As a writer one spends a lot of time alone too.  Usually for me, it’s sitting with my laptop, trying to make progress…. the world going on without you.  Connection can strike you as purely an Internet term, a virtual possibility, attractive, yet remote.

I wrote the above two paragraphs, waxing melancholic because I was in what I call “Post-Play depression” on the way home after the National SCBWI Conference in Los Angeles, this past summer.  PPD was a phrase I had coined when I was in high school (I’m sure thousands of others used the term independently), in the cast of school plays, where months of work and camaraderie would lead up to one or two performances, intense excitement, exhilaration…and then let down. What do you do the day AFTER the play, when there’s no rehearsal to go to? No performance to anticipate?

I find myself thinking the same thing after a terrific SCBWI conference in Austin, Texas this past weekend. This was, of course, a much smaller, “regional” conference. It lasted one evening and a full day. But it was, in miniature, what the National Conference is writ large. As I sit on the plane home I can close my eyes and hear the friendly, Texan accents. I’m smiling thinking about the generous authors who took time to pick me up at the airport, take me to lunch, allow me to consider myself one of them as I read from MONDAY IS ONE DAY with Julian Hector my co-creator (whom I met for the first time this weekend, and is as sweet as he is talented!).

It’s amazing to me that some people actually used to be a bit snide about SCBW (as it was called many years ago.) Let’s face it, there was a pervasive idea that in its early days the organization was for folks who were just beginning to pursue the idea of being writers, and whose learning curve was steep.

Well, there are still plenty of newcomers at every conference, thank goodness. (After all, wouldn’t literature be like a dried out river bed if new people weren’t always deciding that NOW would be the time to start adding their stories to the stream?) But the SCBWI has become much, much more than a source of information for “newbies.”  At the Austin conference, in typical fashion, I would move from a conversation with Kimberly Willis Holt, a Newbery medalist, to a conversation with a group of writers who’d met at the Vermont College MFA program, to an exchange with a Librarian who’d been on every award committee sponsored by the ALA, to lunch with a brilliant picture book author whose book had won a Caldecott Honor.  Over here in once corner would be a thoughtful newcomer trying to parse the difference between an Imprint Head and a Publisher. (I think perhaps if I still had hair I might wake up with Imprint Head. Sigh.) And in another corner would be Carolyn Coman, Printz Honoree, National Book Award Medalist, and one of the finest writers working in our field, talking to Caldecott Medalist David Diaz.

Furthermore, we’re ALL learning something. In the Austin sessions, I gained some powerful insights, and even a bit of optimism from listening to Stephen Roxburgh talk about the electronic future.  I got hints from social-networking Guru Greg Pincus on how I might help get the word out for MONDAY IS ONE DAY.  And, as always I met writers who I am sure I will be publishing some day. (Especially given my determination to pour my energies into working with people who are as nice as they are talented!)

It feels like a blessing to take five seconds to REFLECT on what I’m doing as a publisher and actually think about how I might do it better.  And it feels great to get out and do some teaching and some sharing of information to a group, when my day job is often taken up with the logistics of working effectively in a large organization.  (It feels great to be appreciated for doing this sharing and teaching too, which I almost always do feel at these conferences.)

So, no wonder I’m feeling a bit of PPL right now. But I’m also feeling inspired. The bookselling landscape, the financial formulae underlying corporate publishers, even the format in which books reach their audience…these things may be changing rapidly.  But what hasn’t changed is the love of writing and storytelling that binds so many of us together.  And what hasn’t changed is the power of community – the reassurance and the support of people with shared goals and passions, coming together.

Thank you for that, SCBWI Austin! And thank you to author Chris Barton, who, as he dropped me off at the airport, gave my writerly tush one final kick: “Think you’ll write another blog this year, Arthur?” he asked.

“I’ll try!” I said.  It takes a village.

I cannot believe how much time has passed since my last blog. And I cannot believe how much time has passed since the last time I worked on my novel. And I cannot believe how much work is due YESTERDAY. And I cannot believe how many things I am obligated to read for the grant I agreed to administer and the literary award I agreed to help judge. And I cannot believe that I have two hours of volunteer work for my synagogue scheduled tonight.

I am so tired just typing that. LOL.

