Can’t Handle the Truth!

I got another rejection for the query I sent to the “Yes, I can handle the truth” contest. And, as promised, I got an explanation why:

“If this is middle grade, your main character should be between the ages of 11 and 13. I personally am over fairytale esque stories or fairytale retellings. I’ve just read too many of them and they’re all starting to sound the same. What makes this one different?”

I claimed I can handle the truth, but I actually feel pretty bummed. This is my baby, my creation we are talking about. It is not a retelling of a fairy tale! I worked very hard on that query! I even got my wonderful cousin Iris (who is a writing genius) to help.

Waaah!

Okay, I’m done whining, but I’m not handling anything yet!

Handling the truth is overrated. Just imagine if Dr. Seuss handled the truth and stopped writing after eight rejections! No Green Eggs and Ham! No Cat in the Hat! What would our lives be like???

Another argument I could make (I’m warming to my subject here), is that truth for agent one is not necessarily truth for agent two (or fifty two), and even better, might not be true for my audience!

By the way, last time I presented my novel as a young adult (YA) story and received an answer from an agent, she said my novel was too sweet and happy for YA. She said I need to bring in some more teenaged angst, sex, and anger. So I have a great idea how to revise my novel.

A fifteen year old girl lives in a dystopia where the government spies on everyone using a technological gadget too sophisticated for me to understand. She gets kidnapped by a super-engineer (and I’m too innocent to imagine what he does to her).

By now, the girl is having a really bad day. She is rescued by a not-so-nice guy (I’m thinking Marquis de Sade here), and only barely manages to escape from him only to fall into the hands of rebels. The rebels wish to cut her open so they can gain possession of their fifteenth super-techie gadget, after which they could topple the government and have their own dystopia. At this point, the sun goes dark in frustration over the evilness of mankind, and the girl needs to fight everyone all at once by herself in the darkness.

The story will end with the girl returning home only to discover that the government has decided she aided and abetted the evil people. She is put away forever in an empty windowless room where she spends the rest of her days spinning straw into gold.

That made me feel a little better. As long as I have my creativity, I can never be sad.

Being Present Tense

All around me, there’s talk about being in the present. Ram Dass says: “be here now!” Eckhart Tolle revolutionizes the way we think with the Power of Now. My friend Rebecca, in her blog, recommends pausing in our pursuits to be happy now. Being in the present is a quality I seek, long for, and attempt to exercise on a daily basis. But there is one present that challenges me most. The present tense.

I don’t like novels written in the present tense. I have hard time feeling a connection to them. There are, of course, exceptions: novels in which the use of the present reinforces immediacy and tension. Mostly, however, I find myself wondering what the use of the present really added to the story line.

For example, Eden and I recently finished My Best Frenemy. While reading the book, I continually got the impression that the first person narrator there knew exactly what was going to happen and had a hard time pretending otherwise. She had peeked at the ending of her own told-while-it-was-happening book!

On the flight to Kauai I started The Girl of Fire and Thorns by Rae Carson. At first, I found the narrative tedious. The story did not grip me, but it was the only novel I had with me, so I kept reading, hoping for improvement.

Luckily, I soon dove into the story. The main character, Elisa, is a reluctant heroine who does not fear to say what’s on her mind and rarely forgives herself for not standing up for what she believes is right. She learns to accept herself, but is human enough to wish for the good will and liking of the people around her.

In Elisa’s case, the present is a powerful tool. As she tells her story, I clearly see the black wall of ignorance which blocks her (and the reader’s) view of the future. She, like the reader, does not know where the story leads, and because she doesn’t know, it matters to me more what will happen to her. I root for her success and the success of her friends. I care about her budding romance, and I wish her a good life after she triumphs over whichever challenge next lies on her path.

This is a well crafted, intelligent novel, with strong character and plot, both of which pull me along for a ride through their rich landscape. Halfway through the book, I forgot that it is in the present tense, and I hang on to the edge of my seat as I watched the adventures of Elisa unfold. It is, perhaps, yet another reminder not to make generalizations about what I like or don’t. For a change, I’m letting myself enjoy the tension of the present, and I’m not peeking to see what will happen in the end.

In Support of Selfishness

On one of my visits to Israel, I had an important insight. The children and I have the most fun when we do what I enjoy rather than what I think they might enjoy. This insight came paired with another wise saying, this one from my mother: don’t give the children too many options about what you’re going to do.

These wonderful revelations, giving me selfish free reign to do whatever I want while in Israel (and elsewhere), came after many visits touched by dissatisfaction. There is nothing I find more irritating than taking the kids to the zoo, museum, playground, etc. and hearing from them nothing but complaints. I mean, really! What ingratitude!

