Spoke yesterday at a regional SCBWI conference at the Free Library in Guilford. Some 45 folks attended. It was a mess of a talk, all jumbled, the best part of which was that I was able to bring my friends along — in the sense that I quoted from several books by the writers who keep me company in my room when I write. Each of them dead, of course, or they wouldn’t all fit into my room or at the podium. The talk made so much more sense on my note cards than it did when I gave it, and it was so much less of a talk than a sort of confused rant.

Interestingly, the organizer of the event mentioned that she had actually met me some thirty-plus years ago and thought me, then, a kind of cross between Jesus and Charles Manson. A lovely image, and apt. For as it happened, a poor guy caused a five-car accident in Norwalk yesterday by running around naked, yelling, “I am Jesus!” And recalling my talk, I almost wonder if he wasn’t the one who delivered it. Alas, no. He was in police custody by then, so I have no one to blame but myself.

Still, the topic of it was, and is, one of the most fascinating I have come across in my years of writing: the interrelation, cross-pollination, mutual resonance — in novel writing — of fact and fiction, truth and imagination, reality and invention.

I did warn the folks that the remarks weren’t going to be tidy. At one point, I believe I denied the existence of God. Someone may or may not have walked out at that point. But I said it more to make the point that events are random; we struggle for meaning, but there really isn’t any, so our attempt to shape life into fiction is fraught with presumption and error. For me, the key word is Metaphor. As writers of fiction, we rely so heavily on invented meaning — something that journalists (I suppose) are not supposed to do. You don’t make connections where there are none, only for the sake of a point. Novelists do this all the time.

Yesterday I spoke for the third or fourth time to a sizable group about this book coming out next year, Lunch-Box Dream, since it was — or began as — my attempt at a metaphor-less story. Didn’t succeed in achieving that, or not in the same way I desired. It was simply too artistically . . . what’s the word? convenient? presumed? necessary? . . . to allow metaphors to assert themselves in the text. But there are some scenes. . . .

It’s rather easy to talk about the book before it is out. After it is out, I will either have to do a lot of defending, or not show myself publicly at all, or beg people to read it. Nothing pleasant will come out of it, either way. I suppose that’s okay, too. Writing shouldn’t be all that much fun. Or, rather, the writing can be fun, even deeply healing, and the editorial process, too, which I am enjoying immensely, but no one ever claimed that the actual publishing — the making public — of it, should be anything but, well, a mess.

What about the old man, the Census flyer, and the Ferris wheel? Yeah, I could tell you, but my friends know what I mean. I’m talking about those dead guys and the forty-five people at the Free Library. Minus one walkout.

A literacy conference last year included a panel of authors of children’s books. The panel was attended by teachers — classroom and reading — and a smattering of school librarians. When the authors spoke, they one by one showed their books to the audience, which included quite a few heads nodding seriously, as if they were actually being told some truths about literacy and not being shown goods to buy. Well, that was shocking. One expects more from an audience than to be so easily hawked to. Really now, teachers, librarians? “Buy my book” is an okay thing to say to you? And writers! Doesn’t your profession, your talent, your expertise give you a single insight on the problems of literacy in our schools unrelated to your wallet?

Once upon a time there was a person who viewed the neighbor-to-neighbor relationship as transactional: “I have invited you to dinner, now you should buy a bag of my home-made granola.” I suppose that somewhere along the way these particular authors had been instructed that a panel on literacy was a good huckstering opportunity. Did their publishers tell them that, or had their parents raised them to view others as potential customers?

Must remember to bring books and a calculator to the next funeral reception.

Two years ago, I was on a moderated panel of writers for young people — this was in Charlotte — attended mainly by young readers, but also their parents, local writers, librarians, and all manner of interested parties. The final portion of the hour or so was a question and answer period, and a nervous woman, overlooked once or twice, but who clearly had a question to get out there, was finally called on. She stood and said, with a hint of zeal, “Do you think you bear a moral responsibility when you write for children?” If memory serves, she made it clear she was ready to continue her question in a statement of her belief that writers be held to a standard a little to the right of Jerry Falwell.

This was a loaded question, and not one I was expecting (where do you get your ideas?). The fellow sitting next to me, a graphic novelist and newcomer to the children’s arena, said, without comment, “Yes, I do,” or perhaps, “Yes, I certainly do.” I felt at once, thinking of the scotch we had shared earlier, that as a recent entry into the children’s writers field he probably decided to give the answer he knew was sought and not make waves. Fine. I was next and gave a meandering answer — something about the great number of issues out there that we, as writers, could address — but said basically the same thing: Uh-huh.

