Making Time for a Life of Writing
Photo by Ella Jardim on Unsplash
It is taking me longer to write books these days. For no particular reason other than it is taking me longer to write books these days. I once imagined that as my children grew larger and my nest grew emptier that my work days would grow proportionately longer.
But, much like a newly cleaned out closet, what was once empty mysteriously and incrementally refills.
In the space left behind by my children, I now find myself sitting at my desk doing everything but writing—sending emails, scheduling appointments and events, chatting on Zoom meetings and interviews, reading, organizing my calendar, booking travel, preparing talks and presentations, composing social media posts, daydreaming, and trying and failing to avoid the daily news doomscrolling. Of course there is much grumbling about all I need to do to first clear my head and my desk before my mind can settle on the task of writing. Meanwhile the clock ticks and the hours disappear.
When I meet other writers who seemingly manage to get a lot done in their day, I quiz them—“What time do you get up each morning?” ”Do you find time to read?” “Do you cook?” What I really want to know is, Can you truly have a full and productive life and do all the things that come with being a full time writer?
What am I feeding? Everything but my writing. The tasks that require the least of me.
Once upon a time, at the start of my writing career, my days were packed with the making of school lunches, kid drop-offs and pickups, homework help, sports practices, and playdates, dinner making, doctor’s appointments, rinse and repeat. My writing was tucked in the in-between times, scratched out in the notebooks I toted to and fro.
Often those notebooks were crumpled messes and a diary of life on the go, smudged with yogurt and lipstick, and in the margins of the pages, scribbles of other appointments I needed to keep. I counted myself as a time thief—stealing and sneaking scraps of time away as if they weren’t truly mine to own.
And if I didn’t get the balance just right, if I “stole” or “borrowed” too much from one part of my life, the other parts would feel the shortage. No dinner again tonight? Did you buy the supplies for my project—it is due today! I would apologetically return some of that borrowed time to its rightful owner while my writing sat again unattended, waiting.
My children, having flown the proverbial nest, still have phones that can reach me at all times of the day with grave emergencies. “I’m bored,” one calls to report working from their remote job. Another asks, “What should I have for lunch?” “Should I go see a doctor about…” Meanwhile, the clock ticks and the hours disappear.
“Everyone has a to do list,” says writer Anne Lamott, “Today cross two things off of your list and spend that time writing.”
I have tried Lamott’s methods and many others—color-coded calendars, time blocking, timers, and daily word counts, all with mixed results. I plan my day, hoping that what is on my calendar will translate into some version of sentences or research or even notes on a page.
I begin each day with the promise of accessing more of what wasn’t there the day before. I think of what my writing day will yield each as I do my morning stretches. When I head out on my walk I plan what I will first work on, seeing in my mind’s eye the sentences form. In the shower, I speak to the characters I’ll shortly be visiting. But by the time I descend the stairs and make my way into my office and sit at my desk to begin, I open my inbox and… the clock ticks and another hour disappears.
One recent morning I tried a new guided meditation where the mantra was “What you feed grows.”
What was I feeding? I asked myself, vowing to tuck away that morsel.
I returned to my desk and began my day—Sending emails, scheduling appointments and events, zoom meetings, interviews, reading, organizing my calendar, planning trav—….wait…Is this what I am feeding?
Even with all of the time in the world, I am beginning to recognize that what is sitting before me is not a lack of time. There is nothing that any of my time management books can cure.
What am I feeding? Everything but my writing. The tasks that require the least of me.
The work of writing requires not only time and daily attention but intention. An understanding of the who you are writing about and the why you are writing. It requires the very hard work of committing words to a page. By feeding my to-do list first, the less time I am devoting to feeding my own writing.
Yes, I am busy. And yes, my day is full. Those facts aren’t likely to change anytime soon. But could it also be that I have more than enough time? That what I need more than extra hours in a day is the strength to embrace the time I have and the courage to put aside all else, face the fear of of a blank page and write?
In community,
Lesa
January 2024: Revision Reflections
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I love a New Year. Because with the New Year comes my hope for a new beginning. It’s not as if the past year has been one filled with gloom and doom, but there is something about a new year that promises 365 days of something much better than whatever the last year held. It’s like a bright Monday morning when the week is just beginning, your energy level is high, and your long to-do list seems actually doable. Or the first day of school when you’re wearing shiny new shoes and you just know that your hard work will yield straight A’s on each and every report card.
For most of us, All Is Possible at the stroke of midnight at the start of a new year. Weight will be lost. Money will be saved. And finally, at long last, the novel you’ve been putting off for so long Will be written. For me, not a year begins without the hope that This Will Be the Year I will achieve ALL of my professional goals. I will write five award-winning books. I will meet all of my deadlines. I will find time between writing my award-winning books to Travel, Cook Amazing Meals for Friends and Family, Garden and Exercise Daily. Perhaps I will even write a Travel Cookbook Memoir (with recipes from my garden bounty)! I will keep a clean and organized desk to meet my deadlines and write my books. And when not writing, gardening, or cooking, I will read every single book on my TBR list. Not such a tall order for the start of a new year, right? Because it’s 2024 and Anything Is Possible!
And that is precisely where I get myself into trouble.
It could be the month of January that is partly to blame. Here on the east coast, gray skies, short days, and cold air in a very long, nearly holiday-free stretch make January the bleakest of months. Wedged between merry-making December and a romance-themed February, January seems downright depressing. If it weren’t for the New Year goal-setting (and, of course, the celebration of MLK Day), what else would January have to offer?
