OFFERING WINGS

These days, I'm a virtual author on the wild and windswept coast of Scotland.

While visiting schools via a computer screen definitely has its limits, I always try to see the screen as a portal...rather than a wall. During a typical visit, I often start out by giving students a glimpse of rural Scotland where I currently live and work -- a land of poets and unicorns -- and yes, miles of rocky coastline (see above). 

From there, I might take students on a virtual journey to see the real Hampton's Throne in Washington, D.C. (The Seventh Most Important Thing). Or we might visit the Cleveland, Ohio neighborhood that inspired All of the Above. Or we might preview the amazing works of land art around the world connected to Things Seen From Above.  Finally, we make the return flight to their own classroom...wherever it may be in the world...for a cozy Q&A chat.   

Last week, I virtually visited with middle school students in rural Wisconsin. They had just finished my novel, The Seventh Most Important Thing. Afterwards, I received a lovely note from the school's librarian who thanked me for opening up the world to her students and giving them wings. 

I loved that comment. 

Giving them wings...

Like many authors and educators, I've wrestled with what role to play in the challenging times we are living through today. Compassion, tolerance, justice, fairness, kindness, openness, and acceptance of our shared humanity -- these are the bedrock themes of my novels and my life. The themes haven't changed since my very first stories written as a thirteen-year old growing up in 1970s Ohio.

As I've watched these closely-held values come under siege in the US and around the world, I've wondered what to say and write on a daily basis. Especially for kids. 

Which is why I'm indebted to the Wisconsin librarian for pointing out that hope is not lost. We still have tools in our toolbox. We still have wings. James Hampton expresses a similar idea in The Seventh Most Important Thing when he says, "It all depends on the wings."

Although my words can't change very much in terms of the enormous issues kids and schools--and our world--are facing right now, I can take students on a journey for an hour. Through writing, through art, through words, through shared laughter, through conversation, through virtual flybys around the world -- we can still soar.

That's my mission as an author.

To give you wings.

A Mythical Land

I've been thinking about my grandpa who took up painting when he retired. I keep one of his works of art in my office to remind me that you are never too old to learn something new. And also, because I love looking at the soft, imaginary world he created and imagining his gentle spirit being there -- in a land of mythical snow-capped peaks and impossibly blue rivers. 

Over the summer, I've been taking a few art classes myself -- dabbling in pastels, watercolor, charcoal, and portraiture at a local art gallery tucked above an antiques store in Castle Douglas, Scotland. (I've shared a view I sketched of the main street from the studio window). 

What I like most about doing art is how it creates a spirit of "flow" in my soul. I lose track of time and place and all the worries that constantly cycle through my mind -- and just focus on what I'm making.

I believe that having access to these creative experiences -- the arts -- are critical for all of us as human beings. Creativity helps us process those too-big emotions, make sense of the world around us, connect with each other, share our common humanity -- and sometimes, the arts help us "escape" and relax. 

In two of my books, The Seventh Most Important Thing and Things Seen From Above, art is central to the story and helps to save the main characters in different ways. As James Hampton says in The Seventh Most Important Thing, art is about creating beauty from the broken things...

If you are looking for ways to bring more creativity into your classroom this school year, please feel free to visit my website for ideas, as well as find more information on my books and 2024-2025 virtual programs. www.shelleypearsall.com

Virtual Author Visits from Our Scottish Barn

 

My virtual author visits are in full swing for the 2023-24 school year. It has been fantastic to chat with classes in New York, Ohio, and New Jersey so far. And Mariemont Schools were the FIRST to virtually visit my new hayloft studio in Scotland last week.

If you look closely at the photo, you can probably spot the little window above the glass archway--that's my hayloft writer's studio. Our new/old house in Scotland is a former barn from the late 1700s. It has been a hayloft, a henhouse, a stable for horses...and now, an author's house. As you can probably tell, the walls are made of stone. (Yes, I'll confess that I like to imagine the space as a castle...) This part of Scotland once had large granite quarries, and many of the buildings are made of granite. In fact, granite from here was shipped all over the world.

Although I'm based in Scotland, never fear...I'm still scheduling virtual visits with US-based schools. Remember that if your school is doing an all-school read of one of my books, you can get a free virtual visit after your school has completed the book. 

I also have a brand-new Author Mentorship program for individual classrooms where I'll present a virtual writing workshop, a Q&A session, and then, every student can get personal, written feedback on a piece of writing from me. If your students are reading The Seventh Most Important Thing, I also have a new workshop called "Hampton's Throne Speaks" where we create a character from the artwork itself. A great lesson in personification and brainstorming! 

You can find out more details about both of these programs on the school visits page of my website: Shelley Pearsall School Visits

Thank you for reading my books, whether you are near...or far away. Feel free to reach out through my website if you have any questions. 

