1.

photo by Anne MazerWhenever things got rough, Uncle Herbie put on his rose-colored glasses. Poo! Much good it did for him in the end . . .

2.

photo by Anne Mazer

Have these summer campers been invaded by actual Vikings sailing through a time portal?

3.  

photo by Anne Mazer

Is this guy making his escape from a mad Countess? Or perhaps he’s a young crime scene investigator called in to examine ancient bones found in the castle's turret?

4.

photo by Anne Mazer

Maybe the strange arrangement of the dolls was left as a clue? Hmmm.

photo by Anne Mazer

Anne Mazer:

Get out of your reading comfort zone. 

If you’re serious about writing, every writer will tell you to read as much as possible. If you love paranormal romances, dystopian novels, or science fiction, you are probably gobbling them down like popcorn and thinking that, as an extra bonus, this will help your writing. True. Whatever you read will feed your writing. But it’s important to stretch a little now and then.  If you only read one kind of book, your understanding of books, writing and language will be limited.

When my mother was young, she had to memorize poems and passages from Shakespeare, among others. By the time I was in school, we weren’t reading Shakespeare, much less memorizing him. Imagine having that language in your blood as a young child. It would never leave you. It didn’t leave my mother; it gave her a lifelong love of words and literature. Even if she only understood one word in ten, she still had the rhythms of his speech in her head. What a great training for a writer! I envy it.

Not that I’m telling you to memorize Shakespeare - unless you want to, of course. But once in while, crack open a book you wouldn’t normally think of reading. Tackle fiction that challenges you, or that seems out of your league. You’ll build your reading and writing muscles.

Take it s-l-o-w-l-y.

 Over the last few years, Ellen and I have noticed that many of the kids who write to us seem to want – or even expect – success as a writer to come immediately. Before they’re even out of their teens, they want to produce professional quality work. Hey, everyone, what’s the rush? Writers take a long time to develop. In fact, if they hatched in the wild, they’d have one of the longest gestation periods in nature. Not only that, but ideas are slow hatching, too. I’m working on one right now that I’ve had for over twenty years. Many writers begin to hit their stride in middle age or even later. So if you’re not an international success by the time you’re eighteen, there’s still hope for you. Nice thought, isn’t it?

Do lots of things other than writing

 If you want to be a writer, you have to write. But if you only write, will it make you a better writer? In my opinion, no. It won’t make you a happy camper, either, to shut yourself in your room, taking breaks only for meals and the occasional shower. Living a full life can include writing, but it shouldn’t exclude anything or anyone you love.  Like friendships and family, or following your passion for tai chi, raising llamas, clay ovens, permaculture, ancient languages, or volleyball. Everything that you do and love and experience will flow into your stories and make them richer.  Nothing is wasted in writing. Which makes it one of the most eco-friendly activities around.

Ellen Potter:

 Treat your story like a birthday wish 

If you tell someone your wish, it won’t come true, right? When you are writing a story, try to keep it to yourself.  When you tell someone your story before you write about it, it can take the excitement out of working on it. Also, you open yourself up to negative reactions, or the wrong kind of responses, which can discourage you from writing.  If you need to show your work to someone before it’s finished, be very picky. Choose someone who is sensitive to the fact that your work is still in a rough stage. Choose someone whose opinion you trust and who has your best writing interests at heart. Give your story a chance to “come true” just like that birthday wish.

Don’t worry about getting published

Write because you love to write. Really, it’s that simple. Write because you can’t get that certain character out of your head. Write because you want to take readers on a wild joyride of an adventure. Write for any reason at all . . . but don’t write because you just have to get published. It will paralyze your creativity.

True, seeing your name in print is thrilling. But when you are worrying if your story is publishable while you are writing it, you are getting in your own way by preventing yourself from being totally immersed in your story. You’ll keep second-guessing yourself, as in “Has this been done before?” “Will editors think the storyline is exciting enough?” It’s hard enough to write a story without your inner voice pestering you every three seconds.

