Today I was giving feedback to students on a creative writing assignment.  For the assignment, they had to find a photo depicting human migration in some way.  Most chose an image of Syrian refugees, or immigrants at the US/Mexico border.  Some chose more historical photos of Japanese mail-order brides, or a family member who was a holocaust survival and immigrant.  They could then write in their choice of genre about the photo, story, poem, stream of consciousness, etc.

I asked for a paragraph of reflection at the end of the assignment.  One student commented on how hard it was to get started because she got hung up on finding the perfect structure and the perfect idea.  Once she started going, though, she discovered some things she hadn’t even realized were there and ultimately she felt great about the final product.

I needed to read that.  I’m having some process insecurity of my own.

Let me explain.  I wrote my novel Improbable Girl with an idea for an opening scene and that was it.  I had no outline, no ideas for the ending.  I had some characters in mind, but they weren’t fully developed.  I just wrote.  And I jumped around in the plot and wrote whatever caught my fancy that day.

When I finished, I started talking to other writers and reading about writing.  I read about all kinds of plotters and planners and outliners.  And I’ll admit, I started to feel a bit insecure.  I’m sure it was imagined, but I got the sense that writers who planned first looked at my seat-of-my-pants process (also called “pantsing”) as the inferior method of writing.

And when I sat down to edit my novel, it was a hot mess plot-wise and character-wise.  I had to make some massive changes.  I started to think that maybe some time spent outlining before writing might help me to save time on the revisions.

As I approach my next project, I’ve been doing some planning.  I’ve been Snowflaking and outlining.  The first few steps seem to work for me and then I get this feeling of dread and despair.  I can’t figure out how it should end or what the next crisis will be and suddenly I feel hopeless.  The whole idea is garbage and it’s not going to lead anywhere.

Today, I’m reminding myself of who I am.  I am a leap-and-the-net-will-appear person.  I’m a rush-in-and-find-joy-in-problem-solving person.  I think my logical brain is not quite as smart as the part of my brain that runs loose when I’m just writing my way out of things.  (“I wrote my way out…“)

I will say there is one pre-writing or extra-writing activity I find value in: character interviews.  I’ve starting doing more and more Q and A type freewrites.  I’m not controlling where it goes, I’m just asking and probing.  I did one with Jane and Daniel in the Improbable Girl editing process where I just asked them, “What do you think you’re doing?”  What came out of that was really crucial.  It helped me clarify what was happening with each of them and where they needed to go as characters through the novel.

So enough planning.  For now.  Maybe a premise is enough.  Maybe a character with a little wounded spot in her heart is enough.  And yes, I’m going to have more work on the other end to figure out how to make it work.  I’m alright with that.  I’ve been there before and I know I can make it through.

Also, I read this article by Chuck Wendig (swearing makes me so happy) and I needed it.  I joked on Twitter that I was going to make it a daily meditation.  I might not be kidding.  I might read it every day.  Even though I’ve done this once–finished a book, that is–I’m feeling that same old insecurity in my abilities.  Enough.  No more.

To write!

After A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, I turned to my attention to the book I paired with it, Jean Kwok’s Girl in Translation.  Set roughly 100 years apart, these stories comprise an interesting conversation.  Both have a strong female protagonist in Brooklyn.  One an immigrant, one the daughter of immigrants.  Both struggle with poverty and a precocious desire to learn and excel.

I first heard about Girl in Translation from a booktalk in our school library.  As often happens, I also check out a book or two after the book talks.  I immediately adored this book.  The protagonist Kimberly is relatable, honest and moving, just like Francie.  I also enjoyed how the author found a creative way to show us that Kimberly doesn’t always understand everything people say to her in English.  Peppered into sentences are phonetic spellings of words that Kimberly doesn’t understand.  It’s a brilliant way to put us in her shoes with teachers and classmates speaking quickly and not all of it landing.

I also love the emotional journey that we go on with Kimberly.  We cheer for her, we cry for her, we chew our nails for her.  And the flood of empathy that I feel is real.  Her character serves as both a window and a mirror for me.  First, this book give me a window into her Chinese culture and upbringing.  But, like a mirror, this book allows me to see American culture through her eyes.  We take so much of our own realities for granted that we forget all of our culture is a social construct.

