Hierarchy of management that covers different levels of management
Lisa Moe e-Portfolio
1. A Writer‟s Portfolio
by
Lisa Moe
LL ED 587G: Writing for Children
Dr. Susan Campbell Bartoletti
Pennsylvania State University
Fall 2011
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2. Contents
PART ONE: ORIGINAL WORK
Chapter One ……………………………………………………………………………………………….8
Chapter Two ……………………………………………………………………………………………..10
Brief Summaries of Remaining Chapters……………………………………………………...14
Personal Reflection …………………………………………………………………………………….15
PART TWO: CRITIQUES
Critiques By Lisa ……………………………………………………………………………………….17
Critiques By Colleagues ……………………………………………………………………………..18
Personal Philosophy of Children‟s Literature ……………………………………………….19
PART THREE: APPENDIX
Author‟s Note ……..…………………………………………………………………………………….22
Biography …………………………………………………………………………………………….…..23
Praise for Riding the North Wind ……………………………………………………………….24
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6. To Tore Torgersdatter Bø,whose courage is my inspiration.
I will look for you in the stars.
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7. “It is never safe to look into the future with eyes of fear.”
-- Edward H. Harriman
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8. CHAPTER ONE
Gundbransdalen, Norway -- 1694
Mother knelt before the executioner‟s block, hands tied behind her back. Her
piercing blue eyes met mine. Even though the crowd thundered, I heard only
Mother‟s voice in my head. Innocent, it whispered.
Wintery clouds gathered overhead and Uncle Amund held me close. The
executioner raised his sword and with one swift blow Mother was gone. Her body
tumbled forward and the snowy ground turned scarlet. A wave of nausea washed
over me as my knees buckled but Uncle caught me before I fell.
The executioner‟s assistant lifted Mother‟s lifeless body from the blood-
stained snow and, like the carcass of a slain doe, tossed it on a waiting cart.
Onlookers chanted feverishly, eager for more blood.
From the corner of my eye, I became aware of a group of men shuffling
through the snow toward the scaffold. My beloved brother, chained at the ankles
and bound at the wrists, led the way. The group stopped before the waiting
sheriff.
“Simen Torgerson, the court of his majesty, the King of Denmark, has
sentenced you to death for the premeditated murder of Martha Jonesdatter,” said
the sheriff, shouting over the crowd. “May God have mercy on your soul.”
“Don‟t pray for me. You‟ll all go to Hell for executing an innocent man,” said
Simen to the sheriff. The bailiffs pushed Simen up the steps and forced him to
his knees.
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9. With an aching chest, I closed my eyes and prayed for mercy on Simen but it
was too late. I heard the metallic twing of the sword. The crowd roared again. I
was afraid to open my eyes. If I opened my eyes, I had to acknowledge that
Simen was dead.
The noises of the crowd faded and I could feel the gentle tapping of melting
snowflakes on my face. “Anna, it‟s over. Come. Don‟t let them see you cry,”
Uncle Amund said as he tugged my arm.
Even though Uncle pulled me in the opposite direction of the scaffold, I
couldn‟t help but turn and look to where my brother had spoken his last words.
Everybody was gone and new snow began to cover the scarlet stains. Within
minutes, it would appear as if it had never happened.
In the distance, I saw Simen‟s lifeless feet dangling over the edge of a cart as it
bounced down the road. An urge to scream ended with sobs that brought me to
my knees. Silently and effortlessly, Uncle Amund picked me up and carried me to
his sleigh.
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10. CHAPTER TWO
“Everything with be all right, Anna,” Uncle Amund said. “It will be good for
you to get away from here. People will forget in time.”
“You have been a great comfort to me, Uncle, but I‟m not a naïve child. I could
stay away for a hundred years and people would still see me as nothing but
thedaughter of a greedy conspirator and sister of a soulless murderer,” I said as
angry tears welled up in my eyes.
Uncle laid our cloaks on the long wooden table and walked toward me. He placed
his hands on my shoulders and I looked up into his kind face. Uncle Amund said,
“You must trust me. I know what it is to lose people you love. Remember, your
mother was my sister.”
