Existential haiku

The most vibrant leaves
Are plucked off from their branches
Well before their time.


In Memoriam, Tatiana Sisquella.

http://www.ara.cat/media/Mor-periodista-Tatiana-Sisquella_0_1080492057.html

Memoir #1

I wish I remembered more than I do about our first dogs, Linda and Cadell.  The few memories I have of them both are among my most precious ones.

Linda came to us when she was already a senior.  A majestic German Shorthaired Pointer, she had been used as a hunting dog most of her life.  Her former owners, Paco and Maria, were also Catalan immigrants in Mexico, and were good friends of my parents — though they were closer to my grandparents in age.  They bred Springer Spaniels, too, so their home was always alive with dog licks and wagging tails.  I remember spending many a happy time at the dog haven they called home.

Maria babysat me once, I believe it was for a few days, actually.  Now that I think about it, it might have been when my brother was born, because I was two and he wasn’t there.  I should ask my mother next time I call her.  Anyway, Maria was a generous woman — both in spirit and in girth — had an easy, warm soprano laugh, and a humble heart.  She could choke the life out of you with her loving welcome hugs at her doorstep.

There are a couple of tapes of my short stay there — the format was the so-called Super 8, with flickering color images, but still no sound.  The kind one had to physically feed  into a projector and then feed it on the opposite end to another reel.  —  Anyway, in one of them Maria is sitting on her couch along with several of their dogs to her left.  I, a small two year old in a short little dress, am seen struggling to squeeze my little bottom, unsuccessfully, between Maria’s opulence and the arm of her sofa.  She laughs and talks to the camera, petting her dogs, thoroughly unaware that I am even there.

In spite of what that last image might imply, though, I do know for a fact that she loved me very much.  One day, — not sure if during this same visit or some other time, — I decided to first, bathe a doll in her toilet, and then flush it down.  She never yelled at me or scolded me once, though years later I heard from mom that she had been quite upset by this.  

The other tape features only me.  I am in their garage, frantically trying to open door into their home, with a very apparent urge to go pee.  After a few attempts I turn to the camera and beg for whomever is taping to open the door for me.  But I digress.

There is a particular anecdote of Linda’s I remember fondly.  It is a story we were told from the time before she came to live with us.  Paco was the master of the house, but Maria was the one who fed her.  So one day they decided to test her loyalty and see who she would rank as a higher alfa.  They all went hunting together, and Paco shot a duck.  As they waited for Linda to go and retrieve it, they each stood several feet apart on opposite sides of the road.  When Linda finally showed up with the duck, they both began to call for her, asking her to give it to them.  Linda took one look at him, then at her, and promptly chose to deposit the duck neatly on the ground, right smack in between them.  They say she went to lay under the truck to take a nap after that, leaving the two of them to sort it out.  

Paco was a man with a very short temper.  He and dad went hunting together often, and later dad would tell us of Paco’s tirades whenever the hunting was not going his way.  One day, Paco decided to turn his anger on his dog, Linda, and aimed his rifle straight at the dog’s head, ready to put her out.  But my dad, who thankfully was with him, had a soft spot in his heart for Linda, and asked Paco not to kill her, but to let him take her instead.  And that is how Linda came to join our family.

My brother and I, about three and five at the time, loved Linda to pieces.  She was ever so patient with us, as we rode her like a horse, sat to watch TV with her, fed her our leftovers, played fetch with her, and turned around and hugged her out of the blue.  She was our buddy and our protector.  Our toy, and our older sister.  

My mom, even though skeptical at first, ended up falling in love with her too.  Especially after Linda showed her prowess as a guard dog.  Our house at that time was basically a box (like most houses in Mexico at that time) with a flat roof where we hung the wash out to dry, and where we kept the dog.  The house also had an interior garden, a square hole cut right smack in the middle of the floor plan, with glass walls all around, a glass door, and open to the sky.

