Meg Rosoff: WHAT I WAS

     If you've read my recent post about the SCBWI New York conference, you already know that after listening to Meg Rosoff's keynote address, I went to the conference bookstore at my first opportunity and bought two of her novels. They were HOW I LIVE NOW and WHAT I WAS - I thought the two titles created a nice symmetry.
     I should interject here that although I felt drawn to Meg Rosoff's books, I in no way felt drawn to her personally. I found her ferocious and terrifying, which was fine when she was up there on a stage and I was down there hidden among the audience, but would not be at all fine if I were ever to meet her. I had no doubt that Meg Rosoff would eat me for breakfast, spit out the bones, and then, in her patented, somewhat ridiculous AmBrit accent (cf. that other SCBWI keynoter, Julie Andrews, who has probably lived in the U.S. much longer than Rosoff has lived in England, but still sounds as if she'd never set foot on any soil but the Queen's), demand of whoever was standing nearby a cup of tea laced with blood.
     Anyway. I read HOW I LIVE NOW shortly after the conference ended. As agents delight in telling me after reading my submissions, I liked it but did not love it. This past weekend, I began reading WHAT I WAS. (Footnote: I know I'm coming late to the party. The book was published in 2008. But this blog is MY party, and so I assert my manorial privilege of arriving whenever I feel like it.) I finished reading the book this morning because I ran out of excuses to delay getting to the end.
     As the title seems to suggest, the narrator is approaching the end of his long life and reflecting back on its most seminal period: the year he was sixteen. But how strange... He chooses to call his memoir not "Who I Was," but "What I Was," as if from a distance of 80 years he sees that younger self not so much as a person, but as a force, or perhaps simply an agent of a force. It does not seem to be an accident that two inexorable forces serve to underpin the book's entire narrative: history, which sooner or later will get everyone, and geography, which sooner or later, in the guise of the sea, will get everyone trying to live on the coast of East Anglia near St. Oswald's school for boys.
     I knew as soon as I read the first paragraph that I had already fallen under the sway of this book and had no choice but to let myself get pulled all the way in.
     "Rule number one: Trust no one.
     By the time we reached St.Oswald's, fog had completely smothered the coast. Even this far inland, the mist was impenetrable; our white headlights merely illuminated the fact that we couldn't see."
     Is there anyone, do you think, who could read that and then toss the book aside, saying "Meh?" If there are such people, I'm not among them. I was instantly lost in the story of the nameless narrator, a boy who is almost entirely lost to himself in an impenetrable world until the day he meets Finn and his true life begins. But, as he learns later, the beginning of his true life is also the beginning of the end of Finn's, and so the novel is both a deep, abiding love story and an elegy.
     I was right: Meg Rosoff is both ferocious and terrifying. If she weren't, she would probably not be as qualified as she is to write about love.
  

LOVE, HATE, AND THE VERY THIN LINE BETWEEN THEM

     I always have a bit of a problem when authors write about love that isn't tinged, however faintly, with hate.  The exception is the Romeo-and-Juliet story where the lovers don't ever get to spend enough time together to begin to hate each other, e.g., John Green's THE FAULT IN OUR STARS. But when people who love each other come to know the other intimately, love takes on many different aspects, including its opposite. Is there, anywhere in the world, a parent of a screaming toddler who hasn't fantasized, if only for a second or two, about throwing him/her out of a window?  Or a spouse who hasn't felt grateful at one time that there were no weapons nearby to help bring an argument with the beloved other to a close? If you say you've never felt that way - well, I'm not saying you're lying. But you know you are.
     I would like to offer a photographic example to support this claim. Anyone who reads this blog knows without question that I love my son, right? And yet -

