Tales of Sydney

The first Sydneys are in. Below you will find the first two interpretations of my picture book story character, Sydney. Each unique and beautiful, and very different. I’m beginning to understand the tough challenge an editor has in matching an illustrator to a picture book story.

Many thanks to both Alexandra Browne in the UK and Karin Johnson Alderson here in the Pacific NW.
Enjoy, and feel free to let me know if you’re inspired to draw and submit your own Sydney.

(All images and texts are copyright of the original artists and may not be reproduced without express permission. Thank you for playing by the rules)

Meet Sydney

Look, up on my shoulder. That is Sydney, my cat.
He can be any size he wants.
Today, he is small, because he knocked over mom’s plant.
Usually he’s blue with grey stripes.
Sometimes he likes to be purple, just for fun.
We play together, all day, every day.
We never play checkers anymore, because we always end up in a fight.

Karin Johnson Alderson (2012)

And in Monopoly, Sydney can’t be the banker. He gives himself extra money when he thinks I am not looking, and bats the dice under the sofa.
I taught him chess myself. It was really hard.
Sydney says he would rather dance the queen across the board than play by the rules.
I know … Sydney cheats at just about every game we play.
But when there is nobody else to play with, he is there.
When we go out, Sydney slips into my denim jacket pocket.
He sticks his little head out and sniffs the air.
I have to try to keep him out of mischief.
Sydney likes to make a mess.
And then I have to clean it up.
Mom does not like mess all over the floor.
Mom says Sydney can’t take baths with me anymore.
He likes to dive off the cold-water faucet and usually water goes all over the floor.
Just last week he told me to make waves so he could go surfing with the bar of soap. He looked like a real surfer too.



(Alexandra Browne 2012)

Sydney helps me fall asleep at night, after I tuck him in good and tight so he can’t run off.
He keeps bad dreams away.
Mom says, “It’s okay.”
Dad just shakes his head and goes back to reading the paper.
Only I know Sydney is real.
He is my best little cat friend …
For always and ever.

Patience

Patience is a virtue and I certainly do feel virtuous waiting for my publisher to get back to me on a contract for further Fountain Pen stories, among others, but I can’t help wonder if we would embrace patience with a little more zest if it were a vice.

Patience as it stands does very little for me. It’s just a fancy word for waiting, and waiting, and waiting some more. Mind you, I’m not being idle while I wait, patiently, but it’s always there in the back of my mind. Patience.

If somehow we could sell patience as a vice, would that mean people would eagerly and happily wait for the phone to ring or the next text message announcing a contract, a new lover or new job?

Perhaps in an alternate universe. I just don’t see it happening in this one ... no matter how patiently I wait for it.

Enough silly ramblings... back to work!

Fall Reading

Fall is by far my favorite time of the year. Not just for all the standard reasons; fall colors, colder weather, wool sweaters, fall foods, pumpkins. Aside from all those wonderful reasons it is also the time I read certain books. Most of the year I’m not that specific in matching my reading matter with the season, but for autumn, I’m particular.

As a caveat, I must say that I can only read War and Peace when it snows. Needless to say, with Seattle’s limited exposure to snow, it will be a few more years before I finish that tome.

But back to fall.
I can still vividly remember the fall storms raging outside on the October nights I read Wuthering Heights when I was in my teens.

I also have very fond memories of reading Dragon Rider with my son one lovely, soggy October some years back. And only a few short years ago I spent October and November - it was a thick book - deeply ensconced in Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell.

But this year I’m still looking for just the right book, that book that blends just the right ingredients into the story. While I search I’m keeping entertained with Terry Pratchett’s Feet of Clay, but it’s not quite meeting my autumnal reading requirements. Sigh.

The book I’m looking for has to be a little spooky, a little paranormal (I suppose that’s the right term), an exciting adventure, and must be well-written.

If you know of any such book, please let me know. It can be middle grade, YA or adult.

Happy Reading!

