To the Finish Line

“A good book is never finished—it goes on whispering to you from the wall.”
–Virginia Wolff (YA author)

“Buildings are designed to hold us and protect us and shelter us. To me, a good book is the same way.” –Madeleine George (author of Looks)

They are sweater-wearing human beings with fear of isolation, with bitterness toward alcoholic parents, with anger at the middle school ghosts that still remind them years, even decades, later of that popularity that never emerged, of those boys who never behaved like the princes they had been promised. They have hopes and visions of a world where the virtuous triumph, where loyalty to a cause is not met with bitterness or sarcasm. They are not Wonder Women. Or Supermen. And certainly they are not Incredible Hulks.

They are authors.

Yes, authors have always been heroic to me. Whenever life has become too complicated, too overwhelming, too filled with hurt or confusion, I have cracked open the pages and flown away. After all, who does not seek comfort from the harshness? Books are a relief. And the just-right book at the just-right time? Perfect.

So, as I sat for days, listening to those mere mortals, speak at the Young Adult Literature conference (ALAN) in San Antonio last week, they impressed me, inspired me and made me want to jump out of my seat, get The Wave going, scream words of gratitude toward them.

But, not having done The Wave with any enthusiasm since my days huddled beneath sweaters and face masks in the University of Michigan football stadium, and certainly never having been the kind of person who would ever actually initiate The Wave, I sat silently, listened wave-less, and scribbled pages upon pages of notes, mostly on hotel stationery.

Here is a snapshot of what I heard.

These mortals write to make sense of their fears.

“I learned that I would need to fight my fear in life and that I would do that through my writing.”
–Nancy Werlin
Thus, Werlin gave birth to her novel, Rules of Survival, about the fear facing three children whose mother has angry outbursts that leave them insecure and panicked.

They write from their dreams.

“I had a dream that wound up becoming Speak. The book was really me finding my own voice. It was my way to work on my own frustration at seeing things clearly but getting shut down when I tried to talk about them.”
–Laurie Halse Anderson (Speak)

They write from their anger.
“I participated in many science fairs and I really hated them, so I wrote a comedy about a science fair.”
–Greg Leitich Smith

“Feed [resulted from my own] deep anger—anger about the way we live our lives… [There were always these images of] teen “cool”—images of the gorgeous, and I felt ugly. I tried to buy the clothes I was supposed to want.”
–M.T. Anderson (Feed)

And they write to express their deep sense of how the world should be.
“[Books] provide us with a lens through which we can look at justice, opportunity, liberty, and a lens by which to understand and maybe even modify our human behavior.”
–Ellen Hopkins (author of Crank)

Ellen Hopkins has 13,000 friends-fans on Facebook.

——–

“…We aren’t North American, South American, Asian…we are human beings. No matter our races, our genders, our nationalities, we share the same human heart. The surface details may be different, but what is real is the guts of it, the heart of it. This emotional truth is what I try to communicate in all my books.
“…Math and sciences are prized for being knowledge-based. But literature is the most necessary study of all—it asks us to engage human emotions, to develop empathy. It is a bridge across divides. It asks us to see the other in ourselves and ourselves in the other.”
Allan Stratton (author of Chanda’s Secret)
* * * *

Listening to these human beings speak of their craft, of their inspiration, and of their fulfillment inspired me, yet again, to draft the first few paragraphs of a story that will, who knows, maybe even transform magically into an entire novel. Perhaps this time, I will actually move beyond a beginning, into a middle and, dare I say, even to an end.

I cannot believe that I just wrote that. How I have just cursed myself, a curse equivalent to muttering aloud, “I am lucky that I have such healthy kids.”

There are mounds of other opening scenes in my pile marked “To Finish When I Have Time.” There is a whole city of skyscrapers with just one floor.

Will this one materialize?

Or will this one, too, be pushed aside, as unread student work and I-can’t-believe-you’re-an-English-teacher-and-haven’t-read-that-novel demand my attention? Will it be pushed aside because there is a flabby stomach to tone, children to wrestle with, and a whole panoply of daydreams that require constant nurturing and attention?  Will it be pushed aside because there are noodle kugels, beds, apologies, and excuses all waiting to be made?

I hear my stories screaming, “Write me already. What the heck are you waiting for? Aren’t you always urging those students to focus? Focus yourself, Woman. No, don’t click. Don’t click! Resist the pull to pay attention to something else. Be brave. Be brave, oh wimpy one.”

Off I go…