Well, one day, when my dad was away — on a business trip, as was often the case — my mom awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of footsteps, barking, growling, and a loud, frantic scuffle, coming from the rooftop.  She only stood below, listening, waiting, terrified.  The racket ended abruptly, and my mom decided to step outside and call for Linda.  She was well aware that this was dangerous: Linda might have died, and the robber (robbers?) might still be up there, but she had to find out what had happened.  After calling her name a few times, Linda poked her little head out, panting and wagging her tail, and earning a special place in my mom’s heart.  And a special corner in doggie heaven, I’m sure.

She died of old age, they told us.  My brother and I did not see it happen.  All remember is dad, crumpled on a chair in the kitchen, crying.  My dad never cried.  Except that one other time, many years later, the day my Avi, his father, passed away.  But that is another story.

Memoirs. Will you write yours?

I once was told by a local Seattle editor (whom I both love and admire very much,) that sometimes, in order to let our best writing shine through, we need to write our own memoirs first.

She was reviewing a section of my work in progress that described the relationship between a grandfather and the main character. The descriptions, apparently, seemed a bit too close to the truth for comfort.  Once you let those memories out on a page of their own, she said, you are then freed to write your main character's true story.

I think she was onto something. So I decided to write my memoir. But where to begin?

I will not sit here and ponder on the merits of writing one. Everyone's life is different, and even though I do believe that everyone's story is a fascinating one, I am not going to be the one to judge whether or not you should write one. Let's just assume you have decided, like me, that whether our story is worthy of being cast onto the page or not, we're still going to go ahead and do it, if only as an exercise.

So, back to the first question: where to begin?

One could be forgiven for thinking that every memoir on earth should start at the beginning. You know, the birth of the person writing it.  But think about it: most of us, (I'd like to say all of us, but I am not certain that it is true) so, most of us, then,  do not remember the moment when we were born. Our earliest memories, as a matter of fact, begin around our third or fourth birthday.  (There is a fascinating, extensive study done on this very subject, having to do with brain protein and the growing baby body's hunger for it, but that would make me digress too much.  It is worth searching for, and reading, though.) Most of the stories we know from the first two or three years are mostly those that we have been told, or of which we've seen pictures. Also, many times, the circumstances of our birth are events that have their roots days, months, and even years and centuries before our birthday. Should we start there?

Getting lost in such quandaries only manages to discourage me from starting in the first place. Good thing I have great role models to follow.

My maternal grandfather, (may he rest in the same happy, joyful peace with which he lived his life,) wrote his memoir in a most unusual (and effective) way: whenever he remembered something, -- an anecdote, a person, a place, -- he quietly excused himself from the conversation he was having at the time and went straight to his desk. He wrote about that one instance, nothing else, printed it, and placed it in a folder. After he had accumulated a few, he began to sort them in the chronological order in which the events happened in his life.

I have a copy of his published work on my desk. And it is priceless.

On second thought, I AM going to be the one to tell you to go on and write your own! Future generations will thank you. Will you join me in this? I will publish here every entry of my memoirs. If you do the same, (and you have a blog where you are going to publish them) then leave the link in the comments, and I would be DELIGHTED to read them.

Game?

2014… here we come!

Where did 2013 go?

The kids are bigger, older, wiser.
I am bigger and older too. Wiser? Hmmm. I guess time will tell.

We have moved to a new home, re-connected with old friends, made new ones...none of which made it to the blog. Oh well, nevermind with 2013. It is done. It has been a great year to some, and a disastrous one to most.

I do have my hopes up for this year though. And it has nothing to do with certitude, and everything to do with superstition and numbers.

You see, my birthday is 02/14. This year, I am turning 42. The new home we moved to (and where we hope to spend the rest of our days) bears the name 1420 with pride. And this is the year 2014.

Coincidence? :)

Well, we all need to have something to believe in, something to hang our faith on, like a prized heirloom hanging from a dingy, rusty, dangling hook.


See you soon.

Friday Night Poem #3

One of my first poems for kids, inspired by them, of course.

Farewell

By Núria Coe

Orange and quiet, big bulging eyes:

To find you there, floating, was quite a surprise.

The little ones home were terribly sad:

In poems and drawings they mourned what they had.

