Brothers and sisters, in your love my salvation lies. That, and sea salted caramel.
And now I will take my kids out for FTF ice cream.
(My daughter, slyly: “Hey, Mom. I can read that.”)
UPDATE: Oh, and when you leave a comment, if you’re willing, drop your Twitter handle or PM it to me. Even if you don’t follow me, I’d love to follow you.
That sounds needy. Oh well.
And thank you as well for allowing me finally to confirm up there whether my use of ending punctuation in a sentence with quotation marks has been correct all these years. (Pro-tip: If the heart-breaking question, huffy exclamation, or staid statement belongs to you, the writer, put it outside the quotation marks. If it belongs to the speaker, put it within the quotation marks. To wit:
“I can’t believe Kim Kardashian gave birth in high heels!” Stacey declared.
I can’t believe that I didn’t stab her eyes out with my high heels while she declared that “I can’t believe Kim Kardashian had her baby in high heels”!)
Anyway, thank you.
In the spirit of reconnecting, I also sent a couple of apologetic, inquiring emails off to old blogger friends this past week. I’ll leave them anonymous because I haven’t asked their permission to say anything about them. I was struck, though, by the sadness in both their replies: very glad to hear from me, but both remarking that I was the first blog correspondent to follow up with them in awhile. I suspect, too, that in the habitually isolating profession that is ours, connection becomes all the more treasured.
Oh, friends, readers, countrymen…er…countrypeople: No guilt trip intended. But you have no idea what power you have. Leave those comments. Send those emails. You are being heard. You are missed when you do not.
Part of the adventure this year that kept me off the blog was finally giving a Ph.D. education program a shot.
I applied to six, with the assistance and kindness of more people than I can name. Results: three rejections, two acceptances, and one “You can’t find my transcript? Here’s the email proving I sent you my transcript. You can’t give me a decision right now? Well, we’ve already decided, so… thank you?” Guess we’ll never know about that path less taken. NOT COOL, ROBERT FROST.
The acceptances were generous and wonderful and exciting. My husband and I embarked on weeks of intensive research, involving hours on the Internet and consulting with people in the profession and academia and our financial advisor and climbing high Asian mountains in sandals of yakskin.
I took a day off. We sat in a coffee shop with legal pads. For four hours. During which we asked repeatedly if we were cheating the waitress out of tips and could we have a little more coffee.
In the end, for a gazillion non-John Grisham-like prosaic reasons, we decided against it. And when I say “a gazillion,” I mean “three of the legal pads were labeled ‘cons’”. Here’s probably the best summary of it, which I wrote in an email to the professor who advocated for me the most strongly on this adventure:
The bottom line is that even if we stripped back to the barest of bones, even if the miracle of a decently paid church position and professorship occurred within commutable distance of each other (never mind our families), within a slightly-less-than-dysfunctional public school system, in June of the year I graduate– even if that happens, the doctorate would still mean an accrual of heavy debt, and a necessary uprooting, that we would be fighting for the rest of our lives, right when we need most to be stable for our children and other loved ones. We have more commitments on that front than are typical. So it sucks, and I’m just heartbroken. But I am also at peace. If that makes any sense.
A few weeks later, the Chronicle of Higher Education printed this article, which sounds exactly like they bugged our coffee shop booth~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I write this not only to explain some of my silence this year, but also to mourn a bit. On this blog, going on almost five years ago, I recognized the dead end uselessness of getting a Ph.D. with the intent of remaining a classroom educator. In the intervening time, we continue to think that firing teachers is a viable alternative to providing sustainable and differentiated career advancement, and instead of celebrating and nurturing the kickass teachers we have, we use completely inaccurate data to pick on teacher preparation programs, like a schoolroom bully who can’t spell.
In otherwords: nothing has changed.
So it sucks, and I’m heartbroken. And about this aspect of my decision, I am not at peace. Don’t think I ever will be.
I’d love to hear your stories about Ph.D. work or professional advancement, and/or the lack thereof. I will run them past some folks I know at the amazing Center for Teacher Quality who are working hard to change this, and get some feedback for you.
Rhiannon Gidden’s attack on the line “This is what you owe” raises goosebumps every time. The Carolina Chocolate Drops have three albums out now, and my F&B kids (F&B= “flesh and blood”) love them all.
The second time, around 2010, I became so swamped by attempting to follow everyone’s feed with a Jane Austen level of correspondence that I chucked the account in disgust.
