“Cussy!” I'm not REALLY naming him...

This is the opening line to my midgrade, due date (hopefully) November 7th, of this year. It's the date of my elder daughter's birthday, and she's been one of my inspirations (don't worry second daughter, you are not secondary, I simply didn't want to wait til April!).

I'm actually proud of my beginnings and think I do them well. I also agree with the entire industry you need to do it well, especially with the competition out there. Grab them quick and try real hard to not let them go until the end of the book, no matter the age, one must be ruthless in your craft!

I agree with Les Edgerton in Hooked: Write Fiction That Grabs Readers at Page One & Never Lets Them GO you have to encapsulate your story in the opening, present the question part of the answer, doesn't talk down or gives up on our reader. And I think I did that with this opening line.

I grew up an "Agnes", and not caring for my name at all. I couldn't change it (it was my beloved grandmother's beloved mother's name and I was the one doing the beloving). It took many years to get a little comfortable with it (I am AGY, and that was one of the best things that happened to me, it's fairly unique, is easy to remember, say, and I think friendly). But having the experience of despite my name it had me thinking about it from an early age, and I play a lot with names in my work. Why not, I've been called every rhyme in the book (and some really weren't flattering, lol)

I had conversations with my cousin Susan and she felt she had to stand out because she felt a bit of the generic (and with a marvelous encouraging mother, she certainly did). I know I felt weird growing up, and people said that to me on a regular basis, I don't know if having a rather unique name furthered that along. 'Course if I'd been born a hundred years ago, my name was like the "Susan" of it's day so would have had a totally different experience with it.

Many cultures assign great power to naming, bordering on mystical. Adam named the beasts and the world, Native Americans and other cultures have "secret" names that embody one's true spirit.

I've had this conversation with people a number of times. We QUANTIFY everything. I think we have to, to maintain sanity. What we don't do often is to rexamine at regular intervals our labels. Once we label something most of us tend to really stop looking at it. But when we NAME something, especially individually, it provides connection, a new emotional resonance. It is the personal that creates empathy. Unless it's a perjorative name that we give to groups of something.

The really odd thing is I wrote this book and then decided to make sure, do the research because I didn't want to stop seeing or feeling because I'd done this. Often times I was spot on. And the name issue for people who farm was right on. 

This book is about a young grrl during the early seventies who's world is turned upside down. She has a hard time fitting in, with her authoritative grandmother, and is uneasy about her place in the world as well as the world itself.

I think you can tell a lot about her personality and needs just in those lines and it sets up some of the conflicts within. I hope the connections I made through this work seeps into the world, and it finds an audience. I also hope to do somethings I've not seen done in other books for this age group (though it's notorious that other authors and illustrator usurp me all the time, more than likely because it takes me so long to figure some stuff out, or I have to wait for the skill or the equipment to do the job). If you take the time to read the first chapter, I do hope you take the time to leave a comment on what you thought or share with me via Facebook or Twitter. I'm interested in knowing if this piques your interest, if you'd read further and any other thoughts you'd have....

The first chapter of Sara LeClere

Chapter one

“Cussy!”

I'm not REALLY naming him.

“Scoot, Cussed Cat! If Mimi catches you, she’ll swat you!” I scold Cussy away from the squabble of hens and chicks. He loves to terrorize them. I don’t think he’d actually hurt any of them. Not yet, anyhow, he’s still a kitten, and I can still train him.

I peek back to the lace-curtained parlor windows, then upstairs to see if my grandmother is nearby. Mimi would take to the broom if she sees Cussy heckling the poultry.

She’ll have a fit if she sees me outside without my coat and mittens, even though it is April first.

April fool’s— with the cold sunshine, sudden bursts of swirling wind and melting piles of snow, it does look like April hasn’t decided whether to stick with winter or head toward spring. I’m ready for spring. But Mimi is convinced it’s winter, and I will catch pee-neumonia.

And she’ll have my hide if she thinks I named a kitten.

She would say it was because she didn’t need us going all soft on the barn animals. There are no cats allowed in the house.

But I’m pretty sure it has to do with caring about stuff, and Uncle George not being here.

I think he should be doing the chores, here at home, making us all laugh, keeping Mimi, if not happy with me, at least not niggling at me all the time. I just keep my head down and try to help keep things moving along.

Thank goodness for now, Mimi is nowhere in sight.

“Quit it!” I say. I throw a handful of chicken feed at Cussy. Five of the larger hens flock him, squawking mightily. That gets him scrambling away.

“What did I do?” I hear Marcia’s voice behind me. I hadn’t heard her bike’s gravelly arrival with all the fluster of kitten and chicks. I stop and shake the rest of the feed to the ground, turning.

“Uh, not you; talking to an annoying kitten,” I say. “I was going to call you when I got through with my chores…”

“Beat you to it!” Marcia Canniless grins.

