So, I hadn’t seen it before. That day, 10 years ago, I was in a classroom, and was told not to share what was going on with students because these Chicagoans had parents working for United Airlines and we didn’t want to scare those students.  The only thing we knew came from an announcement and prayer from Mr. Sander, that it appeared we were under attack.

It was a difficult day. Trying to talk about grammar and follow lesson plans when all along, I knew something destructive and threatening was going on. Something that, that day, was changing our world forever. I had a brother in the Army, newly stationed in Kuwait. I had students asking me questions, questions for which I had no answer. Literally. I didn’t know what was going on because we were supposed to work, teach, learn as usual. I didn’t know how I was supposed to live and teach, all at the same time.

Tonight, during the Vikings halftime, I found myself riveted to MSNBC, their coverage from that day, as it happened. I hadn’t seen it before. Before this afternoon, I had turned the channel whenever a mention of 9/11 came up. My heart not prepared, my mind not ready to relive those moments of uncertainty and confusion.

10 years ago, during my prep period,  in a room blocked from students’ view with a chalkboard in front of the window, the teachers watched the second Tower fall. And then I had to go back to a classroom and maintain some sense of normalcy. My own life experiences had taught me to maintain much when it felt like the world was
falling apart. But I felt so inadequate, so feeble in the face of this day. I was supposed to be the teacher, the adult, the one in charge.  Don’t ever let anyone convince you that
students are stupid or clueless.  Ever. They knew all along. And as they should have, they asked and asked and asked.

In a parochial school, we had a chapel/assembly at the end of the day. But even there, students didn’t get answers. They just were told, “Wait until you get home. You won’t believe it.”

That night, a teacher colleague of mine, brought me to eat with her family at Famous Dave’s. I remember we sat there, stunned, not sure what to say, but in a strange sense of community with each other. Knowing what had happened and just being there together were what felt most important. I don’t know if I ever told her what that meant to me.

To be together helped me. Away from family and not knowing  about the safety of my brother thousands of miles away, together was good enough.

It’s what I believe today is so important about teaching and learning and writing. Sometimes, there are no answers. Sometimes, there are only questions. A classroom should be a place where these questions can be asked, no matter if an answer is possible. That day, 1o years ago, having to be so inauthentic with my students, created in me a desire for honest living and teaching. Today, every day I spend in a classroom, I work towards honesty and authenticity, no matter how overwhelming it is.

To me, that’s what this all is about. This living, this teaching, this writing. So many students tell me that they read stories to escape and I wonder about that idea all the time. To me, writing and teaching should bring about honest interactions between people, that because I read this, I understand this about my life now. Because I teach this, I can share this with students. Because I’ve learned this, I can now make sense of this.

How else do I deal with, move alongside and dwell in the midst of what I feel in my heart today, reliving, revisiting, remembering?

What’s most important is that we are in this together, whatever this together means for you.

For me, I cannot help but remember those middle schoolers from Trinity who were honest and authentic and so meaningful to my life, especially following that Tuesday in 2001. I remember especially being together with them.

We might not like each other in our togetherness. We might have issues with each other in our togetherness. We may have problems communicating how we feel in our togetherness. But there is an honesty in the dwelling together, no matter the ease or confusion or sadness

The fact that we’re together should mean something, that this community continues, writing, learning and living because the togetherness reminds us we are not alone.

It’s what 9/11 teaches me still.

Honest living with whatever life brings us

Dwelling with others in the midst of difference and chaos and questions

And recognizing that a community together can mean, do, and live much.

I decided to enter a spread from the “The Milkshake Shake Up” into the AIGA (the professional association for design) competition when I was a junior at Concordia. I couldn’t enter it again the next year because the protocol for the competition is that you have to enter work that has been completed in the last year. Anyways, I was stoked when I received an award for the artwork from the book and I couldn’t wait to share the news with Zum Hofe.

I mean it was all thanks to her words that I could even produce the visuals. Crazy patterns, colors, sprinkles and curly straws are some of the building blocks that compose the masterpiece. And not to mention the motivation behind each pen stroke goes to her. (So cheesy but so sincere.)  Zum Hofe honestly helps me see the light at the end and inevitably all along the way. Thank you!

Special thanks to Concordia University, Nebraska for use of this photo. (http://www.cune.edu/about/news/archive/art-news-archive/concordia-students-honored-with-nebraska-aiga-awards/) You’ll see King Harold at the top of the pic and Lacey front and center!

It’s hard to believe that a year ago we were just in the beginning stages of serious Vincent considerations. As we continue to plan and create, we decided that it was a good time to say a special thank you to some people who have helped us along the way.