They called up their grandma to tell her you died,

Then sat in a corner and quietly cried.

Flushed down the toilet, with all of us there,

You took along with you the children’s despair,

For that afternoon, coming out of their fog,

They cheerfully asked us: “can we get a dog?”

A One-sentence Story #1

...or musings of Universal She...

On the eve of her fortieth birthday, after fighting a relentless, losing battle with her wrinkles for the best part of her twenties -- and all of her thirties -- She tucked herself in bed with a sigh of relief, comforted by the notion that, at last, her age had finally caught up with her face.

Friday Night Poem #2

To all my writer friends out there.

Happy Weekend!

Writer’s Block

By Núria Coe

Quick! I need some paper,

And a pencil or a pen!

Oh! I hope I can recall

The dream I had just once again.

It was such a great idea

Filled with wit and clever jokes,

I must find my pad of paper

And add it to my notes!

Where’s my laptop when I need it?

This will really tie the plot!

Here’s a pencil! Now where was I?

…

Argh! Curses!...I forgot.

To My Catalan and Spanish Speaking Friends

Check out this fantastic blog on all things related to Homer's Iliad and Odyssey.
It is amazing how, after so many years, this work of art is still inspiring us in so many ways.

The articles are insightful and educational, and I find I am a much better writer because of them.

http://detroiaaitaca.wordpress.com/

("from Troy to Itaca")

Let me know what you think! :)

Friday Night Poem #1

...just because.

Enjoy!

Pillows

By Núria Coe

(inspired by Margaret MacLean’s “Pillows” clay composition)

A mother’s quiet prayer for her fussy baby’s sleep.

A father’s weighty worries, his forehead creased so deep.

A new bride’s secret hopes, and her new fears all the same.

A best friend’s broken promise burning deep a guilty shame.

A taxman’s neat additions.

A teacher’s lessons planned.

A writer’s shock to learn that his books have all been banned.

A little girl’s new wish list her Tooth-Fairy-money brings.

An immigrant’s confusion with so many brand-new things.

A neighbor’s waking startle in the middle of the night.

A teen’s forbidden fantasy.

A dying spirit’s flight.

The quiet imprint on their pillows, unassuming and sincere,

Tell the universe, and no one: they were real, and they were here.

The Great Critique! #SCBWIWWA

What an awesome evening. I spent it with five other aspiring authors and the one and only Janet Lee Carey, talented published author and all-around wonderful human being.

The event is called The Great Critique, and it takes place once a year, here at the Western Washington branch of SCBWI. Each of us were given 15 minutes to have our first five pages (kindly) critiqued by all.

Here is the biggest lesson I learned about my novel:

Head-jumping = bad.

Let me explain: point of view is such a tricky thing to get right, because as authors we know everything about the plot, every character, the setting...but when writing, the point of view needs to be respected. For example: you can describe a scene from an omniscient POV, but if you start describing how one of the characters is feeling of perceiving things, then you'd better stick to that person's view of the world.

Here's an excerpt where I fell into the pitfall:

Even though Mr. Yan Olsunn was a quiet, private man, he had taken it upon himself to teach his granddaughter Nara to read, write, and chant.  Nara was going to be only five in the fall, but, come her tenth birthday, she would have to show the rest of their clan that she was a worthy custodian of their story.

[...]

Nara loved her grandpa dearly...

See it? Even though I did not specifically start by saying "I am speaking from Yan Olsunn's POV. by stating what his motivation is to teach Nara I am pretty much taking sides...only to switch mid-scene with how Nara feels about him.

This is one of those things that once you know to look for them they stick out like a sore thumb. I have my work cut-out for tomorrow!

What are your biggest pitfalls? What kinds of writerly pet-peeves get under your skin?

Inspiration from the pros #LASCBWI11

At the last SCBWI conference in Los Angeles I had the privilege of listening to some of the most talented authors of our time share their thoughts and the ins and outs of the trade.

One of the sessions that stayed with me was the one with Donna Jo Napoli, author of the book The Wager. It's about a medieval Italian Don who finds himself having to make a wager with the devil.

