Small Circles

If You Give a Mouse a Fribble...

2012-01-21T10:08:00.000-08:00

Friendly's and Fribbles. Oh my gosh, the memories that conjures up inside my head. But when I think about Fribbles (mine were vanilla), I can't help but see the small squared sandwich, the hamburger too. That burger, to me, was something to die for with it's slightly red middle encased in a warm grilled cheese. Who thought of that anyhow? Marrying my two faves: the grilled cheese and the burger in one little warm house. Yum.

Today...MacDonald reigns. And honestly, it did back then when it was just emerging too. We had no burger joints, no shakes, there really was no fast food. It was all slow and freshly prepared and without a doubt much better for you. But then Friendly's came along, and the high school crowd jumped right in. Friendly's had booths, and you could linger over a shake, and that was exactly what we needed back then.

I think about all the high school dances and our trips to Friendly's and the Knotty Pine (Diner) too, and my friends, Debbie and Diane talking late into the night. I remember recapping the evening and almost never wanting to go home. I think about our mini-skirts and boots and our bell bottomed blue jeans, the music, the strobe lights and how giggly and fancy-free we were. In one short year, we'd be off at college and what an enormous shift that would bring.

The point of it all, though, for me as a writer, is the transition of thought to idea, of idea to emotion, of emotion to time travel and how the clear and authentic details resonnate in me. Emotion drives scenes, but details live in the underlayers beneath. Drilling for those strong, authentic details and tapping into the emotions that live there is always the hardest part for me!

I guess the lesson here, lies in the Fribble...not just any milkshake, because mine had a very wide straw. It was frothy and smooth with just the barest lump of vanilla cream (icemilk actually, I think). That Fribble, in its wide clear glass sat on the table...waiting between many long sips, while Deb and Diane and I pieced together all those moments of our life. And once that long, laughable slurp was taken, once we'd picked up our keys and headed home, we'd forged a formidable alliance that no boy, no other group of gossippy girls would ever want to deal with!

Another New Dawning: Keeping the Writing on Track

2012-01-17T04:39:00.000-08:00

This morning, I sit here with my cup of hot coffee and I look out the window to see a fresh blanket of snow has covered the ground. I hear the plows out there scraping the roads, paving the way for the morning commute, but I'm not worried about that right now. I know I have an extra ninety minutes to write. Some mornings I journal, mostly to get anything that's playing in my head out there on the page. I want no distractions to defeat me in my work.

But this morning, I'm free of distractions...pretty much anyway. I did check in on school closings, and so I was aware of the morning headlines too. But I didn't linger. I had my assignment in mind.

Setting a deadline has been a great thing for me. It's given me a purpose and forced me to look at things I'd never looked at before: word and page count specifically. I never wanted to be so glossy, so caught up in the specifics of pushing forward like that with my book. One of my writing partners has been nudging me along, though. She's given me a deadline for the first time with this book. Last time we sat down together, I told her I didn't think our deadline was realistic. I mean really...the end of February? C'mon. I have a full time job to do.

She stood firm. I objected...you have this book almost written, I said. You know all your plotlines, your writing comes out perfect from the start. She laughed at me. Yeah, right, she said. Who has it all figured out, really?

I was thinking about that today...as I approached my own work. I realize the pitfall I'd taken and stayed in for years. The US and THEM theory. Others look so great, so polished, so complete. It's been my critic living large and well-inhabited in my brain. I haven't been working, really working on a regular basis, producing pages...I'd been back-tracking again, trying to polish and perfect. So today, as the dawn was breaking, I was pushing my seven not-so perfect pages out there. And I found, just like I always have, that a lot of gifts come when characters are placed in an uncomfortable situation and allowed the time to interact. Tonight, I may change it up a bit...but tomorrow, I know, I've still got to push forward if I want to make some kind of reasonable point of completion on this.

Life, writing...go figure; an actual deadline would be the thing to get me unstuck! Progress, not perfection is just what I need.

A Welcome Stranger in the Woods

2012-01-02T15:08:00.000-08:00

What will inspire you in 2012? Notice...I say 'will.' Are you thinking ahead, standing still or living in the moment like me? I like to live my life in minutes and hours, but sometimes even I have to plan ahead, pack a bag, take a leap and prepare for what's to come.

I've been told writing is like driving in a snowstorm. Sometimes you can only see as far as your headlights will allow. But more often, we can see inklings beyond the headlight's rays, and that is what we are called to do.

If I were to hold up the mirror to myself as a writer, I'd have to say, I've been forging ahead and standing still at the same time. Writing requires a deep well of unrelenting thought. Characters have to be wrestled to the floor, shook out and torn apart almost until they bleed. Sounds graphic and torturous, right? Well...the process itself is. I am haunted and enthused, delighted and annoyed and most often plagued by that awful gnawing doubt that keeps me paralyzed in procrastination, stuck in the quicksand of thought.