Yet the unrealistic goals I place on myself as a writer at the start of the new year have led me to my annual end-of-the-year doldrums. How is it that I missed so many deadlines? My ingenious book ideas sit in files waiting to be written. Unread stacks of books seem to only grow in piles around my home.
Generally speaking, resolutions are a fail.
They fail for the same reason that gym memberships dramatically increase in January and dramatically decrease by February. Routines, not resolutions, are what keeps you going long after willpower fades. It is the daily work of showing up that matters, sometimes more than the final results. If I know this, why then does my off-the-chart, unrealistic goal-making continue year after year?
Perhaps it is because this is what writers do. Dream up worlds. In this case, a purely fictional world where I am the protagonist acting out the part of the hyper-focused, flawless writer I myself have never met.
As any writer knows, the work of writing is never about one month on a calendar. It is about all twelve. It is about the act of sitting in your chair with your head in your hands, wondering when the words will come and thanking the universe when they do. And the next day doing it all over again with hopefully slightly better results.
Routines, not resolutions, are what keeps you going long after willpower fades.
Goals. Resolutions. Both are perfectly fine. But if you really want to stay committed to writing in 2024 and beyond, consider a few more practical offerings I have gathered from some writing folks through the years:
First, spend time thinking about what you want to write and WHY? Understanding your writing goals is crucial to how you approach everything from the time you devote to writing, to managing a career, to choosing the subjects on which you will focus.
Find community. No one keeps you more on track and motivated than a group of other writers to whom you are obligated to share pages and progress, engage with their writing and yours, and give and receive critical feedback. Both in-person and virtual writing groups are available at Jamie Attenberg’s #1000wordsofsummer, #nanowritmo, #12x12writingchallenge, along with other orgs for writers like SCBWI.
Develop a routine that works for you. An hour each evening, voice recordings during your morning walks, writing on your lunch breaks—whenever it is, set aside time on days you decide and be consistent by showing up for your writing.
Write for yourself. Not all writing is meant for publication. Some writing, like journaling, is more about tapping your creativity and/or understanding yourself. You get to decide who your audience is. Or, in the words of novelist Sam Lipsyte, “Don’t think about a career. Just think about the next sentence.”
Do find time for something other than writing. Like gardening, traveling, walking, dancing, cooking. Each experience enriches your writing journey.
Cheer yourself on when your goals are met, but especially when they aren’t. Writing can be a long, tedious journey, and you’ll need to learn to be your own best friend, cheerleader, and advocate.
Happy 2024! Here’s to a new year of simply beginning.
In community,
Lesa
Revision Refections
Photo by Max Saeling on Unsplash
I have learned the hard way that writers spend much of their time waiting. Anxiously awaiting replies to submissions and queries. Nervously waiting for advances and royalty payments. Waiting for someone, anyone, to walk through the door to sit in an empty chair at a book event. Gather any group of writers in a room and conversations center around who is in what stage of waiting. “Just waiting to hear back from…” “I sent it in two months ago and I’m still waiting…” “How much longer should I wait before I…”
To be a writer is to be impatiently patient.
I never imagined that being the youngest child of three would be all the preparation I’d need for life as a full-time writer, where waiting is a job requirement. Being the youngest meant getting used to hearing, “Not yet,” over and over again as I watched my older siblings race off to lessons and practices. I waited for them to arrive home from school. And even after school began for me, it seemed it would be a lifetime before I would enter their intriguing worlds of science experiments, research projects, Spanish classes? Would I ever be big enough, tall enough, fast enough, smart enough? After a while, I resigned myself to the waiting, yet I still bristled with the slow pace of prolonged postponement.
After publishing my first book, and then my second, and then twenty more, I found the intensity of my writing kept pace with my publishing schedule. But so did my fatigue. When I was awarded a residency this summer, I looked forward to the time away, three weeks all on my own, without distraction, to create in solitude.
I’d just experienced a tremendous loss, and for the first time in years, my work had faltered in my overwhelming grief. Healing was needed. Yet the projects were long overdue and I knew that more than anything I needed this time to catch up and deliver. But at the same time, I needed to stop and breathe. How could I do both? Slow down and speed up?
As I arrived at my assigned studio there was a guest book propped on the mantle, its pages filled with words of wisdom from the studio’s previous residents.
Blankness filled me. I had no wisdom, no sage advice, nothing to add to these pages. I was here to work, to complete projects, not to give advice. But as I sat at the desk in front of a large window overlooking the woods, the words I so desperately needed were nowhere to be found. And so in the quiet of the days that followed, I listened to the radio, the owls at night, the cicadas, the whirr of my fan during stifling heat. I walked, and ate lunches that arrived in a picnic basket at my doorstep promptly each day at noon. In the evenings, during the communal meals with the other fellows, when asked, “How’s your work going?” I answered smiling, “It’s going…”
With no Wi-Fi in my studio, I visited the library after breakfast to begin research on one project, then returned to my studio to write in my journal. I read. I napped. I cried. A lot. After four days and not one word of writing, I began to panic. Was I just wasting time? Frittering away a wonderful opportunity? Was my writing career….gulp…over?
I attended presentations of other fellows, soaking in the creative writing, film, compositions, visual art and poetry fostered by their residencies. Together we drank wine in the evenings. And more wine. I made playlists that we sang along to, someone taught us line dances. I played ping pong, darts, bowled. I pulled a hamstring doing some combination of all of the aforementioned activities.
