Coco

Spoilers abound. But since I could be the last person in the whole world who has seen this movie, I don't think it matters. (If you somehow haven't watched it, Coco is currently streaming on Netflix.)

This movie talks about things that are meaningful to me—the importance of music, animals, and family; of finding out as much about your history as you can; and of the connections that still exist between the living and the dead.

I was delighted with this film from the opening note. We hear the traditional Disney theme, but this time a mariachi band plays the song. The narrator proceeds to tell us the history of a family in Mexico. We hear of a villain and a heroine—a man deserts his family to become a musician, and the mother learns to provide for everyone through making shoes—and the oath/curse that comes out of this struggle—“No one in this family shall play music.” This is a problem for our main character, Coco, a teenage boy who longs to be a musician.

The story takes place on the Day of the Dead, a Mexican holiday that I wish Americans also celebrated, where families put up altars in their homes and place pictures of their ancestors there. They put out the favorite food of the loved ones that have passed away. In this tradition, the spirits of the dead can come back on this day to be with their loved ones who remember them.

Things come to a head. Coco is told he is now old enough to start working in the family business, making shoes. He announces that he plans to play music in the town talent show that evening. The grandmother discovers his guitar and breaks it in anger. Coco runs out the house, determined to follow his dream, starting with playing in that talent show.

Throughout the film, Coco must now face a series to challenges to see if he can accomplish what he has set out to do. It starts with a fairly simple problem—“Where will I find a guitar?”—and then escalates to “Help! I have crossed over to the spirit world, and I need permission from one of my ancestors to come back before the Day of the Dead is over.”

I loved that, through his journey, Coco was accompanied by animals who comforted and often saved him. I'm currently writing a novel about an afterlife, and I enjoyed all the customs and protocols and details of this strange new world. And I was genuinely surprised by some of the twists in the story.

During his time with the spirits, Coco learns more about his family. His perceptions change. His allegiances shift. When he does return, he is able to come back with more knowledge about his family legacy that he can share with others. In the end, his family is at peace, joyous. They now love Coco's music. The history has been healed. What more can we ask for?

The Importance of Little Women

When I was young, I read Little Women countless times. I had definite opinions about what happened in the book.I had strong feelings about Amy burning Jo's novel. I hated that Beth died. I thought that Jo and Laurie should have been together. I think one of the reasons I read this book so many times is that I hoped that the next time I read it, some things would turn out differently.

Recently, I watched the PBS adaption of Little Women. This time, it was quite clear to me that Jo and Laurie were not a match. How did I miss the references to billiards and drinking and Laurie's overall nonchalance towards life? How would that work with such a driven, serious young woman? It wouldn't, and she told him so countless times. I had forgotten that, too. In my young mind, he had proposed once in such a romantic way. Why couldn't Jo let herself be happy? They were clearly meant to be! But now I see they weren't.

It still bothered me that Amy destroyed Jo's novel. Really? You're not invited to a play, and you burn your sister's draft? I also didn't have much sympathy for her in the pickled lime incident. The teacher had warned them, no more pickled limes. Yes, hitting her hands with a ruler, when he discovered her stash, was not the appropriate response, but I could not see her as a grand martyr here. And I was annoyed when Amy was so upset about having to live with Aunt March during the scarlet fever epidemic. Your sister is seriously ill, and this is what you're focused on? I would have been a horrible sister for Amy.

And yet Amy understood the culture. She knew how to behave like a young woman of the time and rightfully get the opportunities to go places because she was pleasant and appropriate. And she was a great match for Laurie. They had similar values. They loved the social life. I can see that now.

I hadn't remembered that Beth first recovered and then fell sick again. When I read this book when I was young, I hadn't realized how isolated she was, that she didn't go to school because she was too shy, that she really didn't like to leave the house, that it was very hard for her to meet new people. Like Beth, I loved playing the piano when I was young. I was very shy, too. It would always be hard to read of a young person dying, but I think this death was particularly hard for me because I related so much to her, and I wondered what kind of a life a person like I could have. I wanted Beth to be able to show me the way, and that didn't happen in this story, no matter how many times I read it.