I nodded. Uncle forced a smile and said, “There, now. You sit over here by the
hearth and warm yourself. I‟ll get you a cup of cider.” After guiding me to the
chair, Uncle Amund walked to the cupboard and pulled out his cider jug. He
poured the warming brew into twometal cups and returned, sitting in the chair
beside me. Sipping the cider, I stared into the flameslicking the firebox.
“Uncle,” I said hesitantly, “Do you think they‟re in Hell?”
“Do I think who is in Hell?” Uncle Amund said with a puzzled look on his face.
“Mother and Simen.”
“Did you not hear your mother singing the hymn on her way to Gallows Hill?
She sang a song of remorse and asked forgiveness,” said Uncle.
“What about Simen? I didn‟t hear him ask forgiveness. He damned the sheriff
and the executioners.”
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11. “Enough, Anna! It‟s not for us to look into their souls. They must make their
own peace or suffer for it,” Uncle Amund said impatiently before calming himself.
“I‟m sorry. I didn‟t mean to shout at you. We have a long journey ahead of us
tomorrow. It‟s best that you get some rest.”
“Yes, Uncle,” I said and rose to kiss his cheek. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, child,” Uncle said as he looked up at me, his eyes glassy with
tears.
The stairs creaked as I made my way up to the room Uncle Amund‟s servant
prepared for me. The cold winter wind was howling outside. I opened the door
to my bedroom and entered.
All of my belongings rested in a neat pile in a corner of the room. I unpacked my
nightgown and put it on. Standing at the window, I looked to the stars twinkling
in the new evening sky. They were a sea of blinking eyes and I thought that
maybe Mother and Simen were looking down upon me.
There was a knock at the door and Uncle Amund entered. “Is there anything
you need?” he said.
“I guess I‟d like my favorite quilt, if it‟s here,” I said with hope in my voice.
“May I?” Uncle Amund said as hemotioned to my trunk.
“Yes, please,” I said with a smile.
Uncle searched through the trunk and pulled out the feather quilt. “Is this it?”
he said as he walked over and handedit to me. I pulled the quilt toward me and
something fell to the floor with a thump. Uncle Amund bent over and picked up
the object. “It‟s a nisse. I haven‟t seen this since I was a young boy,” Uncle said
with a laugh.“This belonged to your mother.” He handed the object to me.
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12. I laid the quilt on the bed and took the doll. “It‟s ugly,” I said with a scowl as I
turned it over and examined its features. The bearded doll with pointed ears
wore farmer‟s clothing and had only four fingers on each hand. “Why would
Mother have such a hideous thing?”
“Ancient people believed the nisse protected the farmer‟s home and children
from misfortune. When we were young, Marta regarded it as her good luck
charm,” Uncle said.
I said with resignation, “If it belonged to Mother then I will take good care of it,
even if it is the ugliest doll I‟ve ever seen.”
“Good,” said Uncle Amund with a laugh. “Now say your prayers and crawl into
bed. I will wake you for an early breakfast.” He walked toward the doorway and
paused for a moment as if he were remembering something. Uncle Amund
turned and flashed an awkward smile as he grabbed the latch and closed the door
behind him.
After tossing the doll into my trunk, I closed the lid and walked to my bedside
where I knelt and said my evening prayer. I blew out the candle and crawled into
bed, spreading the feather quilt over me. It felt good to have something from
home.
Exhausted, I quickly fell asleep but my rest did not last. Nightmarish visions of
the day‟s events repeated in my dreams until I awoke, my heart pounding.
Thump, thump, thump. But it wasn‟t the pounding of my heart that was making
the noise. The thumping was coming from the trunk.
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13. Brief Summary of Remaining Chapters
Anna believes her major conflict is overcoming the aftermath of the deaths of
her mother and brother. What she doesn‟t realize is that the nisse will wreak
more havoc than she could ever imagine.
As a guest on Harildstad Farm, Anna will be blamed for the antics of the nisse.
Over time, she will come to realize that she must get rid of the devious creature
but not until she uncovers the truth behind the murder of Martha Jonesdatter.
Only then will she be able to leave the past behind her and embrace her future,
but at what price?
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14. Personal Reflection
While the majority of this work is fiction, its major conflict is grounded in
reality. The character of Anna was inspired by one of my Norwegian ancestors
who, like Anna, lost her mother and brother to the executioner‟s sword in 1694.