In between I thought of the characters, the stories I’d come to this residency to write about. I wondered where they were. The fear of the teacher who secretly taught enslaved blacks in the 1800’s under the shade of an oak tree. The courage of a journalist fighting violence with truth and words in 1894. The uncertainty of a black wagon company who were traveling west from Mississippi in 1879. Like a new mother, I worried over their future. Uncertain I could ever help them reach the potential I was certain each story possessed. And I did what I knew best, I waited.
“Certain subjects just need time. You’ve got to wait before you write about them,” writer Joyce Carol Oates once said.
I couldn’t quite let go of the idea of completing all that I intended, but I began to surrender my vision of “productivity.” I reimagined work as not only output, but input as well.
And then one morning, as I picked up my journal to write my daily entry, I found, not just the words for my morning meditative ramblings, but sentences. A start of a story. I put down the journal and moved to a pad of paper, scribbling furiously. By the end of the day, I’d begun writing on my laptop. I created an actual document. I named it and pressed SAVE. A structure for the story appeared and then more ideas formed, so I started a new document and saved that one as well. Each day I returned to my laptop, eagerly greeting the characters and subjects, and the words came, tumbling onto the pages. I could see faces, hear voices. I knew these people and their stories. I had not just any words, but good ones, I felt. The words I’d been waiting for. As if they were sitting quietly, shyly in the corner, biding their time.
Stories can’t be rushed, no matter how quickly we need them. Sometimes we need the quiet, the space to let them find us.
“Drafts sit and wait for us to come home, I believe. At least I’ve never met one that made secret progress while I was gone,” Virginia Euwer Wolff, a dear friend and critique partner once emailed when I complained of too much time spent away from my writing during travel.
In the periods I spent not working, I discovered that sometimes the work of writing is to listen. To play. Sometimes the work is waiting to work. All the moments of not putting pen to paper, of not writing, were the times that stories were forming. It is the gift of what solitude and time and breaks, and retreats can provide.
The stories will find us in the waiting. Turns out I did have words for both my story and to leave behind for the journal on the mantle as well.
Stay tuned for news of our upcoming R(ev)ise and Shine! retreats where we trust you will find community and stories waiting…
A Bronx Tale: One Teacher's Song
Back to school season is upon us and with it the heightened rush for some, anxiety for others. For me, September is a time of renewal. A season of welcomed change to shake off the laziness of hot summer days, begin anew, dream up new projects, set goals. But it is also the time when I begin once again, to visit schools and students around the country, to talk about the power of story, books and how both can change the way we see ourselves and our world.
Each year I do nearly thirty school visits and by the time the school year ends, no matter how wonderful each visit, how well prepared, how magical the students and teachers and librarians, the fatigue of travel and hotel and being away from home and my routine begins to wear me down. Memorable moments stand out of course--kids brimming with questions, offering me ideas for my next book, sharing their own writing and drawings; impassioned teachers and librarians who go out of their way to make me feel welcome and appreciated; Caring administrators who sit in on presentations, setting literacy examples; and of course, parent and family volunteers who work tirelessly (says the former PTA president!) to bridge the gap between home and school.
But this year, on my very last school visit of the year in early June, tired and worn out by deadlines and juggling, I visited the students at P.S. 96 in the Bronx at the invitation of a teacher named Jake. Jake teaches fifth grade and a short time ago he read my book, Finding Langston, a book he said changed him. So much so, he told me, that he decided he wanted to share the book with his students by using it as grade level read and following it up by hosting the school’s very first school visit. He visited my website, contacted my wonderful booking agent Carmen Oliver at Booking Biz, and asked her to set a date aside. There was only one problem: His school did not have the funding to host an author for a school visit. So, Jake sought out alternative funding and when that failed, Jake took some initiative and started a GoFundMe page. A “Help Me Bring Author Lesa Cline-Ransome to P.S. 96” GoFundMe page to raise the funds for my honorarium.
My agent worked with his budget. Friends donated, his parents, a close pal from Japan, even an aunt he had shared the book with chipped in as well. Jake and the 5th grade students watched as the donations came in and cheered and hoped and somehow, some way, Jake met his goal and raised enough funds to bring me into his school.
Of course, I was unaware of all of this when I visited the school on my very last school visit in June. All I knew was that I was tired, and I was traveling two hours each way from my home in the Hudson Valley, by car, by train, by Uber to the Bronx.
But when I arrived, I was met with classrooms of the most eager students with the most wonderful, the most thoughtful questions I’d ever encountered. And of course, the most grateful and gracious teacher named Jake, who started a GoFundMe page to bring me to his school to discuss Finding Langston, a book that changed him.
The best part of the visit was the way that day changed me too. Students asked questions about the book of course, but we also discussed questions the book raised: racism , loss, insecurity, grief and trauma. I cried and I think Jake did too. Because my goodness, this is what happens when an inspired teacher gets ahold of a book he loves and spreads that love to students he loves and respects. As tired as I was, I left energized, remembering that you can never know how one story can impact a reader. Or how books can change them.
When I returned home, I wrote Jake telling him what the visit meant to me and I thanked him for his work in bringing me to his school. And he sent me this—a song he composed and performed, inspired by Finding Langston, which he gave me permission to share here. Take a listen and you tell me if teachers and books and the power of story aren’t the most wonderful things in the world.
Dear Diary
I have been writing stories since I was ten years old and my mom gave me my very own diary, complete with a lock and key (which I suppose didn’t offer any real measure of security given that any kitchen scissors could have rendered the fastener useless). However, sharing a room with an older sister and no real privacy, it made me feel as if I had a way to finally keep something of my very own private.
My diary was the first place where I wrote uncensored, free from a teacher’s grade, a friend’s judgment. It was the place where I practiced my writing.
