|
I was a stay-at-home mom of twin girls in the '60's when I started writing
stories for children. I can't
remember why I began writing. I
think I had a romantic image of what an author should be – casual and
slouchy clothes (but chic)...
contemplative facial expression... and a pair of cool glasses to suggest a
studious and intellectual look. I
didn't need glasses but I found a pair anyway and set them on my writing
desk, which was an old ratty board covered with Contact paper, set up
between stacks of orange crates. The board was strong enough to hold my
45-pound Royal manual typewriter - a great bargain for $10 at a Wisconsin
Gas Company renovation sale.
I've always been a storyteller, a singer of nursery
rhymes, a twister of truth. The
oldest girl in a family of seven kids, I used my survival skills as a
storyteller to keep my younger siblings from maiming each other in poking
wars. I loved books and my
favorite reading spot was a big green armchair in a hidden corner
of our living room. If I
hunkered down, I couldn't be seen by my mom, who would always find a chore
for me to do. I'd read for
hours, and I would 'live' in those stories.
If the hero suffered, so did I.
I once roller skated around our block twenty-eight times in a snow
storm, mentally fighting the elements in the Yukon. I froze my butt off, but
let me tell you - it was perfect suffering!
As an adult, I read to my twins often. Then
because of a nagging need to do something creative, I began to write.
I learned to submit my writing to children's magazine publishers,
ever conscious of the postage money I was sure I was throwing away.
But the challenge was there! The
Yukon
needed to be tamed – to heck with the suffering or the cost of a stamp!
Writing for publication in the 60's was a lonely business. There
were few books teaching the craft, and fewer people who understood the
itch that takes over when you're determined to be published.
Out of desperation, I posted a message on a recipe card –
INTERESTED IN WRITING? PLEASE
CONTACT ME – on the bulletin board of our corner grocery store.
The call was answered, and I met a writing friend – a support person, and I now belonged to
a critique group of two.
I sold my first story to Highlights
for Children, then many more to that magazine, to Jack and Jill,
Scholastic and others. I sold
three picture books: A Hat for Lily,
and In A Window on Greenwater Street, to Steck/Vaughn, and The
Way The Tiger Walked, to Simon & Schuster.
I was a bona fide writer! An
author! My fake glasses had
earned their place on my desk. But
I didn't feel like an author. I
felt as fake as those glasses. At
least I had the publishers fooled. Not
one of them called to tell me it was all a huge mistake.
I left all these glories, and doubts,
in the early '70's. The
embroidery bug bit me. Yarn embroidery kits were the current fad.
Barns, birds, and blooms were waiting to be embroidered on linen
with vibrant wool yarns. I
worked one kit and was addicted. I didn't think about writing, except that
I had done it. I had met that challenge and had a small amount of success, and now I
wanted to move on to new things. I
started drawing out and working my own designs, and while my fingers
worked the yarn, my mind worked the possibilities.
If I could sell stories as a free lance writer, could I sell crewel
designs as a free lance artist?
I soon learned I could.
All those feed sack towels I'd had to embroider as a kid finally
paid off. I sold designs to
yarn companies – Bucilla, Paragon, and others – and had designs
featured in Good Housekeeping, and McCall's Needlework magazines.
I got up at
4 A.M.
and put in 8 hours of stitching by early afternoon.
My finger had a permanent callous from my needle.
The needlework craze slowed in the
'80's, but family life picked up. We
now had four daughters and schools that introduced us to that annoying
word tuition.
I went to work part time at various jobs – preschool, nursing
home, medical clinic, hospital. I
quieted my creative demon in snitches and snatches of small projects until
1997, when two amazing things happened.
One of my daughters started to write, and I was introduced to this
new, alien thing called a computer.
Here's my first list of instructions
with the computer, written by me for me:
TO TURN ON:
Push far left button on the floor electrical strip, then
Point mouse arrow at START (lower left corner of screen)
Click (once) with left clicker on the mouse (lightly)
That was only the beginning.
Eventually, I had legal pads filled with detailed
instructions on how to get in, out, under and around this strange machine.
And I had EMAIL! My
daughter lived in Atlanta
and cyber channels smoked with our back and forth messages about writing
– she asking questions about my long ago experiences, and me, trying to
remember things of 25 years before. She
introduced me to online writers' groups and after a few short
months, I was drawn back into the world of writing.
And what a world it was!
I gave away my old Royal typewriter –– no more carbon paper!
I joined online writers' groups.
No more literary-lonely days! This
new world was filled with amazing things and amazing people.
Online writer's groups developed into
critique groups. These groups
also developed into friendships, even though we were separated by hundreds
of miles. It was during the
time I was in my first good critique group that I got to know a young
woman named Linda Smith. Linda
lived with her husband and eight children in Dallas. She had an outrageous sense of humor, and an ability to touch your heart
with words. Linda introduced a
story of mine to her literary agent and within a week, he sold my story to
Viking Children's Books. That
story was One Little Mouse
(illustrated by LeUyen Pham.) It was released in 2002.
Strangely enough, it was my second sale, also to Viking, that was first to
reach publication. On a Wintry Morning (illustrated by Stephen T. Johnson) appeared in
the bookstores in October 2000. New
books are reviewed and the reviews can be good or bad.
If the reviewer writes: "Would someone please shoot this writer," that's bad.
If the book is given a 'starred review,' that's good.
On a Wintry Morning
received two starred reviews (lucky me!) and also won the Archer/Eckblad Award for the
best picture book to be written by a
Wisconsin
author in 2000. I was
astonished. The book has a
simple, rhyming text about a daddy and his baby daughter spending a wintry
morning together. How
appropriate is that, having watched my husband help raise four daughters?
Now you know where my inspiration came from.
Our early critique group (presumptuously and embarrassingly called The
Stars), made up of seven writers, went on to sell a total of thirty-six
books in three years. The
field of children's writing is extremely competitive and a single sale is
cause for great celebration. So thirty-six sales must make it sound like
we were masters. But even
after all those sales, that nag of a feeling that we were imposters
flourished. Linda Smith once
said, "I feel like a Velveteen writer.
When will I become real?"
Sadly, Linda Smith never lived to see her first book published, nor to read it to
her eight children. She died
in June 2000 of breast cancer at the age of 40.
One of her books, When Moon Fell Down,
is published by Harper Collins, and the publisher is donating part of the
proceeds of the sales to cancer research. Real life suffering is
not as sweet as childhood make-believe suffering.
With the help of my daughter and my
writing friends, I think I'm becoming a good writer. I still like
casual, slouchy clothes, but my figure has gone from chic to chub.
And I need these glasses now.
But
why do I write?
I can't give just one reason. But
I think what comes closest to being the most important reason goes
something like this. Close
your eyes and imagine you hear a child laugh.
Then imagine that you are the one who made him laugh. Can you feel that inner glow?
Copyright © 2006 Dori Chaconas. Not to be used without permission.
|
