounded by my father’s wisdom and guidance, his belief in my abilities as a writer.

Not only have I remembered what it feels like to laugh, I have remembered how writing makes me feel alive.

And I am grateful.

P. S. I’m okay, Dad. I can take it from here.

What is An Antagonist?

Posted on by Betsy

After attending the recent New Jersey SCBWI Annual Conference, I had to make an unexpected trip to Miami. When my family calls for help, I get on a plane. I’ve earned a lot of miles this year.

On a better day towards the end of our trip, my sister and I ventured into the Florida Everglades, though we didn’t last long. She quickly became tired, and then a storm came through. Before we headed back to the hotel, I managed to take this picture of the sky. You can see the dividing point where the rain ends. I find it quite fascinating and beautiful.

In the moment when I took that picture, I thought about weather, how powerful it is, and how much damage it can do with little or no warning. This brought to mind the topic of antagonists because in some novels, weather provides the conflict in the story.

On the drive back from our short trip to the Everglades, I considered the meaning of antagonist, mostly because the topic came up at the recent New Jersey SCBWI Conference. What is an antagonist, and do all stories require the presence of one? The answer is yes. All stories need conflict. Something needs to get in the way of your protagonist to thwart their continued efforts to achieve a goal or fill a need or want.  

The question that arose in the workshop was whether an antagonist had to be a person. The answer to this question is no.

A quote from Wikipedia:

An antagonist (from Greek ἀνταγωνιστής – antagonistes, “opponent, competitor, rival”)[1] is a character, group of characters, or an institution, that represents the opposition against which the protagonist must contend. In other words, ‘A person, or a group of people who oppose the main character, or the main characters.’[2] In the classic style of story where in the action consists of a hero fighting a villain, the two can be regarded as protagonist and antagonist, respectively.[3] The antagonist may also represent a major threat or obstacle to the main character by their very existence, without necessarily deliberately targeting him or her.

On that day in Miami, we dealt with more than one antagonist: the weather and my sister’s illness. Both thwarted our plans to enjoy the beauty of the Everglades. If the alligator had jumped any higher out of the water, I would have listed that too.

An antagonist can be devastating weather, an incurable disease, or the racist attitude of an entire community, among many other possibilities. The protagonist can also get in their own way caused by their behavior. This situation can make the most interesting of stories, though it is more difficult to pull off in an effective manner.  Consider that your main character is a sociopathic liar. They may yearn to connect with others and to follow a path of honesty, but their personality doesn’t allow them to change. Who or whatever keeps your protagonist from getting what they seek is the antagonist. Without this element, you have no conflict, and thus, no story. Or at the very least, an incredibly boring story, which elicits no desire, on the part of the reader, to turn the page.

Elusive antagonists are far more interesting and provide a steeper challenge for your protagonist.  It is easier to combat a person than an attitude or an uncontrollable part of yourself that you’ve yet to reckon with. Think about the alternatives when you create your antagonist. What places the biggest blockades in the path of your main character? Don’t make it easy on them. Keep the storm coming, and make it elevate in intensity. Slather the pages with conflict.

In the end, this will improve your story. So no matter who or what your antagonist is, lay it on thick. And have fun creating those antagonists. I know I do.

Why It’s Easier to Kill My Darlings Than Tame My Spider Plant

Posted on by Betsy

One of the topics discussed at last week’s NE SCBWI conference was the importance of ridding your manuscript of overgrown scenes, useless characters, and runaway descriptions. If you don’t pay attention to where your story is going, there is a good change it will run wild.

Wild is exactly what happened with my spider plan—the one that currently hogs the ledge of our bay window.  In the past year, the plant has thrived, and now our front yard view is no longer paramount. There is something in the way, and that something is green.

I have had this plant for years. My mother first brought it home in the mid-nineties. It flourished until the day she moved to North Carolina, which is when I promised to take care of it. At the time, I knew little about caring for plants, especially indoor ones, but I feigned confidence. Shortly after she left, the plant began to wither. I watered it. Perhaps too much. Perhaps too little. Whatever the reason, its future became evident—all too soon. There was nothing pretty about it.

