Imagination doesn't just mean making things up. It means thinking things through, solving [problems] or hoping to do so, and being just distant enough to be able to laugh at things that are normally painful. [Some people] would call this escapism, but they would be be entirely wrong. I would call fantasy the most serious, and the most useful branch of writing there is.
--Diana Wynne Jones

Friday, June 19, 2009

In a poetry mood...

Hadn't seen the sun in awhile. When it turned up today, poetry happened.

Mountain Glory-Song

For two weeks I thought the sun
Was playing hide-and-find
And tag-and-dash
And blind-man-bluff—
A fortnight of teasing games
Of almost and not quite,
And maybe tomorrow—

But today the sun came up and stayed,
And I realized—
Sun never left, clouds just tricked
My view—my eyes were the
Trouble, my vision
Too weak to poke
Through to outer-space.

Today the sun breaks out—
The mountain sings its glory
And I stand witness
To the whole, great organ
Of mountainous joy—

The birds begin it—

An ecstasy of towhee pipe song
And warbler trills
And camp-robber scree! scree! scrah!
And the thrushes, of course—
Running melodies over
The rocks like streams of
Snow-melt—nobody ever could beat a
Thrush for song

And then the crickets take it up
With the grass-fiddlers.
And the mountain opens up its stops—
Every one—
And lets loose sforzando

Dragonflies dance with swallows—
Escaping mosquitoes
Swoop and spin—
Butterflies, too, fly in a crazy
Dance of joy

And every puff of breeze
Sends summer-snow from the cotton-woods,
Weaving into the song and dance—
Twisting around my face
And arms, pulling me in—

The scent of sweet wild wheat
And sweeter sage
Assault my nose,
And every nook and crevice
In the rock throbs and thrums
In the glory-worship,
Begs me join in—

And I can’t help myself—

I sing


I dance.


It's midnight and I'm writing a blog post. Does that tell you something about how much writing time I have when my kids are home in the summer? I miss 6-hour writing blocks. And not waiting up late on weekdays for teenagers to come home. Built-in writing time--too bad I'm too tired to appreciate it.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Plugging in

I always believed I was one of those people whose emotional/mental energy recharges in solitude. It's true: quiet time alone with mountains and nature will always leave me feeling better, more ready to face whatever hard thing life decides to dump on me today.

Anne Morrow Lindburgh said once that being around other people is draining because there's nothing more exhausting than being insincere. Yeah. Most of the time social settings require at least some insincerity, especially for someone like me, lest I alarm anyone with the real Elena.

I've changed my mind, just a little, about that, though. After spending a delightful week with hundreds of other writers at the BYU Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers (WIFYR) Conference, and my mornings with a small and talented group of fantasy writers in my workshop there, I've decided that being around other people isn't what's draining; it's being around people who don't "get" you.

It's about connection.

Funny how most of my stories tend to be about connection and isolation. About physical islands and emotional ones. Apparently it's a hang-up of mine.

We all need to feel connected to other people. I think it's a fundamental human requirement. We need to feel there are people out there like us, who understand the way we think and feel, who won't stare when we open our mouths and say something that shows our minds don't tick quite the same way as the rest of the world.

Fantasy-writers are amazing people. I was stunned at the imagination and creativity in the room every morning. How refreshing to be around people who never look at you like you're from outer space, just because you say something bizarre. And who'd like you better if you did turn out to be from outer space after all, anyway. Everybody's sensitive and neurotic. Everyone's minds are constantly spinning. Every person has the same addiction: we can't not write, no matter how hard we try to stop. And we wouldn't want to.

I'm still on a high.

Some of my favorite things at WIFYR this year:

*The people; the connections.

*Tracy and Laura Hickman, who taught my class. The amount of work they put into this workshop still blows my mind.

*Dramatica theory, which is helping me figure out how to fix the story I put in a drawer for a year because I was stuck on my rewrites.

*A list of new books to look forward to reading someday, by members of my class. I'd be surprised if I didn't see every one of these books in print before too long.

*Lots of homework and deadlines, which pulled me out of a writing slog.

*World-building exercises, which filled up a big hole in what I knew about writing craft.

*Learning about publishing contracts and understanding the business end of books.

*Dandi Mackall's presentation on voice. Only you can write the story you need to tell, in the way you would tell it, to touch the person who needs your book.

*Tracy Hickman's banquet presentation on story as meaning. The part of reading that matters is what happens in the white spaces, the reaction of a reader to a book, the way it changes them for life. One soldier tried to present Tracy with his purple heart and brass star for bravery in battle after being inspired by a character in one of Tracy's books.

My brain is still making connections with ideas I met at the conference, and I'm still smiling to think of the people connections--with both old friends and new.

My son said to me one day last week: "Mom, you seem happier."

I guess I just needed to recharge. Who'd have guessed that would happen in a place swarming with people?

Playing High and Dry with Sourdough

Lately I've been playing with dough. It's become a sort of a compulsion. Maybe because I'm tired of driving all the way to som...