Like I soon will be, Carla is the mother of four children – though hers are more than a decade older than mine, which probably explains why she has time and energy to run an organization, speak at conferences around the country and across the globe, keep up with her weekly e-votional, and write a book to boot.

Or maybe that doesn’t really explain anything. Maybe that’s just me making excuses. At any rate, I’d rather let Carla speak for herself – as no doubt, would you.

KCI: So, Carla, please tell us: how do you manage to balance mothering, writing, and speaking?

CM: Before I ever moved into ministry my husband and I prayed. I knew it was vital that I receive God’s blessing. Once this confirmation came I talked with my children. I remember when Carly, our youngest, was 12, I asked if she minded if I was away from home to speak at conferences and retreats. Her reply imprinted a mark on my heart as she said, “Mama, you have to do this because this is what God has made you to be!”

One of the challenges, as well as temptations, is to reverse the order and allow the ministry to become the focus. For me the Lord has to be first and foremost… my husband next… then my children… then ministry. Now that Carly is 16 she comes to most of my events and helps out. It is so much fun! Basically, it is important to follow behind Jesus in ministry and not try to jump ahead of Him. When this is the pattern, the whole family is affected in a powerful way!

KCI: In the Week One introduction, you briefly mention your struggle with depression. As someone who’s lived with depression, I wanted you to say more about this.

CM: Depression. I never thought it could be me. No one else would have thought it either. On the outside, I appeared as the perfect Christian wife and mom. I wore that mask well. No one, not even my husband, knew that behind this veil was a woman gasping for breath to live.

KCI: What triggered your depression?

CM: Order. Organization. Control! The perfect receipt for depression. From the time I can remember, I liked things or my life to be in order. Organization was my middle name. After a few years of marriage and four children the “Out of Control Syndrome” invaded my life.

KCI: How long did it take you to realize what the problem was? What (if anything) was the catalyst for this realization?

CM: Honestly, it was a slow process. When it all came to the surface I was about 35 years old. But, to be honest, the depression had been building up in me over time.

The night before reality hit I couldn’t pray anything but the words, “God, help!” Nothing else would emerge from my lips. At that moment the process of healing began. My yearly visit to the doctor was the next day. After fainting in the examining room, the nurse and doctor said, “We’re going to help you.” Come to find out my adrenal gland was totally shut off which triggered a major hormone imbalance. Physically, I began the road to recovery. Mentally, God began to redirect my pattern of thinking and habits. Spiritually, I realized I am not in control of anything. At that point, my walk with Christ took a different turn. Even now as I type these words tears well up in my eyes as I think of how God’s grace and mercy poured out on me through the words “God, help!”

KCI: How supportive was your family and your community as you walked the road to healing?

CM: God used all of them in my life. My children were too young to grasp what was happening. But my husband carried me through the healing with his prayers, love and support. My parents prayed night and day. Friends brought food, took my children for the day, prayed with me, listened, and more.

KCI: What prompted you to write this study?

CM: After speaking at retreats, events and conference for five years I began to notice a question asked repeatedly: “Carla, how do I learn to see God in my daily life? You share your everyday experiences with us and continually find a spiritual application in it. How do I learn to see things like this?” The birth of this Bible study came from the heart of this question. God is at work around us 24/7. But, sometimes we are so busy with our own agendas we don’t recognize His life lessons.

KCI: What was the most difficult part of writing this study?

CM: The writing and rewriting, editing and rereading process! There were times I thought, “There is no way I can do this again.”

KCI: What was the most fun part?

I absolutely love watching how God puzzles people together to accomplish His purposes! If you have time please read my newest blog entry called “Heart Puzzles.”

KCI: I read Carla’s post, and I agree: all the serendipities and “coincidences” she recounts are really fun.

Carla’s book, Reflecting Him: Living for Jesus and Loving It is a ten-week women’s Bible study. Like Jesus’ parables, which teach by creating visual pictures for the reader, Reflecting Him uses familiar objects and situations (such as our five sense, the rooms of a house, even driving) and draws comparisons to help women become aware of Jesus in their daily lives.

You can read the first two chapters (or weeks) online.

Or you can leave a comment and if Jack-the-random-number-generator picks your comment number, I’ll send you a free copy of the study.

First, you should know that over half of my reading, I do with my kids. Of course, the books below are not the sum total of what I read to them. My daughter really likes Disney princess books (can I poke out my eyes, please?), which read like they were written by a committee comprised of reps from the legal department and a hack writer on speed.

