SCBWI

I spent this last Friday through Monday at the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators Annual Conference. And boy, am I spent.

It was fun seeing some of my friends from the last four years. I was excited to learn that one of my friends, an illustrator, had been having a fantastic year since the last conference. She had been chosen to illustrate several children's picture books, and she looked sooooo happy. Several other friends were getting closer to being published, and it was wonderful to hear everyone talk about their progress. I even got to meet fellow LJ member, Kym Brunner. It was really nice to finally meet her in person.

I'm trying to recover and get caught up, so I'll keep this post extremely brief. Clear thoughts, and even clearer pictures, will be posted later this week. For now, I'll just make one big, blurry statement: SCBWI continues to pack the house with people bursting with high-level energy and enthusiasm. Over nine-hundred people gathered in LA to discuss children's books -- all sharing their talents and their joys and their dreams. I couldn't help but leave the conference with a new level of energy for my work, and I look forward to going again next year.

I met Andrew Klaven in Ventura, last weekend. He was a panelist speaking on the topic of "Writing for Men and Women." Andrew writes for men, and isn't afraid to say it out loud, not to mention in public. He has had a great writing career with two of his books having been made into movies. One stared Clint Eastwood, the other Michael Douglas. 

            He's not as scary as he looks. 

Andrew was very funny, and his quick wit made the panel discussion interesting. But a comment he made about how his publisher expects each of his new books to continue to be geared to men (keep the explosions, the shootings, and the shallow relationships with meaningless sex coming) got me wondering: How come some writers are confined to a specific slot?  -- while others, like a Michael Chabon, can jump the wall between genres and land in a world where he is free to craft stories for as long as he wants.
 
Is it the writer's fault? Is it his publisher's?

At this point in my soon-to-be-budding career, I don't have to deal with any of that. But silly as it sounds, I wonder what would happen if I did.

In other thoughts -- less serious and far more carefree -- I'm daydreaming about the fun I'll be having at the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators 37th Annual Summer Conference. The conference is held in Los Angeles at the beautiful Hyatt Regency Century Plaza. I look forward to saying "Hello" to those I've met on my journey to becoming published, and hopefully, with a little bit of luck, I'll meet (in person rather than via the typed word) a "cyber friend" or two from Live Journal. If you spot me first, don't be afraid to come up and say "Hi." Like Andrew Klavan, I'm not as scary as I look.     

Thanksgiving holiday was a long NCAA basketball weekend, one I spent by going to three days of games at the Anaheim Convention Center (the Anaheim Classic Tournament). When it comes to college basketball, I'm good for a while. My kids had fun and enjoyed the games, not to mention the Dippin Dots served in giant cups. Overall we saw some great ball from USC, Miami of Ohio, and Southern Illinois. 

Also, over the break another short story popped into my head and on to paper. That makes four in the last month. Christmas is coming early. I have enjoyed discovering how fun it is to write stories in the five to seven thousand word range. Each has been an exploration, with several going into genres that I have never before written. These four shorts have helped to expand my abilities and sharpen my skills. But in addition to being good ground-breaking execises, the stories themselves and the characters have been fun. Spending time with them was like going to a costume party where you meet all kinds of bizarre and interesting people. 

I've had so much fun with my short game that I 've decided, over the course of the next twelve months, to write one short a month while keeping my long game moving forward. It's my official pre-New Year's resolution.

A brief message to all of you who have given me writerly pecks of support. 

It's done. 

The battle is over. 

Pools of blood remain, questions linger, but I know that my main character moves on. And after revisions, I will follow. 

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep...  

I sit in a study carrel at the library. It's one in the afternoon on Sunday. I have the end desk of a very long row, so I look ahead. That's when I notice a sea of females at their desks. Reading. Typing. Highlighting.

And I think: women are such studious creatures. 

I count. Seventeen females. One male.

Then it hits me. Any respectable card-carrying male is sprawled out on his sofa right now, reaching for Doritos, clutching the remote, and watching the pigskin get tossed around.

Christ. What am I doing here?

Finishing my novel, that's what. 

And I'm almost there. I shuffle my pages of notes, I tune out the real world -- the one that reminds me of what I sacrifice in order to finish a book. And then I slip into my fantasy world, noting how the end of my lips turn upward. I'm on the last chapter. 

Clouds fill the sky. Dimness displaces previous brightness. Trolls run past me, large noses bobbing limply. Confusion is carved into their leathery faces. I hear the blacksmiths, hundreds of them, as they strike their anvils in a last minute effort to make more tips for giant arrows. Still glowing, the tips are attached to wet shafts, batched, then shuffled off to the archers who are going to need all they can get. In the air I smell sweat made acrid by panic. 

Soldiers have amassed on both sides. 

The final conflict is here...

mood: excited