Translated documents indicate that the condemned confessed to plotting and
committing the murder, but nobody in the court asked why. It remains a mystery
to this day.
I often wondered how Anna coped with her loss and with her likely feelings of
embarrassment. Was she afraid that she, too, might be capable of such violence?
My hope is that young adult readers might find sympathy for youth like Anna. It
is also my desire that young readers understand there is hope, even in the darkest
of moments.
It was a challenge to portray Anna as strong and resourceful when my
romantic sensibilities wanted her to be rescued by a handsome young man.
While it makes for a good romance, it does not help today‟s female better her
situation. The truth is that most of us have never been, nor will we be, rescued by
a handsome prince. And really, do we want to be?
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16. Critiques By Lisa
Following Dr. Bartoletti’s critique format was essential in giving
effectivefeedback. During various writing workshops, I struggled to decide
where to begin in my critique. At times, I found it difficult to find flaws with
written pieces. Sometimes I struggled to find anything positive to say because I
did not care for the subject matter or the style. We all have our personal tastes
and we are all at different places with our writing. The given format helped me
meet writers where they were and offer them insights of substance that might
not have been possible without it.
Critique 1: Paula White (6.4)
Sometimes you desperately need change. You wish the earth could slip in its
rotation and even jerk in protest like a car that revolts and grinds when it misses a
gear and abruptly catches. You sense your own disgruntled disapproval of all that is
revolving around you, and you want to jump off the edge of the earth. You want to
run anywhere- far away where no one knows you so you can reconstruct life and its
expectations. This was Jai Edrich‟s plight; except, she hadn‟t managed to run away.
She had been charged.
Paradigm Shift
Paula White
The morning tardy bell sounded just as Jai rounded the nurse‟s station and
turned the corner to unlock her classroom. Every morning students unwillingly
stood in the line outside the nurse‟s station while waiting to take their medication.
Why must the nurse’s station be next to the high school English department?
Jai thought. “Here David. Quick. It‟s Marcy Odell,(Who is she? Why would he
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17. care?)and you don‟t want her seeing that on your face,” she said offering him a
Kleenex to wipe the morning‟s jelly donut off his chin. And why do David’s parents
insist on feeding him donuts and soda for breakfast? She tried to dismiss her
thinking rationalizing that 7:45 A.M. was simply too early to take on the world‟s
issues.
“Thanks, Ms. Edrich. You need some help with your bags? Are you coming to
tonight‟s game?” David asked.So true. They always ask, don’t they?
“Oh, doubtful. I‟ve got some grading to do,” she responded. It was enough to
put in a 50 hour week. A Friday night football was hardly her idea of spending an
evening. The weekends away from students were her only opportunity to recharge.
And she needed recharging now. Jai Edrich reached into her purse and pulled out
her key to unlock her classroom. She never intended to use it, but she made the
appearance. Staring at the door alone would unlock it, but David Danes was now
standing too close beside her.
“Thanks, David. I‟ve got it. Have a good day. I hope you play well tonight,”
she said. By Friday she would always ask herself the same question. Why had she
even pursued an education degree? The Chargers hadn‟t made her choose
education, she chose it. Yet, her patience for understanding the educational system‟s
ideology was thinning with every year of teaching. Every day as she stared back into
their faces she was reminded of the answers she was seeking. How can anyone be
meant to sit for eight hours and listen to a “talking head?” she wondered. All she
was certain of now was what she saw in front of her every day, and that was their
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18. spirits; floating, yearning, hoping, wishing, worrying and wanting more than the
promised diploma that awaited their submitted selves at graduation. She saw their
souls fading into the laminated wooden desks, the smeared whiteboards and caulky
blackboards. She saw their eyes roll from excessive lectures on gruesome wars,
grouchy grammatical and mindboggling mathematical wars while the sinister school
clock marked and mocked their imprisonment of yet another day at school.
Jai tried hard to remember Hemingway‟s recharging counsel last weekend.