and yet, when I am trying to make dinner and he is trying to force me to dance with him instead, the word "love" does not fully encompass the emotions I am experiencing. It does not even come close.
     I cite to Katherine Paterson's classic (Newbery-winning) novel, JACOB HAVE I LOVED. Louise hates her gifted twin sister Caroline because their twin-world is a pie chart, and Caroline has never left Louise any more than one thin slice of the pie. But Louise also hates her loyal best friend, Cal, for being clumsy and overweight and literal-minded and generally flawed. And when Louise develops a humiliating crush on the almost-70-year-old Captain, she hates him too, for putting her in such a ridiculous and horrifying position. She hates that she, and they, are slaves to the human condition.
     In John Green/David Levithan's WILL GRAYSON, WILL GRAYSON, Will Grayson I deeply loves his lifelong best friend Tiny, which does not at all preclude him from hating Tiny too. Every time Tiny embarks on a new romance, he abandons Will, only seeking him out again when the romance (inevitably) ends. He takes Will and his devotion for granted. He makes unreasonable demands. He is, as Will finally tells him, a terrible best friend. Will hates that about Tiny, and yet loves him irrevocably all the same.
     Love makes us vulnerable. From the moment we begin to love someone, we reflexively begin to fear losing them, and the love becomes inextricably intertwined with the fear. Our ability to love another person is our greatest strength, and simultaneously our Achilles' heel. We love our children desperately, and question every decision we make on their behalf, and continue to feel responsible for them as long as we live. The more we love our partners, the less alone we feel, but the more we dread feeling alone. And how could we not resent that? What a terrible burden we've taken on. What a priceless, terrifying gift has been entrusted to us. And whom can we blame but the imperfect, annoying, mortal objects of our love?
     So when I read a book about ennobling, unwavering, eternal love, I have a hard time believing in it. I want to see love accompanied by passion and awe, but also by guilt, shame, anxiety, anger, doubt, disillusionment, and yes, a degree of hatred as well. That's what makes it 3-D. Anything less doesn't do full justice to the vast array of emotions of which we humans are capable, whether we want to be or not.
    

NEW YORK SCBWI CONFERENCE RECAP

     Okay then. My own completely idiosyncratic take on the Conference, which I attended this past weekend. Observations, in descending order of importance:
    
     1. Although this year's Conference, like last year's, was conducted at the Grand Central Hyatt, and I again booked a single room for the Saturday night, my room this year was NOT co-occupied by a malevolent, window-blind-opening spirit as it was last year. And I was very relieved. But also a tiny bit disappointed.
     2. Meg Rosoff was the morning keynote speaker on Saturday. She deliberately presents herself as a ticking time bomb that you can't defuse because you can't stop laughing until it's too late. I immediately went to the Conference bookstore and bought two of her novels.
     3. Julie Andrews. Julie Andrews. I was among the Conference attendees old enough to remember a pre-Mary-Poppins-movie world, old enough to have been astounded as a child by the then-state-of-the-art animation. She did a presentation with her daughter/coauthor, Emma Walton Hamilton, about how and why they write children's books together, and I sat there thinking: this must be the most
well-adjusted mother-and-daughter celebrity team on the face of this planet. But I must admit that I found myself much less intrigued to learn that Julie has been writing children's books for the past 40 years than I was by the fact that I was seated in the very same room as both The Nanny Who Fell From the Sky and The Moonbeam Who Can't Be Held in One's Hand. It was more than I could really absorb, to be honest. Which explains why I lay awake for hours on Monday night uncontrollably running through and analyzing every scene in The Sound of Music. I remember reading somewhere that Christopher Plummer hated the film, to which he referred as "The Sound of Mucus." To be fair, it couldn't have been easy trying to portray the psychologically improbable Captain Von Trapp, switching on a dime from Mr. Hyde to Dr. Jeckyll.  But there was never a second when I didn't believe that the Maria I was watching on the big screen was utterly real.
     4. Mo Willems, the closing keynote speaker. I don't pretend to know anything about the world of illustration, and I'm in no way qualified to critique his artwork. Which is a good thing, because I really don't get why he is the current It guy. All I could think of the whole time he was speaking was: please. Someone get this man some Adderall.
     5. Shaun Tan was also a keynote speaker and is also an author-illustrator. He blew me away.
     6. I didn't mingle (because I'm shy), or hand out my card (because I don't have one), or make connections that will enhance my writing career (because I don't have one), but I saw some people whom I already knew but don't see often, and it was wonderful to have the chance to catch up with them.
     7. I was glad to be there. I attended two breakout sessions and learned a few things about the publishing industry. I choose to believe that every time I attend a writers' conference, I bump up my level of professionalism a notch.
     8. I can only be who I am, and write what I write. I'm not going to get any younger, but I will never be too old for either of those things to remain true.

What Fools These Mortals Be!