Since then, I have always kept a journal, writing daily gratitude, observations on motherhood, marriage, and the highs and lows of life, writing and otherwise. Journaling, as it is now called, has become a hobby for some. But for me, it has helped to strengthen me both emotionally and creatively. It is still the place where I am my most unfiltered and it prepares me for the writing in the other areas of my life that do require other eyes, an editing pen, judgment from reviewers and readers.
With each passing year, practicing writing in my diary strengthened my writing and eventually helped me to write the papers for my AP English classes in high school and my college essays. It helped me to earn internships with magazines, write articles for professional journals, and even helped to launch my own blog, Writerhood: Thoughts on Writing, Motherhood and Everything in Between…”, and then it helped me to launch a 30-year writing career, writing about the lives of so many like journalist Ethel Payne, pitcher Satchel Paige, jazz musicians Louis Armstrong and Benny Goodman and historic heroes Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglass in over twenty picture books and creating historic fictional narratives for my Finding Langston series and YA novel For Lamb.
But I certainly never imagined it would help me decades later to write the life story of the woman who gave me that diary, my mother. When she passed just weeks ago, my brother and sister assumed, as the designated family storyteller/memory keeper/writer, it would be me, who would write my mother’s eulogy and memorialize her in words during her funeral service. But highlighting the stories of others, those from history and polishing your own credentials is a long way from telling the beautiful and emotional fullness of your mother and how her life breathed life into yours.
But I thought back to my diary. To our early trips to the Malden Public Library. To all the ways my mother believed in me and my writing from the very first time she could see my love of story, books and words, and I sat down and wrote that. And I thought about each and every paper, school newspaper paper article, essay and manuscript I read to her in its earliest stages, and each time I lovingly autographed one of my books with her name or dedicated to her and each time she told me, “Lesa, I think this one is the best things you’ve ever written.” And I thought back to all the times she came to watch my four children when I needed a break or had a deadline or a speaking engagement, ensuring my career would get off the ground. And I thought too about all the times I could see her pride in me. And some combination of all those things made it into what I wrote of her and me and our time together and I hoped that somehow, some way, everyone who attended her service and read of her could see that the gift of my mother was her gift of being just the mother I needed by giving me that diary years ago and with it a legacy of love and her implicit belief that I would one day become all that I dreamed, a writer.
Just Rewards in Maine
We were lost. Driving down back roads and unfamiliar streets in a small town in Maine when my cell phone rang just as my GPS was issuing a direction. I cursed but answered the call coming from an unfamiliar cell, out of habit mainly. Not many have my cell number, so when it rings I answer out of fear, caution, curiosity and some combination of all.
The woman’s voice on the other end asked kindly, “Can I speak to James Ransome?” She was mistakenly given my number instead of his, we quickly realized so I put my phone on speaker and James, who was driving, aimlessly GPS-less now, chimed in.
“Hello, this is James…”
“James, we are calling from the ALA Youth Media Awards Committee…”
The rest, as they say, is a blur.
We continued now following blindly down road after road, knowing we were becoming more hopelessly lost with each passing minute the caller spoke but thoughts of reaching our destination were now the furthest thing from our minds.
“We are so happy to tell you that you are this year’s winner of the Children’s Literature Legacy Award…” We screamed. I cried. And when the call ended, we both asked each other, What. Just. Happened?
I went to the Youth Media Awards site and read aloud the description… “... honors an author or illustrator whose books, published in the United States, have made, over a period of years, a substantial and lasting contribution to children's literature through books that demonstrate integrity and respect for all children's lives and experiences…”
And then I read the list of previous recipients “…Tomie DePaolo, Eric Carle, E.B. White, Mildred Taylor, Jerry Pinkney, Dr. Seuss?”
And I cried some more. I thought back to James in college at Pratt Institutein Brooklyn, New York. When we first began dating during our sophomore year, he was the only one I knew who spent more hours in his dorm room working on assignments than going to parties. When we graduated, he worked weekends only so that his weekdays could be spent dropping off his portfolio to art directors, until finally, gratefully, he got one assignment, and then another. And one day, an art director invited him for a chat. It was Richard Jackson of Orchard Books who took a chance and offered a newbie illustrator a shot at illustrating his very first picture book entitled Do Like Kyla, written by Angela Johnson. Thirty-three years later, and Do Like Kyla is still in print. He illustrated five more books before he felt confident enough to leave his part-time job and become a full-time illustrator. He worked seven days a week, a schedule he still keeps.
Other books immediately followed, some awards followed those. But more importantly than any number, any award, was the way he viewed the work of visual storytelling. The art of telling stories for young readers. His illustrations captured the beauty, humanity of black life from the distant past to the present. You could see yourself, your family, heart and soul, in his work.
We found our way to our destination and our waiting hosts in Maine nearly thirty minutes late, breathless and overwhelmed and still floating from the news. The next day when the awards were officially announced, James had a chance to experience the real time joy all over again. For me, I feel like I have been his co-navigator in much of his journey, watching him get lost, and found again, continuing happily on his way to destinations unknown.
A Year in the Life
It’s been a year. And looking back on the goals I set out for myself, I am saddened to read that many have fallen short.
On the corkboard above my desk where I often post reference photos and materials for works in progress, I decided this year to also post, what I hoped would be a guiding principle that forced me to focus on being present rather than mired in past mistakes, hurts and disappointments. The guide post reads, “Last year I Survived, but this year I want to Live.“
2022 was a year where I managed to do much of what I had in the past: Getting through. There were more health concerns, less exercise than I would have liked, more slogging through day to day in a perpetual state of to-do lists, my days centered around my calendar.