She heard him in her ears reminding her to “… watch people, observe, try to put
yourself in somebody else‟s head. If two men argue, don‟t just think who is right and
who is wrong. Think what both their sides are. As a man, you know who is right and
who is wrong; you have to judge. As a writer, you should not judge, you should
understand” (An Afternoon 71). As a Charger she had to understand their souls and
help them. That was every week‟s problem. They were in her head, and she could see
their souls. By Friday she had exhausted a week‟s tricks for scaffolding techniques
that camouflaged her ability. But tonight was Virginia‟s turn to mentor, and Jai
looked forward to the recharging.She became a student of her student‟s character as
Virginia Woolf had admonished her.She perceived, listened, observed, and
empathized. And she took notes, careful notes that kept telling her that their
perceived significance was fading due to regulation. So she longed to shift the
universe for their sake. This was what she wanted to fix; to shift their worlds from
the mandated x and y axis and to silence the ticking of the regulated, pontificated,
exasperated education system. Yet, she was their teacher.
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19. “Stay with me, Cory. Stay with me!” she exhorted as she explained the
Schaffer writing method. “You must support your claim. This is what they will look
for on your college essays.”
“I‟m trying Ms. Edrich. But, we have a game tonight against Trinity Valley.
Ms. Edrich, did you know my parents were getting a divorce?” retorted Cory Staden.
“Oh, I‟m sorry dear. If there‟s anything I can…” Jai sensed her circuit‟s
weakness. “I‟ve got some bagels and crème cheese,” she prompted. But as soon as
she said it, she realized that bagels and crème cheese was what she offered the
Charge, not a football player. “Okay, do you follow me on supporting your claim?
You‟ve got to support your thesis. Cory, are you okay?” questioned Ms. Edrich. She
knew she was losing her charge.
“Thanks” replied Cory. “I don‟t think Zamboni‟s gonna play tonight. He‟s in a
boot. Have you seen him?”
“Yeah, I saw him in the hall. Will the line hold?” Ms. Edrich questioned.
“I don‟t know. I feel sick. Can I call my dad? Ms. Edrich, I can‟t talk. I just feel
sick. I think I‟m fine „til I start thinkin‟ „bout my parents. I think my dad is seeing
someone. Oh my God, another vocab test tomorrow? Really? Where‟s the trash? I‟m
gonna be sick” said Cory.
“Garret, grab the bin. Class, remember your introductory paragraphs are due
tomorrow.” Ms. Edrich addressed her class as she put away her notes. “Cory, why
don‟t you excuse yourself to the bathroom? Garrett will you get his notes?”
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20. “Thanks Ms. Edrich. I‟ll be okay,” said Cory.
Ms. Edrich‟s eyes followed Cory out of the class. She knew that he wouldn‟t
be okay. She even worried about his playing; the defensive line wouldn‟t hold.
Trinity Valley was tough, and he needed to be mentally present to play well. He
wasn‟t mentally present, and the game was going to be a catastrophe. She‟d have to
go to the game for him. She‟d have to risk taking her charger with her.
Works Cited: “An Afternoon with Hemingway” Writer‟s Digest Oct. 2007. pg. 71
To: Paula
From: Lisa Moe
Yellow = areas for showing not telling/seems weak
Purple = phrases that are confusing
Blue = images/phrasing I especially enjoyed
1. Summary of what I think the story is about:
This story seems to be about a caring teacher with magical powers.
2. Discussing its strengths -- writers should look for the moments
of genius, because those moments show the height that the
author is truly capable of reaching:
From the beginning, it is clear that this story is in the fantasy genre. It‟s also
clear that Jai is your main character and I can easily identify her major conflict.
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21. Your dialogue also seems realistic in terms of what high school students would
actually say. Your characters aren‟t speaking simply for the sake of including
dialogue.
Fantasy seems so challenging and I like where your story is going. I can‟t wait to
read more!
3. Discuss the weaknesses, pointing out the places where they
were confused or didn't understand or found a shift in point of
view etc.:
Who is your intended audience? The story seems to be focused on the adult
teacher in a high school setting. What if the speaker was a student of Jai‟s.
Maybe this student knows her secret but doesn‟t hint at knowing – the student is
just observing out of interest because the student has the same talents? Perhaps
this student is mature and intuitive or has a parent who‟s a teacher and has
“inside knowledge” of the struggles Jai faces as a teacher?
The phrase “nurse‟s station” feels repetitive because there are just two lines in the
first paragraph. What if you combined the students standing there and isolated
the scene where Jai is unlocking the classroom?
