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By Tamara Ellis Smith
for Cynthia Leitich Smith's Cynsations

Space. Not up, as in the final frontier, but between, as in the distance between you and me.

I've been thinking a lot about that kind of space lately, and I've been especially curious about what can happen inside of it. What I've come to believe is that anything can happen—and everything.

I learned this through the process of writing my debut middle grade novel, Another Kind of Hurricane (Schwartz & Wade.) And I am hoping to nurture this through the Another Kind of Hurricane Project, a community service/creative connection project I am offering schools, classrooms, teachers and students.

Space in Another Kind of Hurricane

"Who will get my pair of pants?" my four-year-old son, Luc, asked me.

It was late August 2005, in the days immediately following Hurricane Katrina, and we were dropping off food and clothing at our local police barracks.

Luc's question was a good one. A great one, actually.

It is just under one thousand six hundred miles from where we live in Vermont to New Orleans. That's a lot of space. But at the other side there was a four-year-old kid who would soon be wearing Luc's green pants with the moose on them.

Lucaiah's question connected the two boys. His question—his curiosity about this other kid—made that space become vibrant and alive; filled it with potential…for interaction, for transformation, for growth.

Who will get my pair of pants?

With Isaiah and the marbles he made at a workshop in New Orleans

I couldn't get the question out of my head. So I stumbled my way through the process of learning how to write a novel, this novel – a story that became about a ten-year-old boy named Henry, who lives in Vermont and whose friend dies in a mountain accident, and another ten-year-old boy named Zavion, who lives in New Orleans, and whose house is destroyed in Hurricane Katrina, and the strange, almost magical, way their lives become entwined.

I kind of frantically wrote the novel. Hurricane-style. Fast and furious – ideas whipping around me like wind; words pouring down onto the page in buckets.

I finally finished what I thought was the final draft of Another Kind of Hurricane in 2007. I found my agent in 2008. We sent the novel out that fall, and by the end of 2009…

I had a lot of rejections. I was, I'm going to say it, flooded with them. Something was missing from the story.

In August 2011, almost exactly six years after Hurricane Katrina, Tropical Storm Irene hit Vermont.

Hard.

It literally hit the block I live on. The river we live right by flooded its banks and water poured onto our street from two sides. Water reached the stop sign at the entrance to the block. Sheep and pigs from the farm at the other end of the block had to be rescued in kayaks. Our houses flooded. The basement of my house flooded, destroying our water heater and a pellet stove. We lost our kids' artwork, bins of clothing, and some of my manuscript among other things.

We were extremely lucky—no one was hurt. And I know that what we experienced was only the smallest fraction of what folks went through in New Orleans. But still, living through Irene touched me deeply. But not only in the ways you might expect.

At one point during the process of hauling stuff from our basement, someone gave me a box. I was standing by the dumpster deciding what could be salvaged and what had to be thrown away. (Most everything had to be thrown away.)

I opened the box. It was filled with photographs. For those of you who aren't familiar with these, I'm talking about 35mm, developed film, no saving them on your phone, no posting them on Facebook! A picture of my siblings and me at my wedding, a picture of my sister the first time she made Luc laugh, a picture of a camping trip with friends. The photos were soaking wet and covered in mud. I knew there were dozens of similar boxes, still in the basement. I knew I had to throw them all away. But I couldn't do it. Not yet. So I went back to filling the dumpster. Hours later, as the sun was setting, I took a break and walked to the lawn at the side of my house.

What I saw took my breath away.



People I didn’t know—were saving all of my photos. Someone meticulously peeled them apart, someone rinsed them in a shallow bin of water, and someone hung them on a clothesline to dry.

It was one of those moments that shines a light. Instead of quickly chucking that box of photos, I had accidentally left a space for these people. They became like Lucaiah, my son, asking a question:

What should we do with these photographs? And I became the kid who got the moose pants. Without realizing it, I had allowed there to be that vibrant, full-of-potential space. A space, it turns out, spanning those amazing people and me.

And inside of that space, those people and I—we were forever changed; we became friends.

And all of a sudden I knew. This was the something missing from my novel. Space.

One thousand six hundred miles between Vermont and New Orleans. A space just as far and, it turns out, just as close as between those people and me.

Irene had soaked me with a giant reminder about the power of that kind of space. It's a little like the eye of a hurricane, perhaps. That lull in the middle of the storm. But not really. It's less like an eye and more like a heart. A place that quietly beats with life. Or two hearts, really. The magic of space, for me, is the landscape—or maybe people-scape—where the alchemy of one person connecting with another unfolds.

And now I had to create that – and trust that – as I headed into yet another draft of Another Kind of Hurricane.

Jeanette Winterson said in her book of short stories: In the space between chaos and shape, there was another chance.

After my experience with Irene, I revised my novel more slowly. I took that one thousand six hundred mile journey step by step. Page by page. Person by person.

