Talking about writing and illustrating with Quinlan Lee of Adams Literary on my right and Katie Wools, Illustrator Coordinator for MoSCBWI.

The current dilemma is whether to continue a nonfiction manuscript, which gave me fits for months because I kept writing like a  professor.  Translation:  BORING.   My critique group spoke more kindly than that, but that's the gist of the thing.  Or, I can fictionalize the story as suggested by Heather Alexander of Dial Books for Young Readers.

When I experiment with fictionalizing the story, the dialog flows.  It is fun to write.  The story arc remains the same but with much more action and more about the characters.  All I need is to keep the language appropriate for today's YA audience.  That's all.

Easy, right? 

SCBWI-Missouri conference for writers and illustrators

Our Keynote Speakers Saturday November 5, 2011 were author Suzanne Morgan Williams, agent Quinlan Lee, editor Heather Alexander, and illustrator Rich Davis.  Super faculty.  I can not find enough positive adjectives and adverbs for these amazing, talented, brilliant professionals.   
November 5^th was my first conference as Missouri RA (Regional Advisor), the first for Assistant RA Janet Lloyd Weber, and the first for IC (Illustrator Coordinator) Katie Wools.  Thankfully, we had RAEmeritus Sue Bradford Edwards for consultation throughout the conference.  Janet and I live in Springfield and we had conference helpers from around the state, with the metro St. Louis area contributing the most (locals).  All of us involved in SCBWI-Missouri leadership roles are volunteers.  The collegiality is priceless!
My critique from Heather Alexander of Dial Books for Young Readers provides new levels of thought, new challenges, but perhaps more opportunities.  She suggested that I think about fictionalizing my book about the Conway High Robotics Club and their national championship with Fred, the robot.  Hmmmm

 

a writing dilemma

I thought it would be easy to write a narrative nonfiction book about my small, rural high school's national robotics championship.  "This story will tell itself," I told my critique group.  I wrote and proudly shared chapters with my  crit pals.  They, however, told me that my writing too often sounded like a professor's lecture.  Ouch.  But-but-but. . . They were right.  I fussed and re-wrote.  The writing got better, but still "lacked a clear narrative voice" said Paula Morrow at last summer's OWAIC conference.  *BIG SIGH*  I fussed and re-wrote but although the writing got better, it still did not flow well.  Still, I pressed on.  Must write each day, even when it is work and not fun, I told myself.
     After an amazing week at last summer's SCBWI conference, I returned home energized, needing to write, excited to tell the against-all-odds story.  These kids deserve to have their story told, and told well.  The writing still, too often, was stilted.  After more than one 3 am think session, I got up early one morning - about 5:30 - and started re-writing first person, speaking as the voice of the robot.  It is a technique that Ann Angel advised against, and I likely will have to re-write as the semi-omniscient observer but for now. the writing flows.  It is finally, fun to write this story.  Fred, the robot, can be the feisty, smart mouthed, told-you-so, you-did-not voice of the teens who collectively created the amazing story.   *BIG SIGH*

SCBWI 2011 Reflections

The 40th International Conference remains a highlight for this writer and new Regional Advisor.  The amount of high quality writers and illustrators inspires and intimidates.  The bar is very high for new writers, my potential colleagues.  Your potential colleagues.  I say potential because the keynote and breakout session faculty for writers include the brilliant Laurie Halse Anderson, Lisa Yee, Bruce Coville, Gary Paulsen, Judy Blume, Ellen Hopkins, Richard Peck - whose presence leaves me tongue tied and babbling.  There are more amazing faculty writers.  Go to the SCBWI.org main web site for a full listing, and if you are serious about your own writing, budget for attendance and immersion at the next conference.  Seriously!  You must believe in yourself, invest in yourself and talk with this calibre of published author - those whom you admire and seek to emulate.  Plan now for SCBWI 2012.  You deserve the experience.  

posts in my nfp site

Of late, I've been posting entries in "Joyce's Ella Journal"section of my NFP site at http://www.EllaRaglandArt.org.  You are invited to read and comment there - or here.  Thank you!

Springfield OWAIC

Many of the Springfield, MO Ozarks Writers And Illustrators for Children [OWAIC] members are also SCBWI members.  It shows.  They have a great one-day conference planned for July 30th, 2011 featuring authors Judy Young, Vickie Grove and Paula Morrow, former editor with Highlights.  For registration information, go to www.owaic.org.  