David seems to appear out of nowhere. How did he get there? In this part of the
story, you seem to be hinting that Jai has some type of magical power but it‟s a
little confusing. I wonder what would happen if you eliminated the “She never
intended to use it…” line?
In the paragraph beginning with “Jai tried hard to remember….”: It seems that
this paragraph could be split up into at least three parts. Perhaps a separation
between what‟s happening in class, what her abilities are, and what she wants to
do would create more of an emphasis?
As a reader, I feel like I need some sort of transition from “Yet, she was their
teacher” to the part where Cory is introduced.
In a piece of fiction, there wouldn‟t be a “Works Cited.” What would happen if
you worked in the reference instead? If I‟ve never read “An Afternoon With
Hemingway,” could you provide me with some kind of discussion about it?
My Conclusion:
While Paula bravely attempted a story within the fantasy genre, there was an
issue with audience. In summarizing what I, as the reader, thought the story
was about, I was able to clearly describe that the story was about a teacher and
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22. not a teen. The intended audience drives the story and without the appropriate
focus, Paula might have spent long hours of writing only to discover that
publishers of teen fantasy novels would have likely rejected her story.
After critiquing Paula’s piece, I paid close attention to identifying and focusing
on my intended audience while writing. It can be difficult to step back into the
mind of our child selves, especially if we have never experienced the conflicts of
our characters.
Critique 2: Jennifer Fliss (4.7)
Write a poem or picture book that is a “hello” or “goodbye” poem.
Use details from a child-centric landscape.
Goodbye, Summer!
Goodbye, Summer. I am so sad to see you go.
I will miss all the fun we had while school was out and I was free.
Goodbye, swimming pool. I will miss splashing in your warm water and making
gigantic waves!
Goodbye, green grass and blue skies. I will miss relaxing on your soft blanket of
green and watching your puffy clouds that make shapes of horses and dragons
and teddy bears, too.
Goodbye, amusement parks. I will miss riding your thrilling roller coasters and
water rides and the cotton candy I eat until my tummy hurts!
Goodbye, fireworks. I will miss watching your exciting explosions in the sky that
make me scream!
Goodbye, fireflies. I will miss running around my backyard at night, mayonnaise
jar in hand, seeing how many of you I can catch!
Goodbye, rainstorms. I will miss the mud puddles you leave that I jump in to
mommy‟s delight!
Goodbye, creek. I will miss searching for crayfish under your rocks as your cold
water trickles over my toes.
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23. Goodbye, swings. I will miss pumping my legs higher and higher, trying to reach
the sun with each stretch.
Goodbye, Summer. I can‟t wait to see you next year.
Provide a brief neutral description and/or interpretation of the work
that answers the question: What do you think this work is about?
This seems to be a poem/picturebook where the school-aged child is the speaker
and is saying goodbye to summer because school is about to begin.
Discuss the strengths of the work. Specify the strength(s) and explain
as well as you can why it worked. Try to stick to craft. Comment on the
voice, the characterization, the language. This is not a time to relate
personal information. Remember that a piece of writing is not about
you; it's about the work.
I really like this detail: “mayonnaise jar in hand”
It‟s neat how you personify Summer in the beginning and end.
This text has a nice rhythm about it and I like the absence of rhyme. It seems
natural, the way a child would speak.
Discuss the areas that confused you. Here, too, you might question
some technical aspects of the story, such as point of view, characters,
plot, dialogue, language, etc. Again, specify the weakness and try as
best you can to pinpoint why it didn't work or confused you.
I wonder what it would sound like if you replaced “I will miss…” with “We…” as in
things “we” did? (Personifying summer, the swimming pool, rainstorms, etc.)
Are there places where you could add some sounds, like the “pop” of fireworks?
How about at the amusement park?
Summer is full of smells. Is the neighbor grilling? Did somebody just cut the
grass? How about a favorite aromatic flower or shrub? Maybe the speaker
brushes up against something scented when catching fireflies? Are those fireflies
blinking in the blackness?
Write a concluding, wrap-up sentence or two.
The absence of rhyme works well in this text. The listing allows the child reader
to predict some of what‟s coming next, and that‟s something that young readers
really enjoy.