What did that look like in my life? I spent less time furiously writing and more time watching, walking, talking with people. I was more curious and vulnerable, braver about hanging out with not knowing, braver about letting whatever knowing might come, come organically. It looked like sitting at my friend's kitchen table drinking coffee and telling Henry and Zavion's story. It looked like running on the river trail with my dog before the sun came up not thinking about Henry and Zavion at all. It looked like honoring that vibrant and alive space.

Sometimes it wasn't easy – just ask my friends how fun I was to be with sometimes!—but it faithfully continued, like that photograph saving experience, to take my breath away. And to offer epiphanies and spark creativity and teach me what I believe in.

What did that look like in my novel? I cut a lot of words. I am what my editor would call an emotional maximalist! I know, this might be shocking to you. She's an emotional minimalist, by the way, so we're a good team! This left more room for my readers to bring their own experiences and ideas to the story.

It looked like rearranging the timeline of the story, allowing Henry and Zavion to make wrong choices and take missteps. It looked like Henry being an animal fact fanatic, allowing him to feel something other than guilt, and Zavion finally remembering breaking his mother's coffee cup because of a sensory trigger, the bell-sound of a bracelet. It looked like these two very different boys from two very different places almost meeting, and then meeting. And creating comfort and hope and even healing there.

It isn't always easy for them either, but in that space they are brave enough to be open to, they find reflections of themselves. They find connection. They find friendship.

They find another chance in Another Kind of Hurricane.

Space in Another Kind of Hurricane Project

It is my deep desire to create this kind of space for kids across the country to nurture their own connections, friendships and chances.

Tamara's sons: Jafeth (age 4) and Lucaiah (age 14)

The Another Kind of Hurricane (AKOH) Project (created with Kirsten Cappy and Curious City) empowers classrooms to reach out to schools in need. In Another Kind of Hurricane (Random House), two boys from opposite ends of the country make a connection through a pair of donated blue jeans—a pair of jeans with a marble in the pocket.

The AKOH Project encourages classrooms and schools to identify a school in need, hold a blue jean drive and slip letters and items into the pockets of those jeans. We know that reading fiction builds empathy, and we know that children can feel powerless when disaster strikes in other parts of the world. The AKOH Project hopes to turn empathy into the power to build connections between communities.

Cynsational Notes

Tamara Ellis Smith writes middle grade fiction and picture books. She graduated in 2007 from Vermont College of Fine Art’s MFA program in Writing for Children and Young Adults. Tam’s debut middle grade novel, Another Kind of Hurricane was released by Schwartz & Wade/Random House in July 2015. She is represented by Erin Murphy of Erin Murphy Literary Agency. 

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Tamara Ellis Smith, featured in the August issue of Bartography Express for her debut novel, Another Kind of Hurricane — — has asked me to share this with you. I’m so glad she did, and I’m happy to pass it along: HELPING NEW ORLEANS lowernine.org is a nonprofit organization dedicated to the long-term recovery of […]

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by Tamara Ellis Smith

Here is a joke for you all:

Why did the picture book writer wait and then cross the road?
To get a PiBo Idea!

I do a lot of hanging out within my landscape: small-town rural Vermont. I spend time in the cornfield behind the farm at the end of my block, out on the river trail at the edge of our town park, in the red pine woods, and up the various local mountains nearby. (Okay, maybe not as often up those mountains, but I just climbed one last weekend so it is still fresh in my mind…and in my achy thigh muscles!)

I get much of my inspiration from being inside my landscape.

This has been clear to me for a long time. The natural environment is full of tiny and majestic muses—the trees, rivers, flowers, blades of grass, ferns, rocks, and wind—all of them hold images, voices and ideas within them. I even have a blog about this, called Kissing The Earth, which I created with fellow children’s book writer, Sharry Wright. In it, we explore how landscape inspires writing, and how landscape in its own right can play a vital role in story-telling.

Today, though, I want to share a new revelation about landscape with you all.

So back to that aspiring writer-chicken. The one who waits on one side of the road before crossing. She waits. She sees the blue-purple chicory flowers at her feet. She hears a pair of squirrels chattering in the tree above her. She sniffs in—do chickens even sniff?—the rich, earthy smell of the woods just across the road.

As we continue on with this amazing PiBoIdMo challenge, I want to urge you to cultivate the art of waiting. And specifically, to cultivate the art of waiting within a landscape. As I said earlier, I truly believe that the trees, rivers, flowers, blades of grass, ferns, rocks and wind all hold stories within their ancient and organic roots and leaves and layers and flow. But in order to be privy to those stories, we have to be willing to create a space for them. And that’s where the waiting comes in. Waiting creates that space—a time-space, a physical-space, and a magic-space—and it is within that space that the alchemy of our imaginations and the earth’s secrets come together. Sparks fly, bubbles rise, and the best—oh the best!—ideas burst forth.