When am I going to start having fun? I’d often ask myself when another weekend rolled around and I was again sitting at my desk. Or I had turned down another invitation because of a deadline. Or I agreed to go to an event and spent much of the time worrying about, you guessed it--work. Fun and being present never made it onto my calendar.
This week, as my adult children began trickling home for the holidays, we gathered in the kitchen catching up. When my daughter Maya remarked on the contact photos I had chosen for each of them on my phone, we all began sharing our favorite photos of each other. I had chosen a wide mouthed smile of Maya on a girls vacay in Tulum, Mexico; a sweet, romantic one of my eldest daughter Jaime and her partner Zakh; my youngest Leila after her very surprising and newly pierced septum, and my son’s studious and hopeful senior thesis photo.
We showed pics of the dogs Miles and Nola, we loved, gone now, but never, ever forgotten; of our favorite family gatherings. We groaned over earlier pre-invisalign, bad hair and fashion decision versions of ourselves.
But then, Leila showed me her all-time favorite picture of me. It was 2021, shortly before I was set to host a weekend birthday bash for my husband James’ 60th birthday party. Based on the time stamp, out-of-town guests were en route, I was juggling cooking, transportation issues, housecleaning, and coordinating final DJ, bartender details for the next evening’s dance party. And yet, all that I wanted this one particular afternoon was to have a good time. To finally put away work and my stupid calendar and enjoy the act of celebration with family and friends. So, apparently, I set an intention and I set my timer. On my phone, at 3:30 pm for the alarm label, I wrote, “Fun Lesa/Whatever Happens, happens.” When the timer rang, I vowed I would have fun and let everything else go. I would finally be present and show up in the way I wanted to each and every year in the goals I set for myself. And from what I can recall the world did not collapse. I remember having one of the best weekends of my life where I thought of little else but connection and engagement with my guests. I was actually present and having fun. Fun Lesa.
2023 I know will be filled with life’s usual bumps, hardships and unexpected pitfalls. My main goal this year will be this: Instead of posting an inspirational mantra, I will post on my board my daughter’s favorite picture of me revealing the two very real, very distinct aspects of me. One, a person who needs to plan every moment of every day. The other, a person craving the need to let go and embrace life. But unlike an affirmation, I am hoping this photo will serve as a daily reminder the importance of goal setting and planning should always include setting time and intention aside for fun and the freedom of letting go and letting be and most importantly letting life, and not a calendar, lead the way.
In Search of Joy
I am listening now to Ross Gay’s The Book of Delights, a yearlong mediation of daily essays written from one birthday to his next. Gay embarked on a journey to express his joy on the delights that surrounded him--a praying mantis, nicknames, the beauty of nature and human connection, and writing by hand-- in his work as a poet, a black man while living and teaching writing in Indiana.
Each essay is more delightful than the last. And in the listening, I could not could not help but to compose my own Book of Delights. Wonder aloud at the beauty that seeps into each day in the midst of a sometimes ugly world. I write this during the bleakest of political seasons, just days from the midterm election. I often wonder how much lower the discourse will go, how much further we will divide, how much more hate we can withstand, before we fall off of the proverbial cliff. And then I listen to Gay’s essays on delights. About a praying mantis, nicknames, the beauty of nature, human connection, and writing by hand, and I wonder if my vision of the world is skewed by my doom scrolling and attention to negative political news cycles. How did I not notice the breathtaking beauty today of the just past peak leaves? The postal clerk who put free stamps on my letters when I left mine at home? An invitation to a waterfront retreat with writer friends? The warmth of a cup of tea in my hands while looking out of my office window? Standing in field of prairie grass.
Engaging in the delights is as critical as actively engaging in the very real threats to democracy. Both, I’ve learned, are crucial to our wellbeing.
Travel Writer
Travel is a large part of my writing work life. I often pack my bags and laptop to travel to small towns, big cities and every place in between to meet with school kids and teachers, librarians, aspiring writers, parents and booksellers. Leaving behind the confines of my home office provides much-needed connection and opportunity to discuss the how’s and why’s of research, and writing.
But travel is also my inspiration. A chance to grow my work, or more importantly, to incubate ideas for new stories.
Two forthcoming books, Of Walden Pond: Henry David Thoreau and Frederic Tudor and the Pond Between, and my debut Young Adult novel, For Lamb, are the recipients of putting miles between me and my desk.
Several summers ago, I made a visit to Montgomery, Alabama and the Legacy Museum and Memorial (or what some call the lynching museum) and I read name after name of the victims posted there. But what most surprised me was the number of female victims of lynching. Very rarely were these women accused of any crime. They were simply the mothers, sisters, wives and daughters of black men who were the targets of mob violence.
And that’s when I knew I had to not only bear witness to this period of history, but I needed to honor the lives of these women in story. I discovered the name Lamb Whittle among a list of female victims, with no other identifying information. I had no idea of her age, where she lived, the circumstances surrounding her death, and so I imagined what her life was and could have been in For Lamb, the story of an interracial friendship between two 16-year old girls in the Jim Crow south when one choice ensnares both families in the grip of racial violence.
Visiting Concord’s Walden Pond in Massachusetts provided the backdrop for Of Walden Pond, the source of inspiration for the dueling visions of essayist Henry David Thoreau, and Boston’s Ice King, Frederic Tudor and the ways in which Walden Pond was a bounty for both.
Henry David Thoreau once said, “The question is not what you look at, but what you see.”
For me, that is much easier done when I get out from behind my desk, meet people, see the world and find the stories within them.