Writers Retreat MO-SCBWI March 2011

Writers at the 2011
MoSCBWIWriters Retreat

We gathered at the Trout Lodge -Y outside Ptosi, MO and revised our writings.  Talked, dined, wrote more. Intermingled, we received critques masterfully crafted and presented by Jennifer Mattson, agent with the Andrea Brown Literary Agency.  She gave the most insightful and detailed critiques of any I've received and for that, "Thank you!"  My crit partner and I have been writing and revising each week since that excellent weekend.

Jennifer Mattson

Front row left, me - the new RA; next to me is Stephanie Bearce, immediate past RA and behind Stephanie on the very back row, is Sue Bradford-Edwards, RAE- great mentors.  Front row center is Lynn Rubright, inspirational coach who stimulated much creativity through her storytelling that weekend.  She is amazing - a great person, writer, coach.

Route 66 Killed Grandpa - before critique group

for Pen Masters’ critique JC Ragland Dec, 2010

Route 66 Killed Grandpa Ragland

Route 66 connected our family farm to church and town – a trinity of sorts. Our farm was Grandpa Ragland’s farm plus two more.  The shadow of Grandpa Ragland’s death hovered over my 1950s childhood.  The shadow evolved into an event with logic, as I grew old enough to understand cause and effect.  It wasn’t a farm accident that killed Grandpa.  He’d only run out of cornmeal.

After his WWII tour of duty, Dad bought out his sisters’ shares in their family farm. I was one; my sister was three.  Later, he bought two adjacent 80-acre farms and with my mom, built one of the first modern dairy farms in post-war Missouri. 

I experienced what some would call an idyllic childhood – and it was by some standards  although most people have no clue that a 1050s farm childhood was fraught with dangers.  While we kids reveled in our innocence, 1950s farmers had a higher rate of injury than any other occupation except mining.

Grandpa Ragland, even in his senior years, walked four miles to town to save the aging work horse for farm use. He walked fast and with head down, watching for large rocks in the creek-gravel covered road and thinking - or daydreaming or worrying a bout Grandma Mattie’s treatments in Columbia’s cancer hospital.  By the time of his last walk to town to buy cornmeal, he was hard of hearing but still had a full head of mostly coal black hair.  He likely also had cataracts because he did not see or hear the car until too late.  Shock must have etched his face as he saw the 1939 milk truck after he stepped onto the highway - Route 66 - still a novelty to him.  The driver, too, would have registered shock and maybe yelled, “No!” as the man stepped into his lane. Grandpa’s intense blue eyes probably widened with horror a heartbeat before impact. Grandpa bounced and fell still, the concrete of the highway far harder than his Welch-Irish skull. 

Grandpa Arthur Hudson Ragland was the first person killed by a car on Highway Sixty-Six and his death rocked the 1944 Laclede County community.  The highway brought good, modern things.  Economic growth with tourism.  Ease of transport for emergencies and farmers needing supplies.  And suddenly, death. 

Then more death during the 1950s and 1960s. The dangers of Route 66 grew exponentially over the years, as cars grew larger and faster.  No seatbelts in those giant eight-cylinder beauties that rocketed down the highway at seventy-plus miles per hour.  The cool driver held the right hand on the steering wheel and the left outside the rolled-down window.  The super cool driver held the left hand on the wheel and the right hand around a girlfriend snuggled close enough to smell her Breck shampoo.

The curved lip on the sides of the two-laned Route 66 required a steady hand on the wheel because a nudge of that curb flipped a car fast as an eye blink.  Too many drivers tried to pass in too short a space.  Semi-tractor trailors carried tons and tons of goods from town to town faster and cheaper than the railroads.  The big trucks slowed on hills and daring drivers roared into the left lane to pass, daring a car to not come over the hill head on.

By the time that I-44 opened in 1962 – the year I started high school and left childhood behind - the highway had been dubbed “Bloody 66.”  Grandpa Ragland’s death paled in collective community memory by 1962 - except in my family.  At the Phillipsburg exit of I-44, even today as I turn onto Old 66 to go to my aunt’s house, I think of Grandpa.  The convoy from Fort Leonard Wood passed and he thought the highway was clear so stepped out and – the milk truck.  Only a eyelash flutter in time, but an eternity in family stories.

