My older son, now 13, is hooked on books. He was born to love stories; I used to cuddle with him when he was only a baby and his attention span for tales of any kind, even lengthy books about owls or elephants, was endless. We have a lovely illustrated Bible by Dorling Kindersley-we read through it cover to cover three times before he was two years old. He liked Thomas the tank engine, and he enjoyed drawing with colored pencils, but more than anything he wanted to learn more about life from a page.

Ever since he has been able to read on his own, he’s been slurping books up, one at a time, one per day practically. His room is books, his backpack is books, his internet use is focused on books. “When’s the next Percy Jackson book coming out, Mom? You don’t know; I NEED to check!”

So, as a mother, how am I to monitor this obsession? When we were in the Read Aloud stage-it was easy-he listened, I read, and we spoke of the stories before nap or around the dinner table. The Easy Reader stage wasn’t so bad either. There’s not much to worry about inside the Magic Treehouse or journeying out on the prairie or laughing along with Freddy the pig.

But monitoring the reading of a young adult is another thing. These books range from lovely, to frightening, to provocative to outright I-don’t-know-what-they’re-trying-to-say??? And I can’t keep up. He reads so many books that when he runs out-either of the library supply-or of the gift cards his relatives give him, he reads his sister’s books. Mind you, at this point, either before-or after he gobbles up a Royal Diaries book about Cleopatra--we kick him out of the living room chair and make him experience the real world, telling him to ride his bike around the block, or trim the hedge, or play blocks with his little brother. Reading has its limits!

I try to read at least one book of a series, when my son seems particularly hooked in a new world. I’ve entered the domain of Harry Potter, Sam and Frodo, Narnia, Prydain and Redwall. I’ve met Artemis Fowl, Percy Jackson and the books of Shannon Hale, Jasper Fforde and Gerald Morris. So many of these books have been absolutely entertaining, with heroic characters and great literary qualities. But every now and then I come across a book and wonder, “Who in the world is this author, who was his editor, and what were they thinking?!!!”

That’s when I came up with a plan to buy really bad books back. The US publishers produced almost 300,000 new titles just in one year (2007)-- surely some of these books will prove to be skunks-too stinky for my children’s minds and souls... Plus, it’s a lot of money for my son to spend $18 on a hardcover, and usually he researches his books well, buying things worthy of being on his library shelf for a long time. But every now and then he is fooled, and I simply do not want a certain book in his life-in MY house! So this new rule, after some shifting and negotiating became: I read the book, decide that I desperately despise it, tell him why, and offer to pay for it. Once he assents, then the book is mine. Once the book is mine, it goes straight into the recycle bin. Burning books is passé; I’m not hoping to create a scandal, but I certainly don’t want the book to end up in another young person’s hands.

This last book that I bought took him months to decide upon. There was a certain appeal to the main character that he didn’t want to lose to the paper shredder, but after all, eighteen dollars is a lot of money. I now have the book in my blue bin, and tomorrow is recycle day. Hooray!

A Few More Thoughts...

I’ve only bought back two books, so this is serious business!

• I like to write in my journal a bit about each book that I read. I don’t worry about lovely sentences, or commas, or anything. I just write my thoughts, listing what I do and don’t like. It’s easy to be critical, and most books have some flaws, so I try to look deeply, especially at the moral content or message of the story and find the lovely-the truth, goodness and beauty as well. When thinking about offering to buy a book back from my children, the flaws in the story have to be wild and wooly. The book that I most recently paid for had a character who never changed. He was mean and intelligent when the book started and mean and intelligent when I turned the last page. Despite some conflict, despite adventure and hardship, he was always arrogant, self-serving and more brilliant than everyone who moved in his wake. Plus, the book had some mighty plot troubles, and the dialogue to me was stilted and unreal. Add to that the fact that my son thought this mean and intelligent being was fascinating, I simply couldn’t wait to get that book away from him...


• It’s important to be fair. I don’t want to control every word and every image that comes in contact with my children. They will have to face the world eventually. If my children read a poorly written book, or if there’s a controversial message, there may be parts of that book that will lead to growth if we talk about it together. For example, my son read Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials Trilogy. This is a controversial series within many circles and he had gotten through the first two books before I was able to really do any research or realized what was what. I then read the first book, to get a flavor for the story and the message, and I talked with my son about it once he had finished the trilogy. I had not offered to buy these books from him. Though it’s not my favorite style of writing, there is generally good quality, creative material there, and my son picked up on the same things that irked me. Just recently, he had a book he wanted, but no money. I then offered to buy this trilogy and he quickly ran to the shelf and gave the volume over easily to the blue bin. The books were a good learning tool for us, but I’m glad he won’t be re-reading them anytime soon.


• I said “buy a book back from my children” above, but in reality, I’m doubtful that this will ever be an issue with my daughter. She doesn’t read a book a day, so controlling the inventory is not such a challenge. The real difficulty lies in the sheer quantity of books that cycle through my son’s world. I suppose another way to approach this would be doing book research, maybe once a month, checking reviews, and recommendations from trusted sources. As an author myself, it’s horrible to think of books heading to the shredder. Anything, but that!!! Maybe if I can just be regularly proactive, my book buying days will be done?!