Doug finally asked, “Can we declare a moratorium on Disney princess books?” So the next day, when I went to the library and found an inch-thick anthology of Disney princess stories on hold for us, I handed it straight back to the circ desk clerk.

Of course, two days later my mother-in-law came for a visit and brought Jane a two-inch thick anthology of Disney princess stories. She was in heaven. I was…not.

Anyhoo, back to the real books we’ve read this month:

Catwings (and three sequels!) by Ursula K. LeGuin.

These are wonderful short chapter books – each about 50 pages long with a delightful illustration by S.D. Schindler on almost every page. I long for more such books that combine lovely language with stories complex enough for my six-year-old and simple enough for my three-year-old. A tall order, I know. Especially since Jane also wants the pictures.

Farmer Boy by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

We’re working our way through the Little House books. Both kids loved Little House in the Big Woods, which we read in May and Little House on the Prairie, which we finished earlier this month. Farmer Boy is a harder sell for Jane. There aren’t as many pictures as in the earlier books, and she really likes Laura and Mary and doesn’t understand why they’re not in this book. Jack, on the other hand, loves it. He won’t say why, but I suspect it’s because it’s about a boy only a little older than he is.

Skylark by Patricia MacLachlan.

This beautiful story is the sequel to Sarah Plain and Tall, which we read in February, and like Sarah, it has no illustrations. I wasn’t sure Jane would be able to sit through it, but we read it in two sittings, and she did just fine; she even brought it back for me to finish.

***

And here are the books I’ve read or am reading this month:

The Passion of Mary-Margaret by Lisa Samson.

The “autobiography” of a modern-day mystic, this book spans 70 years, weaving its way from present to past and back again. Given the structure of the novel and the long timeline, the story could have been a confusing mess, but Samson keeps it focused and always makes sure you know where you are in both time and place. And she draws such fascinating, compelling characters you just want to keep reading to see what happens to them. A beautiful and captivating read.

Nine Coaches Waiting by Mary Stewart.

Sort of Jane Eyre meets Rebecca, this is a slowly gathering story of suspense and romance, with delicious Gothic darkness hovering over everything.

Now that we all have ADD, I’m afraid they just don’t write them like this anymore, alas.

***

Surprised by Joy by C.S. Lewis.

I’ve long meant to read Lewis’s autobiography, and finally got around to it. Though it has its moments of lovely language and captivating story-telling, it deals too much in generalities. The places it’s strongest are when Lewis recalls specific incidents. I realize it’s risky to take on someone as august as Lewis, but this book is definitely not his finest. I think what keeps it in print is simply Lewis’s name on the cover (she said nervously, looking over her shoulder to see if anyone was coming with a billy club…)

Till We Have Faces, also by C.S. Lewis, and in my humble opinion it’s hands down his best book. Rich, layered, and nuanced, symbol piles upon symbol in this story until it’s impossible to unravel. You simply read it and are amazed that anyone could write such a compelling story with such deeply nested and almost unsearchable symbolism. I am in awe.

I confess I’m not altogether sure what I think of this book. I read it twice—once to myself and once to my daughter. She kept asking for another poem, so I’m assuming she liked it.

Or maybe she just liked the illustrations. Alice and Martin Provensen won a Caldecott Honor for their pictures for this book, whimsical gouache paintings that are perfectly suited to Willard’s fanciful, even nonsensical, poetry.

Some of the poems I liked a great deal—the rhythm and rhyme of them, the images and playful language. And paired with the Provensens’ illustrations, the whole effect is delightful.

Other poems just made me feel old, like I’d somehow missed or lost something. While reading “Blake’s Wonderful Car Delivers Us Wonderfully Well,” for instance, my daughter asked me, “Why are his suitcases purring?” And I had no idea.

“Maybe they’ve been turned into cats?” I said. But if that was the case, how could he wear them flat on his hat or served with mustard on a bun?

Clearly, my rational brain was working too hard. But what can I say? I’m fairly left-brained and I like being able to understand things, especially words, and when I can’t, it makes me feel incompetent, and there are few things in life I hate so much as feeling incompetent.

Which is why I left this book—both times—with a feeling of ambivalence.

I loved the idea of the book, based as it is on the poetry of William Blake and written as a sort of homage to his “Poems of Innocence and Experience.” I also loved the illustrations.

