Big Green Pocketbook
When I Was a Wild Pony
The title of this essay comes from a dream I had last night, its memÂoÂry and meanÂing caught between mysÂteÂriÂous dreamÂtime and awakÂenÂing in this harsh end-of-sumÂmer world. I was nevÂer a wild pony.
Borrowed Sparkle
I sat on a rustÂed swing hung from an I beam in our baseÂment with a heavy book on my lap. I was ten and loneÂly because my only sisÂter had left home a year earlier.
Waiting for Mr. Tumnus
Long ago, on windy, winÂtry nights, I’d look out the winÂdow by my bed as trees shiftÂed for a glimpse of a light deep in the woods. The yelÂlow light — on and off as the wind tossed — kept me up late, wonÂderÂing. We had no neighÂbors on the othÂer side of our woods.
My Journey with Margaret Wise Brown
How long does it take to write and have a nonÂficÂtion picÂture book pubÂlished? A few years? Five? How about nineteen?
Listening for Stories
Each mornÂing, when I can, I walk two and a half miles. I walk for exerÂcise because I write most of the day. But mainÂly I walk to lisÂten for stories.
Crafting a Home of the Heart
It had been years since I last visÂitÂed the home of my heart, the only place where I can breathe freely. ConÂicville is in ShenanÂdoah CounÂty in the ValÂley of VirÂginia, borÂdered by the AllegheÂny MounÂtains. It conÂsists of a church, a cemeÂtery, and a scatÂterÂing of housÂes and farms. In 2012, I travÂeled to meet my 98-year-old cousin. His farm
The Cottage of Lost Play
WorkÂing on my magÂiÂcal realÂism midÂÂdle-grade novÂel, I realÂized I couldn’t visuÂalÂize where my stoÂry is locatÂed. I could describe immeÂdiÂate buildÂings, but the landÂscape was blank. If I couldn’t see it, neiÂther could a reader.
Finding Wonder
When fairy tale charÂacÂters step into the woods, they are beset by tests, yet are stronger by the time they find their way out. At the beginÂning of 2021, I wanÂdered in a deep, dark woods because, as Bruno BetÂtelÂheim warns in The Uses of EnchantÂment, it’s where you go after losÂing the frameÂwork which gives strucÂture to your life.
Losing Wonder
I hadn’t writÂten in months. Yet each mornÂing, durÂing that misty periÂod between sleep and wakeÂfulÂness, ideas popped into my mind. In the cold winÂter light, though, those ideas were revealed as withÂered and drab. Covid stole more than conÂcenÂtraÂtion and motiÂvaÂtion. It robbed me of wonder.
Making Peace with January
This year, Hal Borland’s Book of Days migrates upstairs with me to read durÂing my afterÂnoon rest and before bed. It’s a daiÂly jourÂnal beginÂning JanÂuÂary 1, writÂten from his farm in rurÂal ConÂnectiÂcut, meant to help him answer the quesÂtions: Who am I? Where am I? What time is it? At 68, I ask those quesÂtions, too. Borland’s entries mix mid-70s sciÂence with New EngÂland lore, his natÂurÂal obserÂvaÂtions of the seaÂsons with his own quiÂet musings.
JanÂuÂary 6: Frost flowÂers fasÂciÂnate me. They are relatÂed to frost ferns, those intriÂcate patÂterns that formed on winÂdowÂpanes before we slept in heatÂed bedÂrooms. Frost ferns were indoor plants, creÂatÂed by the humidÂiÂty in the room. Frost flowÂers are wildlings, outÂdoor grows creÂatÂed by humidÂiÂty in the starlight.
Magic Needs Humble Soap
When I was ten, I wantÂed to be a detecÂÂtive-vetÂerÂiÂÂnarÂiÂan-artist-writer-balÂlet dancer. NevÂer mind I couldn’t stay up late, stand the sight of blood, or ever had a sinÂgle dance lesÂson. Ten-year-olds view the world as limÂitÂless. When I was a teenagÂer, my dreams shiftÂed to more speÂcifÂic: a writer of children’s books and an aniÂmaÂtor for Walt DisÂney Studios.
Jane Langton Gave Me Geese
In WildÂness is the preserÂvaÂtion of the World. ~ HenÂry David ThoreÂau It’s rare a children’s book changes you when you’re an adult. I don’t mean fleetÂing HarÂry Potter/Team Edward crossover fanÂdom, but genÂuine change (as with WaterÂship Down). I was nearÂly 30 when Jane LangÂton’s book The FledgÂling was pubÂlished in 1980. At that stage of my
Big Green Textbook
My first inkling there was a thing called children’s litÂerÂaÂture came at a yard sale. I picked up a thick green textÂbook, Children’s LitÂerÂaÂture in the EleÂmenÂtary School, by CharÂlotte S. Huck. I marÂveled at the idea that peoÂple disÂcussed and studÂied the books I loved and planned to write, that children’s books were litÂerÂaÂture, like Moby Dick. I was eighÂteen, one
Porch School
As a kid, I couldn’t wait until the first day of school — a fresh beginÂning, when the heat and green of sumÂmer make way for red plaid bookÂbags and corÂduroy jumpers.
Fillyjonk in Moominland
I’m tryÂing hard not to be a FilÂlyjonk. HonÂestÂly, I am. Mrs. FilÂlyjonk is a charÂacÂter in Tove Jansson’s wonÂderÂful MoomÂintroll series. FretÂful Mrs. FilÂlyjonk needs order in her world. If anyÂthing is out of place, or goes wrong, she is flatÂtened by depresÂsion and anxÂiÂety. Is anyÂthing more out of order than the world we live in