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24. My Conclusion:
Jenn’s child-centered goodbye poem to summer resonated with me as I just said
goodbye to summer. Her imagery was so strong that I could imagine myself
turning the pages of a picturebook and encountering the characteristics of
summer for which a child longs. Her age-level use of vocabulary strengthened
my belief that a child – not an adult -- was saying goodbye to summer.
Without the critique format, I might have fallen into reminiscing about summer
instead of looking closely at what could make the piece even better. My
recommendations included the addition of sensory details other than visuals. I
truly believed they would change her piece from great to spectacular.
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25. Critiques By Colleagues
In this section, I focus on critiques that I believe helped – or will help – me
improve my drafts. We all have our weak moments when our feedback isn’t
that helpful because it is superficial, but through this experience I am
encouraged to ask evaluators for more information when I feel I need it. What
a great experience before I go out into the world of critiques by those outside the
safety of the course!
Courtney’s Critique of 3.7
Untitled
Chapter 1
“Not many people know this, but there used to be a town at the bottom of
that lake. Right over there.” I point out the locations of where Mr. Bergstrom‟s
hardware store and Lena Miller‟s High-Hat Beauty Salon used to be. “Rumor
had(or has?) it that Lena was completely bald and that she wore a wig fashioned
from the leftover pieces she collected from her clients. Or should I say victims?”
It seems you suddenly bring up a person named “Lena” to the listener, even
though the reader has read who she is in the unspoken line. Maybe her
introduction should be included in the dialogue?
Bobby Gustafson said he once saw Lena stuff a fist full of curly brown hair into
her smock pockets. The next day in church, brown curls peeked out from the
back bottom of her already too-tight perm. As she click-clacked down the
sidewalk on her way to Sunday dinner, a clump of curls fell out and a cardinal
carried it off to its nest. But Bobby has been known to tell a tale or two. Are you
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26. speaking here? Maybe quotation marks? I‟m not sure how that works for long-
winded dialogue!
I haven‟t seen Bobby for over two years. Not since his older brother Dave died
in that accident at the grain elevator. His family moved away, taking Dave‟s
ashes with them. Too many memories, I guess. It was just as well. And as odd as
I think cremation is, it was the smart thing to do.
It was quite a sight watching the men move the cemetery. This seems to come
out-of-the-blue. I know you mentioned Dave‟s family taking his ashes, but that
would not include graves and the entire cemetery. I think some sort of transition
is needed even if you don‟t want to give too much away. The county arranged it so
all the graves would be relocated while the children were in school. I guess they
didn‟t want to traumatize us. Especially fragile girls like me. But I showed them
just how fragile I amor was? when I played “sick” with my younger brother Joe
that day. When one child in the family appears to be sick, it makes perfect sense
that the other could have the same illness. Grown-ups are so gullible.
Dad worked at the window factory in Blackwell, which was a good hour‟s drive
from town. Since he carpooled with Tad Johnson and Mike Rogers, we knew
there was no way he‟d show back up at home until his regular time. He couldn‟t
afford it. Nobody could.
Dr. Peters was the crankiest old dentist I‟d ever met and Mom was his
receptionist in Millville, an hour‟s drive in the opposite direction that Dad
traveled. Dr. Peters was the kind of box who never allowed a person to call in sick
or go home early. His lectures about responsibility and sacrifice weren‟t worth
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27. the effort. MonMom? said it was just easier to go to work, even if she had to puke
in the wastebasket under her desk from time to time.
Even though it seemed like my parents were always traveling in opposite
directions, they were very close. I don‟t ever recall an argument between them. I
think they were pretty good at reading one another.
When Mom would sense that Dad was in a foul mood, she‟d usher him over to
his favorite chair and sing, “Guess who‟s getting his favorite drink?” Then she‟d
whip up a peanut butter and banana smoothie. If Dad was looking particularly
handsome that night, she‟d sprinkle on some coconut flakes and pineapple
tidbits. A few sips of this magical concoction always set Dad right and he was
equally skilled at healing whatever ailed Mom.
But those days are gone. They disappeared the day that Mayor Hodgkins
announced that the county was planning to blow Clarks Grove clear off the map.
When I was about nine years old, I remember standing on an observation deck
at the end of a long boardwalk. Stunned by its beauty and solitude, I stood on
the deck and peered out onto the lake and the surrounding marshlands. My dad
then told me a story about a town that used to exist in the middle of the lake.