But this, my friends in the blogosphere, was not meant to be a whiny, complainy, pity-party blog. It was meant to be a promise that I will get back to writing this. I will get back to all of you. Hope you’re still out there!

Cheers,
Arthur

So thank you to everyone who made the discussion of “Inclusion” so entertaining and thought-provoking, so brave, and so civil. I have to say that it was way more than I’d imagined when I put down the Horn Book and started to type!

Thus I am learning about blogging. And doubtless making mistakes as I go. So thanks for not only bearing with me, but carrying me along on the currents of discussion.

All of which (now that I’m done being intimidated by it) has me thinking about Ambition and Goals and the relationship between the two. Goals seem like rooms unto themselves: they can be relatively small, clear, and easily defined. Ambitions seem like larger constructions with roofs expanded by things like hope and idealism, their pillars carved out of flawed veins of confidence. Their foundations often erected without conscious thought.

I don’t think I knew enough to have a capital “A” ambition for my blog, beyond opening up a line of conversation with folks who share my interest in writing and thinking. Plus, the fact is that I had an “Arthur’s Blog” button on my website for YEARS without actually writing anything. And what got me going, finally, was narrowing the scope for myself to a goal: to write something once a week. (Oops, off track on goal already!!!)
I am exploring the idea in my head (and through my fingers as I type) that one is most effective when there is a balance between these two things – Ambitions and Goals. And that each endeavor one might want to do in life calls for one or the other to be more prominent.
I’ve always wanted to play the guitar, for instance. I mean, I’ve wanted to play the guitar since I was ELEVEN. And I even took lessons at camp that summer, learning “Eleanor Rigby” and “The Times They Are a Changin’”. But for some reason, I guess I wasn’t satisfied with my progress at the time. And I felt that I’d already sworn my allegiance to the clarinet, on which I was a grizzled two-year veteran. So I decided that it was “too late” to start playing a second instrument, and I dropped it. Remarkably, I have been able to make this same absurd mistake half a dozen times in my life without ever learning anything. Including how to play the guitar.
Finally, I am learning again. And I think the key for me has been to lessen the Ambition (“I want to play WELL. I want to be like those wonderfully soulful, shaggy, guys who can transform a campfire or a party.”) And to focus on a GOAL.
The goal now is to practice every day. Another goal, just behind that, is to be able to change from the D-chord to the C-chord without hesitating.
The ambition was stifling me; even for something as private and inconsequential as learning to play the guitar.
On the other hand, I think my inability to finish the novel I’ve been wanting to write for fifteen years may have more to do with a LACK of ambition on my part.
I have tried many techniques for writing this novel. I had a terrific writers’ group at one point; the other two members have gone on and published the wonderful projects they were working on. For our monthly meetings I would dutifully produce some new material, taking various writers’ good advice and shining my headlights a few yards in front of me, meeting my short-term goals, having faith that eventually I would reach my destination, even though I’d spent the entire trip in the dark.
Instead I ran out of gas. Repeatedly.
I made another leap of progress last summer at the Pacific Northwest Writers’ Conference, sitting in a workshop led by the writer Linda Urban, who was talking about figuring out what the SPINE of one’s novel was. I was sitting next to my pal Ben Watson and he was dutifully scribbling notes and I thought, oh what the heck, let me try this, and BAM! I’d written the “spine” of my novel down on paper and in fact had outlined the whole flippin’ thing! In 45 minutes!!
If I ever actually write this durned novel I’ll have to thank Linda. But so far…well, nothing much has gotten done. It just feels too big, too hard, too overwhelming. And the idea of driving in the dark with my headlights, trusting that I’ll get the whole distance a few yards at a time? Well, that just feels like…driving in the dark with my headlights. Only I’m driving, with a splittin headache, on a wildly twisting, narrow mountain road with no guardrail and a treacherous rocky gulch yawning on my right. And since I don’t know where I’m going, really, I might find that the road ends suddenly. At the edge of a cliff.
I just have this suspicion that I have to psyche myself up to an AMBITION of some sort if I’m ever going to get over this terror. And I don’t think the ambition has to be: “I want to win the Pulitzer Prize.” But it might have something to do with having some Ambition to be a writer at all. At all.
Maybe if I find an ambition for this novel (or for myself as a novelist) that feels reasonable, I’ll be able to construct goals that lead up to it, and which don’t feel futile. Maybe. I’m trying this train of thought out. (Publicly. LOL.)
Is Ambition the thing that gives one confidence and energy? Or the thing that allows you to persevere when you have neither? Or do we working writers simply need something to push writing high enough on the priority list so that it gets done after wage-earning and parenting, attending to friendships and physical issues – all the (other) needs of the heart and the body?

