Raising Sisters, Not Rivals

When Megan was born a mere fourteen months after Elizabeth , I was elated. Sisters! And almost the same age—not like me, popping up to everyone’s surprise when my brothers and sisters were nearly teens. I pictured them holding hands on the walk to the first day at school, sharing nervous giggles backstage at dance recitals, giving reassuring smiles to each other at the first notes of the Wedding March. But soon enough my mind began muttering, surrounding my joy with insecurity. Raising daughters is tricky. They don’t just adore their mothers forever unconditionally, the way sons do. If they turn out all wrong, or even slightly wrong, they’ll blame me. (As a daughter, I felt certain of this.) Before I was even out of the hospital I began to worry about my little girls’ relationship with each other. My own sister came to help me after Megan was born. I asked her how I could avoid the seemingly unavoidable rivalry that so often crops up between siblings born so close together. I figured she was an authority on the subject. She and my other sister are only eleven months apart. What I was really asking was, “How can I make sure they don’t have the same relationship you two have?”

Her advice was quick. “Just don’t ever compare them to each other.”

My sisters love one another, of course, but there has been a certain amount of tension that has manifested over the years. In the mildest form it shows up as sarcasm and anger expressed in jest; at other times as emotional war.

I’ve followed her advice for the past three years, but it has not always been as easy as I thought it would be. Though born close together, my daughters’ personalities couldn’t be more different. There is the temptation to say, “See, Megan picks up her toys without being asked,” or “Elizabeth is a big girl. She doesn’t throw a fit in swimming class.” But I remind myself there is damage those comparisons could do that I wouldn’t be aware of for years. I want them have all the good things I imagine for them, but nothing more than a best friend who also happens to be a sister. That’s not to say that there won’t be times when one is resentful of the other’s accomplishments:



But most often they are kind to each other, even when they don’t know I’m listening (“Your dress is beautiful, Elizabeth.” “I love how you colored that dog purple, Megan.”).
And every once in a while I catch them in the act of spontaneous sharing:




Those are the times I think maybe—just maybe—I’m doing something right.

- Tiffany

Mommy's Lil' Art Critics

Today, just for fun and because I’m sick of struggling with Bendaroos, I asked Elizabeth and Megan to analyze Jackson Pollock’s 1948 painting Number 1 (left).

“What does this picture look like to you?” I hold out my Art Appreciation book and both girls crowd in to take a look.

Elizabeth replies, in true Elizabeth fashion, “Garbage.”

Megan chimes in with, “A tree.” Wow. I get that.

“Sticks? It’s sticks!” Elizabeth is hunched over the book, staring intently at the brown and red and white and tan and black scribbled, dribbled mess.

“What do you feel like when you look at this picture? Happy or sad?”

“Happy.” Elizabeth.

“Sad.” Megan.

“Why happy?”

“I don’t know,” Elizabeth says and shrugs. “I just like it.”

“Why sad?”

“Because,” Megan says, finding it silly to state the obvious. “Garbage doesn’t make anyone happy.”

So. In spite of all our best efforts to weave symbolism into our work and include levels of complexity that will stir emotions, we run the risk of people liking our creation “just because.” And some will just think it’s garbage. Sort of takes the pressure off.

“Garbage makes Oscar happy!” Elizabeth can hardly finish her sentence, she’s giggling so much. They bust up and forget all about Jackson Pollock.

That’s the trouble with trying to have an art discussion with preschoolers. They always bring everything back to Sesame Street.

- Tiff

Finding the "Write" Fit

The other night I watched an American Masters episode on PBS about Louisa May Alcott. As a result, I have become intrigued with the life of Alcott, and oh, how I love to feel intrigued! Have you ever watched a really good movie in which the characters were so complex and compelling that you found yourself thinking of them in the small hours of the night when you got up to go to the bathroom? This was like that.

Now, I have to admit that I only read a portion of Little Women when I was about ten or eleven and that I didn’t like it. I don’t remember why, but it didn’t enthrall me the way other books did. I think I will give it a second chance, knowing now that the book was nearly autobiographical. That’s the way it is with writers—we are secret exhibitionists. We put the intimate details of our lives and thoughts and hidden opinions out there through our characters, whether by accident or design. It’s a pleasant validation when someone thinks we’re worth reading about.

Among the many things about Alcott that resonated with me was how she came to success as a writer (considerable success—she was selling short stories for $200 in the 1850s. That’s roughly what I receive for my work today!). Alcott didn’t dream of writing children’s literature, let alone of becoming the J.K. Rowling of her day. She wrote for kids because that’s what was selling—that’s what paid well. Her real love was writing for adults, pushing the boundaries of convention with risqué tales written anonymously or behind the guise of a nom de plume. Alcott was no doubt appreciative of the comforts her prolific career as a children’s author afforded her, but maybe not as fulfilled as she hoped to be. It reminded me that writing careers often come about in different ways than we imagine they will.