Only the “old-timers” seemed to remember it. Long ago, state and county
officials decided that the area should be designated a wildlife refuge, that the
town should be moved, and that the land should be flooded to provide the
necessary wetlands for wildlife. I wondered what that must have been like for
those people. And I wondered if the story could possibly be true. -- Lisa
Lisa, this is a very neat story! It‟s unique and you have definitely developed a
voice for it! I love the characters‟ names and their personality quirks. You have so
many vivid details. Honestly, the story and the tone pulled me right in. I‟m so
curious about these folks… keep writing it! Plus, I remember being fascinated by
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28. “ghost towns” and abandoned houses when I was a child. This would definitely
have been a story that would have interested me back then (and now!).
My Conclusion:
This was the first middle grade novel beginning I attempted to write. Courtney
was not afraid to identify major areas of weaknesses, which was exactly what I
wanted. We all want to be polite, but we can be polite and give constructive
criticism at the same time.
Courtney identified several areas of confusion. Without her insight and
courage, I truly feel the piece would fail to pull in its target reader. Middle
grade readers who are confused on the first page often close the book and never
return. In addition to confusions, Courtney told me precisely what I was doing
well. It’s important to hook the reader early on, and I needed to know that some
of my “hooks” were working.
Jenn’s Critique of 5.7
Ma wrapped his tiny body in the patchwork quilt she‟d stitched for his second
Christmas. The long days and nights of patting his forehead with a cool damp
cloth were over. “Go and dump out that water and hang the rag on the post,
Josie. We‟ll need to boil some fresh water so we can prepare Noel for his journey
Home,” Ma sobbed. THIS IS SO TOUCHING. RIGHT AWAY, I KNEW WHAT
YOU MEANT WITHOUT YOU SCREAMING THAT NOEL PASSED AWAY.
NICELY (AND TASTEFULLY) DONE.
I opened the door at the back of our small lean-to kitchen and tossed the water
from the porcelain bowl over the marigolds Ma and I had planted last spring. She
said they would help keep the mice out of the house. Even though it was early
November, the blooms still held, almost as if they‟d been waiting for Noel.I AM
CONFUSED AS TO WHAT THE MARIGOLDS ARE WAITING FOR - ARE THEY
WAITING FOR NOEL TO GET BETTER SO HE CAN SMELL THEM AGAIN OR
IS THIS WHERE HE IS GOING TO BE BURIED?? I THINK THIS NEEDS
CLARIFICATION.
The muddy ground was hard with frost as I walked over to the fence post and
laid the tiny wet rag over it. Off in the distance, clumps of black dirt lined the
furrows of the field where Pa planted his corn crop just months earlier. I
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29. remembered how Noel giggled when he scampered through the meadow as we
made our way to the field to bring Pa his lunch. His fine blonde hair danced in
the breeze as his arms busied themselves with brushing aside the wildflowers that
tickled his bare legs.
Even though he had four sons, Pa‟s eyes always lit up when he saw Noel. In
the evenings when it was dark and the work was done, Noel would climb onto
Pa‟s lap as he rocked next to the fire and read the Bible. Nuzzled in the crook of
his arm, Noel would close his eyes and seem to listen to the beating of Pa‟s heart.
As I walked back toward the house, I wondered if Pa‟s heart wouldn‟t
break.NICE TRANSITION FROM THE EARLIER MENTION OF NOAH
LISTENING TO PA'S HEART. He‟d been in the barn praying for the last three
hours. When the kitchen door swung open and Ma stepped out, I headed for the
bucket resting by the pump. The pump handle squeaked loudly in the silence of
the early morning and the sun coming up over the trees warmed my face.
When the bucket was full of fresh water, I let go the pump handle. The barn
door clunked softly in the distance as Ma closed it behind her and a painful lump
rose up in my throat. She was going to tell Pa about Noel.
I REALLY GOT INTO THIS PIECE. I AM INTERESTED TO LEARN MORE
ABOUT MA AND PA AND JOSIE AS THEIR STORY CONTINUES. YOU DID A
NICE JOB OF BRINGING EMOTIONS INTO THIS WITHOUT MAKING IT
OVERWHELMING. I THOUGHT YOU DID A VERY TASTEFUL JOB.