A Literature Legacy
Source Booksellers owner, Janet Webster Jones and daughter., Detroit, MI
Growing up, there were no bookstores in my town, and so, it was in the stacks of the Malden Public Library where I first discovered books. I tagged along each week when my mother visited the library weighted down with armloads of books she was either returning or picking up. Shelves of titles towered over me and all could think was, one day I’m going to read every single book in here.
The library was my second home. A place that was inviting and welcomed me to explore its every inch. Being among books is my comfort, my greatest joy. I have stacks in each room in my house. While others pare down, I pile on, enjoying the promise of what those stacks offer: the downtime to savor; the discovery of a new topic or author; much needed workday diversions; brilliant inspirations of beautifully constructed characters and stories; the answers to all of my burning research questions. Often, as I rush out of my door, off to the airport, to one event or another, I can grab whatever is at the top of one of my many book piles to accompany me on my travels. But, even when I arrive at my destination, I still often seek out a local bookseller to visit.
When I return home to MA for visits, it is Frugal Bookstore in Roxbury, Porter Square Books in Somerville and Eight Cousins in Falmouth; In New York City it’s Books of Wonder and Word Bookstore; Politics and Prose in Washington D.C.; Source Booksellers in Detroit; EyeSeeMe in St. Louis, MO; Anderson’s and SemiColon in Chicago, Let’s Play Bookstore in PA. Of course, back at home, it’s my hometown hero, Oblong Books, a treasure in the center of town, where owner Suzanna Hermans has created a haven for the writing community with author talks, book launches and virtual events. Whether or not I’ve named them here, each indie bookstore is serving a vital need in their communities.
Though some of these brick-and-mortar indies couldn’t survive the big box and online giants, those that remain continue to do the work of shoring up communities. Each time a bookseller is lost, it is a loss for a community as well because booksellers aren’t simply selling titles, they are giving life to neighborhoods and serving the needs of diverse communities. In many instances, they are the new community centers, performance spaces, gathering spots, work centers, play group stops, launching pads, employers. Booksellers are reimagining the way we are experiencing and expanding our interactions with the written word.
This month, NAIBA, the North Atlantic Independent Booksellers Association honored me with the 2022 NAIBA Legacy Award for my contribution to children’s literature. The incredible journey to this incredible honor began among the stacks of towering titles, begging me to read, to explore and of course, to write. Thank you NAIBA, libraries, and all of the Indie booksellers across the country who continue to feed our reading and writing lives.
Transitions
Transition is the word I most hate seeing in the editorial notes I receive
from my editor during the revision process. Straddling the in-between and
finding a way to seamlessly bridge narrative scenes is where it seems I
most need to develop my skills as a writer.
But transitions, I’ve discovered, are difficult for many writers. Which makes
sense, because outside of the publishing world, transitions on every level
are challenging. Over the past several weeks, I’ve worked on many
transitions of my own.
Several years ago I transitioned from writing picture books to writing middle
grade novels, and now I have completed my very first YA novel, entitled
For Lamb, which will release in 2023. (Look for an upcoming ARC
giveaway coming soon!)
Last month I watched as my youngest daughter transitioned from a college
student at Emory University into her first job offer and moved into her very
first apartment.
But the most challenging transition this year was watching my dear, sweet
foster dog fail Miles Morales, who was as active and energetic as a puppy,
begin to decline. He’d received a bladder cancer diagnosis the month
after I’d signed his adoption papers. It was terminal, the vet informed me,
but Miles seemed determined to defy the three-month prognosis he was
given.
When I first met Miles, he had spent much of his nine years in the shelter
system. He’d been used as a bait puppy, his teeth were intentionally
ground down, I suppose so he couldn’t defend himself against dogs who
were attacking him. Yet, when I arrived at the shelter in 2021, he looked at
me with sheer, unblemished trust.
Perhaps it was because he had spent so much time indoors in shelters for
much of his life, but he loved the outdoors. He begged to spend long hours
outside, often dragging me along as he happily trotted on miles long walks.
He loved basking in the sun, exploring the woods beyond our home,
sniffing flowers, napping in the grass. His all-time favorite activity was
burying bones and toys in hiding spots that he would later unearth and
move to “safer,” more secure locations, away from our prying eyes.
He arrived in winter but when the weather warmed, I put his water bowl out
on the deck where he’d hydrate after a busy spell of one of the
aforementioned activities. Each morning when I woke, I filled my tea kettle
and replenished his outdoor water bowl to ready us both for our busy days
ahead.
But then, as his cancer spread, and my once active Miles slowed to a halt, I
had to make a difficult decision. Last week, Miles transitioned just as I
imagine he would have loved. In a field of grass, under the shade of a tree,
with family by his side.
Transitions are hard. But they are also a necessary part of writing, moving
forward, moving on, and can be a beautiful stage in straddling the lives we
lived and what lies beyond.
#blackwomengivelife
Co-presenters: Vanessa Brantley-Newton, Shadra Strickland, Tracey Baptiste, me, and KWE co-director Crystal Allen
That is the hashtag I used in a recent Instagram post I shared by fellow
author and co-presenter Tracey Baptiste after our time at the much
heralded Kindling Words East writing retreat in Massachusetts.
I had filled half of my suitcase with books and thought what I needed was
the time to read and collect my thoughts in between my speaking
sessions. Perhaps too I could find time for chitchat with my peers, whom
I’d been disconnected from throughout the pandemic years, at the bar and
our meals. If I could squeeze in a walk, I’d count the weekend as a win.