The Ego

 
Ah, the Ego... a troublemaker since well before Freud ever decided to label him, or her, or it. One day when I was in need of a boost to my ego I chose to take a look at all the sites where my story “The Fountain Pen” is available. Such a lovely way to boost flagging spirits on a gloomy Seattle day - even if it wasn't raining for a change.

I was happily clicking along, my spirits rising with every new page-view, though I’m not entirely sure what the Japanese site was trying to tell me when I entered my story title in, what I sincerely hoped, was the search box. And then it happened... I went to the Dutch site bol.com, by then lulled into a falsely inflated sense of self-importance, and entered the name of my story.

A spinning beach ball of only few seconds in which I felt a slight twinge in the pit of my stomach, thoughts of ‘what if they didn’t carry it after all?’ trying to claw their way up my ego balloon. And then, glory of glories... there it was. My story. A warm glow was about to wash over me when it changed to a distinctly cold shower.

The reason for the sharp intake of breath, the abrupt sitting up in my chair and the nearly spilling of hot tea was the fact that the story had been attributed to a different author!

Oh sure, they got the last name right, in The Netherlands they can manage Hooghiemstra, but I got lumped in with another author with my last name! Suddenly my story had been written by Erna Hooghiemstra. I’m sure she’s a lovely person, but she did not write my story.

Once the first shock and outrage had worn off, I sat back and laughed. Served me right for seeking such cheap ego gratification when I should have been writing and submitting books and stories.

A quick set of emails back and forth to the Dutch site and a few weeks later, it’s all fixed. Phew.

Self-Promotion

Or, “Getting your Hustle On”
Never a comfortable subject for an author as we so revel in being introverts that we adamantly shun drawing attention to ourselves. Though a clever person could argue that by the mere virtue of sending our stories out into the world we do draw attention to ourselves and interact with the public on fairly intimate level. But, for argument’s sake, let’s pretend no such clever person is around to point that out.

My lovely publishers, Untreed Reads, have given me some pointers on helping them, and me, promote my work. They’re quite good at getting review copies out and the pitch emails and other marketing things I know little of, but there is an area where an author can help out, namely: Libraries!

I have a list of all the libraries in the country and I’m slowly contacting each and every one of them - those that carry e-books - and asking them to please carry “The Fountain Pen”.

It’s a slow process, but not without it’s own interest. I’m finding such a variety of public libraries out there; some are small but deeply involved with their community, almost like a focal point, others are very large in major metropolitan areas where I run into very different attitudes. One big, library system sent a nice note to my query, while another large library sent an almost snide one saying they only buy materials that have gotten favorable reviews by the major reviewers.

Does that mean their library is smaller on the inside than the outside? Or does it mean those small libraries, one of which very excitedly emailed to say they were adding my story to their collection, are in fact much bigger on the inside than on the outside?

Either way, I am enjoying being part of the process that gets my stories and my name out there. If you like “The Fountain Pen” perhaps you could suggest it to your favorite library.

Thanks!

Memorable Lines

A recent article in the New Scientist mentioned a team at Cornell University had taught a computer to identify memorable movie one-liners. Such as “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine”. We all know that one from Casablanca.

Apparently the goal of having taught the computer to ferret out these memorable lines is to - possibly - help politicians come up with truly memorable slogans to boost their campaigns.

What researchers found is that the quotes that stick in our minds ‘contain surprising combinations of words but at the same time use a structure that is common’.

I wonder when some enterprising writer will decide that this software is just what (s)he needs to come up with a memorable book title. Another catch phrase to boost sales. Or how about more catchy chapter headings and while we’re at it, how about those first lines of each chapter? But if all our lines are memorable won’t that mean our audience gets overloaded and won’t remember any?

Even Casablanca only has two memorable lines in it. The one I quoted at the top from the beginning of the movie and then the one at the end, ‘.. this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship’.

More than that would be too much of a good thing and spoil the fun. 