And I liked many of the poems (especially “William Blake’s Inn for Innocent and Experienced Travelers,” “The Wise Cow Enjoys a Cloud,” “Two Sunflowers Move into a Yellow Room,” and “Blake Leads a Walk on the Milky Way”).

But I came away wondering if there was something wrong with me, that I wasn’t able to get lost in the magic of this book. Perhaps I’m simply too experienced a traveler, and regardless of what the subtitle says, this inn is just for innocents.

When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead (2010).

Fast-paced and intriguing but ultimately disappointing.

***

Holes by Louis Sachar (1999).

Brilliant. As a writer, I am wowed by Sachar’s ability to weave all his plot threads together in a way that is so utterly satisfying.

***

Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink (1936).

How children’s books have changed in the past 75 years! A delightful read, but more episodic than novelistic. (Be forewarned, though: even though Brink is trying to portray Native Americans in a positive light, some of her portrayals of native peoples will make you cringe.)

***

The Bronze Bow by Elizabeth George Speare (1962).

A great read anytime, but especially for Easter (and it’s still Easter, friends). A compelling story of hate, revenge, love, and forgiveness.

***

Summer of the Swans by Betsy Byars (1971).

Fairly predictable, but captures the angst and irritability of becoming a teen. At the risk of sounding jaded, I think it won at least in part because the heroine has a developmentally disabled brother. I imagine that was fairly new territory for kids’ books back in 1970.

***

The Midwife’s Apprentice by Karen Cushman (1996).
Beautiful, spare prose vividly evokes 14th century England. A coming of age story that is by turns poignant, sad, funny, and ultimately hopeful.

But you want to know what I’m most in awe of? His acknowledgments page. It reads like a who’s who of Christian writers: Robert Clark, John Wilson, Luci Shaw, Walter Wangerin, Jr., Eugene Peterson, Gina Oschner, among others. And he calls Sara Zarr, one of my favorite YA novelists, his “sister.” Anyone else turning green?

So, with all these awesome connections, what’s he doing moonlighting on yours truly’s blog? Well, dear readers, I asked him to.

Okay, so it’s a little more complicated than that. One of his editors, who has become a good acquaintance of mine over the past nine months, offered to put me in touch with him. Jeffrey lives near Seattle, so back in December I emailed him and asked if he’d meet me for coffee. He very kindly said yes. And when his new book came out last month I asked him if he’d do a blog interview with me. Again, he very kindly said yes.

So, clearly, in addition to being a great writer, he’s also a really nice guy. But enough from me. Let’s hear from him.

KCI: The focus of the first book in the series, Auralia’s Colors, is on the colorless kingdom of Abascar. Where did the idea for this drab country come from?

JO: Blame it on Montana. Anne and I were hiking near Flathead Lake, during the summer of 1996. We were talking about our mutual love of fairy tales. Anne asked, “Why is it that so many people reach an age when they’re finished with make-believe? It seems like most people just stop being creative and imaginative. They fold up their imaginations and put them in a closet.”

That triggered a “What if?” moment for me. What if a whole society folded up their colorful and creative work and put it away? I imagined a colorless city set in the middle of this beautiful landscape.

A few moments later, I was imagining a character—a young artist—who would come out of the forest and bring a gift of forbidden color to that place. That character became Auralia.

KCI: In the second book, Cyndere’s Midnight, you turn your attention more toward the fallen kingdom of the Cent Regus. What inspired your vision of the beastmen?

JO: When I wrote Auralia’s Colors, I became curious about the beastly creatures lurking in the forest where she lived. I wanted to know where these monsters came from.

Ever since I was old enough to read Where the Wild Things Are or fairy tales like “Beauty and the Beast,” I’ve been interested in monsters. As a kid, I loved the movie Gremlins. But I was quite interested in the idea of a monster with a soul. Like Gollum, Darth Vader, or the Replicants in Blade Runner.

Perhaps that comes from reading Bible stories about monstrous men who are considered “heroes of faith.” Re-reading the Old Testament lately, I’ve been amazed at the depravity—the violence, the sexual misbehavior, the dishonesty—of the men I used to admire in my Sunday school lessons. There are important matters to discuss and explore when we realize that God is in the business of guiding and working through monsters like them… and like me.

KCI: Throughout both books, color—and thus beauty—is central to the ongoing transformation of individuals and, sometimes, whole groups of people. Why is this?

