years go by

Today, as I was drawing I found myself staring at my hands. As I looked at them, slightly chapped, with slight scars and wrinkles, I suddenly realized--these are my mother's hands. Through some alchemy of time, my hands and I have become practical and aged.

And these changes fill me with bittersweet thoughts. I remember once, in my youth, thinking that I wanted to be just like my Mom. She could play the piano, wear lipstick, and buy candy any time she wanted to (though she never did). Adults could do that. I thought they were so lucky.

But surprisingly, adulthood has not been full of the simple pleasures I imagined. I’ve buckled under its pressures and it’s left wrinkles that can never be smoothed. And as I observe the invisible transformation of carefree to careworn, I can’t help but wonder-- when did this happen?

And I realize that this has happened when I wasn't looking, as most important things go. It's the moments I miss, the minutes and seconds I cancel or forget that all add up and become what changes me irreversibly.

Unless you believe those Oil of Olay ads.

go fish

Just wanted to let you know I am still being tormented by fish. Even though I am at a loss of what all these fish want from me, they continue to invade my presence. You'd think while I'm biking, I would be safe(because you know how much a fish needs a bicycle). But witness this recent photo of me, taken just a mere five days ago. See anything fishy?



Fish, fish, fish...there's a caldecott somewhere in there. Or a trip to the psychiatrist.

a multicultural author

My first published book was, The Ugly Vegetables, a story about my mother and I and the Chinese vegetables we grew when I was a child. One look at the cover and you can see it’s chock full of the multicultural label.

And that label, as anyone who has experienced it knows, is quite a double-ended sword. However, when it was published I was still a bit green about the genre. So it was with a little surprise when a fellow striving author/illustrator (not a blue rose girl, btw) said to me, “It’s a good that you’re using your culture, that’s what’s getting you published.”

Was it? Suddenly, the validation that I had broken through the publishing wall was marred by the idea that I had somehow squeezed through a back window. Was I only getting published because of my heritage and subject matter? Was I cheating? Was I selling out my culture for a career?

And this fear was something that haunted me. During that first year of publication, I constantly felt ill at ease, as if I was a chicken floating with swimming swans. I hadn’t intended on getting on a platform for diversity in children’s literature—I had just wanted to get a story I loved published. But, without meaning to, my book was seen (by those who read it, the numbers of that is another story) as representative of the underserved Asian-American experience. And who was I to represent that? I felt, in my desperation to get published, I had faked my way in.

So soon after (during the discussions for another project) when an editor asked me to consider changing my Asian girl character to a Caucasian boy, I should’ve felt a sense of satisfaction and relief. The reasons were good— changing the character would make it so that the book wouldn’t be considered multicultural, its sales wouldn’t be limited and I, as an author, wouldn’t be pigeon-holed. But, instead, I was uneasy.

Suddenly, I found myself not caring if I was getting published for the wrong reasons or I wasn’t selling enough books for the right ones. Somehow, given the opportunity to prove I was publishable without my heritage seemed a pale consolation prize when compared to creating a book that was true to my vision, the readers who loved my books and the child I was many years ago.

And it’s not that I’ll never do a book with a Caucasian boy (I would do a book on anything if I felt it was right) or that my books are meant to preach (horrors!). But, I realized that being able to publish my work was a gift not to be squandered on something soulless. And my soul is Asian-American.

So, strangely, it was the unsettling nature of this editor’s request that made me find my balance. It sifted away my fears, the practical reasoning and the backhanded compliments and left me proud of what I am, a multicultural author.

grace and the giant...

Recently, I've been rereading one of my favorite children's books James and the Giant Peach. Since then, I've had many a giant fruit sighting. Perhaps something is calling me to write...

Grace and the Giant Orange? Don't like that? How about...

Grace and the Giant Strawberry?

Too bad I wasn't able to get a photo of the giant pineapple.

tormented by the subconscious

Recently, I have been obsessed by goldfish. For some inexplicable reason, I am drawn to them. I feed them at the lake:



I spend too much money buying decorative paper with goldfish motifs:



And I eat goldfish crackers as if I'm starving:



Usually, this means there is a story idea brewing. The last time this happened was when origami animals seemed to envelop me. They kept appearing and reappearing (even though I couldn’t fold a paper crane to save my life) until I finally gave them their own book in “Lissy’s Friends.”



