No Draws

This is not a poetry substack, after all, and yet it's all poetry, isn't it?

One of the absolute joys of parenthood, for me, is getting to know my kids. My father was my role model in this, always getting interested in my interests. He enthusiastically watched me do gymnastics, he went to every play I was ever in multiple times until I went off to college and even, sometimes, then. He let me control the radio on our car rides to and from school, diligently learning the names of the bands and musicians so that he could correctly identify Barenaked Ladies, Aerosmith, Counting Crows.

I see why, now, and how this was not labor but pleasure, fun. It is harder to fully invest in the interests of my youngest daughter, as her main interest is putting things into and taking things out of containers, but I try to imagine what it is she likes about this activity, and I wonder at how it will twist and turn into something more concrete, eventually. And I support her with empty backpacks, dresses with pockets, easy access to the tupperware drawer.

My oldest daughter has a passion for princesses and long dresses and gymnastics and stories and art. And also, somehow, chess. I am a board game and card game enthusiast, so we have always shared that, but chess has too much to do with spatial organizing, patterns, numbers, math, navigation for me to actually enjoy it. And while her father has these math and spatial skills, he too is new to the game, unlearned in such things as castling and rook-rollers and the art of notating, which my daughter does in tiny neat handwriting, little codes that I don’t understand even remotely.

She also loves competing, another thing I don’t fully understand, competing being my least favorite part of any activity. Although the rush of winning— that I understand. Sometimes, when I’m blue, I return to the moment in ninth grade when the cast list for Oliver! went up and my name was at the top of it, assigned the role of Oliver, unexpectedly the lead in the Spring musical as a freshman. It remains a pure moment, one of the happiest in my life. I was shocked, I was overjoyed, I honestly couldn’t believe something so fantastic had happened to me. I can pull it up in my chest now— the pride. The joy. The way it was all mine.

I never did get another lead role in a musical theatre production, so sometimes returning to the moment is bittersweet, followed up with questions about what happened, what I did wrong, how and why the trajectory had shifted.

But. That rush of winning. That I understand.

This past weekend, my daughter— six years old, sporting glasses and pigtails and a smile with two missing front teeth— competed in the national chess championships. She was on a team with three other amazing first graders from her school, hoping to break the top ten for first grade teams in the country.

The tournament was brutal. She was paired against very tough competitors and the losses were adding up. After each one she briefly cried, then asked to go to the team room to review her game with her coach, to understand what had happened. On the third day, she played her longest ever game, 90 full minutes. When she got out, I asked for details of what had happened. In chess tournaments if you win a game you get a point for your team, and if you draw each competitor gets a half a point. In the course of the 90 mintues, my daughter got asked twice for a draw. In spite of two days of losses, she did not accept the offer. Two times she was asked, and two times she said no, believing, somehow, that she could win.

And she did. She won that 90 minute game. Because of what she did on the board, sure. But really because she said no drawing. She did not want to settle. She knew something about herself, she believed something about herself, in spite of so many reasons to lose faith. And she said no to drawing for the hope of the win, for the belief that it was hers.

At times, this year has been hard. The election, yes. And out in the writing world, too, where I have unmet goals, disappointments, so many close-but-not-quite-there moments that I have lost faith, at times. I have been embarrassed, even, at having believed in myself. I have not wanted to meet up with my coach to review my losses. Losses are embarrassing, I have wanted not to show them. To curdle in the shame of them.

But there she is— losing and losing and losing, then entering each new game renewed, saying no to anything less than a win, knowing something about herself without it having to be proven out. And that’s the whole thing, isn’t it? That you can know and believe something about yourself BEFORE the world has checked it off for you, before it has been made concrete and real.

You cannot win if you draw. You cannot win if you accept less than you actually want.

Is it my mantra for 2025? Maybe. I am looking for that moment of seeing the cast list, I am looking for my name at the top. I am waiting to feel the way she did coming out of the ballroom where she competes— on her own, while I wait outside the closed doors— skipping, beaming, I won I won I won, basking in the knowledge that she bet on herself, that she believed in something unproven, that she could do it.

There are chess prodigies and there are writers who debut with wildly successful books and the fanfare never stops. There is an alternate universe where Kamala Harris won, where Roe still stands. I would love that for us. Of course I would. That is all I have ever wanted. To win and win and win.

