This Is My Secret: The Blog and Website of Writer Kristin Cashore

There are stretches of time in my writing life when I wake up eager to work and have one productive day after another. Then there are stretches like this week, when I wake up feeling like it's intolerable to be on page 12 of a difficult 400-page revision, and am I really supposed to be in charge of making all these decisions? Is it really up to me and only me to decide what's best at every moment? To figure out the solution to a lot of complicated problems? By myself, in this room today for hours?

It becomes difficult to keep my focus small. Instead of the group of pages that are my small task for today, with a small list of objectives, I start thinking about all the changes the book needs as a whole, and I get overwhelmed. I start thinking about how many days this big revision is likely to take, while my editor and other people are waiting, and I get overwhelmed. My friends might find me to be a little bit glum, because during these times, I tend to see the world through revi…

Here in Cambridge, as in a number of nearby towns, we are generally all doing what we're told and staying inside while the search for the Boston Marathon bombings suspect continues. What a strange and difficult day. What a hard week the Boston area has had. I have been thinking a lot about the parts of the world where this kind of violence is the norm. I've been thinking about the sensationalist news media, which makes me sick. I've been thinking about the victims; the helpers working so hard to keep us safe today; and the fact that this hunt is for a nineteen-year-old. I've been thinking about a lot of things; there is too much to think about.

I love my home.

My heart goes out to those suffering, and my gratitude to all the helpers, who come in many forms. I don't have much to offer, but here is some beauty...

Recently, I had one of those days wherein by the end of the day, you've screwed up so many times that you despise yourself and it seems like the only possible way to redeem the day is with a bit of plumbing. Hence, I proceeded to jam a scrub brush down the drain of my bathroom sink, where it became firmly stuck. I can't get it out. It's still in there.



*screams*


******

In other news, here are some of my favorite descriptive and/or character development moments from John Bellair's The House With a Clock in Its Walls (Puffin Books, 1973, illustrated by Edward Gorey):
The last clock to strike was the grandfather clock in the study. It made a noise like a steamer trunk full of tin plates falling slowly and solemnly down a flight of stairs. (16)

Lewis thought a lot about the stained-glass windows and the coat rack. Were they magic? He believed in magic, even though he had been taught not to. His father had spent one whole afternoon explaining to Lewis that ghosts were caus…

For those mornings when you wake up and find yourself wondering, Hmm, what strange thing happened to me overnight? Weirdness and worry, you are welcome in my day: come on in.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door, laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

- Rumi

I've been playing chess on my phone during work hours. Initially, I started to do this because the writing I'm doing is kicking my heart around the room and I can only bear to work on it in small doses; a game of chess every 90 minutes or so stabilizes me and brings me back to base one, so that I can work on another small section of the book. But now I'm also playing chess because it's become fun. I've named my computer opponent HAL, of course, and set him to his easiest setting. By now I've practiced enough that I beat him pretty quickly every time, but I'm not content to increase his difficulty until I get to the point where I can understand every move he's making, and see the game unfolding a few more steps ahead of what I'm currently seeing.

It's weirdly like writing a book. Even when things are going okay, I feel like I'm trying to catch up, straining to understand, trying to contain something that's out of my control.

I've rea…

New Zealand writer Margaret Mahy died on Monday, July 23. She was 76 years old.

Margaret Mahy could write emotions like sadness, fear, the desperateness of courage, so that you felt them as you read. A few lines from Alchemy (2004):

Certainly the sound of her sadness had spread itself backward and forward through time.

The feeling he had been trying to create – the feeling that the day was just another day – began to shiver out of line.

He could not see an inch beyond his nose. Squinting down in its general direction, he found he could not even see his nose. All the same, still whistling and hissing to himself, reminding himself how real he was, then nodding and muttering agreement with himself, Roland stepped forward yet again, before pausing and groping backward.
She described physical sensations brilliantly. In these lines from 24 Hours (2000), Ellis wakes up with a hangover:

Ellis did not open his eyes. It seemed safer to linger in the darkness behind his lids, for his head felt as …

I have so much sadness today at the news of the death of Maurice Sendak. I am crying at my airport gate. So much sympathy for his loved ones, and so much gratitude for all his work gave me – more than I can possibly express in this moment. The world has lost an irreplaceable soul.