Laurie and Lacey thank:

Vikki, for your constant excitement and questions about the book and unbelievable enthusiasm about our project. Thanks for believing in us and this book in such awesome ways. It has meant a lot to both of us.

Paul and Cory, for meeting up with us and giving us such fabulous encouragement and ideas. Sitting around that table with you and sharing ideas was the impetus for all of this. We couldn’t have started without you!

Jim, for being an integral part of the middle of this year, taking time to comment on both the story and its appearance in real-world talk. Your honesty in the moment, your willingness to say, “take your time,” came when we needed it most. 

Lacey thanks:

Cindy, for your excitement and interest in the process of this book. You helped me decide it was something I had to do.

Shandra, for holding me accountable to be excited by asking about the book all the time. Your excitement fuels my excitement. It helps me to think about this as a chance of a lifetime

Ashley and Chad for being my models for Princess Linda and King Harold respectively, translating real life into imagination.

Wendy, for giving me space and cheering me on. Thanks for letting me use your house and for helping me stick to my schedule.

Kara, for that night during finals week when you helped me get the spreads done for the book. Thanks for your helping hand in that time of need.

Uncle Ty, for helping me think about how my art has an edge over other people’s art, for asking me to stop and reflect so that my dreams can become my reality and make them go somewhere.

Grandma Sue, for knowing that if I fail that I will succeed,. If I ever win an award, it will be because of you. Thanks for being my number one fan and for being a faithful blog visitor (Laurie thanks you for this too!).  

Laurie thanks:

Jarred, for answering my very vague and cautious questions early, early on about websites and related technology stuff without asking a barrage of questions back, even though you were curious. I appreciate this respect you pay to our friendship.

Dottie and my other students who kept asking questions about the book, Your enthusiasm fed mine.

Jenny, for being excited about this story when I was 19 and for being just as excited about it now. Your reading and suggestions have been so helpful. I love that you talk about these characters as if they are real people.

Tim, for continuing to be one of my favorite editors and for asking me questions about how the rules in this kingdom work. You help me think beyond the margins of the story and bring reality to my imagination.

Kelley, for reminding me and encouraging me through this whole process of writing and life. Your excitement and your commitment to this story mean the world to me.

Lilly, for not being old enough to read the story yet, but for being the reader I now imagine when I think of who will open these pages and hear these words and live this story with us.

For the people not listed here, but who have been a part of this journey, we thank you! Here we go, year two!

This weekend, Lacey graduated from college. I witnessed it all from the front row, though I failed to catch her eye on her way across and down the stage. We did, however, high-five in the faculty honor salute on the way out of the ceremony.

It sounds pretty cliché, but I noticed Lacey right away, the first time I met her. It was my 8:30 literature class and she was ready. She was on the ball. She paid attention. I pay attention to people who pay attention and throughout the semester, Lacey was with it. She reminds me that noticing, attention, observation is important.

When Lacey and I got together throughout the summer, creating our plan of action, we chose to meet at different coffee shops in Lincoln. Each time we met, our conversation would start quiet and the volume would increase as the laughter would increase. I remember one particular time at a Starbucks where we got the attention of some surrounding customers and coffee drinkers. People smiled at us laughing. We smiled back. Lacey reminds me not to sit quiet in the world when my joy and my passion reign.

I think that’s what I appreciate most about my interactions with Lacey. Our joys and passions collide in ways that sometimes surprise me and always leave me excited and anticipating what possibilities come next. A long time ago, in a time of upheaval-ed life, I think I either learned or taught myself to hide whatever it was I felt. Mostly, to survive, I hid what felt insurmountable, but I can see now in the process, I also hid my joy and passion in a place that has felt unreachable. Lacey and her capabilities to create, her excitement, her vibrance, her willingness to encounter life has taught me much about reaching out for what I feel and letting it be OK. In name, I was her official teacher, but in reality, she was teaching me all along.

Thanks, Lace. This dream would never have been possible without you. I’m so proud of you and so excited to see what comes next. (See you this week!) Here’s to you! Congrats, my dear.

Where Lacey sees a balancing of qualities and quantities, I see a tightrope on which I balance day in and day out now, precariously tiptoeing some times and swiftly running with no thought to how I could potentially fall other times. How I move on the tightrope has seemingly been decided as of late by what I say “Yes!” to.

I can only imagine that this language, this question I’ve starting attending to, comes from something I read or heard in the recent past. To what will I say “yes?”

Lacey, Vincent and Princess Linda were easy yeses.. I didn’t even see myself on the tightrope or feel it underneath me; I just ran towards them, never looking down — the idea of the possible fall to the net below moving me onward even more. 