But I am a writer of books about magic, and magic is the other thing. It is the believing in spite of it all. It is the glory of that one moment. It is the rush, the shock, the disappointments followed by, somehow, some way, something beautiful and yours and right and good. Magic is whatever it is that pushed her to say no to the draw. Magic is starting the next book before the one before it has sold. Magic is The States Project, advocacy, activism, the rare politician who uses the power of their office to stand strong, to not give in, to find the way. Magic is the fizz, the fight, the toughness.

Magic, too, is what we need in 2025. What we will need going forward. In our personal lives, in our political world, which is personal too. Not the lazy kind of magic, where you wait for it to visit you. The other kind. Where you fight. Where you believe in a better thing, not because it is right there for you to take, but because you are ready to do battle for it.

Magic is a six year old 90 minutes into a chess game after losing for two days straight, saying no to the draw.

And the rest of us too. Saying no to not enough. Believing in something better. Being the kind of tough only a girl with no front teeth and pigtails and glasses and an extra large helping of grit can be.

This has always been a substack about the intersection of parenting and creativity, and I was blown away by the support I got after it also became a substack about poetry and politics crashing into those things as well.

This is still not a poetry substack. This isn’t a poem. But parenting is poetry anyway. Toughness is poetry. Chess is poetry. Writing, of course, poetry. Democracy, too. Justice. Poetry, all of it. If you are brave enough to believe in it. If you can face it head-on. If you can show up after the loss, believing there is a win.

The first grade team came in 11th. So close to the top ten, and so incredible in and of itself. It isn’t always quite exactly how you want it to be. But you fight anyway. That’s the magic. That’s the work. That’s the whole goddamn thing and I guess it’s easier for a 6 year old to see it than the rest of us.

Instead of News, links

Look, it’s the season of gift-giving and I would be remiss not to suggest some of my books. If you enjoy this newsletter, I would so appreciate you ordering one of my books as a gift or preordering an upcoming book. I’m including the Books are Magic link. If you order from them (or from Books of Wonder, Terrace Books, or Lofty Pigeon), I am happy to go in and personalize the book, just contact the store to let them know to reach out to me)

For the teen in your life who likes moody music and journaling and fighting the patriarchy— RISE Honoree LAWLESS SPACES

For the teen in your life who still likes fairy tales and curses and Into the Woods and, yep, fighting the patriarchy: EVER CURSED

For your kid/tween reader who likes baking, The Giver, roses, sister stories: Edgar Nominee EVENTOWN

For the kid/tween reader who is Greek mythology obsessed, who has listened to all of Greeking Out, and who maybe has some friend drama: THE WIDELY UNKNOWN MYTH OF APPLE AND DOROTHY

For the new reader who likes magic, secondhand shops, big bustling families: my HAND ME DOWN MAGIC series.

…and for the little one who is working through their tantrums, who is told they’re a little too much, and for their parent who likes beautiful illustrations and books that remind them that their feelings are okay, too: my picture book A PLACE FOR FEELINGS

And if you’re wondering what I’d like for the holidays, it’s a pre-order of my upcoming early reader/chapter book series, ZOOMI AND ZOE! This is sillier, zanier than my usual fare, because I have seen first hand how well a big dose of silliness (and even an occasional fart joke) goes over with the 4-8 year olds. But it still underneath it all is also about the way we handle the hard things life gives us— By befriending a purple glittery rhino-monster from the land of GlumbleGlibble of course!

Pitched as Monsters Inc meets Princess in Black, it’s illustrated by the wonderful Anne Appert, who really captured every bit of whimsy and fun I was going for— and even a little extra. :)

Recomendations:

Have a podcast loving kid? Or just like your history lessons delivered with sytyle and music and a sense of fun? On our trip to and from the Chess Nationals we devoured HISTORICAL RECORDS — from the Story Pirates crew, a fun deep dive into less familiar pockets of history. I especially loved the first episode about Ida Tardell and the episode about Keith Haring.

This documentary series about a Grey’s Anatomy writer who…. you sort of have to watch the documentary to understand. No need to watch Grey’s Anatomy to get swept up in this unbelievable, disturbing story.

This strange little book written from the perspective of twin babies. It is the slimmest, most interesting thing I’ve read in ages, and I wish we all had the freedom to write so far outside of the assumed constraints of our genres.

These chicken burgers which absolutely floor me every time, my favorite weekend dinner.