In case you were wondering: Yes, books have come out. I do, in fact, have thoughts about them. But I’ve spent more time thinking than writing lately, and some of that time was spent, usefully and delightfully, at NCTE at the end of November.

My husband is a brilliant man; this is a topic on which I feel that I’m clear-sighted and unbiased. The only people I know who are, in truth, brighter and more brilliant and more beautiful than he is are our children. And my husband said, after I’d complained yet again about something I’d read that seemed half-baked and unintelligent to me, that, in a nutshell, we need to spend more time, as a society, thinking than talking. Discourse about discourse in reaction to discourse is just too much.

That might be why I’m spending a bit more time thinking about the books than writing them up, lately, though some do get mentions in my letters to Lucy over at Twenty-Two Cups of Tea. But I also found a lot to think about at NCTE, and had plenty to talk about with other bright and practical-minded folks.

If you’ve never seen the Boston Convention Center, the place is massive, unfriendly, concrete, and, well. A convention center. If the modern trends of what is hygge and cozy and “extra” had a polar opposite, it would be the Boston Convention Center. I walked in on November 21, apprehensively rehearsing to myself that I really, truly was an English teacher (of my daughter, but still) and editor and reviewer and belonged here. And found myself facing a brisk crowd of people with glasses and sweaters, often plopping themselves down on the dull, industrial carpeting with highlighters and post-it notes to hand as they cross-referenced the literacy exam that was the huge honking convention program. These, my friends and readers, were English teachers. This was, as the kids may once have said and may still say for all I know, this was my jam. These were sensible people in sensible shoes carrying pens and highlighters. My soul swelled in the consciousness that pretty much everyone here either had a cat or liked cats, a conviction shortly proved by the three people in a row who said they either liked my dress because it was patterned with books and cats, or had this dress at home and almost wore it today, but decided on pants instead.

The only problem was that giant conference program. The place was full of sessions for teachers, and Friday there would be the exhibition hall, where I planned to poke my nose around and talk to publicists about books. Thursday I would talk to teachers, and Friday to authors and publishers. Very well, but… This place was huge.

I did the only reasonable thing. I opened the book at random and jabbed a finger. The session I landed on was about teaching literacy supported by museum visits. I had nothing better to do, and went.

I am not and probably will never be a classroom teacher again. I never was an elementary school teacher. I wish these people were my teachers, and I am so glad– so glad– this country has such a wealth of dedicated teachers who bustle like these people were doing to figure out how to do the best they can with as few resources as possible for the kids they’re teaching. The keynote of every session I was in was how to give as much literacy support as possible for as diverse a population of learners as possible. The kids discussed were frequently disadvantaged or marginalized, but the growing recognition that diverse learning needs cross every which way was pretty neat to see. And one thing that struck me powerfully was that many of the people whose sessions I attended were simply teachers from districts in, say, Bridgeport, Connecticut, not super well to do, but they’d figured out a method that worked for giving students a focal point for observation and writing about a museum artefact. It worked repeatedly, and they wanted to share. They had handouts showing what they used with their groups. They offered to share printouts and resources.

Friday was my day with the publishing folks, people I know better, but that Thursday with teachers is going to live with me for a while. The few times I mentioned rather humbly that, “No, I only have one student because I homeschool my daughter,” not a single teacher let me get away with it. “That’s teaching,” was the brisk reply.

To give an idea of the single-minded focus these teachers had on using anything and everything at this conference to the benefit of their students, I will tell you another thing about the creature comforts of the conference hall. There was a snack bar. It did not, as it were, have people there except confused teachers wondering if it was worth it to pay $4 for a bottle of Aquafina water and how on earth you did that, anyway? To get in, you scanned a credit card and hoped the Convention Center didn’t take your entire income. The gate shuddered and let you in. You walked around and realized the place contained nothing potable or edible you dared consume except that $4 Aquafina. Uncertain, you pick up the bottle and look for how to pay and leave. At that point I decided to cease dissociating, use the first person, and, timidly, ask someone else how the hell to get out with the water and without getting arrested for theft. The young teachers I was speaking to pointed up, “See the creepy cameras?” “Oooh we’re in a dystopia!” I replied, light dawning. “Yes,” the young woman agreed, “this is my new object lesson for when I teach Fahrenheit 451, and the cameras track what we get and charge us when we leave!” I nodded, agreeing it would be a good contribution to the class, and suggested she get some pictures to show the class. “Oooh, good call,” and she whipped out her phone.