There are harder yeses, ones that focus me solely on the net below or the ground below when there doesn’t seem to be a net. The height, the fall, the struggle to stay solidly where I am all create second-guesses, doubts, the gerbil wheel of my brain anticipating consequences. But I’ve found that those moments are really a “no” in disguise, a “no” where fears get in the way of possibility, of dwelling, of taking a second to breathe up there on that rope and getting balanced once again. And ultimately, I don’t want to spend a life with my focus planted in/on a no.

So I write a dissertation, words from me that make me doubt my word-worth, my experiences, my say-so. It’s when they surprise me: Yes.

I read piles of student work that appear visibly daunting, but when the words share and touch and question and move: Yes.

I listen to Lacey and marvel at her creativity, her artistic capacity, her ability to awe me: Yes.

I read the unexpected texts of a friend, of surprise, of dreams moving from imagination to gesture: Yes.

Sung afternoon greetings

Hunger Games Jeopardy

Mismixed paint

An “I was hoping to talk to you then, but I know I’ll have plenty of chances later”

Sunrise to sunset commutes

A smile and then “Hey there, trouble.”

A basement filled with art where creativity leans against walls.

A “How did it go?”

A “Thanks for doing what you do.”

Dancing bulldogs.

Words: written, spoken, shared, women of.

This tightrope.

OK.

Yes.

**Over the next several posts, Lacey and I will be writing about our process(es) as so many people have asked us how we “work.” We decided to take a step back and look at what we’ve done so far to rekindle our attempts at “bookwork” amidst all our other obligations, joys and challenges. Lacey begins…

Lately I’ve been trying to balance things in my life. I have realized that although it’s a simple concept,  it can easily be messed up. I see balance as putting an equal amount of energy into different areas of life. At this time in my life, I have school, family, work and illustrations for The Milkshake Shake Up taking up my time. In order for balance to happen, there are certain things I have to make sure I do. I have to take each and every day like a new and separate beginning. If I don’t do that, my goals for different days slur together and I end up feeling unaccomplished because doing the same thing too much is not balance and it can easily stop me from getting simple things done.

When I wake up in the morning I make a list of what I want to accomplish. I’ve done this list thing for a while, but I’ve recently gotten pretty good at it. I mean, I used to make a list that was way too crazy and this list would be so intimidating that I couldn’t even get most of it checked off. My lists have been a lot simpler, which I find helps me to actually be able to look at it. This allows me to actually get things checked off.

After the simple list making in the morning, I feel prepared and reviewed for the day. Being prepared is very important in a person’s day I feel. Just learning from past mistakes, you can leave 5 minutes earlier, only to be 5 minutes late and spend 2 hours driving looking for something and never even getting there versus stepping back for 5 minutes to mapquest a location and only being 10 minutes late to wherever you’re going. Balance is key here too. With me, if I’m already 5 minutes late, the late part is not the problem; the problem is going to be me not even getting there in the first place, or if I do get there I’m going to be completely flustered and not even focus on why I’m there.

If I don’t first sit back and think about what I’m doing, I’m not even going to have a chance to think about why I’m doing it. And I believe the why is really where I learn the most and grow.

Spring break has really given me time to think about the why. I’ve been so caught up in what I’m doing. When I think about things this way I even sometimes start to feel guilty. All I’m comparing is the quantity of work that I get done in a school day and I forget that the quality is really what I want out of school.

One project that is both about quantity and quality is illustrating The Milkshake Shake Up. It doesn’t always happen this balanced though. With the book, it’s alot easier to get the quality down over the quantity. It might sound backwards because it should be easier to just start and once I’m started, it’s easier to do a large amount. With the method I use when I illustrate, it’s a lot simpler to make good strokes, but after a few hours of doing the quality, the quantity kicks in. Meaning that the way I’m drawing and the amount I’m drawing don’t quite work hand in hand at this point. That’s when I need to realize that taking a break is necessary. It’s like pushing the reset button on my balance.

A break might mean that I start again the next day, or it might mean I do something different for a time. This way I’m refreshed. The break kind of subconsciously teases my brain in a way that I can’t do  on my own. It’s weird, but I don’t always trust these breaks are going to work, but somehow they always do. Magic.

It’s all about really paying attention to what you’re feeling and becoming more aware about how you work. And it goes both ways. The obvious way is when I’m working too hard and needing a break to refresh. Breaks also work for me when I’m not getting in a groove. And no, it’s not giving up. It’s the same concept as when I started to simplify my lists in the morning. It’s being productive with something else in the time that the groove isn’t kicking in. Once I realized this I was able to move my frustrations of not doing anything into doing something positive, like taking a walk or even just a few minutes for music. Sometimes I put it completely aside and work on a different assignment.

