Author: Alexandra Alessandri

Teller of tales. 🇨🇴🇺🇸 Children's Author. Poet. Educator. Next: The Enchanted Life of Valentina Mejía (‘23) & Lupita's Hurricane Palomitas (‘24). Rep: Deborah Warren @EastWestLit
Blog, Ramblings

Valentine’s Day – an Afterthought

Alexandra Alessandri

I had mighty and noble intentions to blog on Valentine’s Day. Not only because it’s a, well, hallmark holiday or because it seemed fitting, but because it was the fourth anniversary of my dad’s death. The day started and picked up speed, and before I knew it, it was bed time, I was exhausted, and I was void of words. So I didn’t blog.

But today is a new day and one that is not laden with to-do’s (or rather, one in which I can briefly ignore the growing to-do list).

If I’m honest with myself, I just wasn’t feeling Vday this year. I can’t remember if I felt this way last year (or the year before, or the year before that…), but with me being amidst a flare, and with the pain and exhaustion that comes with it, I just wasn’t feeling well enough to care this year. Then there was the fact that Vday fell on a Tuesday (a teaching day), we had an appointment to file our taxes after work, and I was remembering the aftermath of my dad’s death four years go. That doesn’t exactly spell out romance.

Still, my son was excited and he kept counting down until Vday. The night before, my husband helped him fill out Vday Transformer cards and pack small, pink, white and silver wrapped chocolate nuggets for his classmates. For us, he wrote his name and learned how to draw hearts–something he was extremely proud of!–and kept giggling as we had him write and draw on the other’s card. It made me smile. We had also bought him a small token, a “Green Power” (translated: Green Lantern) blanket. And even though the cards and chocolates didn’t quite work out (another post for another day, I guess), he still had a sweet day.

Today, when my husband picked up our son (L) from school, the kids were resting on the carpet. L was lying next to one of the little girls he likes (they’re all 4/5). According to the teacher, L was caressing her face and they were saying to each other: “From my heart to yours.” It’s one of those moments (for all moms, I think) that is both endearing and frightening as I get a flash to his future, teenage self when he falls in love for the first time (and, conversely, when he gets his heart broken for the first time). The sweetness of that gesture, though, full of innocence, had his teacher and us saying, “Awwwww.” It reminded me of how sweet and caring and loving my son is, traits that I absolutely love. He’s full of hugs and I-love-you’s and sweet kisses–and I hope he never changes.

Blog, Ramblings

Blessed

Alexandra Alessandri

There are days when a simple image stays lodged in the depths of your consciousness, serving as a reminder that you are blessed beyond measure.

Yesterday, on my way to pick up my son from school, I was stopped at a light. I had Radio Disney on, only not so loud because I had a headache, and I had the opposite of a productive day because I had felt crummy all day. Headache, nausea, and fatigue. All this was on my mind as I looked up and saw someone weaving through the parked cars, asking for money.

Asking for money isn’t new at the intersections here. If it’s not the Homeless Voice, it’s an increasing number of people, some homeless, some not, asking for money. Kids in some sport raising money for an upcoming trip. Men in their thirties or forties, with signs that read “Will Work for Food,” or women, apparent immigrants, also with signs though their stories differ. I’ve seen the same women and men at different intersections throughout the city. And I’ve seen the same man at the same intersection, day after day.

Yesterday, though, I saw someone I hadn’t seen before. He was in his fifties or sixties, perhaps. Wrinkled white skin, too pale, too patchy. He had a cardboard sign hanging from his neck that covered his entire upper body: “Cancer Survivor. Need Help.” I noticed the sign first. It was different. And then I noticed his face: he was missing a nose. Or, rather, where his nose should’ve been was a gaping, red hole. I probably gasped, and I tried not to stare. But, me impacto. My health problems are nothing, nothing, compared to his. I was humbled.

The light turned green and slowly, we all moved forward, onto our lives, leaving behind the smiling, nose-less man with the cardboard sign.

Blog, Ramblings, Writing

Productive Day

Alexandra Alessandri

It’s late and I’m exhausted, but it’s been quite a productive day for writing! Days like this make me happy.

I worked on my novel project, which I had slightly neglected over the last three weeks. I mean, I still scribbled notes here and there, but I hadn’t done any serious writing for it. Today I did, in part thanks to the start of the Novel II class I’m taking through UCLA’s Writers’ Extension, and in part thanks to my friend who has recently completed her manuscript for a collection of poems (or a novel-in-verse). I am feeling a little better, and writing + incense + Adele = a very happy and relaxed me. It’s just the way it is.