Once you have finished your story, and if you still feel a burning need to publish, you can submit it to magazines or web sites that specialize in publishing the works of young writers (have a peek at the Inspiration Library on our web site for some ideas: http://www.spillinginkthebook.com/inspiration-library/)

Or enter a writing contest for kids. Here’s the latest Spilling Ink contest posted on our site: http://www.spillinginkthebook.com/contests/

image by anne mazer

You asked for it - you got it! Announcing a new Spilling Ink short story contest for 8-12 year old writers. Send us your best story, short or long (1000 word limit, please). Our deadline is February 15, 2012. We have exciting new prizes (Yay!). As usual, Ellen Potter and Anne Mazer will be the judges. Hope to see you enter! Classes and homeschoolers welcome! Check out more details here. -- Ellen and Anne

photo by Anne Mazer

When it comes to writing, what makes you feel grateful? Here are our Thanksgiving lists for you to ponder. Feel free to add your own in the comments. Happy Thanksgiving! Love, Anne and Ellen

Ellen Potter

As a writer I am daily thankful for:

1. Coffee. 
2. The sudden and overwhelming need to pluck my dog’s ear hairs.
3. Coffee (I cannot overstate my esteem for the bean).
4. The New York Times obituaries (Anne got me hooked on these).
5. Unscheduled visits from friends who want to go out for a cup of coffee.
6. A few moments of deep breathing to slow down my heart rate from all the coffee.
7. And most of all . . . the looming threat of having to pay back a book advance if I don’t stop plucking my dog’s ear hairs, reading obituaries and drinking coffee.

Anne Mazer

Why I’m Grateful to be a Writer

1. It’s fun to go to work in a bathrobe.
2. I love roaming in the fields of imagination.
3. Words! Words! With only one “l” (and a lot of work) they become Worlds!
4. Having a “steam release valve” for my overly active brain.
5. I actually get paid for this?
6. Spending time at the library, walking, and daydreaming are part of my job description.
7. The disasters in my life turn into comic fiction. Celery ice cream, anyone?
8. Because I love books.
9. Ellen Potter is my writing partner.
10. My readers.
11. YOU!!!

Les Montres Molles by Salvator Dali

Ellen Potter:

 Though I’m embarrassed to admit it, I am a self-help book addict. I just love the way they take your tangled, unruly life and comb it out, arrange it prettily, and send you on your merry way. Of course, your poor life gets knotted up again after a few days, but still, there’s always the hope that one day the pretty life will decide to stay for good.

Here is my attempt to help comb out a few of you Parent/Writers:

How to Find Time to Write with a Young Child in the House

Wait for it . . . wait for it . . . Zzzzzzzz

Lots of people told me to write when my son was napping. That seemed obvious enough, but it never really worked. Half my brain was upstairs in my son’s crib, obsessing over every twitch, and you can’t write anything decent with half a brain (although your sales might be spectacular).

  But one day I noticed something interesting. I had woken up at 4 am to check on the baby. He was in that limp stage of sleep. No twitching. Just deep, deep R.E.M sleep. Suddenly I felt released. He was drifting through his own dreamscape, so I was free to drift through mine. I hurried downstairs, booted up my computer, and put in two hours of solid writing before he woke up and lassoed my brain again. After that, 4 am became my writing time. So that’s my first bit of advice:  Notice when your child sinks into that deep, limp-limbed sleep, and hightail it to your computer.

Buy a smoking-great stroller

Zombie Moms. You’ve seen them in the supermarkets and playgrounds. You may even have seen one in the mirror. They have bloodshot eyes and they look like their brains have been sucked out of their skull with a breast pump. When you have babies or young kids in your house, thinking about anything becomes a struggle. Yet, so much of writing is thinking. What’s a writer/parent to do?

 My solution was to find a fabulous stroller. It had all the bells and whistles. It kept my son happy and it kept me happy. We were able to take long walks and, miraculously, I began to think again. I’m not even going to pretend to know how this works physiologically, but as I walked I felt my brain limbering up. Before long it grew semi-coherent. Then, gasp! The story ideas began to pop.

I’m going to quote something that my friend always used to tell me when she bought something pricey. “It’s an investment,” she’d say. I used to poo-poo that, as in “Do you really think those $500 heels are going to pay off in dividends?” But now I’m going to make the same suggestion about strollers. Buy a great one. It’s an investment.

Finally, I have one word for you. Babysitter. Get one.

We’re not talking Nanny here. No big bucks involved. How about hiring the teen next door who will play with your baby for an hour or two? You don’t have to leave the house. I never did.  You probably won’t be totally off-duty, though, so you might want to use that time for the less strenuously creative work, like revisions. Or sleep.

Anne Mazer: 

Writing in Time

The Eye of Time by Salvator Dali

 As the daughter of two obsessed writers, I grew up with a skewed view on time and its uses. While most people try to fit writing in with their crowded, busy lives, my parents squeezed their lives into their writing schedules. Want to talk to your parents? It better be something serious: arterial bleeding, mangled limbs, or at least a police car waiting outside. If you wanted serious attention, it helped to have insights about books and writing. So when I grew up and decided to become a writer, it was either a minor miracle, or the most obvious thing in the world to do.

