Time Flies

In September I will have my third book out in the world and as I write those words there is a HUGE part of me that has difficulty believing it. Seems like it wasn’t that long ago that I was trying to get an agent and amassing a massive pile of rejections.

MAPMAKER was a book I started working on several years ago. Initially it was titled Three Wishes because I have had such a long fascination with wish-making and what I would wish for if ever given the opportunity and how I would phrase the wish exactly right so that it wouldn’t go wrong…even though we all know that wishes ALWAYS go wrong. But when I created Walt, from the very beginning he was a map-loving boy, and I imagined his first wish would of course be to go to a world he created. And suddenly the idea of drawing a world that then actually exists took over my brain.

Maybe because the idea of “escape” was big with me. I was a kid who dreamed of escaping my usually humdrum but sometimes difficult life in order to inhabit the world I found in books. I spent a LOT of time imagining elsewhere. What if? What if? I wondered it even as I knew with absolute certainty that if I ever did get transported to one of my favorite stories, things wouldn’t go well. I’d be eaten by an ogre or forever lost jumping to the island of Conclusions.

But perhaps the most significant thing about this book is that I knew it contained a story. I knew I had to chisel away at a whole bunch of other stuff to find that story, but it is the first pages I wrote where some young readers got really excited and said they loved what they read, and an editor thought the beginning showed I had the “stuff” to get published. I knew that if I could just get it “right,” it was the book that would finally land me an agent and a book deal. Ironically, it wasn’t. A Good Kind of Trouble was the right book at the right time and became my debut, but I never gave up on the book that ceased to be about wishes and transformed into a book about belonging, and home, and inner strength, and family and friendship and magic.

I have no idea how the book will be received. But I know I love the story as much as I always have and I am so eager for folks to come along for the ride.

KQED - Forum Live

It was just a Twitter DM. Would I like to be a guest on Forum Live. Fastest yes I ever gave, I’m sure. I thought it would be scary (it wasn’t). I thought it would be surreal (it was). What I didn’t expect was that it would be FUN. Probably because sitting next to me was Joanna Ho, and the interviewer was the master Mina Kim, who put both Joanna and me at such ease. When I watch it I am of course super critical. “My god,” I think, “when did I get so old?” and “What is my hair doing?” But mostly, I think, wow, that really happened. Just a quick moment. A blip. But this author journey has been filled with such ups and downs and I have promised myself to focus on the ups as much as possible. This was a huge up. Wanna see it?

Joanna Ho and Me with Mina Kim on KQED Forum Live

Writer's Life

Tomorrow I’ll be visiting with 10th graders talking about the “writer’s life.” I make a lot of visits like this these days. The pandemic and the virtual reality it put us in, has made school visits easy. Or at least, it has made it easy to visit a school that is in another state/time zone without taking off a day of work. So I suppose that’s easier. I’m not going to say it’s the part of the job I enjoy the most. Because writing takes the top spot, but these visits with young people is a close second. Even though I know that I don’t have any magic answers to hand out like trick-or-treat candy. (Side note: did you ever imagine a time when Halloween would be cancelled?)

Often times I go to schools that aren’t very diverse and I can see the questions that a bunch of students want to ask (but don’t) rising in their eyes, flitting off their shoulders, creeping down their chins. “What does this have to do with us?” “Why should we care whether Black stories get told?”

In almost every visit I do I share this Walter Dean Myers quote: “If we continue to make Black children nonpersons by excluding them from books and by degrading the Black experience, and if we continue to neglect white children by not exposing them to any aspect of other racial and ethnic experiences in a meaningful way, we will have a next racial crisis.” Think about that, I tell students. It’s not enough for only Black kids to read stories about them. (Although that is lovely, and rich, and a blessed thing.) But reading about each other is a magic key toward understanding. Maybe with more understanding we can get to a better place.

But I started this post to say something about the writer’s life. These days I’m a writer who’s doing very little writing except for business emails. But I’m creating stories in my head all the time. Trying out phrases. Putting little scenes together. Wondering where something might go if I give it a long enough leash. The truth is you’re a writer whether you’re physically writing or not. That my friends is the writer’s life.

