“So, can God die?”

The kindergartner gazed up at me earnestly, blonde sticks of hair falling in her eyes.

I instantly thought of my copy of The Golden Compass sitting on a shelf behind her, waiting with my other things until I had finished my volunteer duty for the day. Had she seen it, prompting the question? I didn’t think so.

“No,” I said, with absolute conviction. “God cannot die. He’s not a human being like us.”

My own daughter Elizabeth looked up from her drawing. “Yes he can! Jesus died on the cross!”

I picked up the crayons scattered across the desk, buying time. “Jesus is the son of God, and he rose again three days later. God is not something that dies in the way we think of dying, that we’re not walking around and talking anymore.”

The little girl persisted. “So can you kill God?”

“Nope,” I said. “It’s the same thing. You can stop believing in God. But he doesn’t die to everyone else just because you change.”

The lights flickered. The teacher got their attention to wash their hands for lunch. Whew.

I collected my copy of the much-debated novel as I followed them down the halls. My own church had sent a note home from Sunday School warning parents not to take children to see the movie, that our world was complicated enough without making them doubt their religion.

I couldn’t have disagreed more, but I didn’t speak up or make a fuss about it. She had every right to send the letter out. And I had every right to ignore it. To me, that little girl asking me the question, whether born of rumors about the book or her own burgeoning curiosity, is the best thing that can happen. Instead of someone saying, “Believe this and ignore anything else,” I got to say, “Here’s why I believe this.”

I didn’t pick up the book over the controversy, which got increasingly convoluted last holiday season as the movie hit theaters, but because a writer friend of mine felt Lyra, the main character, was spunky and troubled in ways that paralleled the main character of my middle grade novel Jinnie Wishmaker. I haven’t read enough of the book to draw any conclusions on either its anti-religious content or the similarity in protagonist, but I’m sufficiently pulled into the story to keep going. That’s what counts to me.

The book drew more comments at the third grade lunch. The boys were all clamoring to say how far into the series they were. Most had read at least Compass, others were two or three books in. All had read the entire Harry Potter series.

These kids are eight and nine years old. I surged with pride at them and their willingness to devour books. These were smart, athletic, active boys, and still, they loved to read.

We compared thoughts about numerous books and switched to movies. I learned the little darlings were unabashed liars, all insisting they had seen horror films such as The Grudge, The Ring, and Descent. They were a little muddy on details, but I didn’t call them out on it. I was impressed by their ability to wing it. Emily did not seem embarrassed that her mother had such a camaraderie with her classmates instead of the more appropriate “distant smiling mother” that most kids favor. She didn’t really take part in the conversation, but remained happy and upbeat throughout.

I walked away realizing my life was always backwards. As a kid, I related better to grown ups, who were less likely to act impulsively and, I felt, somewhat irrationally. Now in my thirties, I find I enjoy very much the conversations with kids precisely because they are so impulsive and unexpected.

Since I’ve touched on the subject of challenged books, I’m also going to take a moment to support John Green’s young adult book Looking for Alaska. His video on the controversy is dead-on.

I pulled an all-nighter trying to get through yet another hard-core edit of my middle grade novel Jinnie Wishmaker. I sat down with my laptop and a Dr. Pepper at 10 p.m. and started working. I finished about noon today (I did sleep a couple hours in there) with a pretty solid draft to give to a couple of my critique buddies.

I edit best in one uninterrupted stream, especially when I’m looking, as I was last night, for overarching plot problems and characterization flaws. The book is sitting at 36,000 words, and I’m feeling concern about the plot. Despite reading a number of middle grade books that were character-driven, and feeling I had written one, I found myself inevitably drawn into the whole issue of good versus evil and how this battle manifests in everyday life. And this tends to push into action.

One of the central issues in this book is that good can never and should never totally abolish evil. If we did so, because of how humans are, the least good would become the new evil, and the battle would simply begin anew. I don’t think we would know about light without also seeing darkness. So the kids in the book, as they discover their powers, find that an equal and opposite dark force is also born.

This goes right down to the issue of their individual problems and abilities. Jinnie is learning disabled, unable to read on grade level, and really struggling in her mainstreamed academics. Maddy and Grace are the most unexpected twins ever, both labeled emotionally disturbed. Marcus is a high functioning autistic boy, a math and engineering genius who can’t read three-letter words.

But all these kids, as they deal with their challenges, find their powers exist specifically to balance their weaknesses. Without their problems, they would never have even gotten a shot at something so amazing, magical, and extraordinary.

I’ve had a wonderful time with the book. The novels that have been very influential to me so far have been:

Matilda by Roald Dahl. The idea that one little girl can find a touch of magic to help her deal with a difficult world is exactly the initial theme I worked with.

Summer of the Swans by Betsy Byars. Purely character driven, the emotional force of this beautifully crafted book reminds me that we can learn so much by getting deeply inside another person as they work through life changes.