Ideas that feel brand spanking new and inevitable all at the same time.

In practical terms, I am talking about a change in perspective. An openness. And the search for the link between the child-within and the child-like quality of the story. Sometimes when I am mulling over an idea for a picture book, or a draft that isn’t quite working, or staring at a blank page all it takes is being quiet and still somewhere outside to make all of that shift. The experience of waiting within the landscape really can bring forth ideas. It also re-ignites that incredible sense of wonder and possibility that playing outside stirred up in us when we were children. And it also creates a sense of gratitude—for the world, for yourself, and for the way we are all connected.

Won’t you join me in the wide and wonderful Out There?

Tamara Ellis Smith has written a middle grade novel and several picture books, all pre-published. Her picture book manuscript, Milo’s World, was a finalist in the 2006 W.I.N. competition. Her middle grade novel won an honorable mention in the 2008 PEN New England Discovery Awards and was a runner up for the 2008 SCBWI Works-In-Progress grant. Tamara is represented by Erin Murphy of Erin Murphy Literacy Agency. You can learn more about her at tamaraellissmith.com and can read more about landsca

10 Comments on PiBoIdMo Day 5: Tamara Ellis Smith Waits Before Crossing the Road, last added: 11/5/2011

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tinamcho said, on 11/4/2011 11:54:00 PM

Beautiful imagery, Tamara! And great joke! I will be patient and listen to nature today! Thanks for your post.

Kayleen West said, on 11/5/2011 3:30:00 AM

I am loving this challenge so far and amazed with the ideas that are prompted from keeping it a priority. All those little gems that would never be without doing something like this.

I have a reminder on my Outlook and that is making sure I do it.

Natalie Dias Lorenzi said, on 11/5/2011 4:09:00 AM

A lovely reminder, Tam, to get out and smell the autumn leaves! This time of year is full of inspiration–thanks for reminding me.

sabrina said, on 11/5/2011 4:22:00 AM

I understand what you mean about that waiting, Tamara. I live in the city, so no rural landscapes for me, but it works just the same. Sometimes, I will be standing, waiting to cross the roads, and suddenly a random thought comes into my head, or someone passes me with a smell or a perfume or a color, and suddenly i’m somewhere totally different in my head.
Maybe it’s not really waiting, but the ability to let time stand still for a (story) life time

Lori Mozdzierz said, on 11/5/2011 4:48:00 AM

Tamara, even though we know to get up and out, stop, look, and listen, is great medicine for the creative mind, sometimes life’s happenings seem to obsorb our energies. Thank you for the reminder to walk through that door and into the nature of who we writers are . . . creators of alternate life . . . kidslit.

Your Oct 2009 interview The Vibrant Triangle (parts 1 &2) with Liz Staton at Liz in Ink is outstanding!! (Fellow PiBoIdMo-ers, if you haven’t read it yet or haven’t in awhile, it’s a must read!)

From The Vibrant Triangle 2:
“I came up with four characteristics that I think truly do make a picture book stand out. Those are:

—Spare and Purposeful Language helping to create Plot

—Limited Words on the Page helping to create an Emotional Experience

—Using Narrative Structure to Extend the Story Beyond itself (a life off of the page)

—Narrative as Intuitive Stepping Stone for Learning about the World”

Hear, hear, Tamara ;D

Catherine Johnson said, on 11/5/2011 4:49:00 AM

This is great for me, I’m tree crazy. The sunrise through the trees in the park yesterday was stunning. I often get ideas from watching branches swaying. Or at least empty my head ready for an idea. Thanks ladies.

Laura said, on 11/5/2011 5:17:00 AM

Tamara,

The idea of waiting is so important. I find inspiration when I take the pressure off of “getting that idea NOW” and just breathing deeply and noticing the beautiful details of life. The frost on a fallen oak leaf, the spider web that mysteriously appears overnight, the fox my daughter and I notice on our walk to school through the woods – all these provide richness to life, which in turn, inspire rich writing.

Thanks for the reminder,

Laura

Robyn Campbell said, on 11/5/2011 5:28:00 AM

I live on a farm and I head down to the barn to find ideas or to write. The chickens cackling, the horses munching on grass or hay or galloping by the barn, the cats meowing, the dog, well being a dog, all these sounds give me inspiration. And you don’t have to live on a farm to have this. Ideas are everywhere in nature wherever that nature is. Waiting is a fantastic concept. *wink* Just wait. And see. Really see. Smell, and listen. Touch something.

Thank you Tamara! *waving*

karen said, on 11/5/2011 5:35:00 AM

Thank you, Tamara!

Meagan Healy said, on 11/5/2011 5:40:00 AM

Beautiful post! I find that nature inspires me as well. The reminder to “wait” and be open to the space around you is a good one! I will often describe the visual and forget about the other senses, which are just as important!

Thank you for your post!
Cheers,
Meagan Healy

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