     So today, I was at work checking my home email, and I saw the strangest thing: I'd received a direct message on Twitter from Colleen Clayton, saying, "Have you seen this picture of you?"
     A little background: I have never met or interacted with Colleen Clayton. I know who she is - the author of the well-received debut YA novel "What Happens Next" - but she, most assuredly, does not know who I am, let alone possess a photograph of me that I have never seen. But does this stop me from believing that she is DM'ing me? Hell no. My mind leaps to the invention of possible scenarios. Colleen and I were both at the same conference once and a group photo was taken, shortly after which I developed amnesia?  Colleen has recently befriended someone I knew in elementary school who was showing her some class photos and naming names, upon which Colleen said, "Susan Brody? Hmm... Isn't that someone whose name I once saw on a Twitter account? I need to check this out!"  Unbeknownst to me, Colleen has been stalking and secretly photographing me during my weekly forays to Shoprite? Why couldn't any of these scenarios be true? It is, as they say, a small world.
     I rush home after work and turn on my laptop to try to get to the bottom of this intriguing mystery. But alas, when I click on said alleged photo of me, my antivirus scanner informs me that danger has been detected. Oh, Colleen, say it ain't so! Tell me your Twitter account has not been hacked and that you really, truly wanted to share a photo with me!
     Moral of the story: people are delusional. They believe what they want to believe, no matter how nonsensical. And a new one of us is born every minute.

     Good night, Colleen. All is forgiven. Text me?

Falling Out of the Blogosphere

     Oh my Lord, I've neglected my poor blog. It seems like after my colonoscopy post nine days ago, I just hit bottom. OH, COME ON, IT WAS JUST A HORRIBLE PUN! I DIDN'T KILL ANYONE, DID I? Now. Where was I? Well, it's funny you should ask.
     Most of the time since then, I've been in New Jersey, doing my New Jerseyish things. But last Sunday evening, despite having come down with a bad cold, I was on an Amtrak train headed down to D.C. That night, I was tossing and turning and coughing and sneezing in the bed my son gallantly gave up for me. And early Monday morning, I was heading out to the Capitol building with my son's two current roommates and his one college roommate, while my son waved us off and went back to bed. (Yeah, I can't figure that one out, either.) And later on Monday morning, I was standing in front of the Capitol, wearing a ridiculous number of clothing layers, and watching the Inauguration.
     What was it like? Different than I expected. The weather was warmer, fortunately. The crowds were smaller and more sedate. People were happy to be there, but not delirious, as they evidently had been four years ago. It was an audience that was taking care of business, mirroring the mood of a president determined to do the same. There was no soaring rhetoric from Obama; instead, there was a to-do list. He's learned all too well that a four-year term is really so much shorter than that; that for someone trying to achieve real change, time is never on your side. He spoke like a man with his eyes on a prize that he won't ever see in his lifetime. The prize is the judgment of history, and I fully believe that it will be his, although neither he or I might be alive by the time it's awarded.
     I had more personal reasons, too, for being glad I was there. I got to see Nate and his roommates in their natural habitat, to meet one of his law school friends who was over on Sunday to watch football, and to spend time with his wonderful, smart, funny, loyal, motivated friends and see how much they all love and respect each other. There is really nothing like the joy of seeing how your child who's left the nest has miraculously learned how to construct a temporary one of his own.
     So it was a weekend of blessings, followed by a week of ... work. Some writing, too. I still have my cold, though it's on its way out of my system. I've been playing around on Twitter more than usual. You know... just stuff, I guess.
     But it's nice to be back here, in Blogland, where I belong. I hope you all are somewhere where you belong too, and staying warm and snug. And I probably don't say this enough: thanks for visiting me here. It's a lonely world if you don't have friends to share it with.

On Prepping for a Medical Procedure

     You know, I thought I could pull it off, but I was wrong. Apparently there are levels to which even I refuse to sink. Although I was fully intending to distract myself this evening from the task at hand, I couldn't bring myself to finish this poem:

     Time's a-wastin.' Must get rollin.'
     Doctors need to check my colon.
     Tomorrow, so they know what's what,
     They'll shove a camera up my butt.
     So, tonight, to clear their view,
     There are things that I must do.
     These are all disgusting things,
     Of which nary a poet sings,
     But I, while being thus immersed,
     Thought perhaps I'd be the first
     To have my magnum opus be
     An ode to colonoscopy.

     Wimp that I am, I can proceed no farther. So, I am opening this challenge up to you, my loyal followers. Complete this poem, and you will have the world at your feet. Okay, that might not actually happen, but you will definitely have my gratitude and admiration, and who knows where that will take you? Get to work! I'm counting on you! And I'll check back tomorrow night, when (I sincerely hope) I will be in much better physical and mental condition than I am right now.  XXXX