I do think this relationship between an appropriate ambition and well-thought out goals is key in so many endeavors. Once I talked to a fitness trainer about an ambition I had to become someone who could take his shirt off at the beach unselfconsciously. He wisely told me that the part of my body I’d have to change to accomplish that was the brain, and he probably couldn’t help me with that. Ironically, he did. When I focused on a more attainable Ambition I was able to attach smaller fitness goals to it, and make progress.
As an editor and publisher I also have both Ambition and Goals. The Ambition is to leave a legacy of great books for young people that I’ve helped shepherd to their readership. The goals? Those are clear too when I step back from them: Find great authors and illustrators. Read their work. Give them feedback. Meet production deadlines. Inspire the rest of my company to get behind those books. Yet, to be honest, very often the actual workday is too hectic and out of my control to beat it into a shape that supports those goals efficiently.
Which may just mean that in the case of my work as a Publisher, I need to define my daily goals with greater vigor and rigidity.
It’s worth a shot!
And now…I have an editorial letter to finish! (My goal for the day!)
Cheers.

So thank you to everyone who made the discussion of “Inclusion” so entertaining and thought-provoking, so brave, and so civil. I have to say that it was way more than I’d imagined when I put down the Horn Book and started to type!

Thus I am learning about blogging. And doubtless making mistakes as I go. So thanks for not only bearing with me, but carrying me along on the currents of discussion.

All of which (now that I’m done being intimidated by it) has me thinking about Ambition and Goals and the relationship between the two. Goals seem like rooms unto themselves: they can be relatively small, clear, and easily defined. Ambitions seem like larger constructions with roofs expanded by things like hope and idealism, their pillars carved out of flawed veins of confidence. Their foundations often erected without conscious thought.

I don’t think I knew enough to have a capital “A” ambition for my blog, beyond opening up a line of conversation with folks who share my interest in writing and thinking. Plus, the fact is that I had an “Arthur’s Blog” button on my website for YEARS without actually writing anything. And what got me going, finally, was narrowing the scope for myself to a goal: to write something once a week. (Oops, off track on goal already!!!)
I am exploring the idea in my head (and through my fingers as I type) that one is most effective when there is a balance between these two things – Ambitions and Goals. And that each endeavor one might want to do in life calls for one or the other to be more prominent.
I’ve always wanted to play the guitar, for instance. I mean, I’ve wanted to play the guitar since I was ELEVEN. And I even took lessons at camp that summer, learning “Eleanor Rigby” and “The Times They Are a Changin’”. But for some reason, I guess I wasn’t satisfied with my progress at the time. And I felt that I’d already sworn my allegiance to the clarinet, on which I was a grizzled two-year veteran. So I decided that it was “too late” to start playing a second instrument, and I dropped it. Remarkably, I have been able to make this same absurd mistake half a dozen times in my life without ever learning anything. Including how to play the guitar.
Finally, I am learning again. And I think the key for me has been to lessen the Ambition (“I want to play WELL. I want to be like those wonderfully soulful, shaggy, guys who can transform a campfire or a party.”) And to focus on a GOAL.
The goal now is to practice every day. Another goal, just behind that, is to be able to change from the D-chord to the C-chord without hesitating.
The ambition was stifling me; even for something as private and inconsequential as learning to play the guitar.
On the other hand, I think my inability to finish the novel I’ve been wanting to write for fifteen years may have more to do with a LACK of ambition on my part.
I have tried many techniques for writing this novel. I had a terrific writers’ group at one point; the other two members have gone on and published the wonderful projects they were working on. For our monthly meetings I would dutifully produce some new material, taking various writers’ good advice and shining my headlights a few yards in front of me, meeting my short-term goals, having faith that eventually I would reach my destination, even though I’d spent the entire trip in the dark.
Instead I ran out of gas. Repeatedly.
I made another leap of progress last summer at the Pacific Northwest Writers’ Conference, sitting in a workshop led by the writer Linda Urban, who was talking about figuring out what the SPINE of one’s novel was. I was sitting next to my pal Ben Watson and he was dutifully scribbling notes and I thought, oh what the heck, let me try this, and BAM! I’d written the “spine” of my novel down on paper and in fact had outlined the whole flippin’ thing! In 45 minutes!!
If I ever actually write this durned novel I’ll have to thank Linda. But so far…well, nothing much has gotten done. It just feels too big, too hard, too overwhelming. And the idea of driving in the dark with my headlights, trusting that I’ll get the whole distance a few yards at a time? Well, that just feels like…driving in the dark with my headlights. Only I’m driving, with a splittin headache, on a wildly twisting, narrow mountain road with no guardrail and a treacherous rocky gulch yawning on my right. And since I don’t know where I’m going, really, I might find that the road ends suddenly. At the edge of a cliff.
I just have this suspicion that I have to psyche myself up to an AMBITION of some sort if I’m ever going to get over this terror. And I don’t think the ambition has to be: “I want to win the Pulitzer Prize.” But it might have something to do with having some Ambition to be a writer at all. At all.
Maybe if I find an ambition for this novel (or for myself as a novelist) that feels reasonable, I’ll be able to construct goals that lead up to it, and which don’t feel futile. Maybe. I’m trying this train of thought out. (Publicly. LOL.)
Is Ambition the thing that gives one confidence and energy? Or the thing that allows you to persevere when you have neither? Or do we working writers simply need something to push writing high enough on the priority list so that it gets done after wage-earning and parenting, attending to friendships and physical issues – all the (other) needs of the heart and the body?

