grief

Anything and Everything — Sandy Hook

“Sad” is a thin word for how I’ve been feeling.

In making a comment on Facebook about raising kids, I said that “they are worth anything and everything.” And then my warmth and love tilted toward the sad as I, once again, thought of Sandy Hook.  For this community and those sweet children, and those heroic teachers and all those left to grieve have never been far from my thoughts.

I’ve analyzed and tried to process what has happened there. But how does a person ever process a tragedy like this? I’m supposed to be good with words, but I have had so much trouble finding them. While taking care of the everyday details of life, I am distracted. I am experiencing sadness and shock and awe. Optimism and hope. Loss and empathy. And longing. Lots of longing. All twisted together like the threads of a rope. 

Between teaching and volunteering, I have spent about 24 years in elementary schools and so my mind has shown me time and again how this may have played out. As a mother and teacher and human being, it will haunt me for a long while. All I want to do is hug those children and the teachers who protected them.

I am grateful to have my oldest home from college. I am remembering what is important. And I am crying. Still. For those mothers and fathers. Brothers and sisters. All those sweet faces—all that they undoubtedly offered the world in the short time that they were here. And all that the world has lost. And, my chest aches every time I think of their parents. How they probably think that their children are worth anything and everything, too.

I do see people pulling together, though. Reaching out. Opening their eyes and paying attention. I, too, have done these things. It is easy to get lost in the details of everyday life. Since December 14th, I have worked less and listened more. I have taken less for granted. I’ve made some overdue calls and will make more. The things that have been on my mind and have worried me, now worry me far less. And I have witnessed time and again how our humanity seems to flow in the face of events that are so inexplicable.

Late last night, my train from NY rolled into the station. There was a teenage girl who struggled with a large suitcase and so I offered to help her with it. A short time later, she waited in the station lobby holding a cell phone and I asked her if she was okay. If she had a ride. It was nothing—in fact, I almost didn’t ask at all—hesitating because I wondered what she’d think of a stranger asking her if she was okay (I am such an over-thinker.). I ended up asking only because she called after me to thank me for helping with her bag.

It was nothing. Seriously. But it seemed to make such an impression on her. And I began to think of all the little things people think to do—the kindnesses they almost extend and then don’t for some reason. Whether it be worry or overthinking or embarrassment.

I hope that we will all be kinder–strive to be someone’s hero. Not necessarily the kinds of heroes we hear about in Sandy Hook. Just regular, everyday heroes. Offering a smile or a kind word. Inviting someone over for tea who is lonely. For these small kindnesses may have a profound impact. I have been impacted by small gestures, and it makes sense that others would be, too. No more overthinking for me.

This tragedy has been a reality check for a lot of people. A lot of good has followed this horrible event. How it saddens me, though, that our world will go on without those 26 angels.

Drawing done by 7th grader, Connor, from Lousiana (used with permission)

Drawing done by 7th grader, Connor, from Lousiana (used with permission)

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Categories: Be Someone's Hero, courage, grief, Heroes, parenting | 9 Comments

Unexpected Christmas Gifts

I find unexpected gifts in my visit to a shelter for teens:

http://emusdebuts.wordpress.com/2011/12/19/a-christmas-surprise/

Categories: author, courage, grief, inspiring | 1 Comment

Mentor Monday ~ Conrad Wesselhoeft

Welcome to the second installment of MENTOR MONDAYS!!

This week, we’ll hear from YA author, Conrad Wesselhoeft. I had the opportunity to hear a bit of his novel, ADIOS NIRVANA, while it was in the works. You want to talk about “voice?” This is it! I was pulled in immediately and have been looking forward to its release ever since.

The book sits here on my desk, but I’m afraid to open it. I have revisions of my own to do that are due to my editor. I’m afraid if I open Conrad’s book, I won’t be able to put it down! When my revisions are submitted, though, you know what I’ll be doing!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From Booklist:

In the wake of his twin brother’s death, Jonathan, a former star student, is facing the possibility of repeating his junior year. The only things standing between him and failure are his devoted best friends, an understanding principal named Gupti, and his English teacher. The assignments that will ensure his promotion? Attend class every day, help an 88-year-old WWII veteran write his memoir, and perform Gupti’s favorite song, “Crossing the River Styx,” at graduation. Wesselhoeft offers a psychologically complex debut that will intrigue heavy-metal aficionados and drama junkies alike. Peopled with the elderly and infirm, crazy parents, caring educators, and poignant teens trying desperately to overcome death’s pull, it mixes real and fictional musicians and historical events to create a moving picture of struggling adolescents and the adults who reach out with helping hands. Darker and more complex than Jordan Sonnenblick’s thematically similar Notes from the Midnight Driver (2006), Adios, Nirvana targets an audience of YAs who rarely see themselves in print. Grades 8-12. –Frances Bradburn

Indie Bound Description:

When you piss off a bridge into a snowstorm, it feels like you’re connecting with eternal things. Paying homage to something or someone. But who? The Druids? Walt Whitman?
No, I pay homage to one person only, my brother, my twin.

