Middle Grade?

When I began writing short stories for real in high school, there was no purpose or intent behind it. I just had ideas come and thought they were cool, and writing them into stories felt right. That habit carried into college, and even into the earliest years of my teaching career. Being surrounded by kids for most of the year presented me with constant inspiration for stories to tell about the innocence, trials, and comedies of childhood. Eventually I had enough stories to assemble as a sort of anthology, and made a half-hearted attempt at trying to get them published. Of course that went nowhere since I only knew a fraction of what I needed to about how to do it right.

The next logical step was to write a book. This was terrifying. I hadn’t written any piece of fiction much longer than fifty pages, so just the idea of trying to write an actual book-length manuscript was daunting. And the phrase “trying to write” is used very intentionally here, because I had no idea whether or not this would be something I could even do. It felt like someone with three years of noodling around on a piano deciding one day to sit down and write a symphony. However, over the course of one summer break, mostly between the hours of midnight and three a.m. (back when I was physically able to be awake that late) I managed to write my first book. I felt great pride in the accomplishment, and even greater relief in knowing I could. It wasn’t great but it wasn’t terrible, and it had a few moments I’d probably still be proud of now if I could bring myself to read it. Most importantly, I was able to walk away from the experience knowing I had successfully crossed a new threshold.

That year of summer book writing was followed by a few more. I started feeling more confident and started thinking again that maybe what I was writing was worth trying to publish and it was time to try finding an agent. Through a combination of hard work, patience, and plain dumb luck, I finally broke through and connected with an agent, someone I get along with who understands my writing, always sees how it can be better, and encourages me to do more with it. Right now, while we're on submission with one project and in the middle of preparing another, she’s gently encouraging me to explore a brand new direction. 

I never consciously decided to write middle grade fiction. The stories I thought up were largely inspired by the shenanigans and lives of the kids at school, so those ideas came naturally. Branding is definitely a thing for authors, so if someone is known for writing in a specific genre or age level, typically that’s the wheelhouse where they stay. I don’t remember a lot of details about the first time I spoke with my agent on the phone, but I remember her asking something about middle grade fiction, and if that was the direction I wanted to go for a career. “Because you can write anything you want,” she said, a statement that jumped out at me in a conversation that was jumping out at me as a whole. Did she mean “You’re so talented you would be able to write any kind of book you want”? She’d only read one manuscript that still needed a lot of work, so that didn’t seem likely. Or was it “You don’t have to stay in middle grade if you don’t want to, and I’d be able to represent you in whatever direction you wanted to go”? I hoped her meaning came from a little of each.

She and I have done a lot of work in the past few years, and we’ve had a lot of conversations about writing and publishing in general. Early this year we brainstormed up what hopefully could be a good idea for a middle grade series, for which I’ve drafted two manuscripts in just the past several months. Just as that idea is gaining traction, she’s got me thinking hard about trying something outside of middle grade. That's right: In just the past few weeks, for the first time ever, I'm seriously thinking about trying to write something in mainstream adult fiction.

The problem is I haven’t written anything with an adult perspective in decades, and I have honest questions about whether or not I can do it, at least to any degree of quality. Maybe I’ve settled into children’s literature for so long that I’m solidly entrenched in that lane now. Maybe I’ll try something adult that won’t ring true. For me to even think about trying this feels very much like the apprehension I had some twenty odd years ago, making the leap from writing short stories to trying to write an entire novel. 

Maybe that’s a good sign, though. Scaring myself by wandering into unknown territory could be an opportunity for growth. Having viable projects for middle grade and working on something for adult fiction could be like throwing more than one message in a bottle into the ocean at once, and waiting to see which might be discovered first. 

All of this speculation and overthinking is probably beside the point anyway, since there’s so little I can control about what happens at this stage in whatever kind of writing career I might have. I guess in the end it all has to come back to the writing. That’s really the only part I can control, and it’s the part of the process that’s always been the most fun. 

The First Year Home

I had a seven year gap between dogs. Part of that came from the leftover pain following Spencer’s prolonged death, while part of it was being accustomed to a life that was so much easier. No trips to the vet had to be made. No accidents or vomit ever needed cleaning up. I could go to school early and state late if I needed to, without feeling any guilt. I didn’t have to worry about who was going to watch the dog whenever I left town. It was an easier life, but an emptier one. 