For many people, figuring out how to manage their time as a writer is a titanic struggle. But for me, I assumed that writing was a priority to which all else took second place. This eliminated messy, uncomfortable questions about relationships, work, or what I wanted out of my life. At the time, I wasn’t married or a mother, so happily, no innocent bystanders suffered in the practice of my art. My “office” was a small round dining room table in the corner of my studio apartment (craning my neck while looking out the window, I could almost see the Hudson River) and every night after work I sat down at the typewriter and wrote for at least an hour. In fact, I don’t remember ever eating at that table. It seemed like a no-brainer to me; if you wanted to write, you sat down and did it. I dimly realized how lucky I had been to get writing habits hard-wired into my DNA. 

 When I got married and had a son and then a daughter, the first cracks appeared in this “perfect” system. As a child, I had often spoken to my mother through a locked door. It’s an almost archetypal image  – me on one side of the door, begging to be let in; on the other, my reluctant, suspicious, and annoyed mother. Now both a mother and writer myself, I knew I wasn’t going to shut, much less lock the door on my children. But writing with constant interruptions was no easy task, either. My former husband helped out by putting our children to bed every night so I could write. Unfortunately, I was usually brain-dead by 7:00 p.m., and reduced to scrawling the same three sentences over and over for an hour. But it was better than not writing at all.

When my kids were growing up, I was constantly scrambling to find writing time. It became much more complicated when I found myself a single parent. I felt not only clever, but also downright heroic as I surfed the waves of illness, summer vacations, and school events. I snatched eagerly at every opportunity for a few quiet hours to write. There were no locked doors and my son and daughter became a part of my writing life, rather than an obstacle to it. Now that they’re adults, however, I find myself reflecting back on those days and wondering whether it was so important to always prioritize writing? Maybe not. It’s an ongoing struggle to balance relationships and writing. I'm still surfing those waves!

Max at the typewriter/photo by Anne Mazer

When I first began writing, I worked on a portable typewriter. Mistakes had to be painted over, and retyped. If there were too many of them, I had to do over the entire page. Not only that, but when you had finished the book, you had to type a final copy by hand: neatly, without mistakes. Then I’d hurry to a print store to make a copy for myself before I sent it off to the agent. (All that paper flying around! Hundreds of pages! Not very green.)  

What a thrill it was when I got my first computer. It was a hand-me-down from my parents and it took at least five or ten minutes to boot up. Imagine my joy when I realized I would never have to retype a page again. And I could move whole sections of text around in only seconds! With the time I used to spend retyping, I could now practically write an extra book each year.

 Then came email. I checked it only once or twice a day, because my dial up access was so slow. And I was still mailing out manuscripts to my publisher. They’d send them back as hard copy, marked up with red editing pen and flagged post-it notes. But one day, they started asking for electronic copies. And then they started sending back electronic edits. Pretty soon I almost never talked to anyone on the phone anymore.

With broadband Internet and faster connections, the time-honored writer’s traditions of wasting time and avoiding writing became much easier as well. Now instead of chewing on pencils, starting out the window, or crumpling up paper, I am able to read gossip on any celebrity I want, stare at stupid jokes on Facebook, or check my email every five minutes. (I have done this.) For writers, sitting alone in their rooms for hours, the Internet is a very powerful, very deadly drug. User, beware.

Computers have made my life much easier in many ways. Or have they? In the past, “all” I had to do was write the books.* Now, I am not only writing the books,** but I’m also maintaining two websites, a Facebook page, a Twitter account, an Amazon page, a Goodreads page, as well as posting on my own blog and this one, writing guest posts and interviews for other blogs, answering emails and snail mail, etc. etc. Sometimes I wonder how I find time for writing.***

One thing hasn’t changed: writing**** still takes a lot of time, thought and work. Would I rather be typing and retyping, printing out copies, and making changes by hand? Would I rather be tweeting, updating, liking, blogging, and posting?  Check out my next blog post or tweet for the answer.

*Hardest work I’ve ever done in my life.

**Very, very hard work.

***Did I mention how hard it is?

****Hard.

Max typing/ photo by Anne MazerEllen Potter: Writing Before and After (Baby)

When I was pregnant, more seasoned mothers congratulated me heartily and asked me all the usual due date, gender, and name questions. Then they asked what my plans were for work after the baby was born.

