15 and counting

My idea of heaven on earth is a good book, a cup of tea and a snowstorm raging outdoors, (maybe add a few warm chocoloate chip cookies).  So, it was a recent discussion, aka argument, with my son about reading that prompted me to begin a new challenge.  The conversation went something like this:

Me:  You really should be reading more.  If nothing else, it will help you with your SAT vocabulary.

Him:  I already read for my English class.

Me:  But that’s not the same as reading for yourself.  Do you know the average person reads fifteen books per year.   Are you even anywhere near that number?

Him:  (unconvincingly)…er…maybe.  (defensively) Are you?

Me:  Of course I am! I probably read twice that amount!

Him:  Name them…

At this point I start rattling off titles, some from previous years, just to prove a point.

Me:  Now that I think about it, I probably average a book a week.

Him: I doubt it.

My son is sixteen and could really care less how much I read. In fact, he is so pleased the conversation has taken a turn away from his own reading he’d be willing to continue this conversation all evening if it means avoiding a trip to the library with his mother.  But, now I am already too far in…

Me:  I am going to read one book every week for the rest of the year and then we’ll see.

We’ll see what?  That I read more books than the average American? That I have committed myself to a year of missing deadlines, takeout and a dirty house?

Him:  A big teenaged smirk.

Teenagers have a way of throwing you off your game.  One second you have the upper hand and the next, you are raging about something completely off topic or pledging to commit to an activity you have absolutely no time for.  Being a mother of my word, I have been working dilligently toward of my goal of reading a book a week (in addition to  proving his point that I am overcompetitive and petty).

Here’s where I am so far.  I am counting Partial Reads, as long as I’ve read more than half.  Life is too short to waste on books I don’t connect with.  With the daily challenges of life, you will note that I am several books shy of my weekly goal.  Hopefully I will make some headway this summer.  Surprisingly, I do still manage to get some writing done, cook a decent meal, and straighten up the house now and then.  As for my son, he has still not  read a single page…

My titles since January:

Young Adult

Son by Lois Lowry

What’s Left of Me by Kat Zhang

Will Sparrow’s Road by Karen Cushman

Serafina’s Promise by Ann Burg (out in September)

Chains by Laurie Halse Anderson

Forge by Laurie Halse Anderson

Adult

The Middlesteins by Jaim Attenburgh

The Last Runaway by Tracy Chevalier

Daddy Love by Joyce Carol Oates

The Postmistress by Sarah Blake

The Good Daughters by Joyce Maynard

Touch and Go by Lisa Gardner

The Twelve Tribes of Hattie by Ayana Mathis

Partial Reads:

Dear Life by Alice Munro

Wash by Margaret Wrinkle

 

Lesa Cline-Ransome

Listening in Quiet

As the youngest of three, I learned early on how to listen.  And by listening I mean eavesdropping on my sister’s phone calls and my brother’s conversations with friends,  their endless teasing, and my parents private concerns about broken curfews, disciplinary problems and report cards.

You can learn a lot from listening.  I remember loud family gatherings in Providence, Rhode Island where aunts and uncles told stories at kitchen tables, cousins shared secrets, people argued and made up and I sat, just on the perimeter, listening.  I never seemed to know how to insert my voice into any of the conversations and felt drowned out  by the much louder voice of my boisterous father.

“Why can’t you say something?” he sometimes roared on the car ride home.  He didn’t understand that it wasn’t that I didn’t have anything to say.  There were plenty of  conversations  rolling around in my head,  all of them incredibly witty and insightful, but they were under the lock and key of shyness. It would be years before shyness loosened it’s hold on me.  My kids and husband can barely believe there was ever a time I was silent.

Playdates were painful, as were birthday parties, doctor visits, even first dates.  Somehow shyness raises suspicions in others, makes them wary, which in turn creates even greater shyness.   In my post shyness period, I was always wiling to share an opinion, wage a debate, right any percieved wrong and I could finally give voice to all of those witty, insightful interior conversations.