JO: I believe that our minds are like musical instruments all out of tune, or glass that’s blurry. When we encounter beauty—either in nature or in art—our minds are “tuned” again, to some extent. Things are out of balance there, and we don’t even realize it, but art helps repair that damage. It polishes our lenses, so to speak. That’s why a walk along Richmond Beach near my house, or listening to good music, can raise my spirits after a difficult day at work. Poetry sharpens my senses and my intellect.

I’ve read so many fantasy stories that were primarily about religion or political oppression or sex. I’d never read a fantasy series that was about the revelatory and dangerous power of art before, and the idea inspired me.

KCI: Would you give my blog readers a little teaser trailer for Raven’s Ladder?

JO: Wow. I’ve never been asked to do this before. Sounds like fun.

Okay, first…

Imagine whatever studio logo you’d like, and then the music starts.

Arrows! Someone is hunting Cal-raven, the new king of the survivors of House Abascar, through the caves where they have endured a hard winter. He and his hunting dog, Hagah, run for their lives. Then, he’s outside looking for a place to hide among the wild brambles. It’s midnight.

Suddenly, two enormous spider-like creatures appear on either side of him, and they pounce!

Bring up the title credit: Raven’s Ladder!

We see Cal-raven, tied up and bloodied in the back of a wagon, being hauled away by mercenaries.

We descend into the earth, where we join some of the Abascar survivors who are laboring as slaves to the beastmen. The ale boy has found them there, and he’s trying to revive their hopes by telling them the story of Auralia’s colors. To demonstrate her revelation, he lights himself on fire and the cave fills with light.

We fly to House Bel Amica, a city built on a rock above the ocean. We see Cal-raven climbing out the window of his room in a moonlit Bel Amican tower at night. He steps onto the top of a ladder the he finds there, and then he pushes off, riding the top of the ladder across the avenue far below… until he crashes against the wall of another tower. There, he takes hold of the stones and begins to climb toward somebody’s window.

We see Cyndere, daughter of the queen of House Bel Amica, standing very close to Cal-raven in an empty outdoor marketplace at night, far above the stormy waters of the Rushtide Inlet. It looks like it may be a romantic moment.

Then, in a rush of images:

The Keeper spreads its wings and descends into an abyss, fire flowing from its jaws.

Cal-raven sealing himself inside the hollow of a stone statue sculpted to look like his father.

A parade of glowing phantoms—Northchildren—sneaking through the forest.

One of the devious Seers plants the Queen of Bel Amica’s face in a pan of bubbling lotion, and then pulls her out. The potion has made her seem younger than her own daughter! (Cut to a shot of Cyndere looking disgusted with her mother.)

We see Jordam the beastman charging alone against a troop of spear-wielding beastmen in red armor.

We see Cal-raven, surrounded by noisy ravens, climbing up the incline of a leaning tree. The camera pulls back to reveal that the tree is so massive, Cal-raven’s as small as an ant climbing up its bark.

We see a massive, serpentine tentacle come up out of the water of a harbor and smash in the hull of a ship. Then we see the ship leaning, burning, sinking.

Finally, we see Cal-raven standing on a high place and looking northward through a large, round, blurry pane of glass, and suddenly the swirling light of Auralia’s colors flowers into the air all around him.

And then we see a young girl holding two glass discs up to her eyes, which enlarge them to cartoonish proportions, and she laughs mischievously.

Boom! The title Raven’s Ladder appears.

And then a message appears: “Visit LookingCloser.org for more details.”

How’s that?

KCI: Awesome. Now we just need some cinematic music with an ever-increasing drumbeat, ending with a cymbal crash.

Your writing is lyrical and lush, and you weave together many different story strands in each novel. What writers do you read to keep your own well of creativity full?

JO: In the last couple of years, I’ve been so busy working at the day-job and writing in the evenings, I’ve had very little time to read.

I do, however, find Patricia McKillip to be a very inspiring fantasy writer. Her novels The Book of Atrix Wolfe and Alphabet of Thorn are some of the best fantasy books I’ve read in the last 20 years. I also love the style of Guy Gavriel Kay’s complicated fantasy novels, which are a lot like historical tapestries. Mervyn Peake should be as famous as any fantasy author; his Gormenghast stories are pure joy to read, especially to read aloud.

But mostly I’m inspired by non-fiction. I think the nonfiction written by Annie Dillard, Madeleine L’Engle, Eugene Peterson, Philip Yancey, and Thomas Merton has had as much influence on The Auralia Thread as any other text. In fact, the meaning of the name of Cal-raven’s dog comes from Eugene Peterson’s Eat This Book.

