The Taming of Tech

Technology is alternately exhilarating, frightening, time-consuming, or maddening (or any combination), with long tentacles exploring the unknown depths of human possibilities. So many words about tech are written and discussed, with differing opinions and experiences. Since my website is not only for children, parents, grandparents, and teachers, but also a dialogue with and for other children’s writers, I’m finally ready to share my thoughts about how technology is impacting the writing life – mine and everyone else’s.

My last 18 months have been consumed with care for my daughter during her battle with cancer. My blog and website have sat idle from my end, but have received wonderful emails from readers who are helping promote and sell my first nonfiction ebook. In this way, technology of the internet and tablet readers has made possible the connections I would not otherwise have enjoyed. However, increasingly I receive requests for information about how to navigate every aspect of digital publishing, including research and writing, time management, negotiating distribution and royalties, public appearances, and all-important marketing. There is no substitute for dogged research, trial and error, and communication with other writers. Writers today must be adept at the language and requirements of tech, handy with software and hardware, and trouble-shooting glitches. When information gathered from years of experience among other writers yields the same conclusions and recommendations, you’ll know you are on the right track. These contacts can be made at conferences, in writing critique groups, and through email.

Like every innovation, technology has afforded new ways for the greedy and unscrupulous to scam those seeking knowledge. So much of the “how-to” information on the internet is false in suggesting and selling the quick and easy way to publication. The internet is rife with individuals and companies springing up every day, offering direction for pay. Many are simply capitalizing on the rapidly spinning changes in print and digital publishing. For those just beginning to follow the dream of writing, the choices overwhelm rather than inspire. The production of an excellent children’s book is neither quick nor easy. It isn’t a path to fast fame and big bucks, except in instances where celebrities with name recognition can sell anything associated with them. It IS immensely gratifying to hear the words of children and adults who love what they read, learn from it, are inspired to create on their own – and yes, those royalty checks are the icing when they arrive.

Begin at the beginning. That is, plan time to read and write as much as possible. Most of us have family demands and spontaneous unavoidable interruptions which cause us to adjust our writing time. Having a specified time doesn’t work for me. Being organized, with flexibility worked into the schedule, allows me to make the best use of my writing time. Sometimes it’s 4:30 a.m. before the phone starts ringing, and sometimes it’s 11:00 p.m. when things have settled somewhat and I can’t sleep until the ideas which have been tucked into a brain folder can finally be recorded on paper or computer. Sometimes if I’m afraid I’ll lose the “perfect” words, I have to stop the car or pull off the gardening gloves or stick the chicken back into the fridge so I can WRITE. Then I’m calm until I can get back to a quiet place to work on the story. Another thing that works for me is to utilize the technology of my food processor, microwave and convection ovens, freezers, and others to make food for a week so that I’ll have uninterrupted writing time. Tech encompasses so much more than use of the internet, smartphones, and tablets. These devices are wonders our grandparents didn’t even dream, but we can use them in ways which enhance our main purposes, rather than using them in mindless, rote ways which devour our time.

Tech is a temptress, but we can tame her to suit our true needs. My enforced time away from writing during the past months has been an awakening rather than a detriment. Now, I’ve decided to write blogposts only when I feel inspired. I no longer feel an urgency to blog because of self-imposed deadlines. I don’t want my writing to read like a diary or stream-of-consciousness thoughts. It isn’t necessary to write simply to see my words in print. It seems better to give thought for a while before writing and sharing my perspective. The best writing comes from inner peace, however we achieve it.

Like many who are now becoming more vocal, I don’t see the value in leaping among the social networks for hours each day. It will become apparent if any efforts work for you. Don’t allow the frenzy of 21st century technology races to derail your focus. We can’t corral all the wild horses; study and learn to choose the ones with the most promise, and ride them to your own definition of success.

 

 

A Low-Tech Childhood Easter

My brother, David, and I grew up when Easter preparations were more homemade than commercial. Iced Lebkuchen bunnies and chicks (honey and almond cookies) were nestled in baskets ringed with crepe paper ruffles. When we outgrew the riot of Easter egg hunts in her garden, one of our grandmothers raided her sewing box and our Grandfather’s ties for silk to cut, wrap, and dye eggs. Our other grandmother always dyed eggs wrapped in yellow and purple onion peels. They taught us with endless patience, and finally we couldn’t wait to unwrap our surprise masterpieces and compete for the “best egg.” There were days of cooking and baking, and choosing outfits for Easter Sunday church. But there was one thrill at the top of the list.

We could receive a brightly colored chick or duckling for Easter, before the age of political correctness, environmental fanaticism, and all the other recent catch-phrases behind which many masquerade. Looking as though they had just popped forth, sprightly and downy, from dyed eggs of rich purple, fuchsia, turquoise, and green, the chicks regarded us warily through shiny black dots and let out faint cheep-cheeps. As soon as the important choices of which color to claim and a name for each were out of the way, the new babies were gingerly carried home to a waiting pen in the back yard. We watched their daily progress while attending to the necessary aspects of feeding, watering, and changing paper. Caring for them taught us that pets are dependent, but have vastly different needs, one of which was that these little guys needed to be handled a little rather than a lot.

The soft round fluff matured into larger oval bodies with white feathers which would run on spindly three-toed stilts to meet our call and perch on our laps and shoulders. We understood that these pets lacked the devotion of a dog, but did not require the long-term commitment from us. Each animal was to be treated responsibly, was not a disposable toy, and had needs which sometimes required attention before our own. These values used to be called duty, pride of ownership, and delayed gratification – qualities that come in handy growing up and which seem natural when acquired early. We didn’t have to waste a lot of adult time feeling inadequate since we had practiced capability early in life.

Fortunately for our parents, our maternal grandmother raised chickens (as did many other women who began this practice during the Great Depression to help feed their families). We were taught that, just as with wild birds nursed in cardboard boxes from time to time, these little Easter chicks and ducks would eventually need to be freed with others of their kind so that they could lay eggs, have more chicks, and participate in life’s cycles. It was always a greatly anticipated event to pack a picnic and take the ducks to a farm pond or a park where we watched them claim their freedom. There we carried them flapping outstretched wings, melding into a blur of white, gliding effortlessly with others until, at last, squinting, we lost track of just which ones were the new arrivals.

The same was true for our chicks. We would run to our grandmother’s chicken coop and exercise yard for after-school visits until the last color left their fully feathered bodies, making recognition imperceptible. Now they were grown birds with duties of their own, and we were impatient for summer pursuits in our own “secret garden.” We played in sunny patches at the fringes of a huge oak planted from an acorn the day our mother was born. There were searches for that elusive four-leaf clover, pill-bug counting contests, and butterfly catch and release chases.  At last, we’d collapse into shady lawns to search out cloud animals drifting through blue above, our fingers aromatic and sticky with homemade fruit juice popsicles and grass. This was our Walden.

At day’s end, scrubbed and tired under cool white sheets, listening to crickets sawing sounds outside our open window, we were barely aware of a far-off train whistle as our heavy lids gave up their struggle to the peaceful dreams of a tender childhood.