My Conclusion:
Jenn verified that I was not overwhelming my reader with the story of Noel’s
death. The death of a young child is dark but it was a reality for many rural
families in the 1800s. Jenn also paid attention to my transitions, which I had
not done well in previous writings.
In this story beginning, I attempted to connect the health of the flowers to the
health of Noel. Jenn was not afraid to let me know it flopped. She could have
skipped over this criticism and moved on with her reading but she didn’t. I felt
it was very important for her to identify this weakness. If she doesn’t
understand what I’m trying to do with the flowers, a middle grade reader will
not. This puts my story at risk. Will the reader lose trust in me as a storyteller?
Will the reader incorrectly assume that s/he cannot read very well because the
text presented is confusing? The last thing I want to do is alienate my reader.
Jenn helped me avoid it in this piece.
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30. Personal Philosophy of Children’s Literature
In the beginning of the course, my personal philosophy of children's literature
was that it should be a place for children to marvel at new and exciting
experiences. I identified children‟s literature as a place where children may
discover who they are and where they fit in the world. I asserted that while
children's literature is written for children, it also serves a personal purpose for
the author who has some observation about the world and has a profound desire
to share it.
It was my thought that my philosophy might guide me in the stories I want to tell
by demanding that I remember what I needed and desired as a child and then
meeting those needs in texts for children. In addition, I believed my philosophy
would require me to view children as consultants as my remembrances of
childhood experiences have probably become distorted over the passage of time.
I wouldn‟t say that my personal philosophy has changed all that much, but I must
add that children‟s literature should be a place where readers may examine issues
at a safe distance and from the points of view of different characters. In addition,
I discovered that meeting the needs of child readers is much more complex than
one might realize. There are so many layers within a solid piece of writing that
the task might appear unmanageable. The Voices caution the writer against
taking the challenge and all at once the Muse‟s life is in jeopardy.
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31. How does my work read against my early philosophy? The work produced in this
course was a combination of singing along with the Muse and struggling to hear it
while attempting to choke the lives out of the voices of discouragement. While
writing most pieces, I considered a child audience and attempted to create a
speaker in the voice of a child. Most pieces contain conflicts that focus on
authentic concerns of children.
What I did not expect were the long periods of time I consumed considering
the usability of simple words or phrases. Also unexpected was the range of voices
with which I experimented. At the beginning of the course, I believed I had no
desire to write for age levels below the middle grade. This course encouraged me
to branch out and take risks.
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33. Author’s Note
I wrote down several roads as I shaped Anna‟s story. In one version, she was
the unsuspecting victim of a villainous uncle. But that was not how the character
of Uncle Amund felt to me. No matter how hard I tried, I could not corrupt his
gentle spirit. Anna would have to take another hero‟s journey to meet her destiny
– the one she creates.
That‟s how it is with writing. We plot our story and envision the events that
might unfold. Page after page is written only to discover that the Muse has taken
over the story and is steering it in a different direction. My only advice is to
surrender and join the Muse on her journey into the unknown.
-- Lisa Moe
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34. Biography
Lisa Moe lives in Andover, Minnesota with her husband, two children, and
Yorkie. After teaching middle and high school for fifteen years, she began a
second career as a freelance writer.
She holds a B.A. in English from Concordia University in St. Paul and an M. Ed.
in Curriculum & Instruction: Children‟s Literature from Pennsylvania State
University.
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35. Praise for Riding the North Wind
“Anticipation mixed with sorrow and fear for what was and what will
be for Anna.” -- Jill M., author of WBRD: Bird Radio
“A fascinating look into the hardships endured by our ancestors.”
– Barb P., Assistant Editor, The Good Norwegian’s Guidebook
“I can’t wait to read what happens next!”–Cynthia N., author of A Little
Lunch Is a Good Thing.
“The reader will feel Anna’s complete helplessness and heartache as
she witnesses the slaughter of her mother and brother. With the
strength of her uncle, will Anna be able to overcome such horrific
losses?” -- Erika N., Editor, The Daily Prophet
“I felt like I was standing in the snow next to Anna. I’m on the edge of
my seat, eagerly awaiting the next morsel.” –Steve B., Executive Producer,
The Happy Fisherman Show.
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