But I also understood Jo. I have that part that burns to write. Watching this story again, I had forgotten about her failed novel. When she is trying to move beyond that failure, she says, “I can't even write journal entries, but I have so many words in my head.” I've been there, sister.  At another point, she states, "I am too thoughtless and too blunt, and I have an ungovernable tongue.” I know all about that. I may have outgrown some of those tendencies, but sometimes I am right there with my temper and thoughts of  what I perceive as justice flying out of my mouth again. I also know that feeling of being outside the culture, of not being able to understand why fashion and flirtation seemed so important to my peers, when writing felt like everything to me. And this time when she met Professor Baer, I swooned. I never thought I would consider Professor Baer a dreamboat, but now I do.

We were at the movies last night, and there was a coming attraction for a modern update of Little Women, coming to a theatre near you in September. I will have to go see it. I think this story remains powerful because it talks about sisterhood, about the importance of caring for others, and about the different paths that one can take in life. It will always be one of my favorite stories.

Lili and Kate and the Horses

When I was working on Kate and the Horses, I turned in my draft to my developmental editor and began to think of what I would write after that. I imagined I would write a book about a girl who loves musicals. I myself have loved musicals ever since I was a child. They were incredibly important to me. When I was a child, I was afraid to go to sleep. It seemed to me that, once you closed your eyes, death was there waiting for you. So I had a bedtime ritual. One of my parents would stretch out on the carpet outside my doorway and read. How could a force of evil sneak past my parents and books? I would also listen to musicals on my record player. Somehow I believed that nothing horrible could happen as long as I could hear singing. I imagined that the dancers could successfully vanquish any death demon's agenda.

For this next project, I watched musicals and took notes. Then I heard back from my developmental editor. She advised me to consider taking a mulligan on this draft. I thought about what she said and concluded she was right. So I put aside these notes and contacted a friend who worked at a stable and asked if I could volunteer there that summer. I worked around kids and horses and, when it came time to rewrite the book, I wondered, “Maybe the horses shouldn't talk. Maybe the horses should just be horses.”

Then I remembered Lili, a movie I had watched during my study period. It was a film that I originally saw as a child, something I've always loved, but that isn't really a musical. There are two dance sequences in it, but there is only one song, a great one, in my opinion, “Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo.” It's a coming-of-age story, where a naive young woman comes to a village seeking work. Her father has recently died. She had been told that a friend of her father's, a local baker, would help her, but when she arrives in town, she learns that he has also passed away. She ends up at carnival, smitten with a magician, and working at a puppet show. In her act, she walks up to the booth and the puppets engage her in conversation. It is all spontaneous. Through this work, Lili is able to start making connections with people—the puppeteers, the audience, the carnival community. The puppets provide a way for Lili to grow up. At the close of the film, you see the puppets celebrating the happy ending. This last time I saw it, I had a critical voice come up, “Wait a minute! I know where the puppeteers are right now, and they're not behind this booth!” Then another thought shushed that one, “I do not care. I love these puppets. I'm happy to celebrate with them.” I thought of that film and went back to writing talking horses.

I told a friend about this decision and my process and she said, “Why is it so important to you that the horses talk?” I said, “Because as a child, I talked to animals. I listened to them. They comforted me. They taught me things.” And all of the above is still true. We live now with a trio of cats. We can bore you to tears with their photographs and tell you stories all about them and the cats that came before them. I often still prefer to hang out with animals than to engage with the rest of the world. I feel that they, along with musicals, have made me a better person and a better writer. And you never know where your research will take you!

Judy Blume

So, after a week of walking among the trees, I noticed one afternoon that I had an itch in that my throat that refused to go away. That scratchiness blossomed into a cough that possessed me every time that I wanted to laugh. And then I grew tired. I think the tree on the trail that looks like a witch is cackling about me. Or maybe she's crying. I would really like to see her. But it's not time yet.

