Look, Ma, I'm on the Internets (again)!

I often find myself telling people--authors, interns and publishing hopefuls, friends and family--that children's publishing must certainly be one of the most collegial industries out there today. Part of this is because publishing is a really small industry once you're working on the inside of it, a fact which has both perks and minuses. On the negative side is the fact that industry events can sometimes feel like being in a room full of all the people you've ever interviewed for who didn't hire you, which can be distressing...until you realize that everyone else in the room probably feels pretty much the same way, all the way up to the highest levels of the business!

On the far more excellent side is the fact that your smart, interesting colleagues across the industry--even the ones from other houses with whom you fight bitterly over manuscripts at the appropriate moments--are likely to become comrades and often friends (or at the least, well-respected nemeses!) since you're all in the business of books together. And since publishing is often a bit like musical chairs when it comes to all the job-hopping, chances are good that many of those pals are quite likely to become in-house colleagues at some point in your mutual careers. All this elbow-rubbing isn't just to the benefit of editors, though--it's also important for books! Buzz often starts organically within the industry, and as an editor, there's really few things more exciting or complimentary than knowing that a fellow editor whose taste you respect is busy helping to spread the word about one of your beloved books.

Speaking of fellow editors from other houses whose taste you respect (why yes, that was a smooth segue, wasn't it?), I've absolutely enjoyed getting to know Little, Brown's T.S. Ferguson since we first met at last year's Rutgers Conference. Among the many things to appreciate about this colleague of mine: he's fantastically witty, a fellow burrito-lover, the passionate editor of a fantastic debut novel that I recently had the pleasure to read, he recently assured me that a cupcake and a beer could count as dinner...AND he's been known to slip me coveted ARCs pretty much the day the arrive in his office, with only minor amounts of heckling required on my part. All of which are reasons why I agreed to be the debut guinea pig interview-ee on his blog's new Junior Editor Spotlight series. Just as you'd expect from a brilliant editor, he asked a round of very thought-provoking questions, so if you're interested, head over there and take a gander at some of my responses. (Oh, and while you're there, back me up in the comments to convince T.S. that he owes the us a set of answers to his own tough questions!)

Poetry Friday: "To a Girl Writing Her Father's Death"

One of my favorite professors in college shared today's poem (one of my all-time favorites) with us, at the start of a semester-long intensive poetry writing workshop. There was instantly something I loved so much about this poem--about the poet's voice, about the way reading it makes me catch my breath a little, and about the true, hard things she has to say about the often-painful act of writing. So I asked my professor if I could borrow the collection of poetry that it was from...and then, I'm ashamed to say, I somewhat-purposefully "forgot" to return the book to him. I just didn't want to give up those words.

That professor remained a mentor to me long after the semester's workshop ended--in fact, he later supervised the publishing internship that was my first step into working in children's books--and when I graduated and was packing to move and bidding my goodbyes to campus, I finally confessed that I still had his book, and promised to return it before leaving for good. He instead kindly told me that I should continue to keep the pilfered book as a graduation gift, and to hold dear the poem in it that I'd loved so much. So now I'm turning around, and sharing it with all of you, especially you writers, as the editor in me thinks about your stories, and echoes the poet's instructions, "Speak. Make holy detail....And forgive me for asking."

"To a Girl Writing Her Father's Death"
by Beckian Fritz Goldberg

Sometimes the lake water writes and writes and gets
no answer. You tell me, It was just October.
That is good. His voice was full of love and laughter. Not
so good. Full of copper, jacks-of-diamonds, cubes
of honey, I could believe. But I did not know
your father. The moment when the cable snapped from
the boat has, however, its drama. Yet it is not
enough. Try to understand the need out here for
gestures, wind, raw sound. Was it a spasm
of sex in the motor, light shingling
his black hair as the boat spun
on its wide iris down? Were you standing?
I know this must be painful, standing
at the edge of your white page with someone
gone under. You were sixteen and he called you
Princess, though it is a cliche to be
called Princess. And to be sixteen. Yet
I have looked at you and you are not now
much older. You could wear tiaras,
your blond waves pure as the back
of the knee. Though you wear your carrot rouge
in clumsy circles, which makes me
love you. I have not lost a father
except in my dreams. But each one has left
my mouth open. Speak. Make holy
detail. Let the water bend over you like cold
eyeballs. Let in the scream and the lining of the scream
and the prismic figure eights of oil
mad on the wake--and forgive me
for asking. You have to think of the world
which gave and took your father.
The world which asks for him now.
There's no sense writing poems unless
you see the mob: We who gather for the red
pulse of every ambulance, we who crowd
lifeguards kissing the still blue lips of
children on the beach, and murmur who
and how, hungry for every morsel
of this life that is not ours, not really. Not
for long. But for the asking.

Food, glorious food!

Last week, fellow foodie pal Laura and I went to a great lecture starring some of the preeminent voices in food writing of the past few decades. A big highlight for me was meeting my very own doppelganger--famed food writer/cookbook author/ Molly O'Neill.