But when I arrived I saw several authors I’d only met only online. These
were black authors. Black women authors, whose work I’d read and
admired. And the conversations began.
Between sessions, our fearless organizer, Crystal Allen gathered each one
us together--Janae, Shadra, Vanessa, Daria, Eileen, Lisa, Kekla, Oge,
Tameka, Christine--as a group and then we gathered more, on our own, in
small clusters, in pairs, at dinner, breakfast, at the bar, the lobby, sipping
tea, wherever, whenever, we could
My research books were forgotten as conversations were started and the
laughter never seemed to end. I thought I needed solitude, but it turns out I
needed a community of black women who understood the very unique
issues we face in the world of publishing and beyond. And just when I
needed them most, there they were, providing me with much needed
advice, support, friendship and laughter. Some of them, I’d known through
conferences, others only through their books, but there we were together,
sisters of the heart, rekindled at Kindling Words.
A Clearing in the Woods
When a friend invited me to a writing retreat in the woods of Pennsylvania at the
Highlights Foundation, I had more reasons than fingers for why I couldn’t join her:
my schedule, the dog, my deadlines...But those were the exact reasons why I
needed to leave home for the quiet of the woods.
I filled a large suitcase, 1 tote bag, a Sonos speaker ( I cannot live without my
music), and a cooler and I was off, not quite guilt free, but happily on my way. I
prayed I wouldn’t spend the entire time catching up on sleep, or the news, so I
immediately laid out the research books I needed to tackle for my upcoming new
project. I arranged myself by the window, put on my slippers, poured a cup of tea
and I was off. The quiet of the day cleared my head and while I stared out of the
window at the woods beyond and the ideas that seemed so impossibly far away
at my own home desk, now flowed easily onto page after scribbled page. I read
for hours. I started each day with meditative writing. I stretched. I journaled
before going to sleep. I wrote two speeches I’d been putting off. And I tore
through the research I’d been struggling with.
It could have been the three deliciously prepared meals served each day that
were not planned, shopped for or prepared by me. It could have been the limited
wi-fi. Perhaps it was the absence of a television, stove, washer/dryer and
vacuum, and all of the other domestic responsibilities disproportionately placed
on women that drain us of our creative resources. Now, instead of writing and
working during the in-between times, my day in my own private cabin, was all my
own.
When it came time to leave, I was ready. My time away revealed what I suspect I
already knew. That not enough time was spent on feeding my creative self. I had
at least a ride home to contemplate the many ways I would need to carve out at
home, if not a clearing in the woods, a clearing of my own to find the space to
think and write and create. At least until I can get away again to another cabin in
the woos…
Black History Month?
Each year, well intentioned educators and librarians curate Black History Month book lists intended to provide young readers and parents with a wide array of titles to diversify their collections and, I imagine, to allow non-black readers the opportunity to read stories that center on the experiences of black subjects. For one month out of the year. I certainly believe that Carter G. Woodson had it right in 1926 when he conceived of Negro History Week as a way to educate people about black culture and history. It was a time when educating the general public about the contributions of black Americans in the face of gross misrepresentation and underrepresentation was sorely needed and it provided a powerful counternarrative. Yet increasingly, when I see these lists released each February, I grow concerned and I wonder, Where are the titles featuring people of color the other eleven months of the year?
At what point are books featuring powerful, instrumental figures like Frederick Douglass, Harriet Tubman, Satchel Paige, Major Taylor, Katherine Johnson, Louis Armstrong, Ethel Payne and Claudette Colvin part of our collective history? And not just the names we see in history books but the millions of black citizens who defined and shaped this country through the vast contributions they made by building, working, fighting for this country since its inception.
"There is no American history without African American history," says Sara Clarke Kaplan, executive director of the Antiracist Research & Policy Center at American University in Washington, D.C. The Black experience, she said, is embedded in "everything we think of as 'American history.' "
It is important that in homes and classrooms across the country we remember black stories, black figures, black heroes, black scientists, artists, athletes, activists, journalists, politicians, citizens during Black History Month. But we best honor them, young readers and the honest and complete history of this country by continuing to do so every other month of the year as well.
Word of the Year
Just this week, The New York Times published an article in their Wellness Newsletter entitled, What’s your Word of the Year: To get the most out of 2022, try choosing a word that can help you make thoughtful decisions and nudge you toward positive change. The article encouraged thoughtful exercises and guidelines for selecting a word to serve as your focus for the upcoming year. But for years my dear friend Jeanne and I have been utilizing this practice in the days leading up to each new year. “...Have you chosen your word…” one of us would text the other, and a conversation would begin on our reflections of the year we were leaving behind along with our hopes for the year ahead. In the past, I have chosen the words, Habits, Slow Down and the all important, No. This year, I chose the word Love.
After a convergence of political, health and social crises in 2021 left me feeling depleted, I decided to nurture, uplift and seek out inspiration by showing up more presently each day of 2022 in Love for my family, my friends, my community, my work and myself. So here’s to 2022, a new year, new words and of course, Love.
Everybody Knows your Name
I live in a wonderful community a couple of hundred miles north of New York City. It is a small town that often reminds me of the town where I grew up in Malden, Massachusetts. A place where, like the sitcom Cheers theme song, everybody knows your name, as in strangers and friends alike happily greet you when they see you on the street. Often when I visit my local library to pick up research books I’ve ordered online, between the time I park my car and the time I reach the front desk, my books are waiting with a smile and sometimes questions about my next project.