I also revised one of the leveled readers I was working on (seems like forever!) using the guidelines I got from the Leveled Reader Intensive at the SCBWI Miami Conference. I have one other leveled reader that is practically finished, and I want to work on a third. I started the cover letter (shudder – I hate those!) so at least I feel like I’m one step closer to sending that out.

Progress!

So now to sleep because I’m falling asleep at the keyboard and have stopped being useful.

Blog, Health, Ramblings

Patchwork

Alexandra Alessandri

The problem with illness is that it can threaten to demoralize you, picking you apart at the seams, unravelling you until all that’s left is a ghost of who you once were.

At least that’s how, on the worst days, I feel. Like now. Like yesterday. When every part of me hurts and when I feel no one understands, not even my husband, because it hurts and all I want to do is stop and rest and crawl into a corner, away from everyone, and cry. And stop hurting.

It’s not just the pain that’s debilitating. There’s a stronger emotional and psychological repercussion at play, and anyone who’s experienced chronic pain, fatigue or illness will probably agree with this. At its worst, I feel like a failure. I can’t go to my son’s PTA meetings or run around with my son (I’m a horrible mother). I can’t go to work or head a student club (I’m no good as a teacher, colleague, worker). I can’t write (I’m never going to be considered a serious writer). I can’t… well, you get the picture. Consciously, I KNOW this is bullshit. It’s but a moment in time. It will get better; I will do those things, even if a little slower. But there’s a moment when I’m deep in despair and pain that I almost feel as if this illness is taking over. It’s all I can do to articulate that I can’t do this, that I’m drowning because of all the responsibilities which, though normal, seem great when everything hurts and it’s all I can do to get out of bed. And I collapse into a heap of tears and frustration and anger. And I sleep, restless. It’s a vicious cycle of pain and guilt and frustration.

The cycle breaks, though. It takes lots of deep breathing and crying and self-talking and sometimes meds to get back into a place that, though not as hopeful or optimistic as when I’m in remission, is enough that I can think of the cycle of the disease, that if I’m in a flare, with time (though how much time is never a given) I will go back to feeling better. That it’s possible to feel better again.

It’s that thread of silver that starts getting me back together, stitching me up slowly so that I can feel almost whole again.

Blog, Ramblings

Happy Birthday, Papi

Alexandra Alessandri

Today is my father’s birthday. Or, rather, it would’ve been if he were still alive. He’d be turning 82.

Next month, on Valentine’s day, will be the fourth anniversary of his passing. Four years. My son’s age–he was six months when my father left this world of conflict and pain and frustration.

My father wasn’t one to celebrate birthdays. He never really saw the need. In fact, one of his favorite anecdotes, about birthdays, went something like this: “When I was growing up, I never had parties or anything of the like. No. It was simple. I needed pants, so for my birthday, I got pants.” I wish I could remember the exact way his words that left his mouth, but now the memory melts into the idea of what he said: no parties, just pants.

That never stopped me, though. I do like parties and celebrating–always have. So on his birthday, I would either make him a card or I would spend hours perusing the greeting card sections at Hallmark (or Publix or Eckerds, now CVS), and then I would pen what I thought was a beautifully written sentiment. And it usually was, except it was in Spanish, and my Spanish, though good, wasn’t perfect. When I gave him the card on his birthday, then, I grew accustomed to him reading it, pen in hand, correcting my grammar in the greeting card. I have to say, though, it stung a little, and sometimes, I would fight the tears that threatened to overcome my eyes. It was a card, damnit! I’d think. Just a card. I wanted him to read past the errors (which weren’t that many!) and get to what I wanted him to know: that despite the differences and hardships and fights, I still loved him.

But love, for my dad, was different. I realize that now.

For gifts, oh that was difficult. What do you get a man who doesn’t want anything? The only thing he wanted were cigarettes–Winston ones in the red and white box. Some birthdays, that’s what he’d get. He’d already made it clear he wasn’t going to stop smoking. Not after he went months without smoking, after his leg was amputated (is it weird that I can’t remember which one right now?) and he was in temporary hospice. Not after all his doctors kept regañandolo because he was slowly killing himself. No, he wasn’t going to stop smoking. He was a man of stories, anecdotes to make his point. So for this he’d remind us that when his mother, my grandmother, was dying of breast cancer, and all she wanted was a cigarette, he fought everyone to give her one last “gusto”– “She was dying anyway; who are we to deny the dying?” That was his motto, I guess, and since, in his mind he was dying (though his “dying” lasted well over a decade), he felt we should heed his argument without question. So on his birthdays, we would sometimes relent and wrap up a box of Winston cigarettes in bright birthday wrapping paper, place a big bow on it, and present it as his birthday present. Those were his happier birthdays, I think, and in his later years would elicit a series of chuckles as he put on his shirt, grabbed one of the cigarettes and his lighter, and rolled outside of the apartment to smoke his birthday gift.