Last summer was a long one after Freddie came home. It’s hard for me to explain exactly how frightened and withdrawn he was when he first moved in; only the people who saw him in his first days could fully appreciate that. His trust came slow but he got used to me, and he got used to his surroundings, and after several weeks he settled in comfortably. He’s now as happy as he’s ever been. He has plenty of favorite napping spots, and often will go to bed on his own before I do. He’ll attack his toys first thing in the morning, burning off excitement about knowing he's about to go for a walk. He knows our neighborhood well, including many of his dog neighbors and their human companions. He has all of our walk routes memorized, knowing where his favorite sniffing spots are, where he’s supposed to turn, and where house is his, regardless of which direction we approach it from. He’ll happily dance when he knows it’s time for breakfast or supper, and recognizes the sound of me opening the door of the cabinet where his treats are kept. When we settle in for the evening, he’ll always watch to see where I’m going to sit, then races over and jumps up to lie down beside me. If I don’t give him enough pets and scratches, he isn’t shy about swatting at my hand to remind me what my job is. 

I’m not sure anyone else will ever see the happy and bouncy little guy I know him to be. Whatever bad things happened to him earlier in life have left him extremely cautious and shy, and I don’t know if that’s something he’ll ever get over. He does open up, though. It has to be on his timetable, and it takes a long time to happen, but after awhile they get a glimpse at the loving little dog he is. 

After our first year together, I have a better understanding of why dogs such as him are called rescues. It isn’t necessarily because they’re taken from a pound or a shelter and get to move into better home, but also because they get another chance at a better, happier life. When I see him run to his safe places when visitors come or curl up to hide himself if he thinks he’s done something wrong, it almost makes me wish I knew exactly what had happened to him before he entered foster care, so I could understand those behaviors better. Since that won’t happen though, I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. Instead I’ll do the only thing I can, and redouble my efforts to make his home and his life as happy and comfortable and loving as possible. 

Day 31: Nightmares, Dreams, Phone Notifications, and Schrodinger’s Cat

I’ve been thinking about this for awhile now.

If you aren’t familiar with Schrodinger’s Cat, it’s a thought experiment that says (and I’m putting this very, very simplistically because I sure don’t understand the whole thing) that two possibilities can equally exist as truth until one of them has been proven wrong. Imagine there’s this opaque, soundproof box with a cat inside. Additionally there’s material in the box that would kill the cat after a certain amount of time has expired. If that time mark has been reached, the cat can’t be proven alive or dead, even though all evidence should support it being dead. Because it can’t be proven alive or dead, that means it’s alive and dead at the same time.

I find the little I know about thought experiments to be pretty interesting. I’ve learned it’s probably best to leave understanding them to the quantum physicists who think them up.

Anyway.

I like to apply the same idea behind Schrodinger’s Cat — or at least my likely misinterpreted understanding of it — to dealing with the same unresolved events each of us encounters several times each day. Say, for example, you’re anxiously awaiting a phone message or a text from someone with very important news. You’re going about your day, and DING. Whatever your notification sound is goes off, alerting you to a new message. You look at your phone and see who it’s from. Oooh! The person you’ve been waiting to hear from!

You know that hybrid feeling of dread and anticipation you’re immediately hit with when you see that message has arrived? I say that comes from knowing you’re about to either face the dream or the nightmare. That might be kind of dramatic, but in some cases probably not. Something huge you’re waiting to have happen and have been hoping against hope for so long has finally arrived at your metaphorical doorstep. Will you experience jubilation or disappointment? Have you ever gotten such a message and hesitated for even a moment before discovering what it says? There’s that Schrodinger’s Cat moment. You want to prolong the possibility that the dream might come true because you know it’s possible that it won’t once you discover the truth. You want to keep the cat alive for a little longer.

This works the other way, too. Let’s say you were waiting to hear news that wasn’t so good, maybe something like a test results from a doctor, or some kind of financial or legal issue that could upset your life, or an update on the condition of someone you care about who is faced with some serious problem. You can hope things will work out for the best, but in cases like these there’s very little you can do other than wait. What happens when that email notification pops up? Would you open it right away to find out what happened? Or would you be feeling such an undercurrent of expectant dread that you’d want to spend a few more seconds living in a world where the bad news you’re anticipating isn’t real? You don’t want to open the box because you don’t want to discover that the cat has died.

Everyone has possibilities like this they have to face. They aren’t all life-altering events, but I’d say everyone has probably had their share of those, or will eventually. I wonder how many people would consider themselves to be optimistic and brave enough to see the notification and jump right in to find out the truth immediately. Sometimes I am, but usually I put it off as long as I can, letting both possibilities exist until I can’t stand it anymore, then I just tear off the Band-Aid before I can sink any further into anxiousness.

I’m not sure why I’ve been thinking about this so much in the past few days. The calendar would make it seem like it would have something to do with the approaching end of the school year, but I’m not finding the connection…one more thing to think about, I guess.

Anyway. May is over in a few hours. Everyone have a nice June, and try to squeeze as many happy moments from it as you can.