THE VIRTUAL AUTHOR

Two years ago, it was the hopeful faces online that kept me going. 

When my entire speaking schedule in Spring 2018 was cancelled by my breast cancer diagnosis and treatment, I went virtual instead.  A screen became my audience. Skype replaced the cafeteria stage.

To keep things simple, I donated the virtual visits.  Schools knew that if my hair fell out from chemo…or if I had an unexpected doctor’s appointment…or if I just wasn’t up to talking—their visit wouldn’t happen.  Everything was “subject to change without notice.”  They were okay with that.
 
Fortunately, my hair stayed intact, and the virtual visits saved my sanity.  They gave me a schedule and a reason to get up every day.  Kids wore pink t-shirts.  They held up signs of hope and encouragement.  They made me believe that life would get better someday—and it did. 

One of the biggest surprises was the realization that I could still reach readers through a screen.  With a little practice and creativity, it was possible to keep being the interactive, thoughtful (and slightly random) author/presenter that I am. 

Then came Spring 2020 and the COVID outbreak demolished everything again.  I’ll admit that it felt like an awful kind of déjà vu.

But this time it wasn’t just me sitting at home worrying that I might die from a dread disease – it was the kids too.   I spread the word that I would donate virtual visits to any school group anywhere in April and May. 

I’ll never forget those first Zooms and Google Meets. Kids joined from living rooms, unfinished attics, closets, stairwells, and kitchen tables.  They appeared with homemade slime, family pets, and screaming siblings.  Some kids floated in blue galaxies or tropical forest backgrounds.  Others had their family seated around them like a solemn portrait.

Despite the challenges, these impromptu visits actually worked.  (A ton of credit goes to the parents, librarians, and teachers who made them happen.)  I was able to chat with kids about books and brainstorm characters with them. Virtual classes “toured” my office. We shared what we were going through and the various ways we were coping.  As I’d discovered two years earlier, there is something to be said for being there for each other in tough times. 

And as the school year starts at home again for many kids, I’m determined to keep stretching the virtual learning limits: Can we compose poetry on Zoom? Can we use our closets/attics/kitchens for writing inspiration? Can we create fictional characters from shoes?  Can we build stuff onscreen? (Tetrahedron pyramids for All of the Above? Mini-sculptures for The Seventh Most Important Thing?)

I believe that creativity and joy, even the virtual kind, will keep us going. 

I’m proof of that.

Teachers, librarians, and parents: If you are interested in finding out more about my 2020-21 virtual programs (some free and some fee-based) for your students, please check them out on my website or reach out to me at shelleyvisits@yahoo.com.

In Praise of School Janitors

It is probably no secret that I have a special place in my heart for school janitors. 

I can name the first one I ever met: Mr. Boder at Hanna Elementary, where I attended school as a child.  He was a regal, soft-spoken man with iron-gray hair and (I seem to recall) a slight English accent.  In another place or time, he might have been the perfect butler for a queen. 

Later on, when I started my first job in education, my aunt (who was a lifelong teacher) gave me one piece of advice: always make friends with the school custodians. “Trust me,” she said. “They will matter a heck of a lot more than your principal.”  

Sure enough, as I struggled through my first year of teaching fourth grade—stressed and constantly sick—it was Janitor Steve and his wife who showed up at my apartment one afternoon with an enormous pot of homemade pasta to keep me alive.

(In fact, Steve kept all of us going as teachers. He was our daily sounding-board—the keeper of our rants and our sanity.)

As a traveling author now, I meet janitors far more often than I meet principals.  I’ve met janitors who write poetry and ones who impersonate Elvis.  Janitors have read my books and hauled our equipment through wind and rain and snow—and done emergency “clean-ups in aisle 5” during writing workshops (no explanation needed!) 

It’s no coincidence that janitors appear as characters in three of my seven books:  There’s Mr. Joe who protects the students and their project from disaster in All of the Above, mysterious Mr. Ulysses in my upcoming book Things Seen From Above, and of course—Mr. Hampton, the former janitor turned artist in The Seventh Most Important Thing.

So, this holiday season, let’s recognize and PRAISE the unsung angels, men and women, who clean up our schools and keep everything (including us) going each day. 

 As Mr. Hampton says about the angels in our lives: “Some are like peacocks. Others are less flashy. Like city pigeons. It all depends on the wings.” Thank an angel today.

A Circle of Orange:Writing With Incarcerated Youth

A circle of anonymous orange shoes. 

At the end of September, I spent two days with the Ohio teens who wore these shoes.  If you asked me to describe the group to you, I would say that, as a whole, they were bright, chatty, and creative girls. They seemed like typical teenagers—like the daughters of your next-door neighbors.