“I didn’t see you coming,” I hope it sounds like a statement and not like I’m pouting.

“Would help if you’re turned in the right direction… you have to be looking for me to see me, doofus!”

We live on a hill on a snake of a road not too far outside of Wattingham, Maine proper.  I twist in the direction Marcia came, looking past the barn and the outbuildings. I see both of Wattingham’s bridges. The Covered Bridge in the far distance near the mill and only trailer park and Stuttle’s halfway between us and the heart of town, where the schools, college and stores are. Stuttle’s Bridge is about a quarter of a mile away.

Standing like I am, now facing Marcia, on a clear day, I can see it no problem. But I hadn’t looked that way very often this vacation; I was too busy with chores, Marcia I’m sure with other stuff. Outside of a few ventures in town with Emily, I’d pretty much been stuck here, helping with the farm and stuff, like cleaning up and getting ready to plant the garden and taking care of the livestock.

Looking now, I can see the Canniless’ big house in front of the road to the University of Maine’s smallest college, a little further past Stuttle’s Bridge

Some people think Marcia’s stuck up. Probably because of that house or the way she tells them to call her “Mar-CEE-yah” or sniffing when she makes a point, or because her dad is Brahmin Boston.

I guess I’m used to her and I like to think she’s just particular. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Marcia flicks her hair back. It cascades like a river of gold. She cradles her bike comfortably between long blue-jeaned legs and with her Scandinavian cable sweater which brings out the blue of her eyes, she looks like one of those models in Seventeen or something.

Or maybe that other Marcia, from the Brady Bunch.

I blow some mouse brown, wayward strands of hair out of my eyes and swipe the rest of the kernels from my hands on my stained overalls. I bet I would fit right in on Hee-Haw.

The littlest of the chicks come tootling over for the crumbs. I can’t help but smile at their fuzzy fat bodies and twig legs.

“Want to get together later?” she asks.

“That was why I was going to call you!”

A nippy breeze shoots through my t-shirt, goosebumps freckle my arms, my spine spazzes with the chill.

“I thought we could get together for our Civics’ project, we haven’t decided on a topic,” I continued.

“Today?” Marcia’s gaze is already turned back to the road to the road to town. Her face scrunches. “It’s not till next week and Ruth hasn’t even announced it yet; plenty of time to figure something out. Anyhow, Mother told me I couldn’t hang around the house this afternoon. She’s got one of her ‘Pulling Strings’ meetings.”

I grimace. “What about tomorrow, then? I want to make a decent presentation.”

It’s true, Mrs. Ruth hasn’t assigned it yet. But Marcia and I always work together and Marcia usually puts things off, till I’m scrambling to finish whatever it is.

“I’m sure it will be, Sara. You’re a born brainiac and artist, just like you’re a born farmer! You can whip it out with your talent!”

“Maybe we can work on it here, then?” I really want to get a head start, and I hadn’t done anything fun or exciting all week. But then I like school, so I guess that counts for weird too.

“Naw, Emily will get in the way,” Marcia purses her lips, shakes her head. “Why don’t you come over later today anyhow? We can listen to my new Cat Steven’s album and maybe figure something out.”

The comment about my sister Emily stung. She can’t help being slower, even if she is two and a half years older than me.

But Marcia did have a point. Em likes to be in on everything. Though Marcia is used to Em’s differences, it is sometimes hard to not tick off one or the other of them. Marcia’s trips to my house had been dwindling, and I could count the number of times this year on two hands, including this one.

“I thought you said your mom was throwing you out for the day?” I shake my head.

Sheesh, Marcia must be in one of her “Mary-contrary” moods.

I’d rather not fight, so I turn my attention to Stuttle’s Bridge. I notice an orange and white truck lumbering over it. I concentrate hard, so she won’t see me getting annoyed. I hear the engine from here, as gears scrape into place like it is a bigger truck… like maybe one of those convoy trucks.

“Well yeah, but that doesn’t mean I have to make it easy for her! We can leave when she comes home and tells us to scram. Till then…”

“Oh,” I say. The truck rumbles by. Marcia and I watch it make its way past our hill to three houses down on the other side of the street. It turns into Mrs. Halliday’s driveway.

“You’re still going to help me on the project, aren’t you?” I ask as we watch a woman with dark hair get out of the truck.

“Of course, you goose! Who else would help you? I think Iris Minnow is available, ha, ha, ha!” Marcia mimicked Iris’s laughter.

Poor baggy clothes Iris, she’s forever giggling and smiling at her own secret jokes and mumbling to herself. She weirds even Bubby Huff so people mostly just left her alone. Yeah, I guess Marcia is my only choice.

I don’t reply. Instead I watch the woman knock on Mrs. Halliday’s door. Poor Mrs. Halliday had a stroke a few months ago and mostly stayed indoors now. Who is this other woman--- a nurse? Or could she be a relative?