A couple of years ago, I realized I needed a different type of community. Spending hours in isolation each day at my desk left me craving the companionship of others who create in this beautiful, yet often insane, world of publishing. I knew I needed someone, anyone to commiserate with and so I reached out to several local writers I knew and one spring afternoon, I made a pot of chili, some cornbread, everyone brought a dish, and we gathered around my dining room table and talked about what a writer’s group could look like. Some wanted to focus on critique. Others on the business side of writing. Some a combination of the two. But all of us were sure that community is what we wanted. And that’s how we began.
Since that spring day two years ago, we have continued, every six weeks, travelling miles to each other’s homes, virtually when the pandemic hit. Three members left us, two others moved away, a few more have joined. What has remained is a steadfast group that has nourished me with their encouragement, advice and friendship and helped my work to grow.
Over the past 18 months, four of us watched our books grow and evolve into something we could be proud of. As release day neared, we celebrated and discussed our plans and our fears in our group like expectant moms in a doctor’s waiting room.
Check out the new releases welcomed onto shelves from some of the members of my incredible Writer’s group.
Bank Street Best Books of 2021
Cheers for Being Clem, included in The Best Children’s Books of 2021 by Bank Street Books. Fans of Finding Langston and Leaving Lymon will love this third and final companion in the Finding Langston trilogy centering on the life of Clem Thurber Junior as he navigates fear, friendship and his many questions about what it is to be a man in 1946 Chicago when you can’t seem to live up to legacy of a hero father who died in the war.
★ "In addition to exploring Clem’s relationships with his friends, Cline-Ransome offers unusually perceptive portrayals of his family members, their interactions, and their strong, ongoing, but largely unspoken grief. Clem’s engaging first-person story, written with simplicity and emotional clarity, provides a rewarding conclusion to this historical fiction trilogy."—Booklist, Starred Review
Revising Outdoors…
When my husband suggested turning our attention this spring to outdoor renovation, I thought of a million other indoor home projects that I thought should take precedence. Our 1980’s kitchen. Replacing the carpeting in the upstairs hallway. Repainting the bedrooms. But a new patio with lighting and landscaping? I watch HGTV and the one thing I know is to ask when considering undertaking any major home improvement project is the Big Question--Which project provides the greatest Resale Value? My husband however, is not a fan of HGTV and insisted on the patio. I conceded defeat and construction began in late spring. But during a vacationless summer that found me most often sitting in my office at my desk working on my very first young adult novel, it was our new patio that offered me brief reprieves from work and made summer feel like….well, summer. It was a warming stone for our newly adopted foster dog Miles. A meeting place for my book and writers’ groups. An office and workout space for my visiting daughter who worked remotely, a napping spot, a stage and dance floor when I brought out my Sonos speaker, a place to relive my camp days with my youngest in front of the firepit roasting marshmallows and making s’mores and, of course, it became the place where we gathered more than ever before with friends and family to eat, laugh and talk often long into the evening, eager to make up for the time lost during the pandemic. We hosted our community’s first Juneteenth gathering and Father’s Day cocktails. I don’t actually know if this was the wisest investment, and I no longer care. This summer, our patio, and the gathering place it became, centered me, grounded me and gave me the nourishment I needed to return to my desk, day in and day out to do the often difficult work of crafting and shaping a story into something that resonates with readers. A wise investment...
Being Clem virtual book launch
“There’s 2,341 miles from Chicago to the San Francisco Bay. And even if you happened to catch a ride in one of those ’44 Silver Streak Pontiacs with the shiny front grilles that look like big ole teeth smiling back at you, and drove as fast as the wind, it’d still take you about a week to get there. 2, 341 miles is a lot of miles. But it ain’t so far when an explosion that happens in San Francisco, California, lands right smack-dab in your lap here in Chicago. …Later I found it wasn’t just my daddy who was killed in that explosion in San Francisco. There were 320 other nay men too. The Port Chicago Disaster, they called it. But didn’t nobody bother to count the four of us, Clarisse, Annette, Momma, and me, here in Chicago. Because that explosion that happened 2, 341 miles away just about ripped us apart too. “
And so begins the story of Clemson Thurber Junior, his bossy, older sisters and his grieving mother Cecille, all trying to find a way to cope after the death of Clem’s father. We first saw Clem in Finding Langston, as a reluctant bully, who became Langston’s first friend in Chicago. He appeared again in Leaving Lymon as the loyal, affable friend to Lymon. But the question remained, who was Clem really? A bully or a kind-hearted friend? The truth is, even Clem isn’t sure, and in Being Clem he is grappling with trying to discover the truth of who he is in the shadow of a father of who was strong and brave. He is afraid to admit to everyone around him that he is terrified of the very thing he is supposed to love, swimming, like his sailor dad. But how can you be strong, and brave if you are afraid? These are the questions Clem will hope to answer with the help of his family, Langston, Lymon, Errol, his Milwaukee cousins along with new characters who help Clem discover what it means to just be Clem.
3 Books, 3 Boys, 1 Series
At long last, the third installment in the Finding Langston trilogy has arrived. Being Clem is the story of the smart, fun loving Clem, who is friend to both Langston and Lymon. Clem is grappling with the loss of his strong, sailor father and the lasting effect on his mother and two bossy older sisters Clarisse and Annette. He's tired of being babied and tired of being afraid, tired of being caught in between friends who hate each other, and he wishes he could find his way to just being Clem.
Can't wait until the release date of August 3rd? Pre Order now here: https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/648165/being-clem-by-by-lesa-cline-ransome/?fbclid=IwAR134hyd38eORsV3-_dIUrIus9OlyxaBGSm5rN3uWHtasz9DjlmGIRsux_8