I tried to ignore the signs. Stems curled at the ends where the green had turned the color of dirt.  Pieces of plant dropped to the ground, where they lay lifeless, until I was inspired to vacuum. And there was the fact that my husband suggested, more than once, that the garbage can was an alternative habitat for the spider plant.

The signs continued, and whenever my mother asked how the plant was doing, I changed the subject. Then one day, it dawned on me. I was killing something that meant a lot to my mother, something I had promised to take care of. When I shared my epiphany with my husband, he said,  “It’s only a plant, Betsy.”

I sought the help of garden experts, friends, anyone who might help me rescue the plant I was clearly obsessed with, and was almost beyond hope.

Paying heed to the experts’ advice, I tried new ways to aid the plant’s recovery. I talked to the thing. I begged it. I even cursed at it, and then, with luck, patience, hard work, and perseverance (all traits a successful writer needs) the spider plant leaped from the edge of death and responded with vigor to all the attention that I gave it.

Again, my husband reminded me, “It’s only a plant, Betsy.”

Yes, but it was so much more . . . which brings me back to writing.

We all have those darlings in our manuscripts, you know, the characters we come to know and love. Their every appearance on scene gives us the greatest of pleasure. They make us laugh. They make us cry. They offer absolutely nothing to the plot. Nothing. Aside from our darlings, there are those long and flowing passages filled with evocative descriptions that also offer nothing to the plot. Whether it’s a character or a description or a setting or a superfluous scene, the presence of certain elements can thwart the very essence of our manuscript and change the view we intend to create. The reader cannot see through the window into our story. There is something in the way. Like an overgrown spider plant.

What does one do?

A professional or seasoned writer will tell you to get rid of them. “Kill them,” they say. “Toss them from the pages of your manuscript without remorse.” “Have a drink and relish in hitting the delete button over and over again. It will feel great!”

Will it?

These conversations are typically one-sided and contain little or no feeling of mercy or remorse. You, on the other hand, are overwhelmed with the sense of loss, guilt, and shock, mostly because the expert’s suggestion comes with added enthusiasm and much delight over the process. You sit there speechless. They pump their fists in the air, hungry for another stimulating experience of killing beloved darlings; of deleting entire chapters with the tap of one button.

I understand the experience now, and I will tell you that it is freeing—and fun—to let your darlings go. I do hug and kiss them and apologize profusely first, oh, and I promise to use them in another manuscript, perhaps feature them as the main character. (I will do anything to lessen my guilt connected with the characters I create, or rather listen to when they appear from nowhere to tell me their story.) As for superfluous scenes or descriptions, I have an Everything Deleted out of Necessity document where all of this goes. You never know when you may need something.

It is for the best of your manuscript. Trust me. I feel your pain. I know your struggle. I am there too—not with the writing—but with the plant: that over-grown spider plant that continues to grow and grow and sneer at my husband with glee while it expands across the windowsill and redefines our view of the front yard.

While I have not yet tackled the plant, it seems I may not need to. Not only does the green beast irk my husband, but now also our two cats—and our two visiting cats, who were supposed to stay with us for one week, and now six months have gone by. After incessant arguing over which one cat gets to sit on the limited portion of sill unclaimed by the green beast, they cats have joined forces. They discuss their strategy at night while I am trying to sleep, as cats will do. What exactly is their Kitty Plan of Attack? They bat at the baby plants, chew on the leaves; use their teeth to pull on the dangling offspring. If my view of the front yard does not soon improve, at least there will be room for two cats—not one—to soak in the sun. May this bring some peace to our household, because I am not about to kill my mother’s plant. Even though, it is just a plant.

And yet, it is so much more . . .

In closing, I leave you with a quote of my own. (This week I seem to be stuck on W words.)

The words we write must awaken the senses of the reader. They must bear weight to the world we have created. Why? You want the readers to wonder, to wrestle with their own thoughts, and to always want more. Meaningless words wander aimlessly across the page in a waste of space. They attribute nothing wondrous at all, except to become a wall, which stands in the way of our readers’ wants and needs.   Betsy Devany 5/11

Good News and A Promise to My Father

Posted on by Betsy

The past few weeks have been crazy for me. I spent another week in NC, tending to my parents; I returned home to find over forty manuscripts waiting in my pile of mail to be sorted and distributed to the proper agent or editor; and I had a slew of NJ SCBWI raffle donation emails to respond to.