Perspective

I live in a doggie neighborhood and almost daily run into one or more of my neighbors and their four-legged companions. One of the things I’ve come to appreciate about this is that I get to hear the same story from many different perspectives. Yes, it’s also a gossipy neighborhood.
    It reminds me of something Madeline L’Engle apparently used as a teaching tool with her students to determine perspective in a story.
    She would have her students take a story they had just written and tell them to totally rewrite it, using the same events, but from the point of view of the antagonist instead of the protagonist. Not an easy thing to do, especially if you’re fond of your protagonist and think he/she is right and the other character is wrong.
    It was something a writing teacher taught her many years ago and though it made her angry to have to do that when her teacher first told her to, she learned the value of seeing the other side of the story. She learned that by seeing the other side her story could have more depth as it incorporated a bigger picture and greater understanding of perceptions and consequences.
    This is what I’m learning as I sift through the stories of various neighbors. And I find it is helping me in my writing.
    Another way animals enrich our lives!

The Fountain Pen

The Fountain Pen by E. Lynn Hooghiemstra - $0.99 : Untreed Reads Publishing

"When an inherited fountain pen from the 1940s is filled with ink and used again, it reveals some startling moments of its previous owner’s life under the German occupation in WWII in The Netherlands. A short story."

Enjoy and let me know what you think!

What I learned from translating

My first deep thoughts about translating and the impact a translation can have was when I introduced my child to a book I loved as a tween: Crusade in Jeans by Thea Beckman, a wonderful Dutch author who wrote many exceptional historical fiction novels for tweens and teens.

However, some of her magic was lost in the translation to English. The story still grabbed, but only by the wrist, not the jugular like it should have. So what had gotten lost and how was it lost? Before I answer that, I’d like to give an example of where translations have worked to keep the magic of a good book alive.

Dragon Rider by Cornelia Funke is one such success story. It was beautifully translated by Anthea Bell and the book sold like hotcakes. A good translation can make or break the success of a book in foreign markets.

Here are her comments on translating, which I whole-heartedly agree with.
http://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/authors/interviews/article/47327-q--a-with-anthea-bell.html

What then makes a good translator? Is it someone who is fluent in both languages at a native-speaker level? Or is it someone who thinks like a writer? Or maybe someone who has a deep cultural understanding of the country the book is intended for? I’m leaning toward the last one. Only with a deep cultural understanding can a translator make it seem as if the book was actually written in the language she/he just translated it into.

Culture plays an important part in how well a story will do with a particular audience, especially considering that each culture - even subcultures within cultures - uses language differently or perceives the meaning of certain words differently.

Getting back to Crusade in Jeans, it was translated with the Dutch culture in mind instead of being localized for an American or English speaking audience. What that means in practical terms is that it reads more like a literal translation, rather than a smooth-flowing and suspenseful adventure story.

The warmth and passion, which glows at a different temperature in Holland, didn’t come through; the level hadn’t been adjusted for English.

I wish I could be more concrete in my explanation, but I’d have to translate the whole book for you so you could do a side-by-side reading of both translations. Mind you, I’d love to translate Crusade in Jeans if an American publisher will pay me to do it. It will appeal to a wide middle grade audience, I promise!

What I can do is give a simple illustration of how tricky translating can be.

Take the Dutch word: Betrouwbaar
The most common and literal translation is :      Trustworthy
But in context one would prefer to use :             Reliable
The strength of the word in Dutch is often somewhere in between those two, so you see the challenge.

My own translation work has taught me that language is not static, it is an ever-changing creeper that branches and rambles, chokes off and regrows. It has helped me in my writing to choose words more carefully, to understand the cultural importance of the words I choose.

I’m sure I will explore this issue further in future blog posts.
Stay tuned.

