It's that interesting time of the year. This morning I finished an essay I'm writing for The Horn Book. I sent an email to one of the publicists at Penguin Random House about it, and got back an auto-reply, "I am at ALA Midwinter." Then I wrote a book review, submitted it, and then, before sitting down to the Egypt book, draft 3.1, clicked on School Library Journal's website, where people are making Newbery predictions. Some, bless them, mention The War I Finally Won.
Last week I wrote a blog post about riding and writing and meeting my goals. One of my friends emailed me for clarification. What were my writing goals? And if I say I've met them, am I done?
Ah, no. Writing is part of my identity. It's who I am. I have so many stories left to tell. I wish it didn't take me quite so long to tell them, but that's how I am. I've learned that I prefer writing good books to bad ones. I can write bad books quite quickly--my record is 2 1/2 weeks--but good ones take me years. What I need to do now is make every book meet my goals.
Of course I want to win the Newbery on Monday. Every writer who had an eligible book published in 2017 wants to win. Every. Single. One. And Lord God, do I love TWIFW being part of the public discussion.
Winning the Newbery is not, and never has been, one of my goals.
Goals are something we have some control over. Not perfect control, of course--life isn't predictable, anything can happen, usually does--but awards are something I have no control of whatsoever. What I can control is the story I tell, the words I pick, the meaning I find. All my life I wanted to write stories that were hard and honest and true--and I think I've learned to do that, and I'm glad.
On Tuesday the middle-school boys' basketball team my husband coaches had a phenomenal win. They beat their cross-town rivals in an upset. I was delighted, not because the results of any middle-school basketball game anywhere are actually significant, but because I could see the growth in the team. They ran plays. They snapped passes. They boxed out. They threw the ball to the man on the corner knowing the man on the corner would be there, and he was. They held their ground. They dug in. I've watched these boys for three years, and I love their increasing skill.
At one point they were set up to receive an in-bound pass. One of the boys looked up at the bleachers and happened to catch my eye. He broke into a wide grin. Hey, Mrs. Bradley. Isn't this fun?
Yes. Yes, it is. I am so grateful to be playing this game.
Last week I wrote a blog post about riding and writing and meeting my goals. One of my friends emailed me for clarification. What were my writing goals? And if I say I've met them, am I done?
Ah, no. Writing is part of my identity. It's who I am. I have so many stories left to tell. I wish it didn't take me quite so long to tell them, but that's how I am. I've learned that I prefer writing good books to bad ones. I can write bad books quite quickly--my record is 2 1/2 weeks--but good ones take me years. What I need to do now is make every book meet my goals.
Of course I want to win the Newbery on Monday. Every writer who had an eligible book published in 2017 wants to win. Every. Single. One. And Lord God, do I love TWIFW being part of the public discussion.
Winning the Newbery is not, and never has been, one of my goals.
Goals are something we have some control over. Not perfect control, of course--life isn't predictable, anything can happen, usually does--but awards are something I have no control of whatsoever. What I can control is the story I tell, the words I pick, the meaning I find. All my life I wanted to write stories that were hard and honest and true--and I think I've learned to do that, and I'm glad.
On Tuesday the middle-school boys' basketball team my husband coaches had a phenomenal win. They beat their cross-town rivals in an upset. I was delighted, not because the results of any middle-school basketball game anywhere are actually significant, but because I could see the growth in the team. They ran plays. They snapped passes. They boxed out. They threw the ball to the man on the corner knowing the man on the corner would be there, and he was. They held their ground. They dug in. I've watched these boys for three years, and I love their increasing skill.
At one point they were set up to receive an in-bound pass. One of the boys looked up at the bleachers and happened to catch my eye. He broke into a wide grin. Hey, Mrs. Bradley. Isn't this fun?
Yes. Yes, it is. I am so grateful to be playing this game.
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