Only they were incarcerated. 

The girls who wore these shoes were being held in a juvenile facility in SW Ohio.  Most were serving 10-day sentences before their court appearances. I worked with two groups of boys and two groups of girls.  The average age was fifteen or sixteen years old. Some were younger.

At times during my visit, it was easy to forget that these teens were behind bars.  They talked easily and thoughtfully about favorite books and pets and family members who meant a lot to them. We had conversations about grief and loss—and what it means to be an outcast like the character of Arthur Owens in my book, The Seventh Most Important Thing.

(Nearly all of these kids considered themselves to be outcasts.  Many had suffered the recent loss of at least one close family member.)

But there was no escape from the ever-present sound of their incarceration: metal doors slamming and locking.  It is this sound that always brings you back to the shocking reality that you are inside a correctional facility for youth.  The reality reverberates through the antiseptic halls. It sets your teeth and your brain on edge.  

The sound was a constant reminder of the fact that these teens were not innocents—all of them had committed crimes.  Some serious, some minor.  In one of my groups, there was a boy accused of attempted murder.

In other words, this wasn't the Boy Scouts.

It is easy to be overwhelmed by the weight of the lost potential when you are sitting in front of these lost kids.  It is hard not to question: what went wrong here? Or how could we, as a society, have kept this from happening in the first place?  You can’t help thinking that maybe there has been some mistake and this shy, soft-spoken child shouldn’t be here.  You want to fix things—to erase the page. 

In reality, you can’t.

That’s the tough lesson of juvie. You can’t fix very much about these kids’ lives.  Yes, some will be scared straight, but others will go back to worlds and circumstances you can’t imagine.  A fair number will end up in juvie again.

As a visitor passing through their lives, I knew I didn’t have much to offer.  I couldn’t change the circumstances of their lives. All I could give them was a break—a few hours to be someone else and to set free the creator, the artist, the writer, or the reader inside of them.

Using a box of Goodwill cast-offs, the teens created characters with me. We created characters from shoes that sparkled and lit up and ran the length of basketball courts and jumped in mud puddles.  There were no anonymous orange slip-ons in our imaginary worlds.  No forgotten juvie kids.  Every person was noticed—every shoe had a story.

In between the orange shoes in the blogpost photo, you can see the shoes that each girl chose to write about.  (I can tell you that there was at least one very gifted writer among this group.)  I like to think that maybe this photo illustrates the potential of these anonymous teens—the people who they might have been—and still might become.

And maybe it pushes all of us to see a little more.

School Success: Potlucks and Principals

As the new school year gets rolling, I’ve been thinking a lot about education in America.  Over the years, I’ve been inside a wide variety of schools as an author.  Rural, suburban, public, private, Muslim, Quaker, Catholic, rich, poor, free and incarcerated—you name it, I’ve probably seen it. 

The diversity of American education can be head-spinning. But there are a few things that seem to hold true no matter where I am:

First – just like a book…you can’t judge a school by its cover.  I’ve been in some truly impressive schools that were so decrepit on the outside, I half-expected the kids to be wearing hard hats and hazmat suits inside.  At the other end of the spectrum, I’ve seen schools with all the latest technology and designer furniture and glass atriums…and not much else going for them.

Second – I know this will sound obvious, but principals really do matter more than anything else in a school.  Good principals = good schools. Almost always.

Over the years, I’ve developed my own totally random list of what makes an excellent principal.   It does not include things like: “achieves the highest test scores.” It does include things like: knows the name of every child, smiles at kids and staff (and authors), is willing to sweep up cafeteria floors or wipe down yucky tables when necessary, knows exactly what is happening in the school on any given day, is excited about learning and conveys that excitement, participates in nearly all school events, is someone who motivates people to be better people, is a leader that everyone (from parents to custodians) respects and appreciates…

Schools that are lucky enough to have these excellent principals tend to hold onto them very tightly.  Like rare gems. They don’t let them leave or move or retire easily.   I know of one principal who still goes on his school’s eighth grade Washington, D.C. trip as a chaperone every year—although he “retired” several years ago.     

That’s the kind of dedication I’m talking about.

Third—I have a theory (completely untested) that teaching staffs who cook together, stick together.  

When I’m in a school where the teachers have pulled together a lunch potluck on a Friday—or for any special occasion, I’ve noticed that it usually isn’t a one-time event.  They cook for each other often.  They have favorite recipes and dishes that they share. They joke around with each other. They seem to genuinely like hanging out with one another as colleagues and friends.

Here is my theory: Potlucks = teamwork = school success.

Add in a dash of excellent leadership (an excellent principal) and you have a successful school.

And don’t worry too much if you don’t have a glass atrium.