(It's a great read. Check it out here.)

She based her session entirely on the question:

"How can we make it worse?"

At first we were a bit dumbfounded. Mrs. Napoli is a sweet lady with cute round glasses sitting on a button little nose. Her voice is clear and high-pitched, and her demeanor is that of someone who just baked a batch of the best cookies and cannot wait to share some with you.

Yet the scenarios that she was able to weave with us were pretty dire situations, most of the time involving the loss of life and limb in the most creative of ways. Every single time something new came to the surface, she beamed and then replied:

"How can we make it worse?"

It was amazing. When everything seemed hopeless, we were still able to make it even worse for our imaginary impromptu protagonists. And the stories got even more interesting.

That was a very powerful lesson. Often as writers we are content to create some tension within a scene but find ourselves stopping short of taking it even further. And the reasons may vary: Are we raising the age of our intended readership by adding a scene that might be too violent or too risqué? Are we afraid to go down that particular path because it evokes painful memories of our own?

Instead of cutting short and going on, we should actually stop and embrace the fact that

a) yes, we can (and should) push boundaries and
b) yes, we WILL know how to artfully approach that issue within the confines of our intended readership and
c) yes, sometimes it is in those painful places within us that we might find the source of our very best writing.

What do you think?

Kill your babies no more!

"Sometimes, you just have to kill your babies" the saying goes. And I cringe every time I hear it. Of course I understand where it comes from and what it is trying to convey, and yes, how its effectiveness as an expression resides mostly on its shock value.

The problem is, it doesn't work. Not for me, anyway.

Here is the thing: If you are trying to get me to chisel away my most preciously crafted sentences to allow the polished diamond of the story to shine through, the last thing you should do is a) call them "babies", b) tell me they're MY babies, and then c) tell me I have to kill them. Seriously?

I have been pondering this for a while and have come with another approach that I think will be a lot more effective:

Our "babies" are our stories. They are borne of the deepest, most vulnerable parts of our being, and yet, as soon as they take their first little steps onto the page they begin to show they have a character of their own.

Like human babies, our stories grow in a messy yet gradual manner, and so their clothes sometimes need mending at the knees and elbows, or downright replacing. And those beautiful sentences that make your heart sing every time you read them (but that otherwise add nothing but word count to your storyline)? Think of them as the golden curls on your baby's little head that have grown so long the child cannot see where it is going anymore. Beautiful and golden yes, but they still have to go.

So next time we're in a critique group or chatting online about a piece of writing you feel needs some heavy editing,  try telling the author to "give it a haircut", "trim its nails", or simply to "change the entire outfit...we're going to the beach, and your baby is dressed in a sequined tutu".

Does that sound fair? Can you come up with another expression that might work better? What do you think?

Holly Cupala's Don't Breathe A Word Online Book B-day Party

...is happening right now! :)
Go stop by and say hi. And have a virtual cookie for me, will ya? :)

2012, here we come!

Resolution #1
Butt in chair

Resolution #2
Butt in chair

Resolution #3
Butt in chair

#LA11SCBWI

I will be spending the next few days trying to put into words the plethora of things I learned at #LA11SCBWI.

I just needed a couple of days to let it all steep a bit...

Please stay tuned.

Ready, Set, SCBWI!!!

I am pumped up! Leaving in one week for #LA11SCBWI!

There will be a ton of new people and a few known faces. Caz, Can't wait to see you again! Ai-Lynn, you too :)

And Mr. Pizzoli, I look forward to finally meeting you in person (long live Twitter!)

Now back to printing those cards...

Holly Cupala's Tell Me A Secret...

...is incredible. I stayed up until 2:30 in the morning because I could not put it down! And now she's done with her second novel!!! DONE! Holly, what the...HOW do you do it?

I can't wait to read STREE CREED, or whatever it is the publishing house decides to name it. If the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior, STREET CREED is bound to be a page-turner too.

Congratulations!

It has been a long hiatus...