In 2011, my first tweet was “I’m going to regret this,” and then I left something like 48 hours later.
Not a Luddite, no. So not. In fact, if I force myself to be honest, kicking Twitter was one of the means of managing the hypnotic pull social media has on many writing-minded folks, in general, and me, in particular.
But now, with the implosion of Google Reader imminent (and yes, this is how I will write and link about this event from now on) I’m considering it. Again.
What do you think?
Cheryl Dobbertin and I have teamed up again at Education Week to find joy within the Common Core. I don’t think it takes away from our message at all to say we have been working on this SINCE JANUARY– yet another symptom of the pure, hard slog up the mountain that this year has been for many educators, and certainly those in New York State. As if an average of 3 posts in the 2012-13 school year didn’t tip you off.
Right, so, I’ll make a deal with you, readers. If you leave a comment somewhere, it will remind me that I still have readers. (I put that in bold for you.) And perhaps The Line will travel with you through the July 1st implosion of Google Reader. So I’ll have that going for me. Which is nice.
In return…but, you know, never mind. I’m not going to make posting contingent on your blog love; that isn’t fair. Just know I’m gathering up my get-up-and-go for some more…regular…much more regular…posting, as Jose Vilson advises.
UPDATE: My old friends at Teaching The Hudson Valley have also posted some parts of the Ed Week piece, in part because their Summer Institute is focusing on sifting through the ambivalence surrounding the Common Core. Check them out, especially if you live in New York or downstate. They are kick-ass. And, the picture of me isn’t bad.
I thank The Center for Teaching Quality and Ed Week for making this post possible in about 24 hours, from a pitch I wrote in desperate need to do something concrete to assist educators in the wake of this horrific event.
My son is seven. I kissed him, and his nine year old sister, so often this past weekend that they started to get annoyed.
I can’t kiss my seventh graders, much as I’d like to sometimes. So instead I settled for giving them what I could: about 10-30 minutes of devoted class time to work through what they needed after this weekend.
We give what we have, you know? I think that’s all anyone can ask.
Please make sure to check out the sidebar in the article, where I list a couple of really helpful links as well. And as always, feel free to leave comments here or at the Ed Week page.
This is the first year that I’ve been christened by a student in September, versus christening them.
But… Miss Perky? I think the fact that this moniker’s just a shade off from Miss Piggy might be upsetting me subconsciously.
However I also wonder if it is a sign of the general tenor of the building this year. “There’s plenty of… new,” my Health colleague comments in the hall, restrainedly.
And there is, about which I have much bloggéd. New York State is a Race to the Top recipient, and has signed on full bore to the Common Core. We have new evaluation systems, new paperwork, new assessments, new meeting loads, a new online grading system, and a new contract. And while much of this is based in simple good teaching practice (for example, the systematic review of student performance in the program Response to Intervention), much is not.
And all of it, like new wine into old wineskins, is being poured into a spatial and temporal infrastructure which will likely not support it without significant change.
Which explains why my Math team colleague, with a new baby, has dark circles down to her chin, and why my Science colleague is already fretting about lagging behind in her curriculum, not two full weeks into school. And why I am Miss Perky, perhaps.
I don’t know why I’m Miss Perky to these guys. It might be because I consciously refused to give up the Ten Days Kickoff Unit, which does not race to the first quiz, but is all about multiple intelligence surveys, reading interviews, procedures for using bean bags while reading independently, and co-writing behavioral contracts and communication guidelines. It might be because despite the implications of low value-added scores in New York, I have finally grown enough to acquire the rhythm of clown, colleague and critic to which seventh graders respond with trust.
And it might be because– for reasons as yet mysterious to me–I still can have my day completely turned around by the fact that Jack and I hit on a perfect book for him on the first try, or by all of us enjoying the clear, cool fall rain falling on the bus circle.
Or, indeed, I admit somewhat grumpily, by being called Miss Perky.
Krista Tippett writes in her book Speaking of Faith that after a long depressive period, she was amazed at her capacity to still feel joy. It is stronger, and fiercer, she writes: but it still comes.
That’s the way it is with teachers who have it in their bones, I think. Joy still comes, even now.
Cheryl Dobbertin and I take on some of the Core in this Ed Week piece, just posted. I think it does a good job of sifting through what I continue to think of as the hot mess of the ELA Common Core: some of it solid and necessary; some of it highly questionable; and all of it requiring teachers to be 100% on their critical thinking game when using it. Which, of course, is one of the most touted skills in the Core. Irony? Let’s hope not. I’d rather it was synchronicity.