If I recall, I had at the time been reading some fiction that had something vaguely political about it, and it seemed to me that writing can carry a good deal of moral momentum with it. Think, for example, of Invisible Man or Native Son or Black Boy — works of art, all, and yet powerfully moving on a more-than-personal scale. Perhaps these things were running through my head. There was also the belief that we as moral people — and who would advertise himself as immoral? — cannot help but invest our writing with some sort of morality and that the writing could not help but pass this along to our readers. The issue is a huge one, and you can slice up the apple a dozen different ways, but isn’t the real question one of consciousness? Does the moral momentum have to exist with the artist’s collaboration? If it’s intended, does the work then become something other than art? Knotty issues for a late afternoon. But my answer was, finally, one that would have pleased the questioner, and I felt in equal measures a bit cowed and a bit all right. I left it at that.

I was surprised, however, as the question made its way down the dais (well, they were chairs, actually, set in a wide semi-circle on an auditorium stage). One writer said something completely noncommittal as regards her moral content. And this set the stage for one of us — a writer/illustrator — who stated outright, with as fierce an intent as our questioner, that the writer had no responsibility whatever other than to tell a good story. That is his single duty. If he fails at that, he should not be doing what he’s doing, and the marketplace will get rid of him soon enough. End of discussion. Next question, please.

I felt chastised. It was what I should have said. The guy was right. I completely believed that. Politicizing art destroys it; politicizing it utterly, destroys it utterly. Of course! In describing the artist’s relation to world, Walker Evans once said, “I don’t think an artist is directly able to alleviate the human condition. He’s very interested in revealing it [italics, his, apparently].” Well, yeah. William Faulkner, perhaps a greater authority, said the writer must leave “no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed — love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice.” And I bow.

Clearly, there is a subject here that refuses to be exhausted. There are statements to be made on both sides. Is Guernica a study in composition and shape and color, or does it contain in its brush strokes moral outrage at the killing of civilians by fascism? What is PEN International saying when it mounts conferences to bring to light the cases of imprisoned writers? What is Amnesty International doing when it publishes limited editions of poets and novelists? Or, in fact, are artists like the photographer who takes a picture of an atrocity? He might have tossed his camera aside and stopped it, yes, but that’s not his job; that’s your job. There are all kinds of things to say about this. And maybe that’s the point of having a thinking mind. What do you think?

Just a few words — and not merely to justify the Friday in The Friday Book Report.

Next weekend, I have the pleasure of speaking on a panel about literacy at Channel 13’s Celebration of Teaching and Learning, March 6-7, held at the Hilton on 6th Avenue in New York. It’s a conference attended by educators, including teachers, librarians, sociologists, and the interested public. The panel itself is called “Keeping Kids Turning Pages: How Authors Connect with Young Readers.” As an author, I always feel at a disadvantage among professionals in a discipline and a bit of an outsider (having something, I suppose, to do with the “art” of it); I’ve discussed this before. But authors — more properly, writers — are certainly part of the equation of books and readers, so I am very excited to have been invited there — to listen, to learn, to speak, and to celebrate.

I’ll be joined by fellow authors Shana Corey, Sandra and Myles Pinkney, Dr. Kylene Beers, current President of NCTE, and Francie Alexander, Senior Vice President of Scholastic Education and Chief Academic Officer of Scholastic. Coming at the giant topic of literacy from these different angles, and from picture books to chapter books, should result in a creative and lively discussion.

I’ve learned not to try to compete with the specialist’s knowledge or stray too far into the territory of their expertise, but visiting schools and speaking with teachers and librarians, thinking about my own past as a child and a parent, and adding all these to the stew of writing and publishing for children aged 6 to 14, is, I hope, enough of a grounding to say a few things. I’ll have more to offer here after the event.

Up now, however, is a little bit I was asked to add to the pre-conference blog site (http://thirteencelebration.org/blog/edblog/thoughts-on-literacy/1130/). Apologies for not yet understanding how to add a link.

Let it also be known that the desk is clearing somewhat. I’ve finished the second revision of The Ghost Road, the fourth installment of The Haunting of Derek Stone. It is the longest of the books, as it needed to be, and, as series folk know, had to tie up a bushel of storylines. I am delighted to have done it. Also, with other burdens completed, though with more Droons to come, I see a space, a clearing ahead. Still some way to go before I reach it, but when I set foot there, I shall finish my next novel. Until then, hush up.

So I just returned from Reno, where I workshopped with teachers and librarians in Washoe County, down there in the shadow of the vast Sierra Nevada mountains.

Ellen Fockler, Library Coordinator of the Washoe County School District, is the elegant and tireless organizer of the Conference, now in its 33rd year. With a registration in the 250 range, only a tad down from last year, the conference was by all accounts a resounding success. It certainly was from my point of view; I was lucky enough to deliver a keynote to the entire group on the morning of the second day of the event, and I realized once again that writers simply don’t get enough opportunity to talk with, and listen to, classroom teachers, reading teachers, and school and public librarians.