Summer has come and gone, the kids have been in school for almost a month, now, and I am STILL trying to figure out my schedule. Piano, tennis, The Little Gym, Sunday school (Sunday and Wednesday afternoons!)...

But I made myself a promise and I intend to keep it, so I'm off to clean the kitchen, and then to reward myself with a few hours of uninterrupted writing. YAY!

12th Place!!!!

Do you see it?

Right there, bottom half, the list of semi-finalists. Number 12.

Yeah, that's me!!

A long while back (last year) I entered a writing contest online with the first five pages of a Fantasy YA novel I am working on right now. I have gone back and forth on the title.

They said it was going to take a long time to decide, so I forgot about it. The main prize was the chance to submit a full manuscript to Regina Brooks, agent, and a ten-week writing course. The top five got a 15-minute consultation and written commentary by all the contest judges (from all over, you'll read it in the link) and, as far as I was concerned, everyone else got some consolation prize or another.

Well, half a year later I got this book by Regina Brooks, with an autograph by the author that read: To Núria, Keep writing, the YA audience needs you!" and her signature. I thought that was really nice of her and thought, in passing, that it must have taken her a long time to sign all those books to all the contest participants.

Fast-forward another few months, to last week to be precise, when I decided to do what's called a "vanity Google search" and google my name to see what comes up. This is something that we are encouraged to do often, because when someone becomes interested in your work the first thing they do is Google your name. That is also why they encourage us to start blogs, etc. This way we have a bit more control on what kind of content shows up first.

Anyway, I Googled my name and the first link that showed up was the one about this contest. I was curious to see where my name would have showed up. Well, turns out I got the autographed book because I was ranked #12 (out of 1700!)
Needless to say I have printed this web page and have placed it already in my "Go Me!" folder :)

Inspiration

Where do you find inspiration? Where does it find you?

I admit it: I am incredibly lucky. I am the mother of two amazing little girls who delight, amuse, and exasperate me on a daily basis. Never a dull moment with these two.

Most of my little poems are inspired by them. It might be something they said, their favorite toys, or just the way in which their hair wildly tumbles and tangles down their backs as I brush it in the morning. That is how I came upon the metaphor for this poem:

‘Do

By Núria Coe

Wavy waterfalls come crashing

On a foamy, roaring bed,

Curly thunderclouds are looming

Over rainforests of red.

Raging tempests o’er the ocean

Threatening every boat at sea,

Ravaging the frizzy surface

In a wild, tumultuous spree.

Higher up, atop this frenzy

These crazed locks begin to slow,

As they’re held in place, quite neatly,

By a humble, tiny bow.

So? What inspires YOU? What tickles your funny/sad/thoughtful bone? Is it your personal experience? Those of others? Your surroundings?

Thanks for sharing.

About the SCBWI Conference in L.A.

I was very lucky to be able to attend the SCBWI Summer Conference in L.A. this past weekend.

At the end of the four-day weekend I felt elated and exhausted at the same time. There is something to be said for people who create content for children. We do not regard each other as competitors, but rather, as one big, happy family. Illustrators, writers, even agents and editors from the big publishing houses were all there, shaking hands, making new friends, learning from each other.

By far the highlights were:

a) Ashley Bryan leading us all in reciting the poem "Things" by Eloise Greenfield. I still find myself reciting it while doing the dishes. My kids thought it was hysterical. I will never recite a poem the way I have been ever again.

b) Jon Scieszka and Mac Barnett talking about their new project "Spaceheadz" and their fresh, smart, way-out-there view of the new shape the publishing industry is taking and our place in it as content providers. Also, their awesome website: http://guysread.com/ aimed at getting BOYS immersed in the world of books.

c) Lin Oliver and Sean Mooser. No matter what they say, it's always funny and sweet. I feel fortunate to have met them. (Lin is coming to Seattle soon! YEAH!)

d) Everyone there: attendees, published authors, wide-eyed wannabes...what an amazing group of people ( there were 1139 of us, from all over the world!)

