Farewell to Mordena

This afternoon I got word that my writing-group friend Mordena Babich had died. This wasn’t a surprise since I knew she’d entered hospice treatment after her second bout with cancer, but it rips a big hole in the world. Mordena left a young daughter and husband, many friends, and more fine manuscripts than she would accept praise for.

Here’s the start of her essay “Writing Aikido”:

This past January marks twenty years that I have been practicing Aikido. I’ve been a writer of children’s and young adult fiction for about twenty-five. At first glance there wouldn’t seem to be obvious parallels between fiction writing and Aikido, one pursuit almost entirely mental and the other almost entirely physical. Still, both involve a constant pursuit of excellence, daily practice, and a never-ending effort to improve, learn, and adjust. I’m finding lately that the two disciplines have more common ground than I ever imagined.

I first began to see the connections about five years ago, when I attended a writing workshop with the late Sid Fleischman, the grand old man of children’s literature. Among other bits of practical advice, Sid said that it takes two ideas to make a story, just as it takes two sticks to make a fire. One idea won’t catch fire; it’s just a stick without that second idea to rub against it.

Around this same time, Itoh Sensei often said in class that it takes two forces to take uke’s [the attacker’s] balance – movement in two directions. For example, up and forward. Without the forward, up is just a stretch. Without the up, forward is just pushing. 

At one meeting, long before I read this, I quoted Sid Fleischman’s point to Mordena, and she said, “I know! I’ve been looking for the second stick!” It’s always fun to have a writing-group colleague with the same vocabulary and literary likes.

Mordena pooh-poohed others’ praise or optimism about her own writing, but it definitely deserves more eyes. Check out “Beautiful Beast” at Hunger Mountain or “Blind Date,” part of a series she called Evil Coffee Shop.

Feeling Grateful for Sid Fleischman

As a lad, I read a novel about a family of traveling magicians in the Old West. It wasn’t one of my favorite books, but it was entertaining, and parts of it stuck with me. Just not the name of the author.

Until I heard Sid Fleischman speak at an SCBWI New England conference, and he mentioned that his first novel for kids was about a family of traveling magicians in the Old West. The book’s title is Mr. Mysterious & Company.

Sid, who died this month at the age of ninety, went on to write many books that have gained bigger audiences or more awards, such as The Whipping Boy (Newbery Medal), Humbug Mountain (Boston Globe-Horn Book Award), and Escape!: The Story of the Great Houdini (Boston Globe-Horn Book Honor). He even has an award named after him, given by SCBWI for the best humorous book for kids.

At that same writing conference, I heard Sid say what he finds necessary to start a story. He’s stated this advice elsewhere, including his memoir The Abracadabra Kid. This formulation is from Tracy Barrett’s website:

The author Sid Fleischman says that one idea is like a stick: you can’t do much with it. But two ideas are like two sticks: you can rub them together, and if you’re lucky, you’ll get a fire.

For example, Mr. Mysterious & Company might have been the cross-pollination of Sid’s memories of working as a young magician, his experience as a young father, and the milieu of the classic American western. The Ghost in the Noonday Sun plays off our understandings of both pirates and ghosts. The mix makes resonant but familiar (i.e., potentially cliché) ideas fresh.

I’ve found that advice to be very helpful in developing story ideas. Rather than try to squeeze more out of a single idea, I try laying it alongside another and see if they mix well. Living in a magical world with no magical powers? Kids’ caper with Wodehousean plot twists? Washing out of espionage training? Satire of common classroom projects? Knight who wants to be an inventor? Tale of dual narrators, both with secret identities? The right combination, however arbitrarily generated, sparks off more ideas.

At one SCBWI conference, Sid sat down with a pile of his books to autograph for volunteers. He started to sign The Whipping Boy for me and then got pulled away, so the book came back with half a signature. That evening, Sid heard what had happened and promised me he’d finish signing the book if I’d send it to him. I never got around to doing so because I rather liked the distinction of having a half-autographed book. After all, Sid must have autographed a lot of books in his long career, but I bet he only half-autographed a few.

In a decade or so I may even improve my story and hint that this was the last book that Sid ever started signing. “A writer to the end,” I can murmur, and let people draw their own conclusions about my copy. Somehow I think Sid would get a kick out of that.

Where to Be on Columbus Day

The winners of this year's Boston Globe-Horn Book Awards have been announced, including an Oz and Ends/Boston 1775 favorite, M. T. Anderson's The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation, Volume I: The Pox Party. Expectations for the acceptance speech are high.

Among the honor books in the nonfiction category is Sid Fleischman's Escape!: The Story of the Great Houdini. Which I'll take as an excuse to quote a pearl that Sid dropped at last month's SCBWI New England conference:

You need two ideas to make a story.

Two ideas rubbing against each other like dry sticks. Two ideas rolling toward each other like bumper carts. Two ideas repelling each other like refrigerator magnets held the wrong way.