I think of him often. Not only as a daughter thinking about her dad, but as a kindred spirit who is just beginning to understand the workings of that man. I didn’t understand while he was living; I didn’t understand when, as a teenager, I saw him break things and scream and make my mom cry. I didn’t understand his pain and in not understanding, I couldn’t help him. My mom, I think, understood him. I am only just beginning to understand as I tread through my own journey of illness. And I wish so many times he were still alive and I could ask him questions. I miss him.

So happy birthday, Papi. We love you.

Blog, Writing

Eleven Things I’ve Learned about Writing

Alexandra Alessandri

Throughout the last few years, I’ve been learning a lot. I’ve swallowed up pride, rolled up my sleeves, and immersed myself into the writing world, and after this year’s SCBWI Miami Conference, I thought I’d make a list of these “things” I’ve learned.

1. Write. This is a no brainer, but years ago, I spent so much time dreaming about writing and talking about writing without actually doing the writing. I came up with ideas and concepts and characters, but it all stayed in ideas, concepts and characters. Nothing got done. I wrote about other things, or I wrote in other ways, but I didn’t write my ideas, concepts, and characters into existence. I let them dissipate. Now, I sit my butt down and write. I make time for writing, somehow, someway, because it’s important. The more I write, the better I get.

2. Take a leap of faith. If I hadn’t taken a leap of faith this past summer, when registering for the children’s writing workshop through UCLA, I wouldn’t have been exposed to this amazing world of children’s writing (including YA), and I wouldn’t have realized how much I enjoy writing for this audience.

3. Revise. This should be another no-brainer, but I’ve only recently really learned how to revise. I mean really revise a creative work. The cyclical process of prewriting, writing and rewriting is crucial, indispensable. Like I tell my students, you can’t just sit down and write something and expect it to be great. It doesn’t happen. It can be good, even really good, but for it to be just right, you have to work it and rework it, like a piece of wet clay, until it takes on the desired shape. I’m heeding my own advice.

4. Be ready to work. It takes work, hard work, to write a story. It’s amazing work, yes. I love each “aha!” moment and I feel that giddiness and awe that comes when the characters and their stories fall into place. I love the feeling of realization that comes when a part of the plot or scene comes full circle and I fully understand what the character was trying to tell me. It’s exciting and absolutely rewarding. But it’s also a lot of hard work. For every “aha” moment, there are fifteen frustrating periods where I don’t know what the hell I’m doing or where I’m going with this or why I’m even bothering. (Okay, so I’m giving some arbitrary numbers here, but you get my point. Often, there are more frustrating moments than enlightened ones, but the enlightened ones make it all worth it.)

5. Following #4 above, know that if you want to write great literature, you’re going to have to put in grueling work. E.B.Lewis said something at the conference that resonated with me: we live in a society where we want straight A’s, but only want to do C work. This is true beyond the academic world (where I see it every day with students); this is true in everything we do, including writing. If we want something great, we’re going to have to put in a great amount of work.

6. Don’t give up. Kathryn Stockett, who wrote The Help, received 60 rejections before getting her book published. Jay Asher, who wrote Thirteen Reasons Why, was rejected twelve times and was close to giving up, but he didn’t. You get the idea. Keep at it. Sure, rejections hurt (I should know!), but they help us become better writers. Every time I receive a rejection, I take another look at my MS (or essay or short story or whatever it was that I submitted) and I revise. And I keep going. Eventually, something’s gotta give, right? Right.

7. Share your work. Really. You need other eyes to see your words and other ears to listen to your words. We don’t live in a bubble, so don’t write in one. One of the ways to improve is to share what we’ve written with others. In a class/workshop. In a critique group. To friends who like to read (and who can give good feedback, not just, “oh I like this” or “this sucks”). I did this for the first time (since I was an undergrad) four years ago, when I raised my hand in a memoir writing workshop and read aloud, in a tremulous voice, what I had written. It was like exposing my soul, but it was good. It helped. And now, whenever I can, I share my work. It makes me a better writer.

8. Read your work aloud. Really. Listen to how your words sound. I give my students this advice when writing academic essays, but the same is true for creative writing. When you read aloud, you catch glitches, awkward phrasing, mistakes. It’s a great tool for revising your work. If you can read it to someone (see #7 above), even better. I do this all the time.