Route 66 Killed Grandpa - REVISED per critique group suggestions

Route 66 Killed Grandpa Ragland

The shadow of Grandpa Ragland’s death hovered over my 1950s childhood.  The shadow evolved into an event with logic, as I grew old enough to understand cause and effect.  It wasn’t a farm accident that killed Grandpa.  He’d only run out of cornmeal.

Route 66 connected our family farm to church and town – a trinity of sorts. Our farm consisted of Grandpa Ragland’s farm plus two more.  After his WWII tour of duty, Dad bought out his sisters’ shares in their family farm. I was a baby and my sister was three years old.  Later, Dad bought two adjacent 80-acre farms, and with my mom, built one of the first modern dairy farms in post-war Missouri. Dad and his herd of registered Jerseys garnered feature coverage from Hoard’s Dairyman and The Missouri Ruralist.

I experienced what some would call an idyllic childhood, but those people don’t know the dangers we dodged on a daily basis.  While we kids reveled in our innocence, farmers had a higher rate of injury than any other occupation except mining.  Family gatherings focused on who said or did this or that – mostly humorous, some pathos, while we built our family folklore. Talk included politics. More talk involved the weather.  Small farm operations did not allow for the luxury of irrigation.  Letters from distantly located relatives got read and re-read.  Remember when your Uncle Himself did this and Aunt Whomever did that- triggered more anecdotes.  Kids ate lunch with the adults then got banished outside.  We rowdies rotated our play through the yard, the smokehouse, the cellar – is the blacksnake down there? - and the barns. We dodged black widow spiders, rusty nails and dared each other to jump from the barn loft into a pile of hay below.  In the house, Neighbor Soandso got killed when he tried to brush hog sprouts that were too big for that.  He should have known better…

Highway 66 brought good, modern things.  Economic growth.  Tourism.  Ease of transport for emergencies and farmers who needed supplies.  Then sudden death.  Grandpa Arthur Hudson Ragland was the first person killed by a car on Highway Sixty-Six in our community.  His death rocked the 1944 Southwest Missouri world.  Although I wasn’t born yet, I knew him well.   Family folklore contained many anecdotes about Grandpa Ragland.

Grandpa Ragland, even in his senior years, walked the mile or two to town. Had to save the aging work horse for farm use.  He walked fast and with head down.  In family folklore he is remembered as a thinker and a daydreamer.  Maybe he was worrying about Grandma Mattie’s treatments in Columbia’s cancer hospital that day.  By the time of his last walk to town to buy cornmeal, he was hard of hearing -but still had a full head of mostly coal black hair.  He likely also had cataracts because he neither saw nor heard the car until too late.  Shock must have etched his face as he saw the vehicle after he stepped onto the highway - Route 66.  The driver, too, would have registered shock and maybe yelled, “No!” as the man stepped into his lane. Grandpa’s intense blue eyes probably widened with horror a heartbeat before impact. He bounced and fell still.  The concrete of the highway was far, far harder than his Welch-Irish skull. 

The dangers of Route 66 grew exponentially over the next twenty years, as cars grew larger and faster.  No seatbelts existed in the giant 1960s eight-cylinder beauties that rocketed down the highway at seventy-plus miles per hour.  The cool driver held the right hand on the steering wheel and the left outside the rolled-down window.  The super cool driver held the left hand on the wheel and the right hand around a girlfriend snuggled close enough he could smell her Breck^™ shampoo.

The curved lip on the sides of two-laned Route 66 required a steady hand on the wheel because a nudge of that curb flipped a car fast as an eye blink.  Semi-tractor trailers carried tons and more tons of goods from town to town faster and cheaper than the railroads.  The big trucks slowed on hills. Vehicles had to pull into the oncoming lane to pass.  Too many drivers tried to pass in too short a space.  Route 66 rolled with the curves and hills.  Daring drivers tested fate - that a vehicle would not come over a hill head on.

By the time that I-44 opened in 1962 – the year I started high school and left childhood behind - the highway had been dubbed “Bloody 66.”  Grandpa Ragland’s death paled in collective community memory by 1962 - except in my family.  At the Phillipsburg exit of I-44, even today as I turn onto Old 66 toward my aunt’s house, I think of Grandpa.  The convoy from Fort Leonard Wood passed and he thought the highway was clear so stepped out and the milk truck - 

Only a eyelash flutter in time, but an eternity in family stories.