We may be entering a new Pandemonium, but, thankfully, we have a wonderfully committed set of teachers working to make sure we have the context clues and skills to identify what’s going on and describe it.

When I came back on Friday (different dress, but also cats and books) I was headed into the exhibit space, and this was a more diverse crowd. When I say diverse, I do not mean in terms of anything except “not just teachers.” Editors, teachers, publicists, authors, illustrators, publishers– and I have no idea who I am, but I was there, too. I am the kind of person who was so deeply offended that the ALA was on my conference lanyard that my first stop was at the Chicago Manual of Style booth to show my support but really, mostly, to get my hands on the fancy new edition and look at it in person. Who am I? I’m the person whose fridge looks like this:

I saw a lot of books. And people. And I can tell you, now, that there are a few books to look forward to. I got ARCs for two books I’d desperately hoped to read early, Grace Lin’s The Gate, the Girl, and the Dragon, and Brian Selznick’s Run Away With Me, which is so brilliant I wept at the end. I haven’t gotten the Grace Lin back yet. I had to give it to my daughter right away as compensation for– I’ll tell you later. I got to see Kyle Lukoff again, always a pleasure. Kyle– a writer who knows how to write, and who cares about his readers. What a mensch.

And I had one moment of enormous, fangirling embarrassment. We all know how I feel about Elisha Cooper. If there is a picture book inheritor to the tradition of E.B. White, that’s Elisha Cooper. And I saw a sticker on Emma Full of Wonders saying “Meet the Author!” I asked the lovely, lovely person at Macmillan if he was at the conference then. “He sent me a panda!” I told her. She answered, “Oh, that’s so nice,” as though I had uttered a reasonable sentence. And she checked a schedule and said, “He’s coming out of room [I forget the number] in ten minutes, I bet you could make it and catch him on the way out.” I took that as permission to run pell-mell across a conference centre and see him coming out and say, “Elisha Cooper! You sent me a PANDA!” He is, I tell you this, the most calm and gracious person the world has met, took a look at my conference badge, and said, “Oh! I do know you!” which, considering what he previously knew was that I was a name presumably attached to a person who reads his books to my kids– that was generous. And we had a lovely chat and shook hands and I floated on a cloud back to the exhibition hall thinking what a nice man he is.

Look, this was a huge conference. I may have written out my bewilderment above, but I’m an experienced reader and academic and I know conferences well. There were so many sessions that I was really lucky, honestly, to have the background to be able to scan with eyes that know and choose, correctly, which were the ones I would find the most useful. Certainly, every conference of this range has a lot of crap. And publishing is the same; many books have not reached their final, perfect form, before they’re published. Others are stellar.

I looked at the conference with eyes that sought good material and good books and good people. It was, at this season and in this time, absolutely marvellous and inspiring to find so much that is worthwhile– so many people working for literacy and aspiring to excellence.

And this was the crowning moment for me. I had to leave early, for Shabbat (and telling people that– I was met only with “Oh, of course! Shabbat shalom! You know, this is something we were keeping for Saturday– take it early, ok?”), and on the way out I saw a woman whose hair I knew and beside her a bandana– was that really Sy Montgomery, my daughter’s hero, with Matt Patterson, the brilliant illustrator who worked with her on Of Time and Turtles? She felt my look and saw my badge: “You can’t be– are you– you ARE! You’re [daughter’s name]’s mother!” And then she made sure I got a photo– the only photo I think I have of people rather than books from that conference.

Between Elisha Cooper’s “I do know you!” and Sy Montgomery recognizing me through my brilliant, ferociously competent, and wildly talented daughter, I don’t think I’ve ever felt prouder or more recognized in a place where I started off so timid.

Well, I’m hoping to get out a “books I loved from 2024.” I need to talk about my beloved Tumblebaby and about Little Shrew. I need to talk about Kevin and the Blackbirds and absolutely everything Felicita Sala did this year, especially If You Run Out of Words. But if not, I want you to know that sometimes we need to dig a bit. Sort through a big conference with eyes focused on finding the kernel the Nutcracker is getting to (sorry, very Nutcracker focused in this house right now), but it’s ever so worth it to find what you’re looking for. And did I find it? I did. I found people who cared about books and literacy and kids, and that’s pretty good. They liked cats, too.