Two things surprised me instantly about James Kennedy.
First: at ten a.m. on a Sunday morning, after a chock-full weekend at the Rochester Teen Book Festival, we entered the coffee shop where we were to conduct the interview and he ordered, not the weary intellectual’s double espresso latte, but a berry smoothie.
Second: on a whim, I brought along a deeply nerdy book about signals of divine transcendence in the world—one of which is laughter. I thought I might, perhaps, slowly hand it over, with the proper hint of social embarrassment, and discuss it with him in light of his very funny book, The Order of Odd-Fish. This would be long after he finished his double espresso latte, of course, which would have softened him up for philosophy. No need,though. He noted the book’s cover before we even sat down.
“What does it say?” he asked, hungrily.
And that about sums up our interview, and James Kennedy. Who needs coffee, when you can have ideas?
Odd-Fish and Religion
Let’s jump in at the deep end. You’ve talked in other interviews about wanting to sidestep in Odd-Fish the influence Christianity has on fantasy. This intrigued me intensely, because I’m a spirituality wonk, and I actually don’t think you escaped it completely. For example, I wanted to get your take on the idea that laughter is actually a sign that there is a metaphysical reality out there.
I don’t know if I agree with that, but it’s a really interesting idea. Laughter as an expression of not being quite at home in the universe…
… and you’ve had training as a physicist, so you’re also coming at metaphysics from several critical angles.
Yes. Although I actually became a novelist in part because I wasn’t going to be a good physicist.
What led you to that conclusion?
My grades. (laughter) My parents were very kind about it, but they did say, “You will finish this undergrad degree in physics.”
I actually don’t think Odd-Fish does escape Western religion, though. It’s a Western-style novel, written by a Westerner who was raised Catholic. You really can’t get beyond that cultural influence. Many of the tropes of storytelling, the basics of crisis and rebirth, have their strongest and most influential expression in our culture through scripture. So my main character Jo has a Passion, of sorts, though I only really realized this after I’d finished writing the book. She enters Eldritch City much the way Jesus enters Jerusalem. Someone even pointed out to me that the name “Ichthala” is very close to “ichthys”—
–the Greek word for “fish,” and a Christian symbol.
Right. When I wrote the book I just wanted to make a creepy-sounding word that sounded as scary as Madeleine L’Engle’s “echthroi,” which was also taken from the Greek for “enemy.” Mostly, I just wanted a word that sounded icky.
(Note: check here for some very cool research on how vowel sounds can scare the heck out of us.)
But I made a very deliberate aesthetic decision to stay away from overt ties to Christianity. Fantasy is arguably dominated by Christian writers —and science fiction by Judaism– and I wanted to get beyond that in the book. An aesthetic decision, but not a moral one.
Is there a universal principle to which you would give your assent?
Community, I think. We’re obliged to live together, no matter what we believe. Jo, who felt out of place and really lonely in the world, finds a home with the Order of Odd-Fish.
I also noticed that she shares the climax with her friend, Ian. Jo would not have been able to overcome the massive obstacles she faces in the book without handing over the reins at a critical point to him.
Yes. Community is a controlling idea in the book. It’s really in direct contradiction to some of the facile libertarianism going on right now in the world.
It’s also why I like the writer G.K. Chesterton. I don’t always agree with his ideas, but I love the way Chesterton plays with them in writing. It is an agile mind at play. It’s about joy.
Or “style,” as Sir Festus of the Odd-Fish puts it.
Yes, that’s right.
To what extent does your own experience as a teen play into the idea of community? Did you also seek community?
I moved to a new school after 8th grade. My parents wanted to ensure that I got a good education at the time, and I did, but the adjustment was difficult. I suppose I started to find my niche there: I became the copy editor for our yearbook, and my goal was to create as weird a publication as I possibly could.
Later, when I went to Notre Dame for college, I realized that I was somewhat “among the enemy”: dudes who defined themselves through sports. I got hooked up with the college radio station, and found a home there. WVFI: The “Voice of the Fighting Irish”!
Do you think teens who feel outside the norms, who seek community, are also drawn to your book?