Epilogue

I can’t tell you how painful it was to put a book-barely used or not, however horrible--into the recycle bin. Even though I truly disliked the words and ideas that were held between the covers, it was absolutely tragic to think that all the work that the author toiled over was being destroyed-all that ink; those pulpy pages taken from some unsuspecting tree...

So... what did I learn? Maybe I need to lobby for better editors? Maybe it’s time for my son to take up lacrosse, or fencing, or backgammon (I love backgammon)? Or maybe it really is okay to have a few bad books on the shelves? As you can see, I’ve got a lot of thinking yet to do...

I am on constant stakeout for pomegranate trees in my neighborhood. I have long wanted to have my very own fruit orchard—and because my yard is not nearly orchard dimension, I have this strange proprietary covetousness over any fruit tree growing within a mile or three of my back fence. Especially pomegranates. Not only do I love their weepy growing habit, and their luscious red flowers—and the fact that they’re fun to prune--but those ruby-red seeds, that are almost too pretty to eat??? Mmmm.

But I do eat them—and in such quantities in the fall that my fingertips are stained yellow from being the expert, in-house pomegranate peeler, and I don’t even care...

I’ve counted seven pomegranate trees within throwing distance of my front yard. Four of the trees are planted as hedges, and rarely produce. One tree is in Evelyn’s backyard and is not fruiting well, another tree sits just behind the people with the red Vespa’s fence, and sometimes I stare at it longingly while their dog barks frantically from the back porch.

But the tree that most distresses me is the one that sits right at the curb, only half a block away. The elderly owners planted it for their pomegranate-loving son approximately thirty years ago, and because I walk that way almost daily, I chart its seasonal progress. It fruits beautifully, sitting in a sunny locale next to a lovely lemon. I have to admit to you now, that I’ve had an odd relationship with this tree. For some reason, though I’ve spoken with the owners of the property now and again, and I’ve found them to be lovely, easy-going people, I have refused to ask them for permission to pick their fruit. I can’t tell you why—maybe because it sits so visibly near the street, maybe because I simply like the mystery and temptation of something forbidden within my reach? Maybe I’m just a little bit mental? No matter what my reasons, each fall the fruit ripens, splits, and the birds enjoy the bounty—instead of me.

Well, actually, this is the perfect paragraph for confessing. I did snip one pomegranate from that tree a few years ago. I was simply overcome, and under the cover of dark, a pair of pruning shears held under my sweater, I sped around the corner and –snip—I committed (not my first) agricultural crime. It was a tasty fruit, but a guilt-ridden one.

For my birthday several years ago I requested my very own pomegranate tree. I had the perfect spot reserved in the yard and it has been one of my most memorable gifts. I know my family was relieved to see that tree dug into the ground. The first year we harvested only a few fruits, but last year we pulled close to 40 pomegranates off that sweet hero. It was the first year I didn’t beg from my friend, Joanne, or help pick with Seraphima, another pomegranate obsessor, who has a friend with a stupendous old specimen, or threaten to empty the tree at the tennis club where my kids took swimming lessons.

Last week I spotted yet another tree near our home after making a wrong turn. Well, actually, I turned down that long driveway on purpose, curious about what might be there. I’m like that. I enjoy wandering through new places, hoping to find hidden treasure or unearth secrets unknown to my fellow folk. ... And aha! A lovely young tree that get lots of sun, full of showy blooms. I slowed the car to a creepy crawl, and admired its willowy branches. The kids in the back complained, worried that someone might call the police on us for lurking.

But no one (outside the car) minded. I was simply admiring, not so much coveting. Not anymore.

And that makes nine pomegranate trees in my neighborly orchard, counting mine into the mix. What great fortune I have living in this place! But I won’t stop looking—even though I now have my own edible arils. My orchard still has ample room to grow. It’s that kind of adventure that keeps old ladies like me, young...

Did you know? Fresh pomegranate seeds (called arils) are delicious on green salads. I love them in my granola, too, but mostly I just pour a dozen or so into my palm and pop them in my mouth! Pomegranate seeds are full of hydrolyzable tannins called punicalagins which have free-radical scavenging properties! Phew, and Ha! People knew they were good for you long before they ever made up these names! Pomegranate jam takes forever to make, but it’s worth it. I also make my own juice, and syrup. We pour the syrup on all sorts of things: pancakes, ice cream, into Italian sodas... Pomegranate trees are really shrubs. I’ve pruned mine to have three main stems, instead of one. The trees are native to Pakistan, Iran and Northern India, but were long ago naturalized to the Mediterranean region. Of course now you can find them in South America, and all over the Middle East, and here, in my front yard in California! Hades tricked Persephone into eating pomegranate seeds and that led to her ongoing trips to the underworld? I was so mad at Hades when I read that myth... I would have succumbed to the temptation, too... Punica granatum in the botanical name of the species. It means seeded apple. In French a pomegranate is called, la grenade, and in Italian it’s una melagrana, and in Greek it’s rodi or in Greek letters, ροδι, and in Swedish it’s, granatäpple.

