Ann Patchett had me at Bel Canto. She did not disappoint with her her latest offering State of Wonder. I can not explain my fascination with this gifted writer other than to say that I will read anything she writes.

It is no secret that books are a big deal in my home. And since I believe that a passion for reading is caught and not taught, I jumped at the chance to review BLACKOUT by John Rocco. My intent was to read this to my younger boys (ages 4 and 2) but I hadn’t gotten through the first page when my older boys (ages 8 and 6) climbed onto the couch and read with us. It became an instant family favorite.

John Rocco is the creator of numerous books for children. Wolf! Wolf! garnered several awards including Borders Original Voices Award for best picture book. His second book, Moonpowder, was part of the Original Art Show at the Society of Illustrators, and artwork from the book was selected for a special nationwide traveling exhibition. Fu Finds the Way, his third book, is about a boy who finds courage in a pot of tea. He also illustrates all the covers for Rick Riordan’s bestselling YA series, Percy Jackson and the Olympians. Blackout is his latest release.

This book is wise and charming and full of wonder. And, in all honesty, the timing could not have been better for us to read it since we’ve instituted a mini “blackout” of our own this summer – our boys are saying goodbye to electronic entertainment for the next two months. Instead of movies and endless rounds of Wii, their days will be filled with books and sprinklers and watermelon seed spitting contents. As a wise friend once told me, we only get eighteen summers with our kids. How better to fill than with stories and memories?

Care to join us for a summer without screens? As John Rocco’s lovely book proves, sometimes a BLACKOUT is the best thing that can happen to a family.

Lucy reading the Magicians book

Several weeks ago I finished reading The Voyage of the Dawn Treader to my children for the first time. There is a scene in the novel (it didn’t make the film) where Lucy  stumbles across a spell in the Magician’s book that lets you know what your friends think about you. My children found it very sad and I’ve pondered it a great deal since:

And all in a hurry, for fear her mind would change, she said the words (nothing will induce me to tell you what they were)…And all at once she saw the very last thing she expected – a picture of a third-class carrige in a train, with two schoolgirls sitting in it. She knew them at once. They were Margorie Preston and Anne Featherstone. Only now it was much more than a picture. It was alive…Then gradually (like when the radio is coming on) she could hear what they were saying.

“Shall I see anything of you this term?” said Anne, “or are you still going to be all taken up with Lucy Pevensie?”

“Don’t know what you mean by taken up,” said Marjorie.

“Oh yes, you do,” said Anne. “You were crazy about her last term.”

“No, I wasn’t,” said Margorie. “I’ve got more sense than that. Not a bad little kid in her way. But I was getting pretty tired of her before the term ended.”

“Well, you jolly well won’t have the chance any other term!” shouted Lucy. “Two-faced little beast.” But the sound of her own voice at once reminded her that she was talking to a picture and that the real Marjorie was far away in another world. “Well,” said Lucy to herself, “I did think better of her than that…I wonder, are all friends the same? There are lots of other pictures. No. I won’t look at any more. I won’t, I won’t,” – and with a great effort she turned over the page, but not before a large, angry tear had splashed on it.

 

Later Aslan finds Lucy in the library…

 

“Child,” he said, “I think you have been eavesdropping.”

“Eavesdropping?”

“You listened to what your two schoolfellows were saying about you.”

“Oh that?” I never thought that was eavesdropping, Aslan. Wasn’t it by magic?”

“Spying on people by magic is the same as spying on them in any other way. And you have misjudged your friend. She is weak, but she loves you. She was afraid of the older girl and said what she does not mean.”

“I don’t think I’d ever be able to forget what I heard her say.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Oh dear,” said Lucy. “Have I  spoiled everything? Do you mean we would have gone on being friends if it hadn’t been for this – and really great friends – all our lives perhaps – and now we never shall?”

“Child,” said Aslan, “did I not explain to you once before that no one is ever told what would have happened?”

Something about the knowledge granted by the Magician’s spell reminds me very much of Google Alerts. Shortly before my novel released, my publisher encouraged me to set up a Google Alert so I’d know when anyone was talking about me or my book online. The theory, I believe, is that when I received an alert, I could engage that person and build a relationship. But in reality, for me, it felt a bit like showing up at someone’s house unannounced. It was a nerve racking experience. I canceled it after six months.

Though I don’t care to know when my  name crops up in a cyber-discussion, I don’t think Google Alerts are all bad. A number of friends have made great professional connections as a result. But I do think it’s one of those services that comes with a price. And the ultimate question, I think, is whether or not it’s good for us to have that kind of knowledge?

Sleepy Head

Where, you ask, have I been since January? What sort of decent writer lets her blog gather dust? Though tempted to hang my head in shame, or make excuses, I will instead refer to the above picture. This is my three-year-old. He was nick-named “Tater” by a high-ranking naval officer (long story). The moniker stuck.

Here’s the deal with Tater. He has two speeds: running or asleep. As do his three brothers. Which means I do as well. On or off. Hot or cold. Blogging or not. Such is the life of a mother of all boys. And not a bad life at that.

Collections: Mine And Theirs

It is compatible, really: a house filled with books and boys. Perhaps not clean. But filled with life. And literature. And crumbs.

My favorite things are on display. Why not theirs?

Where Stories Come From

It seems to be going around, this question. It’s drifted through conversations and crowded rooms and online communities.

“What is your word for 2011?”

One week into this new year my word has settled into me. It’s taken root and spread across my thoughts.

In truth it’s been chasing me around the page for months. A year perhaps. And I laugh to think that I didn’t recognize it at first. It’s obvious now. I’ve been reading this book. And I wrote this essay.

This word you see…I’m trying to live one. And write a new one.

STORY.

Outsider Art: a term coined by French artist Jean Dubuffet (art brut) to describe art created outside the boundaries of official culture.

Confession: I’ve never attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.

Or Columbia University.

Yet I am a student of words, and more importantly, story. Whether that makes me an Outsider is debatable (especially considering the original application of Dubuffet’s term being for the mentally ill, with specific reference to the visual arts) but I certainly skirt the edges of “official” culture.

This urge to create is woven into the helix of my DNA. It’s as much a part of me as the freckles and brown eyes. Be it official or not.

Earlier today I posted this picture on She Reads as part of a book giveaway for my novel, Eye of the God. Who knew that such a little pinky could cause such a big stir? Inquiring minds want to know how one becomes Nine Fingered Frodo….er…Ariel.

It’s a simple story, really. One that involves an older brother and a shopping cart.

I was a wee child, not yet two, riding in the basket of a shopping cart. It was Christmas and my mother had my older brother and I with her as she ran errands. As brothers are want to do, mine began messing with the shopping cart. One minute he was pushing the cart back and forth to make me laugh, the next we were on the floor, his weight, my weight, and everything on the cart landing on the tip of that little finger.

There was nothing left to sew on.

The healing process required minor surgery, a skin graft, three months in a bandage, and a sock (pinned to my sleeve so I wouldn’t remove the bandage).

My only regret about the whole ordeal is that my brother never got a spanking. I’d still lodge a complaint if I could. Yet honestly, I rarely give my finger a second thought. Unless I’m typing. In which case you may not want to sit on my left side. In effort to reach Q and Z I might stab you with an elbow.

Thanks for dropping by! This website is so new it squeaks. So please forgive the bare walls. I’m still unpacking boxes. But I promise that I’ll have some paint on the walls soon. Even a few pictures.

Until then know that you’re welcome.