Potential

Recently, I heard from a teacher who was curious about my published short stories. Whoo boy, those were long ago! Back when I was still in the query trenches, I at one point realized I should just stop adding them to my bio as potential agents would really have to search to find them. In fact, I can now only find one. I was so proud of this very short story when Tattoo Highway published it. It’s fascinating to see what my writing looked like back then. I don’t sound like this at all anymore. I miss some of this. And I find it sort of life coming full circle ish that the story I could find had this title. So here it is in all its glory:

Potential

Rachel waited in the sun; a suitcase rested behind her. Streams of sweat glided down her back; soon her dress would be soaked. Her hair had sucked in humidity making her curls disappear into frizz. Her nose and cheeks were burning and she knew they would hurt tonight. She had a purse on her shoulder but the strap kept slipping to her wrist, making the purse swipe the road.

The air was cotton and the road was mud. Rachel went up and down on the balls of her feet to keep her legs from stiffening. Her sandals and anklets were covered with road. She didn't bother to smile, as there were no cars in sight. She moved one leg back to touch the suitcase.

Rachel had packed clothes, toiletries and a book of poetry. Her purse was aggravating her so she put it on top of the suitcase. Inside the purse was $235.72 and the number of a man who had told her she had potential. He had a gold smile and a crook in his walk. The girls liked it when he came in the bar because he tipped with dollars, not change. He had come into town driving a Plymouth and by the end of the week he seemed to know just about everybody.

"Whatchu doin' in this hole, darlin'?"

Rachel had put her head down when she smiled so he wouldn't see her teeth. "Markin' time I guess. Like you."

"Shit, that ain't my show, darlin'. I'm leavin' tomorra. Y'oughta come wit me."

"Why you want me witchu?"

"Hell, gal, you got what we in the bidness call po-ten-chul. Donchu know anythang?"

***

He had called her from San Antonio. "You still in that trashcan?"

He couldn't see her but she put her head down when she smiled. "I guess."

"You call me when you wanna get out, now. You hearin' me darlin'?"

"I guess."

She told everybody that she had known he would call. This was special. She was special. She had po-ten-chul.

***

The sun was putting spots in her eyes. Her dress stuck to the back of her legs. Her sweat was the only air conditioning she could hope for. Her forehead crinkled and her eyes squinted as she tried to conjure up a car. Snakes of heat slithered in the air. Rachel put a hand over her eyes and bent towards the road, straining for a piece of hope. She wanted to sit down but first she had to get someone to stop for her. She put her thumb out even though there wasn't a car to be seen. It was something to do.

When he called, she had hoped he'd be in Las Vegas or Los Angeles or New York City, not Texas. Maybe he was on his way to somewhere better. Like she was.

A glint in the distance became a car and Rachel put a hand on her hip, looked down, and smiled.

Countdown to book 2

It’s July now and hard for me to believe that Something to Say my “sophomore” book will be out in two weeks. Somewhere in the last year I forgot about the lead up asks prior to launch date: the videos, the interviews, the guest blogs, the photos. None of it is too much but it’s a flurry of things all at once and it makes it seem as if it is a whole bunch of things. That in combination with the pandemic still raging, it’s been an odd time for me.

Not a bad time, just odd. Which is interesting considering the main character of Something to Say—Jenae—self describes herself as odd. Which just means different than expected. When you think of that definition, don’t we all wish to be just a little bit odd?

During the last several weeks I’ve seen renewed interest in my debut book, A Good Kind of Trouble. How fabulous, right? Well, sort of. The killing of George Floyd, or rather the broadcasting of his death, over and over again, did something to the world. What was different about this particular video? Why this death? There’s been SO many, and there’s been more even after Floyd’s murder. Personally, I think it was the complete disregard on the officer’s face as he killed the man he was kneeling on. He didn’t care. Not even a little bit. And so of course, it was once again clear for all to see: Black lives don’t seem to matter in this society. And that is unacceptable. And a renewed urgency came to the Black LIves Matter movement, and with that came interest in books that talked about police brutality and the Black Lives Matter movement. So Trouble got some renewed interest. Happy for sales? Of course. Sad and depressed that it’s for a tragic reason? Of course.

And now a second book is about to be born and this one had as a subplot the issue of problematic heroes and the need to stop honoring them. In Something to Say the community is battling over a proposed school name change. And I consider in the story the legacy of John Wayne’s acting career vs. what he said about Black people and Native people and white supremacy. It’s ironic that this book comes out while confederate statues are being torn down and names of military bases are being reconsidered. There’s even the possibility that the John Wayne International Airport may be renamed.