I also held a secret—a secret I had learned two days prior in the presence of my father.

 

After an afternoon of doctor appointments, my father sat in his wheelchair in the living room. As tired as he was, we needed to discuss his wishes. The topic: when parents age, what becomes most important is quality of life, not quantity.

“I want to write and spend time talking to and being with my family,” he said. “That’s all. No more hospitals.”

“Okay, dad. No more hospitals,” I said, knowing what that meant. Yet, I understood his deep desire to write, and his need to feel up to doing so.

He, in turn, understood my mixed feelings about his decision. Instead of taking a much-needed nap, he wanted to help me. (At that moment, I knew why I am the way I am.) I am proud to say I am my father’s daughter.

Even in pain he reaches out to us. He supports my writing and relishes in my small successes. Every day, his attitude inspires me. Recognizing my struggle with his decision, he began to tell me his wonderful stories. He talked. I listened and laughed, while arranging books in the living room. (I had just purchased two tall wooden bookcases for the apartment.)

I want my father to get better, but he needs to be able to write. Just as I need to write. Like I need to breathe, eat, and sleep. This is when we are at our happiest.

I am certain the seed for this desire came early in my life, planted by my father—a lifetime writer, and my mother—a lifetime reader who studied children’s literature at Bank Street.

Looking over at him, I thought about this, when my cell phone rang. I had won the 2011 New Voices in Children’s Literature Tassy Walden Award—middle grade category. My entry: Savannah’s Mountain.

My dad stopped telling his stories. He sat in his wheelchair and listened to me. He listened to me be astounded and humbled.  He listened to me cry.

Being in his presence when I received the news is a moment I will cherish forever.

After I shared the secret phone call with him, he asked how my writing was going.

 

“I can’t write right now. I have to take care of you and mom. There is too much going on.”

“Then do something else creative to fuel your writing. To help you relax.”

“Okay, dad, I’ll go outside and take more pictures—only if you promise to rest.”

He stared at me in the way that lets me know he is thinking, so I waited until the words came. “The ability to write is a gift, never to be taken lightly.”

“I know, Dad, and I don’t.”

“You must love the gift. You must care for the gift. But most importantly, you must feed the gift.”

“Feed the gift? Is this another ploy to get more Skittles?”

“No, I have some left, but if you’re going out later . . .” He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a package of his favorite candy. After eating one piece, he continued. “You feed the gift by writing as much as you can. Wherever you can, even when life throws hardballs at you, one after another.”

“Like now?” I asked.

“Exactly like now. Life will always throw challenges at you, and there will be times when the world seems ruthless and unforgivable, but you can’t let that stop you from doing something you love. You have to make yourself a promise.”

 

Savannah’s Mountain involves promises, and the need to keep and honor a promise. So it seems fitting that before my dad headed for a nap, he asked something of me. “Promise me you will keep writing, even when I’m gone.”

I can’t imagine a world without him, without being able to pick up a phone to call him, or see and talk to him on Skype. A world without his humor and Skittle seeking schemes is a world I don’t want to imagine, not now, not yet. But my father asked me to make him a promise, so I did.

“I promise, Dad. As long as I’m breathing, I’ll continue to write.” I pushed him to his bedroom, gave him a kiss, and headed outside with my camera on my shoulder. After I took some of the photos I am sharing in this post, I found a quiet place overlooking bird feeders, blooming iris, and a family of deer.

I did as I promised. I wrote for my dad. I wrote for me. I wrote for the sheer joy of writing.

 http://www.shorelinearts.org/tassywalden.cfm

http://www.norwichbulletin.com/living/x767232538/Ledyard-woman-wins-250-prize-for-unpublished-childrens-book#axzz1M8v0Toiw

http://paulakaymac.blogspot.com/2011/05/writer-spotlight-betsy-devaney.html