THE LUCY VARIATIONS

  Sara Zarr's YA novel, THE LUCY VARIATIONS, due out from Little, Brown in May, is a different kind of novel. This is fitting, because Lucy Beck-Moreau is a different kind of protagonist: a 16-year-old recovering piano prodigy who has spent the last eight months learning, for the first time she can remember, to navigate a life not framed by music.
     Lucy is acutely aware of both the privileges and constraints into which she was born. Carrying her Italian leather messenger bag, she attends the "second-best" private high school in San Francisco; hunting through her closet for something to wear to a party, she comes across a forgotten sweater her mother had bought for her, still sporting its $397 price tag. Her family lives in a house co-owned by her maternal (Beck) grandparents, the sources of the extended family's wealth. No visitor who enters their home for the first time can escape Grandpa Beck's bravado-laced tale of his $17,000 conducting baton.
     But Grandpa Beck is the architect of Lucy's cage, as well as of its gilding. After we read a detailed description of the history of the Becks' heirloom baby grand piano, Lucy's mother's childhood is encapsulated in one chilling sentence: "Grandpa Beck, as the only child, inherited [the piano] the same year Lucy's mother was born, and determined that she would play."  It is only too easy to imagine what happened years ago in that young girl's life when she proved unequal to the task of becoming a concert pianist.
     But, unlike her mother, Lucy was born with the gift. Six years later, so was Lucy's brother, Gustav.  And there was never any question that each of them would be propelled through the ranks until they achieved their rightful places at the pinnacle of classical performance. The only problem, as far as Lucy could see, was herself - her own growing doubts that this was the life she wanted. She had been able to tamp down those doubts with fair success, until that day eight months ago, in Prague, that changed everything.
     After I finished reading LUCY, I turned to Andrew Solomon's FAR FROM THE TREE, a meticulous study of families in which a child turns out radically different in some way from his or her parents. I had flipped through that book earlier and seen that one of his chapters is entitled "Prodigies," with his focus on the musical variety. Solomon discusses a number of case studies before providing this assessment:

          Two distinct kinds of young people are grouped under the 'prodigy' rubric: the
          driven, single-minded baby virtuoso, and the youth who loves music in his bones
          and therefore has a better shot at a sustained career. The latter kids are more
          broadly intelligent, curious, often articulate, and possessed of a sense of humor
          and perspective about themselves. They pursue some semblance of normal
          sociability during adolescence and end up going to college instead of conser-
          vatory. Being pragmatic, smart, poised, and healthy is in their makeup, just as
          their musical enthusiasm and aptitude are.

     Lucy inhabits Solomon's second category. Looking back on her life as a musician, she says: "Time, that was the main thing. Years of it. Aka: her childhood. Gone." Yet she's been able to adapt to returning to a regular school after years of having been tutored so that she could travel on the international concert circuit, and to reconnect with her best friend Reyna, and to attempt to imagine a future for herself other than the only one that had ever seemed possible. With help, she's even able to approach the puzzle of how to reintroduce the music she loves into her life without getting back onto the hamster wheel.
     But damage has been done. Child musical prodigies, as Solomon poignantly observes, "need to mitigate the loneliness of having their primary emotional relationship with an inanimate object." Ironically, although the focus of their lives is their ability to perform on a stage, the prodigious children of ambitious parents "suffer from not being seen; their sorrow is organized not so much around the rigor of practicing as around invisibility." Lucy knows that her family loves her, but she also knows that, once the piano has been removed from the equation, they have no idea how to see her.
     As level-headed as Lucy is, she manifests the loss of her childhood in one particular, potentially dangerous way. Having for so long associated primarily with adults rather than with her peers, Lucy does not seem to be able to form attachments to boys her age. Instead, she develops serial, deeply felt crushes on older men, one of whom happens to be Gustav's new (married) piano teacher.
     THE LUCY VARIATIONS is a beautiful book. The action is minimal, but the themes are biggies: love, loss, empathy, trust, and the courage to move forward. There are some holes that I wish had been filled in. The biggest one, for me, is that there is no mention at all of the relationship between Lucy's father, the only nonmusical member of the family, and the domineering and often contemptuous Grandpa Beck. We never see them exchange a word. How have these two men managed to coexist for all these years without erupting into a fullblown turf war? Has Lucy's father just accepted being marginalized in his own home, or has he somehow earned Grandpa Beck's grudging respect? I find the situation fascinating in its potential for explosiveness, and I wish the author had chosen to give us at least a few hints (aside from Lucy's father having acquired an office downtown just to get out of the house once in a while) as to what choices these men have made in order to survive.
     This is, of course, just a small quibble. THE LUCY VARIATIONS is a convincing and moving portrayal of an unusual young woman in whom teen readers will nonetheless recognize themselves.
     And - I almost forgot! - it comes with a bonus CD of the music Lucy loves: rock, classical, some of everything! When was the last time you got a terrific book AND a free CD? Right: never!