 “I’ll just write when the baby naps,” I told them breezily.

That’s when their smiles faltered.  “Good for you,” they said uneasily, as though I’d told them that I was planning to march into the Oval Office and serve up my solution to the financial crisis. All things considered, that might have been easier than writing with an infant.

Here are just a few things that motherhood has given me: 

1. A swift kick in the Alps

Before motherhood, time was as free as air. I was frolicking through my day like Heidi in the Swiss Alps. Then came the wee one. Suddenly, time was a precious commodity.  And yet, I found I was able to write more in less time. How does that work?! I think I was fueled by sheer terror of not being able to meet my deadline. It was very eye-opening. Now I know that I actually don’t need oodles of hours to wait for the Muse to whisper in my ear. Or maybe the Muse is also a mother and puts us writer-moms on the top of her To Do list. 

 2. A distaste for blood and gore.

 No, I’m not talking about childbirth.

Before having my son I could write about anything without flinching. My short stories (for grownups) poked around at some pretty grim stuff.  But along with motherhood came a sudden distaste for fictional violence. My heart was tenderized. Even though the bad guy totally deserved to be whacked in the head with a crowbar, he was somebody’s kid, wasn’t he?  And what about his poor mom? Suddenly I couldn’t bear to write about anything bloody or violent. And I deleted Quentin Tarantino movies from my Netflix Queue.

 3. A sense of Poospective. I mean perspective. 

So there I was, driving to New York on my way to meet a Hollywood producer who had just optioned the film rights for one of my books. I was feeling like hot stuff.  I had taken along my husband and infant son because I was still nursing. Just as we’re parking and getting ready to meet the producer, my husband uttered the dreaded words:

“Do you smell something?”

Oh yeah. Diaper blowout. It was as though my son wanted to remind me who was really running this show. A Hollywood producer? Au contraire, Mommy. Think again. All bow down to the power of the poo!

And for the record, it’s impossible to feel like hot stuff when you are wrist-deep in . . . well, hot stuff. 

photo by Anne Mazer

 

I am an English/Language Arts Support Teacher at COIL Charter School in Fremont, CA.

This is my second year of offering a Spilling Ink Writer's Club for kids grades 3-12 who like to write.

 For our first monthly meeting I asked my students to bring in a collection of images (photos or Internet graphics) that inspire them to write. To compliment Part I of Spilling Ink, I had them use those images, along with text or drawings if they wanted, to create a collage. This proved to be quite an engaging activity for each of them.  As they worked I walked around asking them questions about what certain images represented to them and how those images or words or drawings inspired them to write.  One child drew a picture of Katniss, the female protagonist in The Hunger Games trilogy. She said this character inspires her to develop strong characters in her own stories. Another student chose a picture of wild buffalo on an open range. This 5th grader said the image inspired her to write stories set on the prairie.

Next month the students will bring back their completed collages and share with the group what they've created. I'll then proudly display these collages so that other students can also be inspired by what inspires this group of young writers.

Thanks to Anne Mazer and Ellen Potter for writing the book that inspired this activity!

 

 Here are our wonderful second and third prize winners from the teen writing contest. We're always in awe of the teens' talent! P.S. If you haven't read it yet, be sure to check out our first prize winner in the previous blog entry. Enjoy! -- Anne and Ellen

Second Prize:

Forever . . .

by Kathleen Herbst, age 14

 “We’ll always be best friends, right?” A girl on the swing asks the one parallel to her.  They are swinging in sync, trying their best to stay like this, but only successful for a short while before one starts to stray.

The girl next to her answers, “Of course.”  And they both believe it.

They go along on the playground, creating their own world in the sandbox, being Cinderella in the fort, trying to fight the evil Captain Hook by the teacher’s bench.  As one of the teachers is framed as the Captain, both aim with their sticks in that direction.

Sitting in timeout, the girls are supposedly thinking about what they did wrong.  But the first girl asks, “We’ll still always be friends right?”  Worry crosses her small frame, the thought that she might lose even her best friend because of the trouble they caused.  But the second girl brushes the worry away.  “Of course.  And I think we beat Captain Hook!” she adds, before being shushed by her teacher.

A few more years of adventuring follows.  Yet the girls are, for the first time, put into separate classes.  The first girl, biting her lip, asks, “We’ll always be best friends, right?”  The friend looks at her for a moment, then answers, “Of course.”