"The Other Molly O'Neill" has always been a bit of a legendary, mythical persona to me, ever since I was a little girl and my Grandpa used to send me clippings of her New York Times restaurant reviews with scribbled notes in the margins about all the fancy dinners that "I" was having. She's become even more of a fantastical figure to me since I started orbiting in the NYC book/publishing world too--mistaken googling and other mixed information has meant that over the past few years, I've gotten dozens of interview requests, phone calls, Facebook friend requests and even autographing requests on her behalf (it's also given me a bonus secret superpower: the ability to score Very Nice tables at fancy restaurants that I, alas, mostly can't afford). We'd been put in email contact once (by a mutual author colleague who found the Tale of Two Molly O'Neills most amusing), which delighted me inordinate amounts, but I'd never met her in person before, nor had I ever heard her speak. I'm delighted to report that "the other Molly O'Neill" is smart, witty, and a fantastic public speaker--absolutely everything you could hope for in a doppelganger!

The purpose of the lecture, though, was not to test out whether a meeting of doppelgangers would break the time-space continuum (thankfully, both time and space seem to have survived the event just fine), but a discussion of the legacy of Craig Claiborne, another famed food writer.


Craig did much to bring food writing and foreign cuisine into the forefront of American cultural awareness in the 1950s, a time when conversation about food rarely happened outside the home, and when palates were decidedly non-experimental--for example, he's credited with creating the 4-star system of restaurant reviewing still used today. (Did you know that a certain point in time, banks often financed restaurant loans based in large part on the number of stars the New York Times had given to a chef's preceeding restaurants?) He also brought many then-unknown chefs from all across the country into the public eye, as the forerunners to today's celebrity chefs.

Many of the panelists and the audience members at last week's event had known Craig personally, and had their own careers influenced by him, so the panel was part lecture, part commentary, and part sharing of personal tales. I was moved almost beyond words at one of the last stories that my doppelganger shared: in his final years, Craig suffered from a number of lifelong health issues that compounded painfully around the same time that later food writers began to, in the natural order of such things, eclipse his legacy with their own fame. But in those last few years, the many NYC chefs and restaurants that Craig had supported and built up for decades, as a food critic and restaurant evangelist, turned around and supported him: not a day went by without a four-star meal being delivered to his home by one of the city's chefs. And according to the panelists, in his last years, he could likewise walk into nearly any restaurant in the city and be treated to a VIP meal, even when he was no longer on the New York Times' staff or expense account.

Stories like that are their own sort of food, I think--feeding the part of us that needs to believe in the goodness of our fellow human beings. And that kind of generosity is perhaps particularly touching to consider in a city like New York, since it so so often gets a bad rap for being a cold, heartless, unfeeling, and impersonal place. Most of all though, that poignant story reminded me of how important community is to all of us, because it gives us opportunities to act upon, and be reminded of, our own humanity. And I couldn't help but think quietly, but proudly, that our own community of authors, illustrators, and publishing compatriots would (and certainly has, as I can think of dozens of such examples) rally in the same way for one of our own--not out of obligation, but out of that same sense of family-like loyalty. Lucky us.

Poetry Friday: "Little Boy Blue"

This one goes out to the many who are currently down for the count, thanks to the evil BEA-Flu/Cold, otherwise known as the dread Javits Disease. *sniffle* May we all get well soon.

"Little Boy Blue"

by Darren Sardelli

Little Boy Blue,

please cover your nose.

You sneezed on Miss Muffet

and ruined her clothes.

You sprayed Mother Hubbard,

and now she is sick.

You put out the fire

on Jack’s candlestick.

Your sneeze is the reason

why Humpty fell down.

You drenched Yankee Doodle

when he came to town.

The blind mice are angry!

The sheep are upset!

From now on use tissues

so no one gets wet!

You may not be able to look at me the same way once I admit this...

Last week, I did something I haven't done in a long time. I cheated. An editor friend recently hooked me up with a much-coveted advanced readers copy of Once Was Lost, the third novel by Sara Zarr, a writer who repeatedly blows me away with the emotional richness of her stories. But alas, as much as I've been waiting and waiting for that ARC, it came at the worst possible time. May has been a crazy-busy month. I totally did not have time to read anything that wasn't a manuscript. And yet I totally couldn't wait any longer and NOT read it. So I dove in. And...it was as great as I expected (isn't it wonderful when an author doesn't let you down as a reader, not even for a minute?). Rich, nuanced, totally human characters that I thoroughly believed in. Deep ideas about questions that don't have easy answers. Complex, REAL, confusingly muddled relationships and situations that made me ache. I think that's what I love about Zarr's writing--she writes thoughtfully about stories and characters that feel so very honest and alive.