Some days I hang my clothes out on the line, because it’s warm, because I have time, because I want to have that earthy smell on my sheets, and some days I stuff my clothes hurriedly in the dryer, pushing the little white button before I speed out the door. Some days I pulverize dried egg shells, mix them with old coffee grounds and dig them into the ground around my camellias, and other days I simply stir up the right amount of chemical fertilizer—it only takes a second—and dump it on the orchids, the orchids that smell so good, who greet me by my front door… Some days I make sure every last scrap of paper gets into that blue recycle bin outside; I’ll even pull toilet paper rolls out of the trash when I see them perched there, yet other days I use so many paper towels, because I’m lazy, because the rags are at the other end of our (miniscule-gee, it’s such a long walk!) house, that any extra recycling I might do is cancelled out by all the cast-offs I’ve added to our world.

Some days. I’m just so many shades of green.

I love green; it’s my favorite color. I love the smell and feel of green. I love my little backyard where I’ve squeezed edible growing things into every nook and cranny. Parsley and thyme, sage, rosemary, and tarragon for cooking. Plums for jam, pomegranates to go on my granola, strawberries for the baby, kumquats for just eating… Avocados, peaches, oranges, lemons… How blessed am I!

I’ll never forget the shock of returning to the States after living in Europe for a couple of years. The excess! The grocery stores with aisles and aisles of…stuff. The humungo cars, the humungo hamburgers, the humungo people. I boycotted buying anything for a long while, just because I was too over-shocked. My mom thought I’d gone nutty. I’m not so over-shocked anymore, though. Having and wanting stuff grows on you like weeds. But I still struggle, in that good sense, to stay some shade of green.

How exciting to see the temperature change in this country, from a green that looked a lot like money, to a green that has more to do with my little backyard. A green that thinks about other people instead of a green that thinks only about me. That’s really the key, and the beauty of the green movement. The view outward. A glance outside ourselves that actually takes in the sight of others. That’s what Christ has called us to do—to love our neighbor as ourselves—to tend to a sick stranger—to wash each other’s feet.

Today my kids are out in the front yard selling homemade lemonade to passersby. They’re sharing our backyard bounty with the neighbors and counting the coins when it’s all done. I sit back and help as I can, mostly keeping my mouth shut, knowing how quickly I can become a hypocrite. There are so many shades of green here in my little world. So many shades of green.

Although you can find this same information in a wide variety of other places: writer’s market digests; author websites; at conferences or retreats—I get asked these questions as an author and children’s book editor often enough that it’s worth my time writing these tidbits here…Email me if you have any other questions or comments and I’ll try to add them to the list I’ve compiled below. Happy writing!

• If you have an idea or have already written the text for a picture book, you don’t have to speed around your neighborhood to find your own illustrator. It’s the publisher’s job to find the right look for your book—in fact, since the publisher is taking on the financial risk of publishing your story, they get to call most of the shots when it comes to what look they want, how they will format the book, etc. If you’re not willing to collaborate with a publisher, then self-publishing is the right venue for you…


• Always research a publisher by reading their mission statement and their guidelines before submitting to them. Why waste those cute flower or superhero stamps if you don’t have to? (I love stamps :) )


• Most picture books are printed in the 32-page format, which typically translates to 15-20 pages of short text. Learn this format before submitting a story.


• Submit a story only when you feel it’s absolutely fabulous! (I’m talking to myself here…)


• Consider whether you’re a one-book author, or on the road to being a professional writer. There certainly is room in the marketplace for someone with that one special story up her sleeve. Once you know your path you can make your decisions accordingly, finding help to get that one story edited and polished before submission, or learning all the tumbles and tricks of the publishing industry for a lifetime of writing work.


• Practice patience. Write more than you submit. Start on new stories while your old ones are helplessly (yet patiently) sitting in leaning piles of paper…


• Be the kind of author that an editor wants to work with: professional, understanding, good-natured, and always meet your deadlines. Bullies are a bummer to work with… so are procrastinators…


• Fear. Don’t let fear get in your way from either writing on a daily basis, or sending your stories out for consideration. For many writers, including myself, the fear of rejection, or of writing something truly horrendous can be paralyzing. I consistently struggle as an author with the fear of not being able to write something extremely profound. How I love reading authors who are original, thought-provoking and profound! Yet, what excessive pride I must have. I’ve been given the gift of time, a love and knowledge of language, a foot in this industry, a desire to write, so why not go for it?! That’s what I’ve finally learned to do—to just write, fighting all those fears, doing only my best, writing words, allowing them to plop onto the page, leaving the judgments, whether plain or profound, to the reader.


• If you do sell a picture book, don’t think you’ll be able to pay off your mortgage with your royalties. You might be able to host a great book signing party, though!