I did not dream of becoming a writer for the Chicken Soup series of books. Before I sold my first story to Chicken Soup for the Child’s Soul, I never read a Chicken Soup book. The series, in my mind, was a gift book series, and I never received one as a gift. I had sold a story for the teen anthology True Volume 2, compiled by Irene Dunlap, one of the Chicken Soup editors. Before writing the story for True, I never considered that I might be able to write for the juvenile market. I simply read the story callout on Craigslist for inspirational stories for teens and I knew that I had something to offer. Shortly after the publication of “The New Girl” in True Vol. 2, I sent a story off to Ms. Dunlap for Chicken Soup for the Child’s Soul and it was accepted. I discovered that I enjoyed everything about writing for kids—the truth demanded in the storytelling, the discipline it requires, the fun of it. I have published more for adults than I have for kids, but I consider myself first a writer for children and young adults, because that’s where my heart is. In the same way, I suspect, Louisa May Alcott might have thought of herself as a writer for adults.

If you are a writer, even a published author in a specific genre, and you are feeling unfulfilled with what you’re writing, take a look at your bookshelves. Think about how you feel when you enter the children’s section of a bookstore or library. Maybe you’re meant to write for kids. If, during all the days I spent writing stories for adults that I never liked well enough to send out, I had taken inventory of my own bookshelf and made note of what gave me joy I would have seen E.B. White there with D.H. Lawrence and Konigsberg next to Kipling. Now Alcott will be there, too.

- Tiff

Writing Resolutions

I stopped making the obligatory New Year’s resolutions many moons ago. It’s like I tell my four-year-old when she’s pressing me to “cross my heart” about something: Don’t promise. Just say “I will,” “I won’t,” or “I’ll try.” I always felt that life’s disappointments were much easier to accept if there wasn’t the added sting of a broken promise. The same holds true for promises I make to myself. Like everyone, I’m made up of good and bad personality traits, and one of my rotten ones is a strong tendency to procrastinate. I procrastinate about doing the stuff almost nobody likes to do (taxes and root canals), as well as about the stuff I love to do (blog and work on my kids’ scrapbooks). Who knows why? I’m done with making a promise to myself, breaking it, and hating myself for it. Now I accept the fact that despite my best intentions, I’m a chronic procrastinator and it hinders me from keeping most specific resolutions. I tolerate the irritation I feel when I can’t get something done, and relish the moments when I shun the “I’ll do it later” mentality and accomplish, like normal people. I have noticed that there is one area in which I have consistently pushed through my put-it-off nature and achieved my small goals: Writing. At the risk of jinxing myself, I think that this year’s writing goals will be named “Resolutions” in my mind. Here’s my short list:

1. Write Ever Day. This seems too obvious to make the list, but if you’re a mother of small children, you know finding time to write can be a daunting task. If you are a procrastinating mother of small children then you know it’s almost impossible. Almost. I’m not like all those admirable (and successful) writers you read about who wrote their best-sellers in a busy coffee shop on their lunch breaks, or like Stephen King who says he likes to write with rock music blasting. I like busy coffee shops and I like blasting rock music, but when I’m writing I need quiet. I also need a space devoted just to the task of writing—somewhere away from the fridge and the laundry and the TV. I now have a quiet space to write, thanks to my near-perfect, always supportive husband’s quick thinking. We have a three-family house with a vacant apartment on the second floor. Suddenly, the burden of not having the apartment rented has become a blessing. I can sit up here with the snow collecting on the bare branches scraping the window and the kettle whistling in the empty kitchen and just write. I have a good baby monitor that I can turn on. Or not.

2. Complete the final draft of my mid-grade novel. This is so achievable, it scares me. I wrote the first draft of my novel Miranda Murray, Carny Kid two years ago in the span of one month. I did this by completing a chapter every two days—one day of “writing like hell without looking back”, a second day for revisions. When it was done I read it over, created a chapter outline that I posted on the wall where I could see it as I worked, and began the process over again. This time I aimed for a chapter a week. I wrote the chapters, sometimes transferring chunks of the rough draft intact, other times completely re-working the original plot. One of the most beneficial things I did at this time was to join a critique group called New York Writers. We met at different locales in Manhattan bi-weekly and reviewed each other’s work. Most of the others were working on short stories, and I submitted the chapters of my manuscripts. Their suggestions were invaluable, and I hope that my schedule permits me to meet with them again one of these days. Regular life intruded upon my writing life for awhile in the form of returning to school and having a third baby. I recently hauled out my files and took stock of where I am in the process of writing this book. I have five polished chapters and twelve to go. I want to complete the manuscript in time for the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators annual Winter Conference in New York on January 29-31. This means that I have to hustle like it’s 1977.

3. Attend the annual SCBWI Winter Conference. For years I read about the seasonal conferences for SCBWI and thought of how great it would be to attend. Since I lived in San Francisco and the conferences are held in New York and Los Angeles, it seemed financially out of range. To go would have meant registration fees of at least $350, plus airfare, transportation and hotel. Now that we live twelve miles west of Manhattan, all I have to come up with is registration. To make matters better, a weekend train between my town and New York was added in November, which means I can spend all day rubbing elbows with fellow authors, agents, and publishers, and be back home in Jersey in time to make dinner!

4. Get an Agent. I’m hoping this will happen at the conference, but if not, I plan to start a major query campaign as soon as I’m home.

I once saw a book in Barnes and Noble called Stop Procrastinating Now! I remember laughing because my mind formed a mental picture of all the well-meaning souls who bought that book, took it home, put it on their bookshelf where it languished unopened for years before winding up on a yard sale table. We procrastinators want to change, honest we do. Here’s to a new year, and a new set of writing goals that I will achieve. I’m crossing my fingers, not my heart.

- Tiff