They continue on with their times; they join the local basketball team together, being much of an enjoyable for both (as one is intensely coordinated, whereas the other is quite the opposite); they have biweekly sleepovers where they get some magical energy to stay up to the early morning from chocolate chip cookies; they go to the mall together and watch people’s quirks and laugh as they drank steaming hot coco from the coffee shop; they do, as all good friends do, the usual secret telling, stories, and laughter. Their frustration with the “popular” people escalates as they watch them turn to the exact replica of their older siblings. One of the members of the clique comes and gives the second girl an invitation, turning red as she avoids making eye contact with the first girl. The first one watches as the second girl gives a look not of contempt matching the first girl’s, but rather slightly creased brows with a small frown, her head tilted to the side as she holds the invitation just given to her.   “Best friends forever, right?” the first girl asks hurriedly.  The second girl waits a moment, but nods and says, “Yeah.  Of course.”

Again, a couple of years go by.  The first girl says sadly that she will be going to a different middle school than her friend.  The second girl says that she “really wishes we could go to the same school,” using a tone that strikes the first girl as slightly suspicious.  After all, “Best friends always, right?”  The second girl nods with a sigh.  “Yes.  Of course.”

As was planned, the first girl goes to her new school.  She makes friends cautiously, being sure not to become too close (a few times having some rather close calls).  After all, she already has a best friend, and who could replace the perfect best friend?  She invites her friend over, and they plan to meet that weekend.  However, “something comes up” and the friend says she cannot come.  On the phone though, the first girl asks, “We’ll still be best friends always, right?”  And the second answers, with a sigh, “Yeah.  Sure.  Of course.”

The second girl starts dating, wearing her makeup, choosing clothes of the most popular style.  The first girl ignores her impulse that this is exactly like the second girl’s sister, and refuses to call her best friend’s new friend group a “clique.”  The first girl is still painfully uncoordinated, but has joined many teams and clubs for mental ability. Though she tried so hard, the first girl has become friends with many of these new people. But when she sees her best friend at a district student council meeting, she says, “Best friends forever, right?”  and the second girl rolls her eyes, and answers “I guess so.”

The girls go to high school.  The first girl becomes involved in many extracurricular activities and takes the maximum level and amount of courses.  Stressed out and overwhelmed, she calls her friend.  On the phone, she starts crying, telling the second girl about all of her stresses and worries.  The second girl replies, “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. Erin is here.”  The first girl bites her lip and asks, “Who is Erin?”  The answer comes back without hesitation: “My best friend.”

***

In March of their senior year, the first girl is killed in an accident.  The second girl is called and notified of the death.  They tell her that her friend regarded her in a journal as “her best friend.”

But the second girl only shakes her head.  She does not remember the girl on the playground.

But somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice asks, “Best friends forever?”

“No” is all she says.

THE END

Third Prize:

 Rumpelstiltskin: The True Story of the Little Man

By Jaidyn M., age 13

My name is Abigail Weaver.  A lot of people have heard me and my friend Rumples’ story, but I’m here to tell you that the newspaper print got it wrong. Rumple was not some crazy, maniacal man. He was a friend that was just trying to help me.

Now everyone thinks they know what happened in my story. A short old man comes in, weaves some gold and all of a sudden I have to give up my baby? Come on, how realistic does that sound???? What really happened was a completely different story.

The whole reason this started was because my dear old father had to open his big mouth and say that I could weave gold from straw. I’m pretty and smart. I am not some magician that can magically transform it.

After my father went boasting to the King about my special “talents”, I was shipped off to the palace to spin a room full of straw into gold (as if the king didn’t have enough gold!). The cruel King said that, if I didn’t spin all of it into gold by morning, he would sentence me to be killed!

Now, this is where most people are wrong.  I didn’t sit there crying until my demise, I started thinking. I tried to think up a plan on how to get out of this, when my good friend Rumpelstiltskin came in.

I was overjoyed when I saw him.  Rumple had always been a good weaver and I wasn’t looking forward to my untimely death, so I begged him to help me and he said he would. But of course there was a catch (there was always a catch with him). He said he would spin the gold if I gave him something in return. The only thing I had was my necklace, so I gave it to him.

He weaved all night, as I nodded off.  In the morning when I woke there was a note next to a stack of gold.

It read:

Abby,

I did you a big favor last night, and you did pay me for my services. I liked weaving it for you, so if you need me to do it again, just call my name and I’ll be there.  But of course, my services will come at a price, so be prepared.