Yeah, sometimes I wish I didn’t rely on the break thing. But that’s what makes me human. And that really is fine. I’m glad I’m not a robot. People get to experience a lot more and even though that means making mistakes at times, we still have the potential to learn from them and have that self worth.

**Thanks, Angie Wassenmiller, for the pic from Plum Creek!

One of the issues my students and I tackle in college level literature classes is where the desire to read gets lost, for them and for me, amidst the texts in which we immerse ourselves. The answers vary. Sometimes, they talk about how Accelerated Reader was more about the accumulation of points than the love of reading. Sometimes, they note how competition versus the rest of their classmates for the most (albeit paper) ice cream scoops on the wall defeated reading purposes and desires. Some discuss how competition like this motivated them towards the act of reading, but a love for reading didn’t seem so important when pizza coupons were in the mix.

While I don’t doubt helpful intentions for reading motivation, what I’ve decided comes from one special experience I’ve had in the last month.

The Story: My godson Sammy is 18 months(ish) old. I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of being present when he’s been old enough to be interested in books. This past Thanksgiving, I saw him on numerous occasions walking around with one particular book in his hand. I rolled my eyes to my best friend (his mother) when I saw that it was a “Step into Reading” version of Toy Story 3. As she reminded me, these books are written so young ones can feel confidence in word recognition.  However, in my humble opinion, the story gets totally devastated in the process. Nevertheless, Sammy carried this story around, saying in the cutest 18 month old voice, “Book, book, book.”

Eventually, he reached my chair and patted my leg twice, with his little hand (one-two). He signaled he was ready to be lifted up and read to. In the earlier part of the week, I imagine I sarcastically read these simple words. To embellish the simplicity, I asked him questions as we read. (Where’s Woody?” Where’s the baby?” Where’s Buzz?”) At least, I was interested too. Soon after what seemed like dozens of times reading, we developed this connection to the story. Sammy waited for me, sometimes holding his breath, to ask the questions that had become our practice. (In the first picture here, I recall him holding his breath. When we reached the page where the questions came, he giggled and I laughed too.) We did this over and over and over. The pat-pat, the lifting up, the story told with questions, the giggles, the “Again.” He never got tired of it.

It makes me wonder if what we really miss as we get older and lack a lap in which to sit and hear a story, if what we lose more than anything is a connection, a connection to a story we love, no matter the words. What matters is the way it gets told back to us, the way we’re held or attended to and treasured in the moment, the way we hold our breath because we joyously anticipate what it just around the corner.

It makes me wonder how to replicate this with 20(ish) year olds.

It makes me wonder if the real reason Lacey and I stumbled onto the reality of Vincent is because of this connection we share(d).

So here’s to a new year of connections and hopefully, giggles, as we anticipate with joy and expectation what a turned page will bring.  Thanks, Sammy, for reminding me of this.

It’s been two weeks. I wanted to write right after Plum Creek and our experience there, and I tried to start writing more than once. It’s hard to put into words something that so instills such hope in you. So let me try to explain and express as best I can.

 I first became familiar with Patricia Polacco as an undergraduate student in my Children’s Literature class. We had to complete an author presentation and I can’t remember how I picked her, but I do remember immediate intrigue. It wasn’t just because she wrote and illustrated; it was because she primarily wrote stories from her own life. Stories about her grandma, her brother, her family’s legacy all in some way gave me permission to write these same kinds of stories, the stories from my own life.

Two weeks ago, at 7 am, I saw Patricia Polacco walk up the stairs in Concordia’s Campus Center and I felt uncertain. Twenty minutes later, as I was setting up our pictures and curly straws, I heard a voice over my shoulder. When I turned around, I saw her again and I felt nervous once I realized Patricia Polacco was talking to me. She remarked about our (well, really Lacey’s) beautiful pictures. She said she’d never seen anything like them before. I don’t remember how I responded exactly. Two weeks later, it feels very bumbly and awkward. But I remember hope rising up as I spoke to her, this author and illustrator who wrote stories that made sense to me. I tried to explain what we were doing and why we were there. She stood and listened and then advised us, “The only thing I’ll say is that in this economy, publishers aren’t looking for new ventures.” I think I thanked her and handed her our business card, the one with Vincent on it. She nodded and said, “Maybe I’ll show it to my art director.”

I remember trying to recount this moment to others that morning and I couldn’t do it.