It’s a surprise to see the door open. The woman turns around at the door and motions to the truck with her hand, beckoning someone to come. The door of the truck flies open and two children—a tall girl and a toddler spill out of its cab. They are the first Negro kids I’ve ever seen in real life.

I'm the new NEXT BIG THING blog!

The Next Big Thing blog tour

My thanks to Linda Stanek for tagging me in The Next Big Thing blog tour! This blog tour began in Australia and features authors' and illustrators' current book projects. I really enjoyed her answers to these questions and hope I don't bore anyone to tears with mine.... Here we go.

1) What is the working title of your next book?

The two books I'm working on are: Duke Day for Annie and Sara, Leclere. I hope to have them out relatively the same time (within a month or so of each other).

2) Where did the idea come from for the book?

Sara is a midgrade, and who knew my childhood is considered historical fiction. Okay, not all of it. However when talking with some writer friends about some of the inspirations for characters, some of the people who'd inspired my character Teedie was Ann and her family. In talking about Ann's childhood, most of my friends' hit me over the head with a wet noodle telling me I was missing one of the stories right in front of me (yah, I'm smart that way). I reconnected with Ann who was living at the Barron Center in Portland because her disease had progressed to the bed-ridden stage. She was still a ray of sunshine, inspiring, a positive energy in the face of any adversity. After talking to Ann, she was thrilled with the idea, and helped me until she passed away from multiple sclerosis. I've written extensively about this whole process here on this blog, so you can scroll if you'd like to learn a bit more.

3) What genre does your book fall under? 

Sara is a historical midgrade fiction, for a slightly older or advanced reader. Annie is a historical faction picture book. It's based upon a real person, some real events in a real place. But because of the nature of it all (Old Orchard's face would sometimes change a few times a year from fires and natural disasters' for instance) there is a little artistic license.

4) What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Hadn't thought about this one, lol, though I guess there are picture books made into movies (Polar Express and Hugo Cabret). I thought I was pretty good to sketch out my characters in my midgrade, they're real people and live in a real, though totally fabricated town, in my head.

5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book? 

Sara is a coming of age story as she struggles with all the problems a thirteen year old girl can have in such a tumultuous time, including wanting her sour grandmother's approval and how to keep the kitten she's attached to. In Duke Day, it's about a young girl anticipating and getting ready for a famous visitor in an active family and charming sea side town, in Maine.

6) Who is publishing your book?

After years of the traditional route, I've decided to go the self-publishing route. The works have had a lot of editorial input, won scholarships and had good reader response, and I won't put it out unless it's the best I can do right now. 

7) How long did it take you to create the illustrations?

The short answer is a few months. The truthful answer is a lifetime, and a number of years specifically. I needed to master Photoshop enough to make work I was comfortable with, and I'm looking for a specific feeling, that I've finally nailed. I also just finished a wonderful online course with Will Terry and Jake Parker, I know will benefit this and any future books on Visual Storytelling, so I'm stoked!

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Ellington is not a Street (Ntozake Shange, author, Kadir Nelson, illustrator)  I love and look at Kadir Nelson and Floyd Cooper's work a lot, so though I can in no way compare mine to theirs, they did help inspire me. Or Duke Ellington: the Piano Prince and his Orchestra by Andrea and Brian Pinkney

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?

For Sara it was thinking how many mixed messages and conflations kids nowadays have to deal with. And though the times were very different, I realized I had pretty much the same challenges, perhaps this could be a way to relate history to the present, something I think needs to happen a lot more. We didn't get here all of a sudden. Knowing history helps us make more considered choices, I think. And the similar thought with Annie. The real Ann Cummings Searcy was a friend and an inspiration. She came from an accomplished family. Her grandfather was Shurtleff Emerson, the famous abolitionist and relative to Ralph Waldo. Duke had asked her to be a singer in his group, and her mother decided that wasn't the safest move for a lovely young woman, no matter how kind Mr. Ellington was, and instead she became the first state certified teacher in the Maine. Her brother was a well-known and respected local Republican and teacher in Scarborough, Maine and has a bit of highway named for him. He was a life long friend of Ed Muskie.

10) What else about the book might pique the reader's interest?

I wrote the book in what I call syncopated rhyme which I hope is successful, in honor of Duke Ellingtion's signature style. Old Orchard Beach is not only a beautiful ocean side town, it's fun to see other times, I think, and this is an important bit of history that's not often reported on, the entrepreneurship of people like Ann's mom Rose Cummings.

I also hope people check out my first book, Nana's Gift!

Thanks again, Linda for tagging me!  Up next the wonderful Lisa Kopelke, author of Excuse Me! and Tissue Please! and A Younger Brother's Survival Guide!

lisakopelke.blogspot.com/‎