As writers for children know, the creation of the story is merely the beginning of a long journey that ends, one hopes, in a reader’s hands. In all cases outside of the rare trade success, the penultimate hands in that process are those of a librarian or teacher.

The day before, I had the pleasure of visiting Huffaker Elementary, as the guest of Doreen Penrose, the school’s firecracker librarian. What a lovely bunch of kids and so excited about reading and writing. As much as air travel ages one, there is nothing like moving among the minds of tomorrow in far flung parts of our country. The Huffaker crew — from preschool to sixth grade — were imaginative, intelligent, and friendly and were the perfect inspiration and springboard for the Reading Week get-together.

Thank you, Doreen, Ellen, and all of the amazingly devoted staff at both school and conference, for a weekend to remember.

Last year I was invited to present a workshop or two at The Primary Conference — an annual meeting of classroom and writing teachers in grades K-3 — on, as the organizer said, “writing techniques you think teachers can share with their kids.”

Hmmm . . .

As I told him, I think of myself as a working writer, and while I do a lot of school and library visits, keynotes, and writing workshops with students, I’ve never actually done a workshop for adult teachers. Looking at the conference website, I was a bit put off by the expertise of teacher/speakers on the one hand and the “performance” aspect of the storyteller/writers on the other.

Besides that, there lingered a misconception from my first days of speaking to adults: that to be successful, one has to rise to the level of the attendees’ usual debates, absorb the intricate and specialized knowledge of their work, and speak in kind, as a fellow worker in the vineyard. To address a room of librarians, for instance, you have to equip yourself with a good knowledge of librarianship; of teachers, with a thorough acquaintanceship of teaching theories and techniques. If you didn’t do this, you would be made to feel underqualified, an outsider, a pretender.

I’ve mostly given up this silly idea. Any seasoned conference goer will tell you this is exactly wrong, anyway. If you are outside a certain field, conference sponsors don’t invite you to be knowledgeable in what they do, but in what you do. Attendees want to decide how your unfamiliar information will help them do their work.

It was the smart organizer who finally convinced me to take it on. In essence, he said: “As a writer of many books, you know this stuff already. You simply haven’t put your knowledge into this particular form yet. Just tell us what you know, and it’ll turn out great.” I totally paraphrase. Looking back at the emails, I see didn’t use the word “great.” He never came close to using the word “great.” But you get the idea. I agreed.

Then, a few weeks ago, I was asked to submit descriptions of the presentations. Uh-oh. My bluff was being called. As anyone will know who writes outlines or summaries of anything not yet existent, these descriptions present a kind of ideal that, being put out there, must eventually be lived up to. Of course, anything months away seems perfectly doable. Besides, over the last few months I’ve been chatting with teachers and other writers and massing notes and texts to help me form the workshops. The conference is in November, still a few weeks away, but the material is gathering. I’ll share war stories afterwards. Here are the summaries I came up with.

Building Stories from the Ground Up

Featured Speaker: Tony Abbott
Target Audience: Grades 2-3

Author of The Secrets of Droon and more than thirty other books for young readers, Tony Abbott shares his own genre series — fantasy, science fiction, adventure, mystery — and discusses how series fiction spurs literacy among reluctant readers in the early grades. He describes the basis of all stories, from Goodnight Moon to War and Peace, details the no-nonsense tips and techniques he uses to write his own works, and shares how these concepts can inspire writing in your classroom.

Ideas are Everywhere. But Just in Case . . .

Featured Speaker: Tony Abbott
Target Audience: Grades 2-3

Children’s author Tony Abbott shares the top secret ways he finds and uses ideas, what fun things you can do to spur ideas in young writers, how there’s no such thing as “writer’s block,” and the care and maintenance of each student’s “imagination machine.” You’ll learn what to do with inspiration when you have it, how to elaborate, to color, to question, and to “twist” ideas, generating more than you and your students can possibly handle.

Wow, I wanna go to these workshops myself! Ultimately, I’ll rely on my fairly good idea of what it means to be a working writer. Maybe it’ll turn out great!

Sorry to miss last week’s Report; more for my own sake than for any presumption of a readership. You know, you get to a stage of your life and it hurts to renege on a promise, even a whispered one. But life takes over. Days sweep on, one after the other, until you look around and find it’s this time next week.