Personal connections

For many years I’ve blissfully clung to the notion that a writer must be a lonely, starving artist feverishly writing by the light of a flickering candle in a drafty garret at the top of a ramshackle house. Surely it was the way to greatness and success; only by knowing extremes could my writing be imbued by the truth and the depths of humanness. Only toil and suffering could forge a true artist.

The problem with that image, well, one of the problems anyway, is that a lonely artist will have a heck of a time getting their work out to the world. Like anything in life, success depends on the connections you make and the relationships you forge.

Just like an agent or editor who is closed to submissions, might be willing to look at your work if you attended the conference they spoke at. Or the author you meet at a bookstore reading and signing event might be willing to give you just that piece of advice or feedback that changes your writing from good to great.

I wouldn’t have figured out how to rewrite “The Fountain Pen” - which recently sold and should be available soon on www.untreedreads.com - if I hadn’t gotten feedback from others.

Even the most introverted among us should get away from the desk from time to time. It seems simple, but sometimes the simple lessons are the hardest.

And sometimes we need to truly get away from it all. Not to revert to that lonely state, but to be truly inspired.

Tales of Sydney

I’d like to show how one of my children’s stories went from a short chapter book format all the way down to a picture book. Neither is published at this point, yet, but I do like the evolution of how the story was built.

The inspiration and challenge came from the imaginary friend of my delightful offspring. This imaginary friend was very important and I heard many of his stories. Sydney was always up to something and keeping his little human companion busy. Research shows imaginary friends are in fact very important to children and their growth and development. Research in an entirely different direction indicated that perhaps imaginary friends are the spirits of the deceased which children of a young age can still perceive, but we won’t go into that now.

Sydney was my first real foray into children’s writing. After years of toiling on short stories for adults I felt a need to stretch and expand my repertoire.

Here are the first few paragraphs of the first version of Tales of Sydney
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
    The Great Jungle Adventure
    Chapter 1.
    Sydney moved in on a warm spring day, it was March 25th.
    It was a few months before my eight birthday and at first I thought he was an early present. But my mom couldn’t even see him for the first month and my dad is allergic to cats. Though he had not sneezed once ... yet.

    I asked him where he came from and he just grinned at me in that special cat way. Whiskers twitching and eyes sparkling. His eyes are blue, almost like those of a Siamese, but he’s nicer than a Siamese.

    At first I thought my parents couldn’t see him because he kind of blends in where ever he is. Or, maybe, it’s because of his size, he is rather small for a grown cat.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I would say that was a decent enough start, but nothing terribly exciting.

Gradually I began to think that Sydney would be much better as a picture book. Just the bare, essential words to complement pictures. Something that a young child would want to look at and have read again and again. So I came up with the following (it took considerable trimming, time, and even a few tears).
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Meet Sydney

Look, up on my shoulder. That is Sydney, my cat.
He can be any size he wants.
Today, he is small, because he knocked over mom’s plant.
Usually he’s blue with grey stripes.
Sometimes he likes to be purple, just for fun.
We play together, all day, every day.
We never play checkers anymore, because we always end up in a fight.
And in Monopoly, Sydney can’t be the banker. He gives himself extra money when he thinks I am not looking, and bats the dice under the sofa.
I taught him chess myself. It was really hard.
Sydney says he would rather dance the queen across the board than play by the rules.
I know … Sydney cheats at just about every game we play.
But when there is nobody else to play with, he is there.
When we go out, Sydney slips into my denim jacket pocket.
He sticks his little head out and sniffs the air.
I have to try to keep him out of mischief.
Sydney likes to make a mess.
And then I have to clean it up.
Mom does not like mess all over the floor.
Mom says Sydney can’t take baths with me anymore.
He likes to dive off the cold-water faucet and usually water goes all over the floor.
Just last week he told me to make waves so he could go surfing with the bar of soap. He looked like a real surfer too.
Sydney helps me fall asleep at night, after I tuck him in good and tight so he can’t run off.
He keeps bad dreams away.
Mom says, “It’s okay.”
Dad just shakes his head and goes back to reading the paper.
Only I know Sydney is real.
He is my best little cat friend …
For always and ever.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Now all Sydney needs is an editor to take him in hand and someone to bring him visually to life on the page. Anyone feel inspired? I’ll happily showcase your versions of Sydney in a follow-up post.