I also feel very strongly that teachers need to read this book.  There is so much that we can say or do that could hurt students without us realizing.  Kimberly has a few terrible teachers and lots of amazing ones.  It was a good reminder that I want to be on the right team.  It also illuminated for me the privileges that teachers can take for granted–access to art supplies, NY Times subscriptions at home, a parent who can take time off work to come to school.

And I hope that my students also have a powerful experience with this novel.  Kimberly attends a private school from 7th grade through graduation and there is so much that her peers don’t know about her, and my hope is that it will increase my own independent school students’ awareness of both their privilege and the diversity around them.  It’s easy to get wrapped up in our own existence (especially if you’re a teenager), but there is so much variation in our communities, and we need to be open and empathetic to the experiences of others.  As Kimberly is struggling with a rat and roach infested apartment with no heat, her peers are complaining about curfews and the banality of suburban complacency.

There is also some interesting social justice commentary in this novel.  And, honestly, legal justice!  The book raises important questions about the ways in which immigrants in our country are treated.  Kimberly must act as a grown up as soon as she sets foot in the country as a 6th grader.  Her youth and also her lack of voice really cuts the reader deep.  Her vulnerability and strength are both breath-taking, and this is an important window into the immigrant experience.  And, of course, the fact that she and many other children are working in a sweatshop to survive made me so angry.  It reminds me how far we’ve come from 1912, but also how many things have not changed.

As the book approaches the climax, every inch of ground that Kimberly has gained hangs in the balance.  It’s the kind of book I start yelling at, pulling my knees close to my chest as I plunge into the next page.  She’s come so far, I can’t handle the thought that she won’t make it.

I assigned Girl in Translation and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn as summer reading for my honors 10th grade World Literature class.  Before we dive into the rest of the world, let’s consider our relationship to the rest of the world.  We are a part of the world and it’s good to discuss and question what that our relationship is.

As the school year approaches again, I am turning my summer energy away from writing and personal projects to the summer reading I assigned my students.  It’s been a year since I visited these books, and I need to re-read.

In some ways, re-reading for work like this can be maddening when I see the list of books I want to read for the first time.  Life is short and the list is long.  But every time I dive back into a book I’ve read once (or six times) I find that I can see so much more.  I feel like Neo seeing The Matrix–I can see word choice and sentence structure. I can see interesting plot choices.  I can see what the author is doing with the narrator or the voice.  What I’ve come to learn is that re-reading is a treasure trove for the writer.  Freed from trying to hold on to characters and plot, I can turn my attention to craft and think on a higher level about the writing and the themes.

I started with A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, the first of two books I assigned to my honors 10th grade students.  I’d been looking for a way to teach this book since I was in grad school.  This year will be my third year teaching the honors 10th grade English curriculum that I designed, and it’s also the third iteration of summer reading for that class.  The first year I was too controversial and caused a stir.  The second year I went safer but the students didn’t feel the love.  Then, in the middle of last year, two of my students told me they were working their way through a list of classic novels and had just read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  They gushed.  They adored it.

Lightning struck me!  I’d been thinking about that book for a decade, and also I’d been trying to find a way to use Jean Kwok’s lovely 2010 novel Girl in Translation.  Hadn’t Girl in Translation been compared to A Tree Grows in Brooklyn?  Wouldn’t that be an amazing pairing?  100 years apart, one girl Chinese, one girl Austrian-Irish, and yet so much in common in their stories.

And so, onto the summer reading assignment they went.  I remembered back to all the amazing classes I took at NYU in the English Education department where I designed book pairings and projects that would ask students to draw a thread of connection between an old novel and a new.  This is why I love my school: I can bring to life the passionate imaginings of the NYU grad student I once was.  I’m glad to see her light wasn’t ground out along the way.

So I spent last week curled up with the bittersweet prose of Ms. Betty Smith.  (I feel she must always be addressed with that formality.  She’s like an old Hollywood movie star to me.)

As I started the book again, I was reminded of how different it is than the modern novel that drops you in the soup of disaster on page one.  In the introduction by Anna Quindlen, she calls it a novel in which nothing happens.  Which is true, but also it isn’t.  Life happens.  True, there is no central conflict, no overarching character objective, except maybe survival and a moment’s pleasure.  But that comes to be an all-consuming goal to the reader, and you can’t stop reading lest Francie languish in heartache or hunger too long.