So now, obviously, there must be goldfish swimming in my subconscious that are demanding to be set free. Of course, I don’t know how to do this. Any ideas? Do you guys ever suffer the torment of an idea wanting to be formed?

rituals

Recently, the Blue Rose Girls asked, "What outside influences do you use to keep you focused?"

One of the thing I’ve always done is make a folder for my work (I posted a photo of a couple of them to the left). I have a penchant for beautiful paper, making folder portfolios gives me an excuse to buy and use it (though I have a lot more paper than my folders need!). Usually I make the folder at the start of a project—as an incentive to fill it! The folder is a visual reminder for me to keep focused.






Here is my most recent folder made for the art of Lissy's Friends! I just had to post it because I love that bunny paper.

my new ride

I've been searching all summer for an activity that I could enjoy and get me out of the house, because nothing makes me grumpier than realizing that a beautiful day has happened and I've spent it indoors at my desk.

However, running has lost it's appeal (in 90 degrees, forget it!) and walking is to slow (all I do is think about how I have to get back and work). So, the new solution was biking...all I needed was to get a bike.

So I did. And I heart it. Not only is it green and pretty, nothing brings back the wonder of childhood as you whiz downhill, with the wind in your hair. Such a simple pleasure, but priceless.

I was a little disappointed with the boring color of my helmet, so Robert put some pink flames on it to jazz it up. He knew then I'd be more likely to wear it. Since I'm not the most accomplished rider, he's afraid I'll crack my skull. I don't have that fear...the only thing I'm scared of is someone will steal my shiny new bike.

up for air

I've been smothered by origami paper and japanese fabric as I paint the pictures for my new book "Lissy's Friends." I'm quite pleased with this particular painting, but of course that is what I say that now. By the time the book comes out, my opinion has changed and nothing seems as enchanting as it once was.

adventures in ordering

It's Alvina's birthday! To celebrate the birthday of my oldest friend (oldest meaning longest friendship, not oldest as in age), I sent her what I've long suspected are the key to a children's book lover's happiness. CUPCAKES!

But, the process of getting sugary sunshine to Alvina was quite harried. What seemed so straightforward: simply call the bakery and place my order became relatively complex--due to a bad phone connection and a foreign baker. Here is an excerpt of my conversation:

"Could you put letters on the cupcakes," I ask, "I'd like it to spell out 'Happy Birthday, Alvina."
"Yes," the man said, "Happy Birthday, Albina."
"No," I say, "Alvina--like Alvin with an 'A'"
"Albina," the man repeats.
"With a 'V'" I say.
"Yes, yes," he says, "With a 'B'"
"No, 'V'" I say, "V like vote."
"Yes," he says, "B, like boat."
"No," I say, "V like very."
"Yes," he says, "B like berry."
"V like venom?" I offer.
"D?" he says, "Denim?"
"vacuum?" I suggest.
"Oh, ok," he says, "I have it 'V' like backroom."

At this point, I decide to take his word for it and trust that a successful transaction has occurred. However, later, I must admit defeat. For instead of being sent to 'Alvina Ling' the cupcakes are sent to 'Albino Lane.' Happy Birthday, Albino!

travel story

During my recent visit to San Diego, I was fortunate to have captured affection the of the cutest 5 year old girl. Zoe, enchanted with my drawing abilities, climbed into my lap during the booksigning (which lasted over an hour)and offered to draw me a picture. I agreed.

"What do you want a picture of?" she asked.
"What do you like to draw?" I asked.
"I like to draw dinosaurs," she told me.
"Okay," I said,"draw me a dinosaur."
"What kind?" she asked.



Now, I have to admit my dinosaurology is a bit hazy. Luckily, I did watch Jurassic Park many years ago so I was able to say the basic T-Rex and Brontosaurus. Being 5 years old, I didn't expect much from Zoe except a very large scribble. However, she quickly proved me wrong--not only drawing a very appealing Brontosaurus but explaining to me that there was no such thing as a Brontosaurus (which I am ashamed to say I didn't believe until I looked it up on the internet later). This continued with drawings of a raptor and a Triceratops. At that point, I had exhausted my Jurassic Park knowledge.



"I don't know any other dinosaurs," I told her.
"Okay," she said, " I'll draw you an allosaurus and then an ankylosaurus. Then I'll draw you a suchomimus."
"Wow," I said, "Do you think you might want to be an archeologist someday?"
"You mean paleontologist," she said, laughing, "not archeologist!"

Oops.