But you're waiting for the confession, aren't you? So here it is. Once Was Lost is also totally full of suspense. And I had a limited amount of time, and really needed to be spending some of it sleeping, instead of reading past 2 a.m. So I skipped to the end to find out what happened. I've since finished it for real, and I don't think the reading experience was too scarred by my late-night, non-linear bout of weakness--in fact, I think I could even claim that it's a compliment to Sara Zarr that I HAD to know what happened before I could fall asleep. But, tell me I'm not the only one who sometimes does this? And, hey, guilt loves company--what's the last book that made *you* cheat?

Look, Ma, I'm on the internets!

Kathryn Fitzmaurice, author of the wonderful middle grade novel, The Year the Swallows Came Early, is a part of the Class of 2k9, a marketing collective of debut novelists. The 2k9 gang is interviewing their editors on their group blog, so if you'd like, you can click over here for an interview with me. Thanks to Kathryn and the 2k9-ers for asking some great questions!

Poetry Friday:"Words"

by Karla Kuskin

What separates each one of us

from all the beasts and bugs and birds?

Well, they have feathers, fur, and wings

but we have words, and words, and words.

The Time-Traveler's Librarian/Book Fairy

Betsy Bird (of Fuse #8 fame) and I had an exchange on Goodreads the other day, about books we wish we could go back in time to give to our younger selves. It's a fabulous thought, isn't it? Betsy claims to have a whole plan laid out for just such a time-traveling book delivery plan, and maybe she'll be kind enough to elaborate on that scheme in the comments or in a post of her own. Me, I'm imagining the books just kind of showing up, maybe like from the tooth fairy, except more unexpectedly. Or maybe editor-me would go back and try to chat up young-me in a bookstore or library and make a recommendation. (Wee Molly would have been blown away by Future-me, btw. "You get to read for your job? And you get FREE BOOKS?!"). Or maybe I'd send one of the many fabulous librarians I now know on this time-travel mission, to replace the dull librarians at my childhood public library. And then I'd count on him/her to make a connection with the reader I was and recommend the right books at the right moments, in the way that great librarians do. In any case, these are the books I'd wish to have somehow show up in my past, if I could bend the time-space continuum in some fantastic way:

1. The Secret Language of Girls (Frances O'Roark Dowell) -- It was the just-published sequel to this book that sparked the conversation between Betsy and me, in fact. Because oh, how I want to go back to give this book to sixth-grade me, the first (or second or third) time her junior high frenemy shattered her to pieces! And then I want to make myself read it again, during the times I acted like a wicked frenemy myself.

2. A Northern Light (Jennifer Donnelly) -- I'm not quite sure WHEN exactly I'd go back and give this to myself. Maybe as a high school graduation gift? I just know that I wish I'd read it sooner, so that when I came up against some of the hard choices that happen as the world starts opening up--about life vs. love, independence vs. dependence--I'd have known I wasn't the only one who'd ever faced them, or who'd feared she might chose wrong, no matter which choice she made.

3. Sweethearts (Sara Zarr) -- I'd give this one to 14-year-old me, even though she would have railed against and totally fumed at the non-movie-romance-like ending. And high-school freshman me wouldn't totally have understood it in the moment, because she was WAY too much of a romantic. But to have it seep into her consciousness would have been important--to help first love and certain friendships make sense later, I think.

4. And just so it doesn't sound like my time-traveling book fairy/self/librarian would only trade in aching, poignant heartaches of books, I'd also be sure that twelve-or-thirteen-year-old-me got a copy of Airborn (Ken Oppel) to help her survive one of the those loooonnng family vacation car rides, where she was stuck smack between two brothers. The cool flying airship on the cover would've made them jealous, which would have impishly delighted me. And the fact that it's so deliciously LONG would've made hours fly by, and it wouldn't have even mattered that we were in the car for three days, because I'd have been up in the Aurora with Matt Cruse and Kate de Vries anyway.

So that's me. But I can't wait to know: what books would you go back in time to give to YOUR younger self?

Poetry Friday: "Wings"

"Wings" by Miroslav Holub

We have

a microsopic anatomy
of the whale

this

gives

Man

assurance

-William Carlos Williams

We have
a map of the universe
for microbes,
we have
a map of a microbe
for the universe.

we have
a Grand Master of chess
made of electronic circuits.

But above all
we have
the ability
to sort peas,
to cup water in our hands,
to seek
the right screw
under the sofa
for hours

This
gives us
wings.

****

(I feel obliged to share the writing-related thought that seeking "the right screw under the sofa for hours" seems not unlike searching for the right word for hours. But I love this poem mostly because it reminds me how utterly simple it is to be human.)

Q&A: Authors, Dead or Alive version

If you could ask one question--mundane or profound--of any one author, living or dead, who would you ask, and what would your question be?

I'm typically much better at coming up with questions for other people than answering them myself (this is why I'm an editor). But since I know I'll get scolded if I don't play my own game, here's at least one of mine (and I admit this is as much for the curious editor in me as for the young reader I once was): Louisa May Alcott - Of course you must have known that many readers would want Jo to marry Laurie. Did you ever try writing scenes of the two of them together, just to see what it might look like?