My moment in the spotlight

At one of the first local SCBWI conferences I attended, I submitted a manuscript to be reviewed by a New York Editor. I was so excited when my manuscript was one of ten selected to be reviewed and discussed in front of the entire audience.

Before the conference we received copies of the other manuscripts. I hate to admit it, but I was secretly glad when I saw that my story was better than the other nine submissions.

All the conference attendees crowded into the auditorium where the New York Editor would spend a full five minutes critiquing each story. She loved the first manuscript (which wasn't very good). The second manuscript (which was worse) she loved even more. She went on and on extolling its positive qualities and told the author to please send the entire story to her publishing company - she'd like to consider it for possible publication. It was hard to restrain my mounting excitement.

And then it was my turn. I picked up my pencil and got ready to take notes on all her compliments and any suggestions she might have.

The New York Editor made a sour face. "There really isn't anything I like about this one," she said. She shuffled my manuscript to the bottom of her pile and went on to the next story.

I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach. I remember trying to keep a smile plastered on my face, and walking through the rest of the conference on auto-pilot.

The positive outcome from this experience? I didn't give up. I went on to write several successful published books. The story that she hated (and which I still like) I use as a very successful story writing prompt with kids when I visit schools. And when I became the person giving critiques at SCBWI conferences, I remember the sinking feeling I experienced, I remember that opinions differ, and I always treat each author I review with gentleness and respect...and find at least one nice thing to say about their story.

I’ll show them and then they’ll be sorry!

Did this ever run through your mind when you were misunderstood, under-appreciated, or limited in some way? My mother banked on my spunk. She used reverse psychology to teach me to ride my bike. She bet I couldn’t do it, and I determined to prove her wrong.

Steve Jobs said being fired from Apple was ultimately a good thing. In the midst of that humiliation he realized he still loved his work and wanted to continue anyway.

Earlier in my career I turned in art for a book and the contract was subsequently canceled. The news hit me like a punch in the stomach. I curled in pain. I was so ashamed. Surely everyone in the industry knew about my rejection, I thought. I imagined a scarlet letter across my chest.

There were scrooges involved. I believe this only could have progressed to this point from lack of communication. It has always been my practice to show sample art and work-in-progress. At no point did the art director or editor alert me that they were unhappy. I received comments like, “Add more yellow.”

I was filled with self-doubt after this experience. Who would hire me again? I desperately wanted to get back up on the horse. My next opportunity came like a gift from a fairy godmother. I approached the project in a completely different style and the book garnered three stars, an ALA notable award, and many other accolades. Sound familiar, Stephanie? Yep, the book that brought me back was Elizabeti’s Doll. I am forever grateful to our editor, Liz Szabla.

There is value in disappointment. It helps define weakness, focus attention, and clarify desire.

“One’s best success comes after their greatest disappointments.”—Henry Ward Beecher

Sleeping Out and the Gumby and Pokey Willies

As I child I was bashful. I liked adventures as long as they were in my neighborhood, as long as when the day ended I would be home, snuggled in my own bed. Once when I was small, my father's best friend had a daughter just my age. She was kind. Her name was Claire. Her mother was a Cajun woman and as warm as she could be. My father trusted her father like a brother. Claire invited me to spend the night out at her house. Everyone encouraged me. I wanted to go and play with Claire and her family, so off I went.

The day was going wonderfully, but as night fell and I took my bath, fear tiptoed in. I wondered what might be in the closet at the top of the cabinet: A monster surely. I felt uncomfortable and homesick and began to cry.

Claire's mom tuned to my feelings. I told her I wanted to go home and she called my parents. My dad drove over and scooped me up. I also remember being a little afraid of Gumby and Pokey. I don't know why as I liked the television show and I had the little rubber Gumby and Pokey dolls. I had a nightmare once that they were chasing me and I snuggled into my parents bed for safety and comfort. After that dream, I'd make sure to put them inside a shoebox in my bedroom closet.

My own personal Scrooge

As a writer, the biggest Scrooges in my life are not the people who don't like my books. I often don't like books that I read, which I feel is my right as a reader. We aren't all going to like every book that we read. So I get that not everyone is going to like my books. That is their right. No, the biggest Scrooges in my life? The people who don't like my books AND then feel that gives them the right to say things about my books AND me. When The Compound first came out in 2008, I was excited to see what readers had to say about it. It had gotten a starred review from Publisher's Weekly, which had also featured me in an article about debut authors. I signed up for Goodreads and reviews started to come in for The Compound. Here is one of the first:

"The premise is great: a Seattle tech buzillionaire builds a compound in anticipation of a terrorist attack, and then ushers his family into it one day ( one kids and a grandma are left behind) where they remain for years. Gradually, the kids become suspicious about what's really going on. The writing is just intolerable, though. My ARC says the author is a creative writing teacher, so I guess in this case it's true what they say about what "those who can't" do."