I do think this relationship between an appropriate ambition and well-thought out goals is key in so many endeavors. Once I talked to a fitness trainer about an ambition I had to become someone who could take his shirt off at the beach unselfconsciously. He wisely told me that the part of my body I’d have to change to accomplish that was the brain, and he probably couldn’t help me with that. Ironically, he did. When I focused on a more attainable Ambition I was able to attach smaller fitness goals to it, and make progress.
As an editor and publisher I also have both Ambition and Goals. The Ambition is to leave a legacy of great books for young people that I’ve helped shepherd to their readership. The goals? Those are clear too when I step back from them: Find great authors and illustrators. Read their work. Give them feedback. Meet production deadlines. Inspire the rest of my company to get behind those books. Yet, to be honest, very often the actual workday is too hectic and out of my control to beat it into a shape that supports those goals efficiently.
Which may just mean that in the case of my work as a Publisher, I need to define my daily goals with greater vigor and rigidity.
It’s worth a shot!
And now…I have an editorial letter to finish! (My goal for the day!)
Cheers.

Today I took the train into the city, reading THE HORN BOOK Magazine ( www.hbook.com ), and I was fascinated to read Ellen Wittlinger’s article, “Too Gay? Or Not Gay enough?” In it she laments the fact that the Lambda Literary Foundation (www.lambdaliterary.org) has changed the rules for its literary award, so that it is granted to an author who identifies as LBGT, rather than a book that portrays the LGBT experience In explaining the shift, Ellen likens the new terms to those of the Coretta Scott King Awards, which are granted to African American authors and artists, rather than books that portray the African American experience. My understanding of the goal of the CSK awards is that they are intended to support and honor writers and artists who are part of a community whose artistic achievements have been (woefully) under-recognized. The Lambda Literary Foundation’s previous terms (Ellen goes on to say) were more like those of the Sidney Taylor Awards which recognize books portraying the Jewish experience without regard to the writer’s religion. The goal for this type of award, I think, is to encourage a broader inclusion of Jewish characters and themes in all literature, and to help identify such books to an interested audience.

From where I sit, both these outcomes are good ones: I think it’s a good, valid, and fair thing for any group to establish an award that recognizes the contributions of people in that group. I also think that it’s a fantastic thing to encourage the production of literature that reflects the true diversity of our culture, and speaking for myself, from a multiple-minority perspective, I’m only concerned with how real, how authentic the characters (and their settings) FEEL to me, which has more to do with the writer’s skill and empathy and sensitivity than anything else. (In other words, Ellen, you’re exactly gay enough for me!)