But years of silence lingers on in ways I never expected.  I am still drawn to shy people, respectful of those who don’t feel the need to fill a space with meaningless chatter. There’s nothing I love more than sitting on  a train, a playground, a coffee shop, just listening to the cadence, dialect, unique interractions of strangers in their most unguarded moments.  And when I read, I always feel as if I am eavesdropping on the way writers speak through the private lives and inner workings of their characters.  My own writing is enriched simply by being quiet.

Having children forced me out my shyness.  It is difficult to speak up for them if you can’t speak up for yourself.  But, I still have moments, often right before entering a roomful of strangers or having to speak in front of a group or when being introduced to someone for the first time, where I get that panicky sensation.  But now that I have found my voice, I can tuck away the shy Lesa.  I take a deep breath, speak, and always remember to listen.

The Loneliest Woman in the World

“The loneliest woman in the world is the woman without a close woman friend”  my favorite author Toni Morrison once wrote.   I only discovered this quote in recent years, but I wonder if it something I’ve  always known intuitively.  There were periods in my life when friendships were hard to come by.  And times when I lived away from childhood friends,  in unfamiliar cities, started a new job or spent much of my time in academic pursuits that left me feeling adrift.  Friendship is the place you go to feel safe and nurtured yet I had no safe haven.   “The antidote to fifty enemies is one friend,” wrote Aristotle.  Friendship is, and has always been, the place that revives me and gives me the strength to fight another day.   It creates in me a openess and honesty, filtered of all pretense.  And when it comes to my work, it allows me to enter my writing clearer, with a willingness to share some version of my own story and give a voice to someone elses.    It gives me the courage to write about fear and the security to write about vulnerability.  These are the experiences I draw upon when I attempt to create characters that readers know and understand.

Sharing and hearing stories with friends are how I fine tune the ones I put to paper.  The cadence, the dialect, the humor, the humility are what I hope to capture when I tap into the essence of my characters. I want my stories to feel like the ones that are shared at kitchen tables with a cup of tea and a caring confidante.  The ones that begin, “You are not going to believe this…” and you lean in to hear more.

It is  my daily connections with friends that have given me the greatest source of inspiration–the walks down long, country roads, breakfasts at a local coffee shop, over lovingly prepared dinners, at birthday parties, holiday gatherings, backyard barbecues, weekend getaways, game nights, book groups, text messages and extended phone calls. Friendships fill a heart, soothe a pain, nourish a soul and ultimately fill a page with characters who love and feel as I do.

Music to my Ears

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve sat in my car, the volume turned to 10, belting out one tune after another.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve driven down quiet suburban streets on a warm day with the windows rolled up because the noise level from the speakers would measure a 5.0 on the Richter scale.  It’s no wonder I can barely get through any conversation without asking, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you, can you repeat that?”  I take my music, my singing and my dancing very seriously.  That does not mean, however, that I am a great singer and dancer, it just means that I take them very seriously.

Put on Louis Armstrong and I scat.  A little Frank Sinatra, I’m a crooner.  Play Aretha and I am woman who’s been wronged with love still on her mind.   That’s not my Name by the Ting Tings, a feminist crusader. And don’t get me started on Notorious B.I.G. I’m a teen aged rapper from the streets of Bed-Stuy.   The voices of these artists tap into the heart and soul of me.  Through their stories, I am transported to another time and place.

Last month my daughter asked me to drop off her uniform at her job.  Al Green’s For the Good Times was cranked up and it made me think of the challenge of relationships and loving through the hard times.  By the time I arrived at her job, my cheeks were wet with tears.  ”Are you o.k.?”my very concerned daughter asked as she rushed to my side.  When she heard the song playing and discovered the reason for my sobs, she snatched her uniform from the seat and said in a not so concerned voice, “Get help!”  In that moment, only Al understood my sorrow.  

I come to this place honestly.  The music of my parents was a steady presence in my childhood home.  We dressed, ate, entertained, got ready for church, to music.  My father’s den was and still is a treasure trove of jazz greats.  ”Listen to this,” my father would say, grabbing anyone passing by,  and we’d have to indeed listen, often with feigned interest, as my father sat, foot tapping, eyes closed, lost in the music of Errol Garner, Oscar Peterson or John Coltrane. 