Ms. Smith is a master of character development.  There are a lot of characters flitting in and out of the tenement neighborhood and beyond, and they all start to feel like your own wacky relatives.  No one is totally perfect or good, but no one is completely wicked and you realize so much truth about humanity as you read.  You condemn and forgive on the same page.

I was surprised to see the book is narrated in third person.  You spend so much time inside Francie’s head, that you forget that it isn’t first person.  We take occasional dips into a few other characters’ minds, but mostly, we’re with Francie.  And it’s a lovely place to be.  Her innocence, her toughness, all of her is so endearing.  You see what she fails to see, and you watch her realize things she as matures.

This book is the quintessential bildungsroman (thanks Word of the Day for this one, but don’t ask me to say it out loud, I have to repeat it over an over and it never quite feels at home in my mouth).  Francie starts the book at 11, then we flash back to her parents’ childhoods and move all the way back to Francie at 11 and finish the book when she is 16 or 17 and headed off to college.  My whole life is a bildungsroman–I teach 14-16 year-olds 10 months of the year–but I still like reading them.  They don’t lose their charm for me.

Perhaps all coming-of-age stories are a series of lucky near-misses and blood-sweat-and-tears survival, but A Tree Grows in Brooklyn feels especially so.  I find myself with my heart in my throat as I read.  I just want to leap into the book and yell at the adults and give her something to eat.  But then I forgive those adults (except maybe Johnny) and I just want to throw a coat on Francie’s shoulders.  Except her spirit and gumption kick in and I’m so proud of her when I realize she doesn’t need saving.  She’s doing it herself.

This book also makes me realize the importance of ignorance in childhood.  It’s a great insulator.  Francie’s lack of awareness keeps her from despair.  And when awareness blooms, and despair threatens her, she fights back.

And this book is so much about women.  From illiterate Mary Rommelly and her abusive husband to Katie and her drunk (but loving) husband, to Francie.  What an important story of the generations upon generations of women who have not earned spots in our history books, but who nonetheless have kept our species alive.  I know we like to talk about the Joan of Arcs and the Marie Curies, who are undoubtedly important, but the women who endured hunger, poverty, abuse, violence and yet somehow kept themselves and their children alive are the true heroes.  They didn’t quit and they didn’t give up.  They accepted the hand that life had dealt them and eked out an existence.  When I look at Katie Nolan’s survival and achievements, they match those of the great women who have earned posters and glossy textbook pages.

And now, I have to steel my heart and hope that the 30 or so student who read it for my class liked it.  You don’t know the pain in a teacher’s heart when a student, a stranger still, breezes in on day 1 and casually torpedoes me with, “Ugh, that book?  So boring.  I could barely finish it.  I mean, what’s even the point?”  It takes all my inner Katie Nolan not lose my cool.  Plug your ears in the grave, Ms. Smith.  Forgive their youth, and let me see if I can work my magic.

Summer reading is always an autopsy, as my colleague says.  We didn’t read it together, bit by bit, with discussions and collaboration along the way.  Their opinions were formed in a vacuum and their opinions get set in concrete before they walk in the room.  If a book confuses them, they come to hate it for making them feel stupid.  And since they didn’t get to meet up with their peers and me around the Harkness table to ask their questions and shine a new light on the text, the negative opinion sticks.  I like to fantasize about them going to college some day, and there’s a fellow student clutching the book to their chest, delivering an impassioned monologue on its value and beauty.  My former student bites her tongue and wonders, Maybe Ms. Griswold was on to something.  Let me give it another look.

Inevitably, someone won’t like the book.  That’s how books are.  And probably, given the high energy and quick plotting of contemporary novels, this book feels plodding and atmospheric by comparison.  Perhaps Girl in Translation will illuminate A Tree Grows in Brooklyn for them.  Perhaps a fear of disappointing me will make them soften their negative opinions, if they have them.  Perhaps by requiring them to read it, I’ve already robbed them of the joy of reading it through their own discovery.  The most I can hope for is that our discussions and our research into poverty, current immigration and immigrant rights, will light a little flame in them.  And, at the end of the day, it’s never a bad thing to spend some hours with Ms. Betty Smith.