I guess, from my perspective as an editor and a reader, I also see, in practical terms, how far we have to go before our literature even begins to reflect the complex world of TODAY, let alone the comfortably integrated, harmonious world I wish my child to see. How else to explain why, in 2010, I had to ask an experienced and fantastically talented artist why it was that his sketches reflected a world that was entirely Caucasian. Was that his intention? I asked him. Was he making a comment on this world, that all the adults and children were white? (It wasn’t his intention, it turned out, and he was happy to have his cast be a great deal more diverse.)

How else to explain why, in 2010, in manuscripts that are submitted to me almost all the characters I see who are Jewish, seem to live in the shtetls of 18th Century Eastern Europe? (Except for those who are the victims of Nazis in World War II). Not that those aren’t perfectly reasonable times and setting to explore. But really? Are there NO JEWS in contemporary America who fret about going to the mall and finding the makings of a Haman or Queen Esther costume that is flattering to the figure as well as acceptable in a Purim carnival?

How else to explain why, in 2010, writers are still feeling compelled to send the gay ex-boyfriends of their protagonists to fiery deaths in auto-accidents?? Can’t the protagonist just cry on the shoulder of his best friend, eat too many donuts and make vicious comments about the ex behind his back? Even better; can’t they just fall in love and have it be amazingly wonderful and imperfect and full of insecure parties and hand-holding-while-watching-tv-sit-coms?

To be clear: I’m really not suggesting that these particular plot points are things “I am looking for.” It’s the natural inclusiveness that I long for, where what makes a character a “minority” is not portrayed as pathology, but shown clearly and precisely through the diamond-sharp lens of character specificity.

Is that too much to ask?

So my appreciation of Librarians persists. To this day I never feel so in my element as when I’m surrounded by Librarians – folks who really care about the quality of the writing, who notice production values, who have opinions about illustration. These are my peeps.

When I went to my first A.L.A. I was most excited about attending as a spectator, the meetings of the Notable and BBYA committees. I was working for Putnam at the time, and I was given excellent instruction about how I was to comport myself from Refna Wilkin, our wonderful, experience, and British Executive Editor:

“Arthur,” she said, “You may listen, but you may not react. You must keep your face neutral and your comments to yourself. We editors are not supposed to INFLUENCE the proceedings and we are invited guests.” Perhaps I looked uncertain because I remember her cocking her head at me, maybe sighing a little and saying, “Well, do your best.”

The day came and the committee members sat around a table piled with books. The discussion of each book started with the book’s advocate who would hold it up and speak to the qualities that the librarian felt made it Notable. Then the others would either agree or disagree. The publishers and other lookers on would surround the discussion table in rows of straight chairs. I sat in one of them practicing my neutrality of demeanor, and I remember thinking that I was doing fabulously, or at least well. There was a vigorous discussion about the efficacy of a design element in one book, the order of the poems in another, whether or not a character in a book I’d had reservations about was stereotypical or not. This was THE STUFF. This was what I cared about. And so did THEY. But I was a fly on the wall. My face was like a robot’s with the power off. I was a sphinx, a stone.

Afterward a colleague came up to me and said, “It was fun to watch your face during that discussion. When so and so said X you flushed bright crimson. And then I thought you’d fall off your seat when Mr. So-and-so made that remark about the plot of Y.”

So I guess I’m not a poker face. Who knew?

Well, I knew, actually. Hiding my emotions was never my strong suit. I am, as they say, an open book.

This year at A.L.A. I had the pleasure of accompanying two of my authors, Francisco Stork, whose generous, surprising novel MARCELO IN THE REAL WORLD won the Schneider Award, and Erin Bow, whose stormy, intense debut, PLAIN KATE makes its debut this year. And they were wonderful. Erin read a section of plain Kate at Scholastic’s Literary Brunch, in the company of Blue Balliett, Mathew Kirby, Cynthia Lord, Lucy Christopher, and Deborah Wiles. In the audience were pals who made me think of lovely ALA-dinners of year’s past: Susan Faust, Deborah Taylor…seeing their faces reminded me of what great allies we have (we STILL HAVE) out there in the world for quality books.