Wow. So it's not enough to bash my writing ( fine, everyone is entitled to their own opinion) but to throw around what is the meanest cliche about the teaching profession? Many of my friends and relatives are teachers, as am I, obviously, and I despise that people even have the nerve to utter such an awful, derisive thing. I won't lie, this one left me in tears and made me spend the whole day questioning whether I should even be a teacher OR a writer.

I then went on to get some more reviews: Kirkus, School Library Journal, etc., that didn't bash my book. So I learned not to go looking for reviews. The ones that matter the most will come to me from my editor.

And I think I've had the last laugh. The Compound has been on about 17 state reading lists, and I get emails and Facebook messages every day from readers telling me it's the best book they've ever read. ( Again, everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but I tend to like those kind of opinions!) And I continue to get warm and wonderful feedback from my students at Gotham Writer's Workshop, who apparently seem to think I don't suck as a teacher. So, to my own personal Scrooge, I say ....

Merry Christmas!

When I was a Boy

When I was thirteen months old, my mother gave birth to a little girl. My new sister was named Mary Elizabeth, but everybody called her Molly. She was born early and had problems with her lungs so she had to stay in the hospital for a few weeks. But she got better and came home.

One evening I could hear her from her crib, and I told my mother, "Baby's crying." Molly was having problems breathing and my mother called my father who came home and rushed her to the doctor. Molly died that evening.

My parents decided that I was too young to go to the wake or the funeral and nobody knew what to say to me about what had happened so nobody said anything about it.

It wasn't until I was much older that I heard about my sister Molly. Her death has had a big impact and I continue to miss her.

My Turn to Share

What’s some stuff not everyone knows about me? Let’s see. For some reason, people usually express surprise when I tell them I was born in Vancouver, Canada. (That’s me in the picture with two of my “buddies” from the old days.) My family lived in White Rock, a quiet seaside community just north of the American border, until my father was transferred to Seattle when I was eight years old.

That’s not much of a revelation, though. So what else can I share? Well, I used to play saxophone in elementary and junior high. I was first chair in the stage band. I say this not to brag but to point out the reason why: practice. I had weekly private lessons and something my teacher once said has always stuck with me: “If I skip practice for a day, I can notice it. If I skip for two days, my audience can notice.” I followed this mantra to become a better saxophone player, and in the many years since then I have used it as a concise reminder of the value of diligence.

On a more embarrassing note, I’ll share a cautionary tale from my freshman year of high school. On the first day of school my English teacher told us to write a short paragraph about our favorite movie, television show, or book. Rather than applying myself or giving any effort at all, I goofed around gabbing with a buddy until five minutes before the end of class, at which point I dashed off a few sentences about the latest movie I’d seen. The next day, the teacher read off a list of names including my own. The chosen ones were escorted down the hall to a class for remedial writing instruction. As soon as I sat down and my new teacher asked us to read a sentence and figure out what was wrong with the first letter in the first word (it wasn’t capitalized), I knew I had screwed up royally this time. I immediately apologized and asked to return to my original class, but I hadn’t figured on how many times my new teacher had heard the line, “I don’t belong in this class.” So it took a week of pleading – “I’m sorry! I’m a goofball! I didn’t take the assignment seriously! Let me write another essay and prove it to you – pleeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaase!” – before the teacher finally relented and allowed me to remedy my mistake.

Thank goodness my parents never found out. Not to mention my saxophone teacher!

Timid Girl 2

As the youngest of three, I was definitely babied. I was pretty fearless at home, but once I left the safety of my family, I was a very timid child. I remember that a high school teacher commented that she had never heard my voice - which made me even more embarrassed and shy. It didn't help that I was taller than most everyone, especially the boys. I have no idea exactly when that shyness ended (I know that it still exists deep inside), but when it finally came time to make my own way in the world, I had to speak up for myself. My first time speaking in front of an audience when I was in my 30's was a huge flop, but surprisingly the world didn't end. When I subbed, I was constantly "on stage" and I came to enjoy the give and take with the students. Now I can speak to auditoriums of students with very little fear. I guess it proves that you can change your life, or maybe it shows that once you are able or allowed to exert some control in your own life, you can feel less fearful.