RUMPLESTILTSKIN

Just as I finished reading the note, King Big Mouth came stomping in. He started demanding his gold, like he just spent hours working on it. What a jerk! I scowled as I pointed to the large stack on the floor. Apparently, he was pleased with it because he clapped his hands and had it carried away.

Of course, he then wanted more.  So I had to spend another night in a creepy, dark dungeon while he lavished in his gold. I called “RUMPLESTILTSKIN” and again, he came and wove that straw into gold too. This time I surrendered my ring that I cherished for his services.

After that, the King still wanted more and he said, if I could do that then he would make me his wife (as if I’d want to be his wife!).  Still, between the choices of marrying a disgusting, hairy, King and death ~ I’d have to go with marriage. Rumple came one last time and said that he would weave the gold if he got to have my first child with the King (I was disgusted just at the thought of having kids with the king) so I said yes not knowing that I would have a child. He spun it all night and in the morning the King made me his queen.

A year had passed and I had a little girl named Grace. You see because Rumple had never visited me throughout the years, I had forgotten his name. For all I knew his name was Lord Voldemort!? My baby and I had grown very close. So when he came and asked for my little baby girl, I couldn’t give her up. Seeing my distress he said that if I guessed his name I could keep little Gracie.

 I guessed Ronald, Mickey Mouse, and Harry…. All the names you could think of. But it wasn’t any of them.

I remembered the spinning wheel, and calling him Rumple. Then it clicked in my head. I guessed RUMPLESTILTSKIN and instead of being a baby over it like the story said, he actually apologized to me and said his final goodbyes and left forever, but not before the press came and fabricated an entirely untrue story that was passed down through the years.

That’s the end of the story. There was no sinister little man trying to steal kids, there was no cruelness (besides in the King) and I am still not talking with my father for getting me into this.

That was the real story of Rumpelstiltskin. Now a message to all you newspaper prints, GET YOUR STORIES STRAIGHT!

Told by: Abigail Weaver (Queen)

THE END

It's always a joy to see so much good writing coming from teen writers. Congratulations to Abby M, who won first place with the following story. We hope you'll love it as much as we did. - Anne and Ellen

First place

The Boy and His Moon

by Abby M., age 15

The moon is hanging from a string.

It is really very simple, you see. I woke up this morning and looked out my window, caked with the dust of the city. I let in the dank air, and my small bedroom immediately smelled of asphalt and car fumes. I could hear a siren in the distance, and Mrs. Cabbage's dog, Trudy, was barking up a storm next door, as usual. The world around me kept on going, kept on running, but I halted in my tracks.

A short distance away from my apartment complex, there is a construction site, though no construction has taken place there for more than a year. It is an abandoned project. The lot is vacant with the exception of a large concrete foundation and a crane of some sort.

The crane is tall and thin, and a horizontal bar is attached to it. Attached to the bar is a string, and attached to the string is a hook, probably used to lift heavy pieces of metal or wood.

Today, though, the crane is holding the moon.

It is early morning, and the moon remains visible, its nightly glow fading gradually as the sun peeks over the darkness. It hangs suspended from the hook of the crane, taking the last few moments of the night in. The moon looks relaxed, maybe a bit sad, even, as it looks out over the empty, incomplete construction site.

I am puzzled. Why would someone be keeping the moon on a string? Who would do such a selfish thing?

I then think of the only person who could possibly do this. He is the only one I know of who goes to the construction site. The boy.

He has dirty, ripped jeans and a white t-shirt, a dirty sweatshirt almost always tied around his waist. On particularly cold nights, he wraps the thing around his shoulders for warmth, but even from my window I can see that the material is thin, and he shivers through the night.

Sometimes, I see the boy picking through Mrs. Cabbage's trash barrels seated at the end of her narrow drive. He rarely ever gets anything, though, because Trudy barks loudly enough for all of New York City to hear.

One morning, just as I was getting ready for school, the boy came and picked at our trash bins. I hurried down the stairs and sneaked another apple into the brown paper bag that held my lunch. Walking outside, I handed it to him. I could see the hunger in his eyes and the way they lit up a bit at the sight of fresh food.

“I know you've been looking through the trash,” I say, “but that's not very good food. Take this.”

Wordlessly, the boy flashed his piercing hazel eyes into mine, then left with the apple clutched tightly in his bony hands.

Besides the times when I see him picking through dumpsters, I usually spot the boy in the abandoned construction site. He sits up against the crane, eating whatever he's scavenged that day. I also noticed that when a siren sounds close to our neighborhood, the boy hides behind the foundation, as if not wanting to be seen. I'm sure he knows that if the police were to find him, they'd take him to an orphanage or arrange for a foster home. Apparently, he'd rather live hungry.