In life. In death.
Telemachus.


Since the death of his brother, Jonathan’s been losing his grip on reality. Last year’s Best Young Poet and gifted guitarist is now Taft High School’s resident tortured artist, when he bothers to show up. He’s on track to repeat eleventh grade, but his English teacher, his principal, and his crew of Thicks (who refuse to be seniors without him) won’t sit back and let him fail.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not only is Conrad a genius writer, but a super great guy as well. I’m thrilled that he has agreed to participate in my Mentor Mondays Series and look forward to seeing many more books from him down the road.

And away we go! Welcome, Conrad!

The Wisdom of Scott O’Dell
By Conrad Wesselhoeft
Scott O’Dell was my friend and mentor. That’s a tall statement considering that I met him only once. But that day changed my life.
I was a young staffer at the New York Times, harboring a secret ambition: to write novels. But how? Writing a novel seemed far out of my depth. However, writing a feature story about a novelist might be a stroke in the right direction. So I set up an interview, hopped a train at Grand Central, and headed north to Westchester County, New York.
Who was Scott O’Dell? Probably the most acclaimed young-adult author of his generation. He had written nearly two dozen books—including the classic “Island of the Blue Dolphins”—and garnered a barrel of prizes: the Newbery Medal (for “Dolphins”); three Newbery Honor Awards; and the Hans Christian Andersen Award for a body of work.
Scott greeted me at the station. Now 85, he looked time-chiseled and fit, with a shock of white hair, barrel chest, and deep tan. We climbed into his big car, and he peeled for his home on Long Pond. He seemed to enjoy speed.
The interview was supposed to last about two hours, but it filled the morning and lapped into the afternoon. We broke for a late lunch.
“Enough about me,” he said, over seafood chowder. “What about you? What do you want to do with your life?”
I stammered out the true contents of my gut: “I want to write novels.”“Well, then, write them.”
“But I don’t have time. I don’t know how.”
He planted a hand on the table and leaned close. His blue eyes sparked. “Now listen—listen!”
I did listen. Here’s what Scott O’Dell taught me:
Writing is about starting. Start simply, even if it amounts to no more than 15 minutes a day. Open an empty notebook and on page one write: “I want to write a book about . . .” Then write: “I want the main character to be . . .” It’s okay to write in fragments. It’s okay to use weak verbs. Just write. Spill all of your ideas into that notebook. On about day five, or seventeen, or fifty-five, something will happen. A light will turn on. You will see the way.
Writing is about finishing. He liked to quote Anthony Trollope, the English novelist: “The most important thing a writer should have is a piece of sticking plaster with which to fasten his pants to a chair.”
Writing is about reading. Soak up all the great books you can. He loved Willa Cather’s spare, lyrical prose style, singling out her novel, “Death Comes for the Archbishop.”
Writing is humble. Let your forebears guide you. He followed Hemingway’s advice: Stop your day’s work at a point where you know what is going to happen next. That way, you’ll never get stuck.
Writing for young readers has a special reward. Scott told me that before he discovered young audiences, he had only a tentative commitment to the craft of writing. Now it was strong. “The only reason I write,” he said, “is to say something. I’ve forsaken adults because they’re not going to change, though they may try awfully hard. But children can and do change.”
Before driving me back to the train station, Scott took me out on his deck and pointed to a grove of trees across Long Pond. During the Revolutionary War, a teenage girl had sought refuge from the Redcoats in a cave hidden by the grove. For years, she had drawn on her wits and fortitude to survive. After learning this bit of local history, Scott had crafted one of his best novels, “Sarah Bishop.” His message was simple. Good stories are everywhere. You don’t have to look far. Open your eyes.
We corresponded for a few years, and he kindly critiqued my awkward early efforts at YA fiction. Years later, I read that he had been working on his last novel, “My Name is Not Angelica,” in his hospital bed, just days before his death at age 91.Scott taught me many things about writing, but one stands out—that writing is about perseverance.
Never give up.
Categories: books, death, grief, Mentor Monday

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