9. Learn to take criticism. The biggest problem with new/some writers (and I’ve been here) is that they think their writing’s the best thing since, well, writing. They think they’ve got it right every time and that there’s little room for improvement. So when they go to a conference or  take a class, and they share their work, they get downright angry when someone else tells them their work isn’t that great and, in fact, it kind of sucks (okay, not in so many words). But the reality is that I was this delusional writer. I hated criticism because I just wanted everyone to tell me how great my writing was. That’s no help at all! If I want to get better, I need people to tell me what’s not working so I can improve it. Of course, it’s also useful to know what does work so I can keep doing that, but I’ve definitely learned to take criticism (even brutal criticism).

10. Go to conferences, join organizations, and know the market. If you want to be a published writer, you have to know what’s out there. If funding permits, go to conferences and join organizations. They are direct links to craft and market and networking. And you have to know what’s out there in the genre in which you’re writing. I’ve done all of this, and I keep doing it. I keep attending conferences and I’m joining organizations and critique groups. I’m researching the market. I go online, read blogs by agents and editors in the genre’s I’m writing.

11. Read. This is a no brainer, and it always surprises me when I hear writers say they don’t read. For me, reading and writing have a direct correlation. You have to be an avid reader to be a good writer. Reading exposes you to other voices, techniques, styles, and skills that you might otherwise ignore. And this is especially important if you’re starting out and you’re still trying to figure out your voice and style. I started as a reader, and I will forever be a reader.

Blog, Writing

SCBWI Conference: Love

Alexandra Alessandri

The thing I love about writing conferences is they provide opportunity–opportunity to improve skills, to network, to meet new people, and to showcase your writing. We’re a group of like-minded individuals, at different points in this writing and publishing game, coming together to talk about the craft and the business.  It’s wonderful! I usually leave these conferences inspired, ready to re-immerse myself into my project at hand.

This has been true in all the writing conferences I’ve attended, but it’s felt even stronger this time at the SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators) Miami 2012 Conference. Perhaps it’s because I have specific projects in mind, projects to which I’m totally and completely devoted and about which I’m totally and completely obsessed. Or maybe it’s because, like a fellow conference-goer said, anyone who’s writing for kids has to have a more nurturing composition. Or maybe it was because of the fabulous and inspiring line up of authors, editors, and agents. But it was fabulous. The intensive for Leveled/Early Readers, led by Bonnie Bader and Natalie Lescroart, was informative and it cemented my resolution in finishing/polishing my leveled reader MS. I also got some ideas for new stories, so I’m eagerly sketching outlines and notes. To all those who think writing early/leveled readers (especially the first level) is easy: it’s not!

I also loved Jill Corcoran. I came to her blog this past summer thanks to Catherine Ipcizade (who, I might add, is fabulous. She’s the reason why I’m now in children’s writing!) during a children’s writing workshop I took through UCLA Extension Writers’ Program (which, I might add, was also fabulous. Another post for another time.) Anyway, back to Jill Corcoran–her workshop was great and it reiterated concepts I’ve heard before while giving me new “food for thought.” It actually helped to take a look at my current beginning (for my YA project) and realize, I’m not beginning in the right place! I wasn’t brave enough to read aloud today (or rather, by the time I worked up the courage, it was too late), but hearing her lecture and comments was enlightening.

We also got inspirational talks from authors, agents and editors, and I made some new contacts and met some charming new people.

I plan on going to as many of these conferences as I can–it was that good.

Blog, Health, Ramblings

Rough Start

Alexandra Alessandri

At the risk of sounding like a whining child, this sucks. This feeling of being crippled by pain because of stress or because of an emotional upset. I mean, really, am I supposed to live, from now on, completely void of stress and anger? I don’t think that’s possible.

The start of the term has brought with it that familiar deep throbbing in my bones and joints, and I’m only three days into the term.

Consciously, I know there might be a number of factors at work here. It’s the first week back, which is always the toughest as my body and mind transition from a period of rest to a period of constant activity. Then, there was that dispute I had with my son’s teacher, which thoroughly pissed me off and left me steaming since Wednesday. And of course, there’s t nervousness that comes with first days of class; though I’m not plagued with nightmares like I was when I started teaching, my heart still quickens, my palms still sweat, and I swear my voice still shakes a teeny tiny bit. In the back of my mind, I also consider the fact I’m not on the corticosteroid anymore, leaving me easy prey to the fibromyalgia and UCTD.

Regardless, I know this pain all too well. And it sucks.

But it’s curious; something I find myself thinking now is that I don’t want to give in. I liked feeling well enough this past term (after, of course, the first week passed). And dammit I’m going to feel well. I’m hoping once this next week is over, my body will begin to ease out of the pain. Without the corticosteroid. With rest. I can’t do it without rest, that’s for sure, but I think (I hope?) I can do it without more drugs.