Writing stories, Part 2

Some seven or eight years ago I discovered children’s writing and it opened up a whole new world for me. I started with picture books and found them a very suitable challenge; say much with very few words, and make sure those words are the absolute best ones available.

Around that time I also discovered SCBWI and I attended my first conference. It was eye-opening and mildly depressing as I realized I still had a ways to go. Continued SCBWI interactions led me to understand the purpose of a first draft, the power of editing, and the importance of feedback.

The most important thing I learned was to accept a critique humbly and learn from it. This is something I continue to do as it is one of the best tools a writer can have, as painful or annoying as it may seem at times.

I worked on building my craft to support my art.
Around that time I was also getting steady grant writing work which, though not terribly creative, was still writing and still served to enhance my grasp of the language and the power of words to get something important across to the reader.

Then I moved on to translation work where I got a very clear view of the difference between my native language and my adopted language. I highly recommend a session of translation to deepen understanding of how language is constructed and used in daily life or business.

Making regular use of SCBWI critique events I found teachers and published authors willing to work with me to polish and groom my work.

Over the years there have been disappointments, false leads, rejections, paper cuts, tears and fresh starts. But most importantly, a sense of purpose and determination that might not have grown quite so strong had I had an easier road to travel. I don’t take anything for granted, not the commas, certainly not the words and least of all the sincere encouragement of those who have walked the path before me.


In the next post I'll show how one of my picture books progressed. Stay tuned!

Writing stories, Part 1

Writing stories; how do we learn to do it?
Part 1.

For me the urge to write came as soon as I could hold a pen. Those first tender forays onto paper resembled ant-tracks and squiggly lines, but the intent was there. It just needed some training.

First I learned to write in Dutch, this is by no means a prerequisite for others, but it seemed to serve my journey, particularly as I was growing up in the Netherlands. English did figure in my life on a variety of levels, from children’s books to undubbed TV programs, and songs on the radio. My family had spent 12 years in the US and English was spoken with ease among my much older siblings.

I learned how to construct and deconstruct sentences and paragraphs and soon whole swaths of prose in Dutch. I learned to use the right words or expressions (there are many of those in Dutch) for maximum effect.

Then, through a series of unfortunate circumstances I found myself living in the US at the tender age of 22. No matter, I was resourceful. However, what I had previously viewed as a culture fairly similar to Dutch culture, I now started to see as quite different; right down to the language! (aside from the obvious, that is)

My, just beyond, basic English no longer sufficed as I navigated the ups and downs of my first job, which included writing business letters. Imagine my surprise and frustration when my boss had me do them over and over and over again. Of course she never actually pointed out what was wrong with them, just said ‘It’s still not quite what I want’.

I switched from writing short stories in Dutch to writing them in English. I even had the audacity to submit them, not realizing my use of language was not anywhere close to what it should be. My sentence structure was creative to put it nicely and my vocabulary still on the limited side of good.

It dawned on me that perhaps I should work harder on this, particularly when on rare occasions people would take enough of an interest to, painfully, point out my failings. A budding writer walks a path strewn with broken glass.

My first source of learning was books. I read and read and read. Then I added a magazine subscription, The New Yorker. Mind you most of the writing left me slightly lost as the sentences were so much longer and more complex than what I was used to. I used to be able to deal with those in Dutch just fine, but the first year of my subscription to the magazine was very challenging and at times disheartening. However, I persevered and trusted in the power of osmosis, my favorite method of learning.

Slowly but surely I could see where I would go wrong. I could spot the Dutch construction in my English. That didn’t mean I could always fix it, but at least I was able to see it.

Rejections meanwhile steadily continued.