KCI: Hagah. That’s Hebrew for “meditate,” though Peterson points out that it also can also mean to “growl” or “chew” or “worry” as in a dog worrying a bone. Clever. (And aren’t I clever, too, for knowing all that? No, don’t answer that.)

Finally, if the series were to be turned into a cadre of movies, who would play the title role of each?

JO: I just hosted a book giveaway on my Facebook page where I asked people that same question. I saw some great ideas there. It’s hard to decide. I really don’t know who should play Cal-raven; he’d have to look about 22 years old.

I think Benicio Del Toro could make a great Jordam. It would take some amazing makeup, but he did that for The Wolfman.

Somebody suggested either Embeth Davidtz or Rosamund Pike for Jaralaine, and those are both brilliant.

I’d pick Summer Glau to play Cyndere, and I’d love to see the rock singer Annie Clark (better known as St. Vincent) play Emeriene. The young actor from The Road would make an excellent ale boy.

I haven’t come up with a better actor for Scharr ben Fray than Derek Jacobi, but I’m still pondering.

Well, friends, as you can see, the man is smart, creative, and savvy. He’s also written a beautiful trio of books (the last one comes out next year). If you’d like a copy of Raven’s Ladder, just leave a comment. Jack the random number generator will choose a number and if he picks yours, you get a free book! I’ll be out of town and completely offline by the time you read this, so Jack will choose his number when we return at the end of the month and I’ll let you know then who the lucky winner is.

I read this book, which has no illustrations, to my 3-year-old daughter in one sitting. She kept asking for another chapter…and, no, it wasn’t bedtime or naptime. It was mid-morning, and she fell in love with this book.

Me, too.

I once heard Susan Patron, author of Newbery-winning The Higher Power of Lucky, speak at a conference, and she said the best piece of writing advice she’d ever received was to choose one book that she loved, a book she wished she had written, and type it up. She chose Sarah, Plain and Tall.

I can see why.

This is a nearly perfect book. (I’d say it is a perfect book, only I’m not sure there is such a thing.) I don’t think there’s a single misplaced word in the whole 58 pages. There’s certainly not a single misplaced image.

MacLachlan evokes her setting and characters clearly, simply, beautifully. She tells the reader almost nothing, and yet the pages are alive with the sights, sounds, and smells of a Midwestern farm in the mid-1800’s. They are alive with the feelings of the characters, even though emotions are almost never named. MacLachlan is a master of “show, don’t tell” and of “omit needless words.”

In the spirit of Susan Patron’s writing teacher, I thought I’d type up a few passages to share with you, so you can read for yourself some of this exquisite book (and so I can have these gorgeous words flow through my fingertips).

“I looked at the long dirt road that crawled across the plains, remembering the morning that Mama had died, cruel and sunny. They had come for her in a wagon and taken her away to be buried. And then the cousins and aunts and uncles had come and tried to fill up the house. But they couldn’t.”

“Sarah came in the spring. She came through green grass fields that bloomed Indian paintbrush, red and orange, and blue-eyed grass.”

“Matthew and Maggie came with their two children and a sack full of chickens. Maggie emptied the sack into the yard and three red banty chickens clucked and scattered. “They are for you,” she told Sarah. “For eating.” Sarah loved the chickens. She clucked back to them and fed them grain. They followed her, shuffling and scratching primly in the dirt. I knew they would not be for eating.”

“…at dawn there was the sudden sound of hail, like stones tossed against the barn. We stared out the window, watching the ice marbles bounce on the ground. And when it was over we opened the barn door and walked out into the early morning light. The hail crunched beneath our feet. It was white and gleaming for as far as we looked, like sun on glass. Like the sea.”

If you’ve not read this beautiful little gem of a book, I hope you will. Reading it is like finding a piece of perfectly smooth blue sea glass winking up at you from the sand.

3 Newbery books down; 86 to go. Next up: Summer of the Swans by Betsy Byars (1971)

I am not sure Madeleine L’Engle’s book would have been published in today’s market. It starts very slow, taking three chapters to introduce all the main characters and raise a question: where is Meg’s father and why hasn’t he contacted them in over a year? The quest to find her father doesn’t begin till chapter four—page 56 in my version!