I do not view the boy as selfish. But, he is keeping the moon in his territory, all to himself, tied up and prisoner to him. This somewhat angers me, somewhat fascinates me. I decide then and there to confront him about it.

I slip into my navy blue school jumper and tie a red ribbon in my tangled brown hair. I squeeze my feet into the worn black shoes that crunch my toes, then grab my backpack and lunch off the kitchen counter. I give Mom a kiss goodbye, and when she asks why I'm leaving early, I tell her I'm going to Mrs. Cabbage's for a bit.

I enter the construction yard, seeing no sign of the boy. The little belongings he has must be held at his side, because I see nothing to indicate even his existence. Maybe he's already out looking for food.

“Who's there?” I hear from the shadow of the foundation, making me jump. I wasn't expecting to hear anyone.

“Um, it's me, I mean Lilly, from across the street. I um, uh, well, I just have a question.” I was stuttering now. Just get to the point. Just say what you need to say.

The boy then emerged from the foundation, looking relieved that it was only a second grade girl with a hair ribbon and lunch bag rather than a muscular cop with handcuffs and a pistol.

“I was just wondering, why are you keeping the moon on a string?”

The boy looked immediately puzzled, amused even.

“What in the world are you talking about, little girl?” he responded. I guessed he was about fifteen, and it annoyed me that he called me “little girl.” I crossed my arms defiantly over my chest and narrowed my eyes.

“That string up there, on the crane. The moon is hanging from it. Why are you keeping it there?” I asked, pointing to the obvious.

And then, the boy started to laugh.

His face lit up, breaking into the biggest grin I had ever seen. He had deep, round dimples imprinted into his sunken cheeks, and his chapped lips were curved upward, little breath escaping them because he was laughing so hard. It made me even angrier.

“What are you laughing about?” I ask him furiously. He wipes a tear from his eye and calms down, then comes over to me and grips my shoulders, bending down to my level. I scowl.

“I'm laughing. No one has ever, ever made me laugh. Ever! You like to laugh, don't you?”

I do like to laugh. I nod.

“Well, so do I. And you just made me laugh. That was the best thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“It was?” I ask, unsure. It wasn't even meant to be funny!

He chuckles a bit more. “Yes, it sure was. And you know what? You're right. I am being selfish. Would you like to help me set the moon free?”

“Yes, yes, I would!” I respond excitedly.

He slaps his palms on his knees, down from my shoulders and stands upright.

“Alright, then. Let's go,” he says.

He helps me climb the ladder alongside the crane. I am afraid at first, because it is very tall, but the boy helps me. When we reach the top, there the moon sits, attached to the rope far out on the beam. It is way, way out of reach. My heart sinks, knowing we will not be able to remove it.

“But, how will we do it? We can't reach that,” I ask the boy.

“Oh, that's the easy part. It was much harder to get it up there. All you have to do is take one deep breath and blow the string as hard as you can. Wait until tonight, and the moon will have released itself and moved a bit because of your breath.”

 I look at him quizzically. “Are you sure?” I ask.

“Positive,” says the boy.

So I do. I gulp a big breath of stinky city air and blow the moon as hard as I possibly can. And nothing happens, just as the boy said.

“You just wait until tonight, little girl, and the moon will have moved. And then tomorrow night, it will have moved some more. And each night, it will move again.”

I thank the boy and leave him, going to school. That night, I look out my dusty window once again and am shocked to see that the boy was right. The moon did move. The moon was free. And it was all because of my breath.

I smile, looking at its partially round, lit face. I blow it a little kiss, and wave, letting it know that I am happy it is free. I then see a movement near the foundation. It is the boy, waving back. I giggle and wave to him.

Each night, the moon moves a bit more. It is slow, but steady, and I notice that once or twice a month the boy captures it on the string, just for a night or two. But, that is okay, I think. The moon is his friend. I am also his friend because every night when I wave to the moon, I wave to the boy, too.

THE END

Last week, we posted the worst. Now here's some of the best! - Anne and Ellen

Ellen Potter

1. Some of the best writing advice I’ve heard came from a friend of mine who is a New York City Police Officer. Although he’s seen plenty of crazy situations, and has stared down the wrong end of a gun more than once, when people ask him what it’s like to be a cop, he usually shrugs and says, “Eh. It’s just a job.”