Higher Power of Lucky  by Susan Patron. Sweetness and sentimentality can be done with humor and cleverness.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl. Hyperbole is fun! And the magic in our world can be taken literally by children even if it is explained away by adults.

Children of the Lamp  by PB Kerr. I was so delighted to see his theory of homeostasis, the balance of evil and good djinn. I completely agree with him on this issue and will take it many steps further should I end up writing a series myself.

Pictures of Hollis Woods by Patricia Reilly Giff. I’m reminded that just because I’m writing for children doesn’t mean I can’t pause, slow down, and describe beautiful scenes.

I bought quite a few more books at the book fair at Emily’s elementary, and I’m going to the library tomorrow to pick up some of the recommendations from blog readers. (You can still leave some there–I’ll get them.)

I am very excited!

I have always seen symbols in things. Often I am wrong about them, but at the time they make sense, and serve their purpose.

Yesterday my day got off kilter when I dashed across town to help a friend find her passport so she could get to an interview and fill out her I-9 for a job. (We found it after an hour-long search–where? Under a saddle!) To get there, I had skuttled my plans to make a couple minor changes to a book I wrote many years ago and ship it off to a contest.

The book has long lain dormant. A writer friend told me about a novel contest. As I looked over the rules, I realized they also took Creative Nonfiction/Memoir. I remembered this book, which is about my first year teaching in Houston, and decided to submit it since the deadline was so close and it had been ready for years.

I got delayed by the passport search, and at the end of the day had to quickly make the changes and toss the pages in a too-big manuscript box since I didn’t have time to track down something more its size. I had planned to put the box inside a shipping envelope and run it to the after-hours postal machine.

But the box didn’t fit in my envelopes. It was too large by a quarter inch.

So I hunted through the racks in the post office self service room, trying to find a bigger envelope. They had nothing. I was late to a meeting already. I figured I just wouldn’t ship it after all. A man walked in and I moved over to a table covered with scraps left from someone hurriedly tugging the backing off sticky labels. “Is the machine working?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t even tried it.”

“Oh. It’s been broken for two days. All the machines have been.” He gestured around to the stamp machines, all, I now realized, had “Out of Order” signs on them.

“I doubt they’d fix one and not the others,” he said and walked back out.

Great. Even if I DID have an envelope that fit, I still couldn’t have shipped it.

I was bothered by all the curling label bits everywhere, so I began picking them up and tossing them into the trash can at the end of the table. Underneath was a Priority Mail shipping box. I picked it up. It was unused, and it appeared as though whoever had left all the curling labels had been using these, and had one left over. I looked over at the rack again–none there. Only the too-small envelopes.

I tugged the box into shape to see if the manuscript box would fit inside. It did, exactly. I locked down the ends, putting the labels on the outside. Who would have thought that the only box left in the room, hidden beneath a mound of trash, would be the perfect fit?

I turned back to the machine. I had forgotten about it.  You have to use these machines for large boxes, as it takes a snapshot of you for security purposes. I set the box on the scale and the screen flickered at me. “How may I help you?” it read.

“You can work!” I told it, and hit the button for “Accept weight.” We went through the steps for postage, and then it asked me for my credit card. I expected at any moment for it to quit working, but it accepted my card and spit out a perfect rectangular label.

As I peeled back the label and pressed it to the box, I felt like I were in a haze, some bizarre filter fuzzing everything around me.  Even later, after I’d dropped the package in the parcel slot and returned to my car, I felt strange, other-wordly, as though some veil had parted just for me.

I don’t think this means I will win the contest, or that good fortune is necessarily beaming down its happy rays. But I do think it meant I was supposed to get back in the saddle, keep writing, not give up. And just a few days before, this is exactly where I had been. But I’m reminded this was a good book (you can read an excerpt if you like), and getting it out again was a good thing, contest win or no contest win.

You don’t need to wish me luck. I think I’ve already gotten it.

It’s been an astonishing day for writing. I’d given it up for a bit, seeped myself in photographs, paid some bills, and now find myself longing for words, a desire that has built into an urgency.

I can thank Colette for her early morning inspiration in the form of her short story The Hollow Nut. It reminded me how beautiful language must be, always, and not to sacrifice detail for pacing.

Then came along the next phase of the interview for 34th Parallel, a lit mag that will be running one of my short stories in July. Martin’s questions and my answers have followed the traditional route for good journalism–start with what’s easy and lead up to in-depth. As we’ve traded emails, I’ve reminded myself why I write, and what, and how. It’s made me focus again.

And nestled among my mail was a forgotten contest entry for the miscarriage novel Baby Dust, which I have currently abandoned. The first round judge gave me 49.9 points out of 50, stating he couldn’t wait to read the whole thing after its certain publication. What was the .1? He preferred the word “synchronized” to my abbreviated and grammatically altered “synced.”

Tonight I rewrote an old story, one of my best, and made it better. I was able to really close in on it, excise the excess, and add the ringing details that illuminate the message.

It’s been a good day.