Surprisingly, or maybe not, all three of us have much more fun when I am not harboring resentment. Our last two visits we went hiking in creeks, checked out the tank museum in Latrun, and got lost in the Arab Quarter in Jerusalem. We went on a tour of the tunnels under the Kotel and through the City of David. We had a blast.

In The Happiness Project, one of the resolutions Gretchen Rubin adopts is “do it for myself.” I was raised to be considerate and to think of others more than of myself (after all, selflessness is a virtue in a nation which believes that it is good to die for one’s country). “Do it for myself” sounds to me more like: “selfishness alert! Beware!”

Nonetheless, “do it for myself” is an important lesson for me to learn. Far too often I find myself exhausted by thinking about others more than of myself. In her section on friendships, Ms. Rubin says: “one of the most delightful of pleasures is to please another person.” For me, at least, the emphasis is on the word “please.” My happiness is sadly decreased if the beneficiary of my kindness does not appreciate it.

The ability to enjoy a kindness independent of the receiver’s reaction seems near sainthood to me. There might be a way to “do it for myself” while trying to please another. For now, however, I guess I’ll have to settle for being imperfect with good intentions. In Israel, selfishness gave happiness to me and the kids. Perhaps, exercised moderately, it can bring happiness also at home. Maybe on my next birthday they can surprise me. Who knows.

Spirit and Hawaiian Sky

I went jogging this morning, around the pool in the complex where we are staying, then up the street to the community center and back. Maybe one and a half miles round trip. Long grassy lawns stretched up to healthy-looking trees that touched the stormy skies. Somewhere, I am sure, a rainbow arched, though I did not see it from where I ran. The sun shone through gray-black clouds, making dew drops sparkle all over the grass.

No doubt about it, the view here makes the soul expand.

Yesterday, I jogged down to the ocean. Chickens crossed my path, clucking. I ran down the hill slowly, careful not to slip on the half-rotting leaves covering the muddy trail. Below, the trees nearly covered all view of the ocean, making me bend to see the blue meeting blue of the horizon. I felt shy but went swimming in the ocean in my underwear and sports bra.

The rain started almost immediately, small drops at first, then big fat ones. My clothes, which I had left safely where the soft waves could not reach them on the shore, were soaked, as were my shoes and socks. I put all on and ran up the steep hill slowly. The chickens were nowhere in view.

I felt exhilarated. The rain washed over me warm and effortless, making me feel as though I could run forever. This is not a feeling I normally get when I run. Usually my legs weigh me down, my tight achilles tendons scream with unhappiness and dislike, but worst of all my thoughts harass me, telling me, “you can’t do this, you’re too tired, running is not for you, you can’t run that much more.”

Somehow, each time I visit the Hawaiian islands, I feel my better self. Happiness overflows me. I am energetic, sunny, adventurous, willing to try new things. Each time I try to take this wondrous me home. Perhaps, each time, I succeed a little more. I’d like to think so, at least. Of course, I know it is easier to be my better self on vacation than it is at home with bills, chores, puppies, and kids. Here, after all, no one expects me to do otherwise than have fun. But I’d like to take with me this feeling of happiness, of taking care of myself, working out, eating lots of fresh fruits and vegetables, fresh fish just out of the ocean, and drinking water that came down at least one waterfall on its way to the faucet.

And I want to remember the expansive sky, the ocean on all four sides, the feeling that I may perhaps be limited by land, but all around the world is open for me to fly as far and wide as I can.

And I can.

Mother Power

The last few days I’ve been reflecting on my role in my family. Sometimes I feel like I am the engine which sparks most of what we do, pushing the kids along with me. Being sick allowed me to watch the kids and see the difference in how they function when I am less able to keep our usual schedule and activities.

I think partly the children feel overwhelmed and unhappy when I am sick. I suppose that could be a reason for the low rate of homework preparation and music practice and the high rate of junk food consumption that has been going on. But what if my high energy is indeed the driving force behind a lot of what they do, and because I’m so pushy, they never learn to find that motivation within themselves?

My mother always tells me that the love, effort and thought I put into raising the kids will bear fruit many times over. When I told her about my fears, she seemed to think that the high energy I invest in the children will in time bring about the result that I am hoping for — that they will learn to practice and do homework by themselves, growing on the path to methodical, conscientious and responsible adulthood.

Her faith in my way turns my question back onto myself. What if my fears that the children run on my “Mother Power” originate not in fears for them but in fears for me, that they will deplete my energy? Is “Mother Power” a renewable energy source?

The answer that immediately comes to my mind is that of course, yes, “Mother Power” is renewable, though perhaps it needs to be manually renewed and is easier renewed before it is depleted. I have many activities during the day which have the potential to fill me with the love, faith, enthusiasm and patience that I need in order to raise the children. I go to exercise classes and on hikes in nature. My writing is certainly a source of satisfaction and pleasure. The support of my parents and my friends. Eating well and healthy and sleeping enough are a big part of my “Mother Power.”