The news on NPR.

ETA: Today Fresh Air re-broadcasted excerpts from Terry Gross's four interviews with Maurice Sendak over time. Listening to them again is marvelous. This should be the link to the interviews, if you're so inclined. Thanks, Liza, for the heads up.

ETA May 9: Also check out Dan Wasserman's comic in the Boston Globe saying goodbye to Sendak (brought tears to my eyes again).

A book release can be overwhelming. A lot of factors converge at once. Reviews, to be honest, don't really faze me, but they do create a lot of swirling noise. There's a lot of noise in general during a book release, and when you're trying to ground yourself in what matters, noise can be decentering. Also, during a book release, a writer is transitioning from working alone in a room on an intensely private project to being the star of public speaking events :). Am I nervous about that? Sure. Nerves contribute to the release being overwhelming.

But this morning, I managed to isolate, at least for a few moments, the reason why this release is extra hard. Unlike Katsa and Fire, Bitterblue is just a regular person. She doesn't have any superpowers; she's only got her own courage, smarts, determination, her heart. She feels vulnerable to me, more than Katsa and Fire ever did. And now she's grown up, and it's time for me to fling her out into the scary world …

Wednesday was one of those days where you wake up and it's so dark outside that you feel like there must've been some mix-up with the sun. And it never gets any brighter, and also your hands hurt, but you have to do a lot of computer work anyway, and because your hands hurt, you're clumsy, and because you're clumsy, you keep spilling crumbs and splattering liquids everywhere on account of a person must eat, and it sucks to have to clean everything all up, because your hands hurt.

I depend on my dictation software for my e-mail communications and the transcription of my work. I'm inexpressibly grateful for its existence. BUT that doesn't mean that it doesn't make me livid with anger, even bring me close to tears, from time to time. There are just some days where nothing works; no matter where you put the microphone, no matter how distinctly you speak, it won't get any of your words right, and nothing works, and you have to use your hands. On Wednesday, i…

According to the literature that came with my 2012 parking pass, my city, Cambridge, Massachusetts, has the highest percentage of people who walk or bike to work in the nation. (I wonder if I count in that statistic? It's about a 30-foot walk from my bed to my couch.)

I'm not a native of Cambridge -- I grew up in Pennsylvania -- but I was fond of Cambridge from my very first visit. I'm very, very happy to live here, and I hope I'll continue to do so for a long time.

Unfortunately, at the moment, I am a heartbroken Cambridge resident. Why? Because Bob Slate is closing. :( :( :(

Bob Slate's Stationer is the independent store where I buy my Edward Gorey notecards. And my Where the Wild Things Are notecards. And all my other notecards. And my pens and pencils and erasers. And my pirate stickers. And my jousting knight stickers. And my shark temporary tattoos. And my Post-it notes. Most importantly, and I'm actually getting a little teary here, Bob Slate is where I buy…

The discussion of favorite and least favorite words has been delightful. I've learned that Schmetterling is the German word for butterfly -- isn't it beautiful?

So, do you ever feel like you need a good cry -- not necessarily because anything terrible has happened, but just because you need to clear out your system and process things? What do you do in times like that? I do things like listen to sad music (like Barber's Adagio for Strings -- here's a gorgeous choral version), or meditate, or watch the My So-Called Life episode where Sharon's dad is in the hospital (that one gets me weeping every time!). My sister, secret codename: Cordelia, used to be very accommodating when I needed a cry and couldn't seem to get started -- she would offer to give me a good kick or something. (Cordelia is a therapist. Real good with that emotions stuff. ^_^.)

I've been a little overwhelmed lately, and I haven't had time to arrange for a good cry. But in the meant…