What is it about music that makes people lose themselves? Stories often give voice to who you are, or who you wish you were, or who you might have been. Stories help you  remember or help you forget.  Great music is a really just a great story with a melody attached. No one is thinking about bills and doctor’s appointments, when fingers are snapping.  I’ve been to enough clubs, house parties, weddings and local dances to watch in awe at otherwise reserved, rigid and shy folks, completely let loose on the dance floor when their favorite song was played.  Watching them, you can see someone else in there.  Perhaps someone younger, thinner, childless, single…in a word, Free.   In that moment, that music, those lyrics, that drum beat, was telling their story, without a filter or an editor, just their pure truth.

When the kids were young, I spent so much of my time driving them back and forth to school, classes and appointments.  On our car rides, in between their kiddie cd’s I was forced to play again and again and again and sing along with, I’d sneak in a song from my favorite radio station.  And when a good song came on, maybe it was Get Off by Chic, Run DMC’s Sucker MC’s, Atomic Dog by George Clinton,  Le Freak by Chic, or any other blast from the past, that was when they most wanted my attention. “Not now!” I’d yell  at the backseat.  ”I’m seventeen and on my way to a party with my girlfriends!”   At first they would object.  Their questions and stories they thought were far more important than my fantasy world.  But they learned.  And they sat quietly until my song and my singing ended. “Now what is it you wanted?” I asked turning the volume down, back in mommy mode. “Never mind,” they’d answer in unison. It took a while, but eventually they learned.   I take my music very seriously.

Lesa Cline-Ransome

 

Writer, Uninterrrupted

Today my daughter submitted her college admission acceptance form and I realized that any day now I’ll have two kids out of the house and in college.  Two kids are still at home but I will be operating at a fifty percent occupancy rate.  That number is not so great in the hotel business, but in the business of writing, I’ll take that number any day of the week. However, I’m still not convinced it will translate into a fifty percent workload reduction.

Next year my third, my son, will also depart to begin his life as a college student and the nest will be emptier still.   I’ll be honest–I’ve spent many hours, head in hands dreaming of the day when the kids are busily (and hopefully blissfully) pursuing their dreams outside of our home and I have a little room to breathe…I mean write.  I could spend hours fantasizing about all the time I will have to write uninterrupted with only a gentle nudging reminder from our St. Bernard Nola when it is time for her afternoon walk.  Then, of course, I’ll be ready for a break because I’ve had such a productive morning.  After communing with nature on my leisurely walk with Nola I’ll eat a healthy, well prepared lunch.  I’ll return to my desk till I stop again for a healthy well-prepared dinner.  School committee meetings, swim meets, volleyball games, laundry, girl scouts, calls from the school nurse, laundry, daily school runs for forgotten notes and lunches and notebooks and art projects and gym clothes, checks for uniforms, checks for yearbooks, checks for club sports, checks for school spirit t shirts, checks for dances, checks for school fundraisers, checks for prom tickets, throw in another load of laundry….. all now a thing of the past.  The kids complaints about my healthy dinners, a distant memory.

I’ll speak to the kids of course, via phone or skype.  They’ll fill me in on their challenging course loads, relationship news and ask for more checks.   I’ll catch them up on local gossip, family news and how Nola grows mysteriously and increasingly cuter each day. Their voices fill me and smooth my rough edges.

We will all soon be entering new phases of our lives.  And I suppose not all of life’s journeys are smooth sailing.  In preparation for this journey I try to encourage us all to get a little more of what we need by letting my birds spread their wings (i.e. do their own laundry) while I eke out just a few more precious minutes at my desk. On a good day, some decent writing has been done, a family dinner was enjoyed, laundry was folded and put away, homework was reviewed, laughs and stories were shared.  But on a not so good day, I put my head in my hands and dream how it sure will be nice to write uninterrupted with only a gentle nudging reminder from our St. Bernard Nola when it is time for her afternoon walk.