It’s still hard to put those few moments into words and as I reflect on it now, I think it’s because hope doesn’t start with a language or from a preset vocabulary. It comes, I believe, from a shared connection and understanding from people you know well and people you know hardly, to a place inside that resonates with their shared stories, passions and doubts.

I felt that hope all through the day in Patricia Polacco’s voice not just to me, but to all the participants there about the absence of her mother, the missing of her grandmother and the ways they live on in her stories. 

I felt that hope in Ashley Bryan, an illustrator of poems, who has housed libraries in Africa and then moved water to these libraries to attract people to hope, intellectually and physically.

I felt that hope in the stories I heard all day from teachers and readers alike.

Amidst my everyday hoops and irons, it’s easy to lose sight of that felt hope. I’m thankful to Patricia Polacco and the other authors, readers and citizens that offered me hope on a Saturday in October. This hope keeps fueling me and my desire to hear stories and share mine. ~Laurie

I have figured out that I am not in this for money or business. I am creating this book because I enjoy it. Zum Hofe and ran a table yesterday at Concordia during the Plum Creek festivities and came into contact with a lot of people. These people were a lot of middle aged women: moms, teachers, and even some incredible authors. We were at a table along side other book sellers and it all felt so surreal. Manning that table was the last thing from a job. Yes, we set up the table to market our book and promote it to everyone. We were marketing out book by handing out business cards and curly straws attached to dixie cups filled with chocolate toppings. This all may sound very much like a job, and maybe that’s how some people would think of it, solely. I can appreciate that angle of thought but I truly considered all of it as play and not work. This process is really becoming a hobby more than a job. I know we haven’t involved the publishing part of this yet. I do think that’s a huge part of why I’m enjoying it so much. This enjoyment stage is important though. It allows me as an artist to have a free reign without a lot of worry about the technicalities of the project. I’m not completely crazy. I have set boundaries. Size, technique, and process are all the same all the time, so that there’s unity. That sort of stuff needs to be established at the beginning or that would be very stressful if those things were ever-changing. I’m straying off of what I really wanted to write about. So maybe enjoyment comes in waves. One day things could come really easily and fall into place. That is much how the idea of the book happened. Ever since the first spark lit without more than something natural, like the sun hitting it, it’s a recurring theme so far. The only thing that has stopped things from falling into place at times is time. Zum Hofe’s a full time professor and I’m a full time student. Working on the illustrations comes in waves, just like enjoyment. It’s hard to say exactly how long it all takes with the other things I have to do first. It’s times like this weekend that pull me through and keep me motivated. This weekend it was the excitement of all the people I talked with. It was extremely contagious both from me to them and from them to me. So much energy!  I’d like to thank everyone who believes in this joy and who are smiling along right beside me.

-Lacey B.

I live in a world that depends on whether or not I’m prepared. In a classroom, I know what to do to prepare to teach. In graduate school, I know what to do to prepare a paper.  Before I cook a feast for friends, I know what to do to prepare the recipes.  Before I make coffee in the morning, I know what to do to prepare the pot. 

I have no idea what it means to prepare to be an author.

Tonight, Lacey and I counted out brown candy (much like the kind of candy King Harold would use in his chocolate milkshakes) into almost 200 little bags. We taped curly straws (much like King Harold would use to test the smoothness of a milkshake) into little Dixie cups. We folded fabric and tested the heights of boxes and Lacey even wrapped a box in fabric with pins.  And as we did all of these things,  we started seeing the vision we’ve had for so long come together. (The pic above  is our prepared practice setup for our Plum Creek presentation tomorrow).

I’ve been feeling nervous today, but it’s not a bad kind of nervous. It’s an anticipatory nervous. I’m anticipating the ways in which I’m going to have to be vulnerable once Vincent makes an appearance to the rest of the world tomorrow.  Vincent’s been mine for a decade, a hidden mine. It wasn’t difficult to share him with Lacey, but I remember thinking about handing him and his story over to her. Once Lacey’s imagination met Vincent, the most wonderful things started to happen. I know that wonderfulness can emerge from what you only before anticipated. But I still feel like I’m supposed to be more prepared than this. 

As Lacey and I talked tonight, I realized that there will always be times in life where there are no preparatory actions you can take.  You just have to dive, jump, leap and as my friend Lisa says, trust yourself to call it as you see it, to experience the being in that moment, the awareness of that moment, the living in that moment. Preparing in abundance can steal the brililant feeling of being present in that moment,  the awareness of it, the fear of it, the exhilaration of it.

So tomorrow, I’m just going (to try) to feel, to trust, to live, to be.

Here we go, Vincent.

(Thanks, Lacey, for all of it).