Last weekend I attended the SCBWI Annual Conference in Los Angeles. There are enough round-ups of what happened at the conference seeping onto the Interweb (as Tracy Jordan calls it), that I won’t add to them here. For those writers for children who have never attended, however, the event is nothing less than a celebration and a call to arms. You cannot help but be buoyed by listening to the first rate faculty on such nuts-and-bolts topics as Revision (Lisa Yee) or Story Beginnings (Sara Pennypacker). I found myself taking detailed notes, more than I ever expected to, if only to remember what great sessions those were. The keynotes ranged from boldly inspirational (Bruce Coville) to quietly emphatic (Mark Teague) to funny with props (Rachel Cohn).

If the juggernaut of daily life so easily overwhelms the filmy artist you imagine yourself to be (think armored tanks vs. a lone horseman), this conference is a shield and a buckler, a mighty fortress, for four days, at least, in which every breath establishes the real value of writing for children. And that knowledge is what you take back home with you.

This is about as personal as I think I’ll get, but my own little moment of pride came a day before the conference when I put together a hundred pages of a new novel and sent them to my agent and to my editor. As noted below, I’d despaired of finding the time to do this properly, but in four intense days at my desk got to a place where a sizable fragment, if not complete, would nonetheless give a fair idea of how I wanted to tell the story. And telling the story properly was the only reason to write it.

Now we wait.

Writing, reading, and publishing — for children — are the stuff of life for me, and I want to use the Friday Book Report to discuss topics that writers, readers, and publishers, as well as parents, classroom and reading teachers, school and public librarians, and anyone else who loves children’s books might find interesting. Comments are welcome. Feel free to be provocative; a lively discussion is the best kind.

Because I have a trainload of writing to do every day or the schedules topple, I thought a weekly blog might be the ticket. Of course, if something comes along that is more urgent, I’ll post more frequently, but the idea is that you can (if you want) at least count on there being something new on Fridays. You know, like the PW Children’s Newsletter comes on Thursdays (free; you should subscribe if you don’t already).

Some completely random stuff might creep in, too. Like new books I’ve read, or some old ones about which there is something to say. I also have an idea to write up what I call The Week That Was, a sort of diary of the business of writing and what happens from day to day at my desk (poor, overburdened thing that it is).

Then there is what I’m going to call Appreciations. These will be little essays about some books and authors I just can’t keep quiet about. I’ll share the reasons why I am nuts about them. Some will be topical; others decidedly not.

HOWEVER . . . to begin, I want to say a few words about the American Library Association annual meeting that just wound up. It took place in the sensory overload capital of the world, Disneyland. “Ahna—HEIM! Ahna—HEIM!” as my cabdriver described it. For four days (6/27 to 6/30), I was the guest of Little, Brown and Company Books for Young Readers. My lovely editor, Alvina Ling, and crew (names named below) brought me out to read and sign my novel, The Postcard. Their Fiction Lunch on Saturday hosted between forty and fifty librarians, media specialists, book lovers, and committee members. There were some good folks there, including fellow Ohioan Floyd Dickman.

Wendy Mass (Every Soul a Star) and Paul Feig (Ignatius MacFarland: Frequenaut) were fellow authors. Victoria Stapleton, Little, Brown’s supremely able and quietly hilarious library conference manager told us we each had — and I quote — “three to five minutes” to convince these folks how indispensable our books are. Quietly hilarious, indeed. Paul, Wendy, and I wept inwardly, flipping through pages to try to find the — what? — nine or ten words that would sum up our work. As I was set to go first (was it alphabetical?) I tried to make the case that I heard “three to five minutes” as “thirty-five minutes”, but alas, Victoria is nothing if not precise. To sum up, I took longer than either three or five minutes, sacrificing myself on the altar of duty, so that my fellow writers could take as much time as they needed. Much fun was had by all. Plus the food was darn good.

There was more, but I’ll wait until another Friday Book Report to get into it all. Among these things: the Newbery/Caldecott Banquet, the exhibit hall, the palm trees, incessant easy listening soundtrack, and Indiana Jones and the Temple of the Forbidden Eye.

Many thanks, first of all to my editor, Alvina, who said the loveliest things about the vague stuff I told her about the book I was writing. Then there is Victoria, who made sure that my flight, hotel, food, and fun were looked after, and, hilariously, they were. Also, my guide and good sport, Melanie Chang, the legendary Megan Tingley, new mom Andrea Spooner (what a cool name), Andrew Smith (he of the sardonic humor), and Jennifer Hunt, editor of good books I have not written.

Among the personages I met: Pat Carman (of Atherton and Elyron), Michael Emberley, Ed Young (Wabi Sabi), Edel Rodriguez (Sergio Makes a Splash), the aforementioned Wendy and Paul, of course, and then, bow down now all, Christopher Paul Curtis, whose novels are quite good indeed. Saw Peter Sis, for whom I have got THE project, if there were world enough and time.

And speaking of world enough and time, mine’s run out. Until next week . . .