Last year ended really well; I guess I was hoping to start 2012 the same way: feeling well.

Blog, Ramblings, Writing

Writing Warm-Up

Alexandra Alessandri

Here’s the thing about writing: it really is something you need to do every day. Or, if not every day, then regularly and consistently. If you don’t, you begin to rust on the sides, to stiffen, so that when you do sit down and write again, each word comes out painfully slow with a silent umph as your mind adjusts.

At least, that’s how I’m feeling right now, and really, I’ve only had a small hiatus of about two weeks.

When classes ended, I cheered because I was going to finally have some consistent writing time during the week my son was still in school, before we left to Disney, before Christmas came, before the craziness of the holidays consumed me. And even in that craziness, I had been sure, so sure, that I’d get in some writing time. Unfortunately, life happened. My hubby was off and we had Christmas shopping left to do (which I will never again leave to the last minute–please hit me if I do). That week, I only had one day, about four/five hours, for writing, and those hours were spent on revising one leveled reader draft and writing another leveled-reader. I didn’t work on my novel. The following week, when we went to Disney, I didn’t write. I took notes in my notebook about an amazing restaurant we went to for a blog I wanted to write, but that’s about it. I haven’t written said blog. Last week, I had to stay up for a couple of hours and I did finally work on my novel. I reworked some of the scenes into chapters, but then exhaustion got the best of me and I had to put that down. And I haven’t been able to completely shake the exhaustion and cloud that have moved in on me.

So today, I said enough’s enough. I need to write. I’ve come upstairs, closed myself in my writing room, lit some incense, plugged in the ear phones, and poised myself to write. Instead of the words flowing out easily, though, I sat staring at the screen. What the hell do I write? The words didn’t come. I realized my mind is rusty, though I’m not sure if it’s because of the cloud that’s still hanging around or if it’s because of the small lapse in writing over the past couple of weeks. I don’t like it. And I hear the sage advice I’ve received about writing: just keep writing, every day, something.

So here I am, writing something, warming up. Please excuse the sweat marks as I get myself back in gear.

Blog, Ramblings, Writing

Christmas Eve Thoughts

Alexandra Alessandri

There’s nothing better than spending Christmas Eve with family, except maybe spending it with family you don’t see often, along with those you see every day, in a manner that reminds you of your childhood.

I was blessed to have that kind of Christmas Eve.

We drove the almost-two-hour trek to my cousin’s house where this year’s celebration was being held. Making this Christmas that more special was the fact that family from Colombia and Germany were joining us. Though we were missing some family, this was the largest gathering we’d had in a while! I sat with my cousins, and we started with the “Remember when?” We giggled and laughed, and I swear time shifted and we were teenagers again, at my aunt’s townhouse, when she lived in Miami, sitting in the front steps and talking about boys.

Once everyone was there, we started novena. Colombians partake in novenas, where, for the nine days leading up to the birth of El Nino Dios on Christmas Day, we gather with family, sing villancicos (Christmas songs), and recall the story of the birth of Christ. The last of the novenas is read on Christmas Eve. Our family is no exception, and though I might not hold onto that tradition every day, I do try to make at least a few novenas, especially if there will be a large group. They’re one of my favorite traditions. This year’s Christmas Eve novena, though, was even more special. My uncles took out their guitars, my aunt passed out the maracas, panderetas, and other noise makers, and the signing commenced. We sand Tutaina, Los Peces en el Rio, Antontiruliroliro, A la Nanita Nana. We ate bunuelos, natilla, empanadas and arroz con leche. Then we passed around the book with the novena readings and those of us brave enough to trying out our rusty Spanish read our part. When it all ended, my aunt read some thoughts she’d penned earlier that day, about love, and family, and their mother (my grandmother) celebrating with us in spirit, and about never forgetting the love that was promised with the birth of El Nino Dios. It was beautiful, and most of us cried. Good crying. We were happy and blessed because we were together.

Isn’t that what Christmas is about? About the love that began because God sent his only Son to Earth because he LOVED us?

And so what if Christmas really didn’t happen on December 25. So what if the celebrating straddles the solemn and the festive. It’s a time to rejoice and love!

Yesterday, I was blessed because it was a day spent with family, first my husband’s, then my own. In each of these homes, the promise of family and love was present, and we enjoyed something more precious than any tangible gift can provide: we enjoyed each other and the gift of family, and love.

It’s days (and nights) like yesterday, when family comes together, that I’m reminded family is the thread that holds our past, our present, and our future together. I am grateful and blessed to have such an amazing family, immediate and extended.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!