Of course I didn’t know this would be the societal landscape when I was writing Something to Say two years ago, but talk about interesting timing, eh?

I hope what doesn’t get lost is the heart of the story, in which an odd girl who hopes to remain invisible, is seen. And how that changes her. And how it matters.

I hope this book finds some love.

Writing in a pandemic

Probably a better title for this post would be, NOT writing during a pandemic because that seems to be more of what I’m doing. It’s been hard; the world is such an unfamiliar place right now.

I have a day job working at a University and if you think it’s hard being a writer right now, trust me, it is even harder being a student! All learning is “virtual” now which works for some, but definitely not for all.

Some students don’t have good internet, some don’t have reliable computers, and some don’t have a quiet place to work. Some don’t have a PLACE at all. Combined with family worries about jobs and health insurance and health in general and of all things, whether there’s enough toilet paper, makes this time difficult to focus.

I’m so fortunate to have a job, even if that job takes all my brain power right now. I have a book coming out in a couple of months. In July. In the middle of a pandemic. With bookstores closed and events cancelled. In some ways it seems a small thing to care about. I mean, yeah, I have a second book coming out when I have friends who are in the query trenches hoping to get an agent. They look at me and think, girl, please don’t complain. And I don’t/won’t. Because I do feel lucky, even now.

And I know just around the bend the writing is waiting for me. I’ve been a writer for too long. It’s the way I sit and fit in this world. So the words and worlds will come back. Maybe they’ll crash over me like a huge wave, or maybe it will be just quiet ripples. And that’s okay.

Wherever you are in this, (And I hope you are safe. I hope you are well and that the people you love are well also.) know that although none of us have lived through something like this before, we will. We’ll get through.

See you on the other side.

xo

And finally...Italy

If you know me at all, you’ve heard me talk about my wish to travel to Italy. I don’t know when or how this desire rooted so firmly inside me, but it definitely has been there for a long time. I’ve wanted to go for literally decades. Significant birthdays and anniversaries came and went and as they passed without tickets materializing, my hopes of getting to Italy started to seem as impossible as getting published one day. But then…I got published. And if THAT happened, then surely, anything could, even getting myself to Italy.

So one day I did a random online search for writing retreats in Italy. (FYI, if you do this you will find retreats all over the world, not just Italy.) I found one right away in Tuscany. A Writer Within. It sounded promising. A week in a villa in Tuscany with a group of women writers. Let me say that again. A WEEK. In TUSCANY. Staying at a private VILLA. With a group of WOMEN WRITERS. There were pictures of the villa and of the food. I was sold.

One of my best friends, Marisa, decided to go too. She wasn’t a writer (yet) but had a project she was interested in working on, but the real draw was Tuscany.

For someone who loves words, I don’t have the right ones to give this whole experience justice. Being in Tuscany was like living inside a painting. It was so beautiful it seemed unreal. Like someone had handcrafted the scenes for a movie. Each day was magical. Starting with a delicious breakfast (“Would you like a cappuccino?” “Yes, please!”) and at each place setting a note from the universe. Something encouraging. Something uplifting. Something that got us ready for a morning of writing. The writing exercises—led by the wonderful Kathryn Kay who runs the retreat—made me think about my approach to creating a scene in a new way. And the other women who were there all had such interesting stories to tell. After writing, we’d break for lunch. in the lovely patio. Scrumptious food. And beautiful. Then either an excursion or free time to write. I’m not gonna lie. I always chose the excursion. I mean I could write at home; I was in Italy! We’d get back to the villa and it was time for our apertivo on the back deck where we could see the sunset. And then of course dinner. (Have I mentioned there was a private chef who fed us constantly?) So after waiting what felt like a lifetime, I got the trip of a lifetime + great writing guidance and ++ time with a bestie. (I also got some great boots and a purse.)

If you have any interest in doing something like this, you should definitely check out A Writer Within

Published author...say what?!

When my website first went up, I thought I’d post into this journal all the time. I thought it would be great posting updates about the publishing journey. Welp… So much for that! Quick overview: the journey has been pretty fantastic.