Now, I love this book, and I know the end is worth every word I read to get there. But someone who’s never read this book doesn’t know that. And from the (admittedly limited) feedback I’ve gotten about my novel, slow doesn’t hook. Of course, Madeleine L’Engle endured an entire decade of rejection when she tried to get A Wrinkle in Time published, so maybe slow didn’t hook in the 1950’s, either.

The thing is, I’m not sure how else she could have written the story. Dropping us into the middle of the quest to find Meg’s father might have worked to add more excitement right off the bat, but how to explain Calvin’s presence and Charles Wallace’s precociousness and the Missuses Whatsit, Who, and Which?

Some books are slow burners. They kindle a little interest at the beginning, introduce you to a character you want to know more about, raise a question or two that pique your interest. And then they slowly, slowly, flicker into flame until you get to the end, and there’s an enormous conflagration, and you realize with satisfaction that the fire started with that little spark and that it was, in fact, inevitable once the spark caught.

This is a book like that. It explores the nature of space and time and love and freedom, but it does so slowly, unfolding like a flower, at its own pace, in its own way. I like that—that it doesn’t try to be something it’s not (a fast-paced thriller, for instance), that it doesn’t conform to the “rules” that fiction is supposed to follow (there are, for example, several characters who make but one appearance in the story), that it, instead, reaches for something beyond those rules, for truth that can only be expressed in story, in this story, told this way.

Perhaps that is why this book ultimately won a Newbery—because it is true and beautiful and reminds us who we are and what we are capable of.

If you’ve not read this book and would like a free copy, I’m giving mine away. I warn you, though: it’s a mass market version that is hideously ugly in the way that only books printed in the 70’s can be. And it’s been well-loved (including a possible douse in the bathtub or some other body of water…). But it’s totally readable, and it’s free for the asking. Just leave a comment and Jack-the-random-number-generator will pick a winner. I’ll announce who it is next Tuesday.

2 Newbery books down; 87 to go. Next up: Sarah, Plain and Tall by Patricia MacLachlan

I am not one of those women.

In my humble opinion, pregnancy bites. Even an easy pregnancy like mine bites. The nausea, the heartburn, the nasty taste in your mouth, the chronic impaction, the sciatica, the exhaustion, the bloating, the stretching of every muscle and all the skin between your neck and your thighs, the way your body becomes this foreign entity with a mind all its own that slowly turns you into a pin-headed whale. I don’t know, somehow I’m just not feeling beautiful.

But the worst thing about pregnancy is the books it ruins.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, I read A Prayer for Owen Meany. Half a dozen people whom I esteem had raved about it, and I decided to read it even though I generally don’t like contemporary American fiction (I know; ironic, isn’t it, for a contemporary American writing fiction…). Anyhoo, I’m sure Owen Meany is a good book, but I confess I can’t even think about it without feeling nauseated. What a waste.

Right now, for my book club, I’m reading Vanity Fair, a book I’ve wanted to read for years but never worked up the nerve to (it’s 698 pages with not nearly enough white space or a big enough typeface for a woman who wears bifocals), so I figured the accountability of my book club would force me to read it. I’m halfway through, and I can’t think about it without – you guessed it – feeling nauseated. I might finish it, but I doubt I’ll be reading it again, ever. Another waste of a perfectly good book.

So, in the interest of not ruining any more good books, I am hereby soliciting the titles of really bad books that I can read, books that are so bad they deserve to be associated with nausea. Anyone got a good (er, bad) one?

If I ever have to go to the proverbial desert island, this book will be in the waterproof trunk I pack. I do not even know where to begin to explain to you why I love this book, why I think everyone should read it.

But I’ll try.

First, I love the story structure. The first half of the book is comprised of four first-person short stories, each narrated by a different character, held together by short (and I do mean short) chapters about a state academic competition.

As the stories unfold, you learn that these characters are all tied to one another, that they are all on the same team competing for the state championship, and that they all have the same “lesson” to learn, though in vastly different circumstances.

The second half of the book has an omniscient narrator who recounts the team’s journey from school champions to state champions.

I know, I know. I’ve made it sound rather boring. It’s not. Even though you know from the first page that this team makes it to the state meet, somehow the story of how they get there is still suspenseful. I’m not sure how Konigsburg pulls that one off, but she does it beautifully and brilliantly.

Second, I love the characters. These are the kinds of kids I hope my children grow up to be: kind and smart and courteous and loyal.