Sometimes, however, it seems not enough. Sometimes I wish I had an external power outlet, that I could plug into and which would fill me up with energy and love. I haven’t found an outlet like that which could give 100% refilling. Instead, I think renewing the “Mother Power” comes in small increments which need to be noticed to be used: a surprise hug from my daughter, my son’s way of leaning on me and putting his head on my shoulder, my boyfriend thinking about me in many wonderful ways, mother’s day gifts which the kids bring from school, the kids sharing a story. All of these are sources for renewing that important energy so I can give it back again.

Was it Einstein who said that energy is inexhaustible, simply converted from one form to another? In parenting I think it is true. There is an abundance of love shared between us, and all I need to do to become replete is to tap in.

Making an Uneasy Peace with Dystopia

I am not a fan of dystopian novels. This February, at the Golden Gate SCBWI conference, everybody was talking about The Hunger Games. As a curious human being, I rushed to buy the first book in the trilogy and read it. It took me two weeks to be able to sleep without nightmares.

It seems like every other novel recommended to me lately is a dystopia. On my list right now, I just finished reading Divergent by Veronica Roth and am starting Obsession by Elana Johnson. Divergent is the story of a girl living in a society where people are categorized into distinct character traits. Yet she is divergent, able to fit in more than one category, which makes her resistant to mind control and thus dangerous.

I could identify with some of the concepts raised in the novel. I like the idea that classifying us misses some important aspect of who we are. I love how we are all made up of different facets, of good and bad, of kindness, bravery, inquisitiveness, love. But I still find it difficult to wrap my mind around why people would want to read about horrible, terrible, awful, violent stuff….

Dystopia is defined in the online dictionary as “a society characterized by human misery.” Wikipedia has an entry for dystopia, explaining that it is a “utopia with at least one fatal flaw.” Apparently, we humans have been interested in dystopia for over 150 years. There are dystopian novels and movies, comics and even computer games.

If a Dystopia is the opposite of Utopia, then our imperfect world surely is one as well. But what about the world of my novel, where every being is grouped as either good or evil, and where distinct rules exist as to a person’s level of importance? That sounds pretty dystopian to me…. Of course, considering my distaste for anything violent, those rules also make sure everyone stays safe even in the midst of a fiery dragon battle. Cooking anyone in boiling water is strictly not allowed!

So, a dystopian fairy tale? Ha! I’m unlikely to present Anna Mara as such in my next query letter. However, perhaps because a grain of dystopianism is in all of us, I can come to an uneasy peace with it. But I still think I’d be dead body number one if I ever had to participate in the hunger games.

Shabbat

When I was a little girl, every Friday night my family would drive to Tel Aviv for Shabbat dinner at my grandmother’s tiny apartment. My parents, who absolutely loved working in the garden, came home early on Fridays, and would be immersed in their work outside till the very last moment. Then, the rush to the showers began.

I remember one Friday when my mother jumped in fully clothed in her attempt to beat my father to the shower first.

Once we were all clean and dressed in our Shabbat clothes, we would get in the car and drive to Safta’s house. The streets in Israel smell differently on Friday night, of chicken soup, meat stew, potatoes baking, carrots in honey. Chocolate babkas and challas waft their fabulous scent everywhere.The streets are quiet, the darkness of the skies strikingly contrasted by the light shining out windows in holiday joy.

Now I’m a mother myself. I live far away from my grandmother, but luckily close to my parents. I don’t work in the garden as much as my parents still do, and I am not as diligent as my parents were about all of us showering and dressing nicely in honor of Shabbat. But every Friday my mother, my sister and I cook delicious meals, and our three families, eleven people at least, share Shabbat dinner together at my mother’s house.

Yet in my memory, perhaps the way memories always are, there is something extra-special in those Shabbat dinners we had at my grandmother’s house. A particular taste, a unique smell, perhaps a whiff of the moth balls which my Safta used to put in her clothes and which hang about even under the smell of egg salad and stew.

I remember one evening like that at my Safta’s tiny apartment in Tel Aviv. The voices of the adults filtered through the wall into my grandmother’s bedroom where I lay on the bed, half on, half off, my legs dangling to the floor. My heart beat peacefully. I felt full and happy, wonderfully relaxed and completely loved. Sleep stole over me as though an angel weaved a somnolent web all around. Later, on the way home, I watched through sleepy eyes the hazy glow of traffic and street lights approaching, then disappearing behind.

Tonight I will have the children shower and dress up before we go. I love knowing that I am creating memories for them, and I know they will always remember these evenings at my mother’s house. Different, perhaps, than mine, but still wonderful memories, of family gathering, good food, and a lot of love.