By the way, next time your DJ asks you to punch the sky with him to the tune of Black-eyed Peas' "Tonight" just make sure there's nobody standing behind you. Especially if they happen to be the famous YA author M.T. Anderson and happen to tower a whole head above you. Their nose might get in the way of your fist. Just sayin'.

Manel

My uncle gave me a CD for Christmas. I finally decided to open it an listen to it in the car. It is now the middle of May.

It took me this long because I knew the pangs of homesickness would be hard to hide from the kids. And, sure enough, as the tunes emanated from the car and flooded my brain with memories, tears flooded my eyes. My kids were with me, and the oldest asked me why I was crying. My answer was the exact same one my mom had told me, three decades ago, in Mexico, when I was the one worried to see tears in my mother's eyes.

The CD in this case is the latest release by a folk Catalan group called Manel. Their songs are contemporary poetry that speaks to a generation (mine) that has been around for a while and yet is still trying to make sense of our lives and ourselves.

Below is a song interpreted in a lullaby-like manner, with undertones of sweet flutes and guitar strings.

Great truths are most often better assimilated when they come to us in the insinuations of metaphors as we are lulled into a complacent state by the cadence and rhythm of verse. Here it is, first in Català, then roughly translated into English.

Un Avís per Navegants

Has vist que bé que he parlat?

Quin discurs tan ben travat,

Quins principis, clars i ferms,

Dignes d'un home de seny?

Però un avís per a navegants:

Fes-me cas els dies senars,

I els parells fes com qui sent

Que a la platja hi xiula el vent.

Sembles franca quan em dius

Atractiu entre atractius

I que estimes en el fons

Les meves imperfeccions.

Però jo que vinc de grumet

Els dies parells et crec,

Que els senars, sota dels pins,

Tan sols cantes rodolins.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Warning For Sailors

Did you hear how well I spoke?

What a tight speech I delivered,

With clear and firm principles,

Worthy of a man of wisdom?

But here's a warning for sailors:

Believe me only on odd days,

And on even ones, pretend you're only hearing

the wind whistling on the beach.

You sound sincere when you call me

Attractive among the attractive,

And that deep inside you love

My imperfections.

But since I come as a sailor

I will believe you on even days,

For on odd ones, under the pine trees,

All you do is sing fairytales.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Must. Edit. 15,000 words. Now.

Call the papers!

I am sooo excited!

I am in the middle of writing this YA Fantasy novel and I am as stuck and as lost as I can be.

So what's so exciting about that?

Nothing. What's exciting is that THE Anne Mini has agreed to edit my fist 15,000 words! :)

Who is Anne, you ask? Only the most thorough and most knowledgeable super-blogger of all things publishing on the planet, that's who!

If you are a writer and you haven't been reading her blog, you are missing out!

As she would put it: "Run, don't walk, to http://www.annemini.com"

So? What are you waiting for? Go!

Feliç Sant Jordi!

April 23rd is Sant Jordi, or Saint George's Day. It is the equivalent of Valentine's Day in Catalunya, my homeland.

It is also "el dia del llibre", the "day of the book". Some say that Shakespeare and Cervantes had April 23rd as their birthday. Or was it the day they died? Either way, I do not really care what the excuse is, this is one really groovy day.

Why? well picture this: the streets of Barcelona are covered in book stands, rose stands, Catalan flags everywhere, and very happy people. That's all everyone cares about on that one day: books and roses. Think about it.

Actually, do me a favor and google these three words together: sant jordi barcelona

Go ahead, do it, and look at all the images that come up: books and books for miles on end. Roses, more books, smiling people in the streets, readers of all ages perusing the stands, lovers exchanging roses and books. This is the reason the smell of roses and brand-new books seem to invoke each other in my mind. It's my happy place.

So, if you ever decide to go visit Barcelona, my advice is that you try your best to be there on April 23rd so you can be a part of it all. Maybe you'll find a book that will change your life. Maybe you'll find the courage to give a rose to that very special someone. It is bound to be a day you will never forget.

And now, April 23rd is officially the day I posted my first entry in this blog.

Let's see how long this lasts :) Wish me luck!