- My parents are visiting
- I'm rewriting my book (more on that tomorrow)
- All the other stuff of life: amazing kids, dashingly handsome sidekick, cooking, cleaning, colds, appointments, weird pregnancy hormones, etc.
I read Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse while I was down in LA at the SCBWI conference.
I've come to a general conclusion: I love verse novels. I love the language, their way with words, their beautiful sense of simplicity.
It's almost maddening how much I enjoyed this book. But "enjoyed" is such a wrong word because the experience was gut-wrenching, but the ending was so satisfying, and everything about it was so simple. This book took me on an emotional journey and saying I "enjoyed" it is like describing a trip to the moon as "nice." Inadequate.
I'm coming out of this reading with a selfish desire. I want to learn how an author can say so much in so few words. I want that genius for myself.
I made my mother read Out of the Dust as soon as she arrived at my house. She cried. A lot. And thanked me.
I don't usually like making my mother cry, but in this case it was gratifying.