In Sickness and In Health

I recently bought myself a copy of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, a Penguin edition with a beautifully-designed cover by Ruben Toledo. I read Pride and Prejudice three or four times every year. Like chicken soup, chocolate, my grandmother’s hug, or taking a bath, Jane Austen’s novel is one of my greatest sources of comfort when I’m sick or sad.

Partly the book comforts me because the story stays the same. Elizabeth and Darcy, Jane and Bingley dance the same intricate game of courtship and love over and over again. But partly, with every reading of the novel, I discover something new: new words, new connections, surprises that I have not noticed before.

I have not read any of the novels continuing the story of Elizabeth and Darcy. I don’t want to know what happened to them after they got married. What I love is the beautiful cotillon they go through as they grow into love.

Elizabeth must accept that she has been too quick to judge. Darcy must learn humility and openness. Bingley has to stand up for himself. Jane, well, Jane is too perfect, and though it must please her to think she can bend all men and women into goodness, she needs to understand that some people make bad choices and no one, not even Jane, can take the consequences of those choices away.

Pride and Prejudice, to me, is a miniature representation of life, the essence of what we have come here, to this world, to do: to grow and to love. That entails accepting not only what is marvelous in the people we love, but sometimes what is ridiculous, difficult, annoying or just plain bad.

Jane Austen pokes loving fun at those characters who live with a veil of prejudice and vanity over their eyes: Mrs. Bennett, Mr. Collins, even Mr. Wickham, the wicked character in the novel. She gently raises those characters who are willing to accept each other as they are, leading them to see their mistakes, and follow the wonderful path that appears to the open heart.

I woke up yesterday with a sore throat, and so I rushed as fast as my sick little legs could carry me to my book cabinet and pulled out this new edition of my favorite book. “It is a truth universally acknowledged,” Jane Austen begins, already poking fun at us, “that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

I already feel better, just reading that.

On Giving Respect and Affection to Those We Love

In last night’s post I wrote about my love to my son, and this morning, at the gym, a friend approached me. “Have you shown the post to your son?” she asked. In fact, I did. I read it to him this morning, after he opened his presents and ate the cheddar cheese bread sticks which I made in honor of his birthday. “People write such amazing things about their kids on Facebook,” my friend said, “and I just want to make sure they tell their kids too.”

I pondered what she said. I wondered: is it easier for me to compliment the important people in my life behind their backs than to their faces? Do I tell my son, my daughter, my boyfriend, and my parents enough how much I love them and why?

During the second month of her Happiness Project, Gretchen Rubin concentrated on finding more happiness in her marriage. She writes: “Studies show that married people treat each other with less civility than they show to other people — and I do this with my husband, I know.” As part of the project, Ms. Rubin chose as a resolution to “kiss more, hug more, touch more.” She says the resolution is one of her favorites to keep.

My cousin, Iris Wilnai, has commented on a similar phenomenon. In her blog titled “Smile,” she asks: “why don’t I smile as much for my husband as I do for everyone else?”

I hope I remember this long after this post is buried beneath others. I hope I always remember to give attention, respect and affection to the wonderful people in my life, and to all my family and friends. I hope I remember to smile at them as often as I do at strangers and to kiss more, hug more, and touch more. I hope to tell the important people in my life that I love them every day, twice a day, as often as I like.

And that includes you too, my favorite wonderful Safta Miri, even if you think it’s funny that people say “I love you” all the time. Because, I LOVE YOU!

I hope your day shines today, my friends, my readers. It’s Uri’s birthday. Go do something fun!

Happy Birthday to Uri!

Eleven years ago, at 7:15pm, Israel time, in a blank room in Tel Hashomer Hospital, my son Uri was born. He weighed 2.875 kilograms and had a head circumference of 35 centimeters. I remember that.

I also remember the pouring rain outside, the blocked roads which made my ex-husband and I leave the house early, fearing that we would end up having a baby on the road if we don’t leave as soon as we can.

I remember the way Uri’s body felt on my belly when the nurse placed him there for the first time. I remember the way it felt to nurse him behind the curtain in the nursing rooms at the hospital, where I got called in the middle of the night.

Precious, precious memories. Uri’s little dimpled hands. Uri walking after me in the house, saying, “gnocchi, gnocci,” which was his rather amusing way of saying he wants to nurse (“linok” means to nurse in Hebrew). Uri’s hands and knees working in utter coordination as he crawls. Uri concentrating as he plays with his trains. Uri driving six-months-old Eden around in the black car my mother rescued from a garage sale.

He means the world to me, and he is a world in himself. I feel so lucky to have him in my life, to have the chance to love him and nurture him and help him move forward in the world. He is the treasure of my heart.

Happy birthday Uri! May you enjoy health and happiness in all the years to come. And may you always know that I love you. I enjoy watching you grow, from little seedling to flower, and soon, I hope, into a well-rooted, whole-hearted tree.

Sigal Tzoore (650) 815-5109