When I think back to July of last year when I made the first journal post, I didn’t yet know how many wonderful things were in store. Starting with garnering three (THREE?!) starred reviews, all the way to the most recent incredible news of the book joining the Project Lit Bookclub, it’s been a RIDE.

Life is interesting however, and it seemed as if with every bit of good news I got for the book, something bad would happen in my personal life. It got to the point that I dreaded seeing an “Exciting News” email in my inbox because I knew the other shoe would drop shortly. But you know what? I finally realized there was no causality and it was just this crazy little thing called life. Life is always going to be both good and bad. Not necessarily at the same time, but no one gets a pass from hardships. Some things are harder than others. Some things are going to drop you to your knees, or having you weeping in a ball in the shower, and others will make you feel like you got to sip the nectar of the gods, and having you singing (badly) in public.

A Good Kind of Trouble has been out for a bit over two months, and it already feels like it’s been ages. Last weekend, I turned in book 2 to my editor and with that hand off, immediately started to think about book 3. And that’s when it hit me that one of the best things about having a book out in the world is that the dream I had for so long became a reality, and when I think of books now, I feel like I’m not being at all ridiculous to think about when they will be published versus if.

I’m hopeful that I won’t slide into the downsies that many debut authors talk about—something that often hits soon after publication. I am guessing I won’t. Not because I’m made of stiffer stuff (I’m a complete marshmallow) but because my goal was never to become a best selling author, or a starred reviewed author, or an author with shiny foil on my cover, or one that made splashy appearances at conferences. My goal was to publish a book. Specifically a book about a Black girl trying to figure things out. And gosh darn it, that’s what I did. No matter what happens now, I will ALWAYS be a published author.

That’s pretty great.

What's the deal with avocados?

About eighteen years ago, I took my son’s avocado seed project (you know the whole seed in water with toothpicks thing?) and planted it outside our kitchen window. The seed had a tangle of roots and a small…growth. Too small to call a plant, and certainly not a tree. After about a year, the little growth was actually tree-like. Almost two-feet tall. We watched it grow, and grow. Years passed. We waited for avocados to appear. None did. I read articles about planting avocado trees from seed and got a bit discouraged. The deal is, avocados planted this way take a long time to bear fruit. A seriously long time. And then one year, we got blossoms. Actual little white flowers on the tree that was now about twelve feet tall. I knew we’d get fruit. We didn’t. The next year we got more blossoms. Still no fruit. The next year? The now fifteen foot tree was covered in blossoms. And lo and behold after a few weeks I had teeny tiny baby avocados.

And it was right about that time I realized the similarity between planting an avocado seed and trying to get some traction in the publishing world. I had been submitting to agents for a few years by that point and the baby avocados were a sign. Surely, they were a sign? And when every single one of those babies fell off the tree without reaching maturity the sign seemed to be: FAILURE.

I certainly felt like one. I had submitted several manuscripts. Gotten requests, gotten feedback, and gotten exactly zero offers of representation.

But the next year there were more blossoms and I knew that as long as I kept watering that now-too-freaking-big tree, and didn’t chop it down, some of those blossoms would become baby avocados and some of those babies would actually reach maturity. So I watched the babies grow and kept submitting. And I got into some fantastic contests with my writing. And then months went by and I realized I could pick full-grown avocados from my tree and in a week or so, have ripened fruit. And I did. I still didn’t have an agent, but I had something almost as good: belief that if I didn’t give up, it would happen. And you know what? It did. About five years after those first blossoms, I got an offer of representation. I did a crazy dance that my body was not prepared for. That one offer lead to ten more. And I wasn’t prepared for that at all. My dream agents were offering. I almost had too many avocados. A little bit over a month after accepting representation, my book went on sub and sold soon after that. Typing that sentence doesn’t at all capture what was going on inside me when that went down. It felt like a dream. Like magic. And as happy as I was—and still am—I know none of it would have happened if I had cut down my tree. Sometimes hope in the unseen is all we have. So if you are still in the query trenches, or haven’t finished the manuscript, or on an endless submission run…keep hope alive. Keep watering that tree.

As an aside, if you want an avocado tree, I strongly recommend you buy one from a nursery. Although my tree is a great metaphor, eighteen years is a long time to wait for some guacamole.