 I like that. I think that’s a healthy way to look at being a writer too. It’s easy to make a fetish out of writing (i.e., “I can only write after I light 12 patchouli-scented candles and have a chiropractic adjustment.” Or, more commonly, “I can only write when I feel inspired.”). Writing is just a job. A challenging, glorious, gut-wrenching job, but a job nonetheless. You don’t need to be a Sensitive Genius in order to be a writer. In fact, it’s probably better if you aren’t. You just need to be insanely persistent. You need to show up for work every day, even if you sometimes feel like you are staring down the wrong end of a gun.

2. Another great piece of writing advice came from Oscar. Oscar is a horse. I was taking riding lessons when I met Oscar. I am a fairly crummy rider. Oscar loved to take advantage of crummy riders. He knew he had a sucker on his back the moment I climbed on. He bolted then stopped short. I stayed on, but barely. That was just the beginning. He had all sorts of tricks designed to unnerve me. After five minutes of this, I told my instructor that I wanted to get off. Oscar had won, fair and square. But my instructor said, “If you get off now, you’ll always be intimidated by horses like Oscar. Imagine you have Velcro on your butt. Just stay put. ” After assuring me that Oscar was not going to kill me, I agreed to try again.  I imagined the Velcro. I stayed put. And after a while Oscar grew bored of his own shenanigans and began to play nice.

 Okay, the writing connection is this: When you feel completely stuck in your writing, when every cell in your body is telling you to give up, stay put. Don’t let it intimidate you. If you shy away this time, and tell yourself that you just don’t have the skills, talent, brains, or whatever, you are setting yourself up to admit defeat every time you hit a rough patch. Imagine that Velcro on your butt. And your butt on the seat. And Oscar . . . I mean your writing . . . will eventually settle down and begin to play nice.

Anne Mazer

 I wish I could say that my best writing advice came from a beloved teacher or mentor or friend. But oddly enough, it came from people with whom, to put it politely, I had very, very complicated relationships. Maybe their words sank in because I was always arguing with them in my head. Or maybe I disagreed with them so frequently, that the good advice really stood out. Who knows? Frankly, I have to grit my teeth to acknowledge that these people gave me good advice. No, not just good advice, it was great advice. Maybe even the best advice I ever got. Grrrrr….. 

1. “You never know what you can do. Don’t give up.” Never mind that the person who gave me this advice was always telling me what I couldn’t do. They were right on the mark with this little gem. It whistled into my ears, oozed into my bloodstream, and started circulating wildly in my brain. Every time I’ve ever gotten discouraged (which is a lot), I’ve thought of it. It gives me hope. And it’s true: no one, not even you, can predict what you might do next. You may have just written the worst chapter in the history of literature, but tomorrow, you could surprise everyone, including yourself, by writing something pretty darn decent. You’ll never know if you storm away from your story in a snit. There are surprises around every corner. Would you really want to miss out on one by quitting too soon?

2. "You’re a misfit in an office.”  When Person B delivered these words, I knew the game was up. For five years, I’d been working to perfect the role of secretary/administrative assistant. I had the suit, the make-up, the heels, and the hair. (Hard to believe for anyone who knows me now.) Not only that, but I had somehow learned to type, could scrawl a bit of shorthand, and was almost competent at taking phone messages. I was faking a lot of my job, and getting away with it, too. People were paying me a generous salary, and I hadn’t been fired yet. But Person B saw right through me; he knew I didn’t belong there. I could have gotten mad at his words, and maybe I did, a little. But then I surprised myself. (See Advice #1, above.)  The next words out of my mouth were: “I’ve always wanted to be a writer.”                  

And then I became one.  

I learned something invaluable that day. It’s okay to be yourself. In fact, it’s essential to be yourself. Don’t try to fake it, like I did, and turn yourself into someone who you aren’t. That’s a waste of your life. (Of course, we all have to do things we don’t like from time to time, but that’s different than trying to force yourself into a role that doesn’t suit you.)  Although I had limped along as a secretary for years (I have only pity for the people I worked for), when I became a writer, new and unexpected strengths appeared. Suddenly I was organized, committed and determined. I discovered that I could work hard and love it, that I could persist through failure, and that I could find my voice.

This advice also applies to writing itself. Don’t try to make yourself into Neil Gaiman, or Suzanne Collins, or Tamora Pierce, for example. They are wonderful writers and will inspire you. Read them, learn from them, but then find out who you are, as a person and a writer. It will take a lifetime, but I promise you won’t regret it.