The Newbery-Caldecott Banquet was terrific too this year. I’m sure many folks will blog about how moving Rebecca Stead’s speech was (four speeches in one!!) And how satisfying it was to see the great Jerry Pinkney recognized. (I did a book years ago with him when I was at Dial; Sonia Levitin’s THE MAN WHO KEPT HIS HEART IN A BUCKET; I still remember it fondly.) But I was happy to be there, sitting next to Erin Bow, there for the first time. And hey, even the food was decent. ☺

Just this morning I had the pleasure of attending the awards ceremony where Cheryl Klein and I accepted the Batchelder honor for MORIBITO: GUARDIAN OF THE DARKNESS, then dashed over to have lunch with the Schneider Award Committee, honoring Francisco Stork for MARCELO IN THE REAL WORLD.

So it’s been a terrific, satisfying ALA – not even the awful heat and humidity could dampen my spirits. Did I keep a poker face? I doubt it; but who cares?

I thought it would be auspicious to write my first blog on the first day of Summer 2010. By this time next year I’ll have published my first book in more than a decade, MONDAY IS ONE DAY, illustrated by Julian Hector. It’s a book about counting the days of the week with a child you love until you can spend the whole day together. So in that spirit of counting down, here are ten things I love about summer:

1) The happy shrieks of my six year old son and the neighbor kids playing in a sprinkler. The slick massage of wet grass on bare feet. Late afternoon sun making vitamin D in my forearm skin, as I sit on the back porch supervising.
2) How an elementary school packs its bags for summer vacation; the walls of classrooms yielding up their art projects. The air warm and still, each of the last dismissals a rehearsal for the BIG one that comes in just A FEW DAYS.
3) The upholstered rocking chair on the porch of my parents’ home, that once belonged to my great uncle Morris, but which somehow seemed custom made for my body. I could sit and read in that chair for hours, cooled by the breezes off the Peconic Bay that came in through jalousied windows. It was quiet in that open room, in that chair. The quiet of a nearly empty summer house. Just the springs of the rocker, and the sound of the deep-gong wind chimes my brother brought back from Peru and hung from a thick wooden beam. In the distance, a motor boat pulling water-skiers. Laughter blown up from the beach. A diet coke in a glass sweating on the tile floor next to me.
4) Bad Summer Movies. Bad summer movies gone to with a group of friends. A burger before hand. Popcorn during. Ice cream afterward. The heat-and-salt-and-sunscreen smell coming off everyone’s skin and cooling in the refrigerated air of the theater.
5) The publishing tradition of “half-day Fridays” which allows for the illusion that there IS still such a thing as a summer break, even though deadlines and schedules and work pressure presses on relentlessly, unmoved by one’s memory of relief.
6) The clean, brisk smell of central air conditioning in my parents’ house…. how you could walk in from the intense heat and humidity of a June day, a final exam behind you…you could turn the brass handle on that wine-red door, hear the whoosh as it opened (I could swear the sound of it was “safe!”) and the BANG as the screen door slammed behind you; then you were instantly surrounded by relief. Cool air. Quiet.
7) Gazpacho. Ice-cold gazpacho, and not the kind that’s lukewarm and doesn’t know if it really wants to be tomato soup.
Wimbledon and the U.S. Open. For me, a tennis player, summer is bookended by these two great tennis tournaments; an excuse for binge-watching and shouting at ESPN while they show every point of a boring match in which Andy Roddick is killing some over-matched opponent, but don’t’ show a stroke of the incredibly exciting women’s match happening two courts over.
9) My weekend reunion with my college buddies on the Jersey Shore, which is basically 48 hours of non-stop gabbing extended over other activities: stocking up on provisions (48 diet cokes, bags of chips, Ben&Jerry’s, and everything else), taking walks along the shell-sharp beach, sitting in a semi-circle staring at the horizon, drinking strong coffee, getting dressed up, going out to dinner, having an argument about something inconsequential that gets blown out of proportion, laughing about it.
10) Late summer afternoons on my block, with kids running around across the lawns in their own variations of tag, adults standing around talking, happy to be there, to be outside, in each other’s company. Grateful to be home in time to see each other in daylight. Grateful for summer.

What are you all appreciating?