It’s hard to say—that’s a highly personal judgment, and what do I really know about my readers? The stories I write will probably never have monstrous mainstream success, but it would be a dream come true to find my own little corner of the culture and work that niche, the way David Lynch or Neal Stephenson did. I just hope to cultivate a small, committed band of people who like my books and… who will help send my kids to college.
Things I Didn’t Realize I Wrote
I noticed, trolling through the multiple book reviews and interviews on Odd-Fish (and then went ahead and did it myself), that we all tend to describe the book as a mash-up: Kafka, Monty Python, Lemony Snicket, Roald Dahl…
It’s funny, because I actually set out to write something normal. I held myself back a bit. I have noticed some teens on reviewing sites like Goodreads describe “Odd-Fish” in terms like “this is the weirdest book ever!” but I’ve come to discover that only a small group of people want to read “the weirdest book ever.” I tried to give it a particularly strong British flavor of humor, though, and indeed for a little while it actually seemed like Odd-Fish was going to be published first in Britain, and not the U.S.
(Note: more on that below.)
I think it was Umberto Eco who said, “The author should die after finishing his work, so as not to trouble the path of the text.” Has anyone surprised you with their literal and/or symbolic reading of your work?
One that sticks out in my memory came from a student when I was speaking to a YA lit class at a university. One of the students asked me, “Why don’t you characters have blogs?” At first I thought she meant, why don’t your characters maintain real blogs or have Twitter feeds as a kind of promotional tool for the book? But on further questioning, I discovered that she meant that she didn’t understand why my characters didn’t use social media in my book. As if being in the Internet is the default state of human experience.
She was an exchange student from China, so I was certain at first that I had misinterpreted what she’d said, but after careful questioning, I found that’s indeed what she meant. The moment gave me a curious weightless feeling. Has the Internet become that pervasive? A couple years later, I’m wondering if she was just messing with me.
You tell a story of walking away from the first book deal for Odd-Fish.
Yes. The first publisher to offer a deal wanted to cut the book in half. Long-form fantasy doesn’t sell, they said. I knew it was a risk to turn it down, but I’m glad I stuck to my guns. My wonderful agent did some four-dimensional agent jiujitsu by getting an offer for publication in Great Britain and then turning that around to get a strong offer at Random House with an editor who was really great for me.
What about Odd-Fish would not have survived a half-cut?
It’s a world-building book, you know? It takes time to do that.
Additionally, it depends on its dithering—its seemingly aimless wanderings. Dithering is another controlling idea of the book. What society deems as aimless has a beauty and value all its own.
For example, I actually spent quite a bit of time in my physics studies learning about various discredited theories, and finding them almost as fascinating as the real science. My advisors had to pull me back from that line of inquiry, but it inspired the research of Sir Oort of the Odd Fish Knights.
I wanted Odd-Fish to be like a haunted house. It’s a closet you open, and all this stuff falls out. Less like a tightly controlled roller coaster, which is a better description of the book I’m working on now.
You’re talking about The Magnificent Moots.
Yes. I’ve finished it, but the first draft wasn’t exactly what I wanted. There was some big post-modern game-playing in it that I now realize doesn’t work. Luckily much of it is easily excised. That’s fine. To write a novel you have to try a lot of ideas and be comfortable with many of them failing. The trick is to learn how to fail faster and put the next idea out there right away and learn more quickly. I learned a lot from writing Odd-Fish, but as a result my challenge now is not to overthink the drafting process on the current work.
And you’ve written the sequel and prequel to The Order of Odd-Fish as well?
I have them planned out. It’s been three years since I published Odd-Fish, so I know I have to get something out there! I did have children in the intervening time, though, and I’ve also been working hard on getting the 90 Second Newbery Competition off the ground. Next year we’ll be screening in New York and Chicago again, so I’m excited about that.
My daughter (nine) is shaping up to be a reluctant writer. (Quote, when I mentioned to her I was interviewing you: “I like stories, but I don’t like to write them. All the punctuation and spelling and capitalization. Oh, my gosh!” What advice do you give kids like her? How do you encourage them to take creative risks?
I read somewhere that Roald Dahl was an infamously bad speller. But he was a brilliant storyteller. Don’t let the mechanics of writing get in the way of the joy of storytelling. Many great storytellers have been illiterate! They are two separate skills. My advice would be to read a lot of stories and always keep writing. If you read a lot of stories (and if you’re serious about writing, you must) you will probably unconsciously internalize all the rules you “have to remember.” They will become second nature almost without effort.
A thoroughly lovely morning. Thank you, James.