I also love seeing these characters from multiple perspectives. Each of The Souls (the team members) narrates one of the short stories, so as a reader, you get to hear their voice, their words, their view of the world. In the other Souls’ stories, you see them from a different perspective. In the omniscient narrator’s portion of the book, you see them from the perspective of their teacher and coach, Mrs. Olinski.

Speaking of Mrs. Olinski: she’s one of the main characters of the book and we see much of the competition story from her perspective—an interesting choice in a book for young adults. But her character arc is not unlike the children’s; she has similar challenges to face and choices to make, which makes her compelling and likeable, even if she is an adult and a teacher.

Third, I love the way Konigsburg ties all the characters and all the story lines together. This is not a collection of interlocking short stories. It is a novel (with, admittedly, a highly unusual structure) because of the overarching story arc about the state academic competition and because of the thematic ties between that story and each of the four short stories.

I suspect that in most writing workshops, this book would have been torn to shreds. It violates pretty much all of the so-called rules for writing contemporary novels, especially for children. Lots of point-of-view shifts. Lots of flashbacks in big chunks. Lots of skipping around in the story’s timeline. Lots of understatement. All of which are no-nos. And yet—it works. It’s hard to imagine it any other way. Part of what makes it compelling and beautiful is its structure, its omniscience, its suspenseful dropping of one story to pick up another before circling back to the first, and its understatement. Though the story is woven together tightly on a surface level, its thematic unity reinforces and deepens the oneness of all the disparate parts.

Finally, I love that this book makes me laugh and cry. I love that even though I’ve read it before, I’m still swept up into the story. And I love the feeling of all-rightness I have when I finish it.

1 Newbery down, 88 to go. Next up: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle (1963)

When I was pregnant with Jane, I was in contact with the man who is now my editor at IVP, revising my book proposal and hoping he would offer me a contract. And when Jane was three months old, he did.

This time around, though, I don’t have an editor looking at a book proposal. My editor looked at my proposal and passed. Not that I blame him, given the thus far dismal sales of my book. But I figure if someone who knows what a delight I am to work with (I meet my deadlines, I’m eager to please, I’m flexible and accommodating, and I (mostly) don’t need handholding)—if someone who’s worked with the amazing professional version of me doesn’t want my book, someone who doesn’t know me from Eve sure won’t.

And, I confess, I’m weary of rejection, and the thought of trying to create a compelling project that will appeal to enough people to sell well and to then shop it around to agents and/or editors and have it rejected again and again and again…I’m not sure I’m up for it, given my present state of physical and emotional fragility. Okay, so I’m not that fragile; I just hate feeling desperate, and with a looming August due date, I feel desperate to have something, anything, besides motherhood to define me.

So since I don’t have a book contract or even the possibility of a book contract at this point, I have decided to create my own project with deadlines, something to keep me focused, with a long enough time horizon that it will carry me through pregnancy and the post-partum hideousness that inevitably follows.

Hence my Newbery year. Or, rather, two.

Since fiction is my first love, and since I’ve written a young adult novel, and since well over half of my favorite books from 2009 were young adult novels, I’ve decided to challenge myself to read all the Newbery Medal winners.

For those of you who aren’t hip to children’s literature, the Newbery is probably the most prestigious award for young adult literature. It’s awarded every January for a book published the previous year. (This year’s winner, When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead, was announced yesterday.) Books are chosen by a committee comprised of members of the Association for Library Service to Children (ALSC), a division of the American Library Association (ALA). (How’d you like to announce that mouthful at the annual awards ceremony?)

My goal in reading all these books—and I’ve only read about a dozen of them, mostly as an adult—is to learn a little something about what makes a good book for children (since I apparently didn’t read good books when I was a child myself. What exactly was I reading anyway? Nancy Drew? Um, actually, yes, which probably explains a lot about me). Maybe I’ll even (re)gain a little confidence that my own novel is good—or learn why it’s not.

My deadline is to read all the Newbery winners by the end of 2011. Since the Newbery’s been awarded every year since 1922, that will be 89 books in 101 weeks, which means if I read a book a week, I can still go on vacation, get sick, have a baby, and take a maternity leave from this project.

So, starting (eek!) now, I’ll (try to) read one book per week and write a review of it here on my blog.

First up: The View From Saturday by E.L. Konigsburg (1997)

***

July 2010 update: due to the unexpected discovery, back in April, that we are having twins and all the additional complications that has created with my pregnancy and the extra energy an additional baby will require once these guys are born, I’ve decided to suspend my little Newbery project for the time being.