I ventured out for breakfast this morning, and I experienced the phenomenon where, after I ate a bite of food, the rest of the food seemed to expand on my plate. I was defeated by a veggie omelette this morning. It's amazing how a cold can kidnap your appetite. Then we went to explore downtown and discovered that many shops are not open on Sundays. That turned out to be just right. I told Mike that I have about as much energy as a car with its gas light on. We did find a wonderful store though, Mountain Home Gifts, where I found a beautiful scarf with hummingbirds on it that I thought would be three times the price. It's soft and comforting and perhaps when I wear it, I can sing like a bird. But right now I'm conked out in bed because I'm inhabited by this grinch of a cold who chuckles malevolently when I look at the sunshine and think wistfully of walks.

During this convalescence, I've been watching Judy Blume's Master Class. As a child, I loved Judy Blume's books. Revisiting her YA novels and discovering her adult work is currently on my to-do list. I gave this class to myself as a Christmas gift, and I've been dipping into it slowly. I'm always a little skeptical about writing classes. Are they going to just teach generalities that will make me yawn? Are they going to insist that they have the answer, which will get my back up, and make it hard for me to listen to anything that they say?

In this case, I'm happy to report that Judy Blume is an inspirational teacher. I have gone through about half of her course now, and I'm so pleased with the experience. She comes across as a no-frills person, free of any pretense, someone who cares passionately about writing, someone who is generous with her time and information, someone who truly is interested in mentoring writers. What she says is deceptively simple, the way all great writing is. She tells us that she keeps a notebook. She shows us pages of scribbles that she writes in it. She says she asks questions about her characters here. This is how she gets to know them. To illustrate her points, she uses moments from her books as examples. In that way, you see her courage. She is willing to return to her memories and write about things that really concerned her as a girl growing up, no holds barred. You can see how much she cares about her characters. Her hands come alive when she begins to talk about them. You can hear the affection that she has for each character in the sound of her voice. Through the course, she demonstrates how important specifics are to a scene and to a character—the grandmother arriving unannounced with a shopping bag from the deli because they can't possibly have good food in New Jersey, the father upstairs, hearing about her arrival, while he goes about brushing his teeth. He thought it was just going to be a regular morning.

It's an old school experience, listening to her. I would be shocked if, in later lessons, she said, “And then I discovered Scrivener, and these are the tricks I learned” or “Now I use voice dictation, and my productivity has been boosted tenfold.” To me, what she is talking about is fundamental care and thoughtfulness and listening that can accompany your creativity. I am so appreciative of the opportunity to spend time with her through these videos.

The Importance of Trees

I've written two novels now, with a third at the copy editor at this moment, and I don't know if I could have done it without trees.

Where we last lived, we lived among redwoods. Here we have pines and cedars all around us. When I look out a window, I look out at trees. They calm me. They inspire me. I feel a connection to them. The first time we came to the house after having signed the lease, I looked around and hugged a few trees.

It's easy to forget about them, even though they're all around me. I can become caught in a whirl of activity, where I become focused on checking off items on my internal “to do” list. But when I'm staring at a computer screen and I feel at a loss, I try to remember to take a moment and gaze at a tree. They're majestic. They've lived a long time. They have stories. They seem to want to tell them. I'm trying to develop tree ears. I want to learn their language. It seems that a lot of it has to do with “doing nothing,” of sitting still, of paying attention and respect. I have learned that much from the trees so far.

I count the trees among my muses. I think they get frustrated with me because I don't pay them the proper respect. Every day, I try to walk among them. I'm trying to get to know them. But I'm also trying to get some exercise. I'm listening to a podcast on marketing as I walk because I want to make sure that I'm “getting things accomplished” in this block of time. I'm hoping that I can start looking up more. I'm hoping I can slowly shut off the noise and get to know them. I think they have a lot to tell me.

Perhaps you now officially think that I'm crazy, or maybe you knew that long ago. Maybe this sparks something in you that you've always known on some level. Are there things in Nature that take you to a deeper place? How do you spend time with them? How do you honor them?