Lesa Cline-Ransome

A Child is Born

I know some writers like to say that having a book release is like giving birth.  Well, as a writer, I am here to tell you, that is a complete fabrication.   Sure, a book release is exciting, the culmination of careful planning, confidence building and relatively painless.  Everything giving birth is not. And while it may bear no resemblance to the birthing process, it does feel an awful lot like the next stage–parenthood.

cover

Like children, each book is special in its own unique way, disappointing in others.  They need attention and nurturing to grow and thrive, left alone, they may wither.  I am proud when random strangers (i.e. reviewers, librarians, teachers, readers) comment on their intellect and beauty, but offended when they do not receive the praise I feel they deserve. And, of course, when I scrutinize their pages, I will inevitably wish there was something I had done differently.

But aren’t the most dynamic families made up of the most imperfections? The preachy grandma, the boring uncle, the whiny cousin…I am grateful for my family of books that chart my imperfections as well as my growth as a writer.  And, like any hopeful parent, I always pray that each one goes out into the world and makes a difference.

One night last week, when the lantern was out and the cabin was cool, Mama told me about a place we could go to learn letters. Today is the release of my newest title, Light in the Darkness: A Story About How Slaves Learned in Secret (Disney, Jump at the Sun).  While combing through research for my Frederick Douglass picture book biography, I stumbled on a small passage about Pit Schools, holes dug in the ground where slaves would gather at night to learn to read from another literate slave.  Through the eyes of young Rosa, we see her and her mother risk their lives to learn one letter at a time.  Master will whip us all, and Morris the most for teaching us.  A lash for each letter. Their desire to read and persevere in the face of fear is a celebration of the many African Americans who sought the light of education during the darkness of slavery.

Lesa Cline-Ransome

Open Wide

To meet me, you wouldn’t know it, but fear drives me. It is an ever present ache in my daily life. The kids, health, work, politics, natural disasters, the kids again. I forge ahead, try to use my bravado to stare it down, but it remains a steady presence. So, it should come as no surprise that a trip to the dentist requires a good deal of strength on my part. Usually after I cancel a couple of appointments, I arrive late, shaky and anxious. Thankfully my dentist is a patient, compassionate man who talks me through cleanings. So when I recently had extreme pain in my lower molars and could not stop crying, and my dentist told me I needed a root canal and would need to visit the endontist to perform it, my distress level hit an all-time high. I cried in the car on my way to the endontist, I cried in front of the receptionist and by the time I reached the chair…well, you can imagine. Through the tears I told both the assistant and the dentist of my fear. They nodded sympathetically, turned on some classical music, turned on the nitrous oxide and turned down the lights. As the gas took effect, I calmed and laughed at myself for being so overdramatic. This wasn’t so bad—Face Your Fears! Don’t Let Fear Immobilize You! Be a Woman! Weren’t these the lines I always fed my kids? With the help of the gas, I was a living, breathing example of bravery in action. But when the drilling began, I reared back, turned my head away. She patiently readjusted me until I wiggled away once more. Finally, I found if I opened wider, she worked faster and more efficiently. And before I knew it, she was done and the pain had completely disappeared.
Writing is pretty much the same. I fear it. I begin each new project enthusiastically. Eager to delve into the inner lives of my characters. But, so often, once the research is completed and the idea loosely sketched, I sit down to write and the fear begins. Is this really the direction I want to go? Is there a better way to tell this story? Has this story already been told? And, of course, will anyone really want to read this? I force myself in the chair each day, praying to the writing gods that I can find words that are good and strong, and authentic. Sometimes I’m successful, and sometimes I’m not. But when I really dig deep, push myself to write just a little bit more, find just the right word or phrase, tap into the heart of each character, let myself go and open wide, it gets easier. I do wish I could have come to this epiphany without the help of excruciating pain, but it has helped in recognizing that for me, the best work is done in the darkest hours. Good to know before I schedule my next cleaning.

Lesa Cline-Ransome