Right now, I'm forging ahead. I'm inspired because I've forced myself to revisit and remap my characters' goals, motivations and desires. Instead of writing into a snowstorm, tangible images and ideas have begun to emerge again. And unlike this beautiful stranger in the woods, the patterns and ideas are no longer a big surprise to me. So, just for today, I'm grabbing on...and letting that little bit of inspiration carry me!

Cynsations: Helen Hemphill to Serve as Director of Highlights ...

2011-10-21T17:14:00.000-07:00

Cynsations: Helen Hemphill to Serve as Director of Highlights ...: Helen Hemphill is taking over the directorship of the Whole Novel Workshop for the Highlights Foundation in 2012 and has an amazing lineup...

I came across this posting today, and couldn't help but think about my time at Chautauqua last summer. I made so many connections with really special people, like-minded in a creative way. Helen Hemphill was my mentor that week and I was fortunate to learn a great deal from her. At the time, one of my point of view character's narrative was written largely in verse. Helen helped me to craft my writing in short visual bursts, rather than stretching the narrative out in a thinner elongated way. She encouraged me to read and study Shark Girl, by Kelly Bingham, a colleague of hers from Vermont College. It's a wonderfully well-written novel, which apparently received a great deal of acclaim from the faculty there.

Since my time with Helen, I've come to gather all sorts of ideas and thoughts about my work. Over the course of the past year, I've taken all that I've learned and turned myself inside out for a bit. I've hunkered down and really tried to see what it is that I envision for my work. The character I'd written in verse, was not really resonating with me. I found she was sounding just a little too cryptic to me. So...back to the drawing board on that one. The good news is nothing in writing is ever lost. I know for sure that verse character has another home in another book that will inevitably have its day in the sun.

I highly recommend Chautauqua and the Highlights Foundation Whole Novel Workshops. The mentorship is strong, the workshops are deeply meaningful, and the food is beyond belief!

The Dawn of a New Day

2011-07-20T13:47:00.000-07:00

For the better part of the past month, I've been on the road, driving anywhere from 6 to 12 hours a day, making my way across this great land of ours. I've pretty much abandoned Small Circles and Teach Spot, my two normal blogs to chronicle about the journey for a small local online news service, The Newtown Patch. It's been a wonderful opportunity to expand my writing horizons and to share my work with a local population of interested readers.

But...Small Circles is still my home niche. It gives me a place to reflect on the people in my life and the creative universe that surrounds us all. For the past twenty-five days, I've expanded my circles, meeting people from a wealth of varying backgrounds...learning a little about them through conversation, and also in doing what writers do...listening in, because, well, we're nosy! I'm always looking for something new, and a few juicy characters to splash on the written page!

Just outside the Painted Desert, at a quick rest stop in Cameron, AZ, I stumbled upon a very small craft shop. I'd been looking for a turquoise necklace...nothing elaborate, and cost was a serious consideration, since we'd planned this long journey, knowing it was a huge expense in itself. I met a Navajo women, named Denise, whose small corner encompassed pottery, necklaces, earrings and all sorts of beautifully designed Native American crafts. I was struck as much by her work as I was by her beauty. She had gorgeous light tan skin, dark eyes and glossy dark brown hair. She was clearly dressed for the day, wearing one of her own creations, a beautiful three stringed turquoise necklace. I approached somewhat cautiously, because, as always, I do not want to engage until I'm sure I want to buy. This is the same in any store for me. I never want to get myself trapped.

Denise was a different story, though, I sensed it right from the start. She asked me what I was interested in, and I told her...something simple, yet elegant. She showed me a necklace on display that she'd made the day before. Two strands...of turquoise beads...varying in size a little along the neckline, with varying marks and impurities in the stone that made the piece stand out among the others. She told me the beads came from the Royston and/or Kingman mines. At first that meant nothing to me. But then, I realized, she wanted me to know more...to value the work. Both Royston and Kingman are mines from the state of Nevada. The turquoise is a deeper, darker aqua and the impurities have a brownish goldish tint. I loved the beads, her work...and loved her soft-spoken, gentle ways. I told her I'd like to bring my husband in, that it'd just take me a minute, as he's in a wheel chair. She told me to just take the beads...not to put him through all that. So I did. I took the beads out to the parking lot...and of course, my husband loved them.

When I returned, I bought the beads (for a third the cost of others I'd seen...which were lesser in quality for sure), and she gave me her card with all her information...Native Expressions, it said. She wanted to be sure that if anything went wrong with my necklace, I wouldn't regret my purchase at all. I too, am a person of my word, and so I loved this about her. I scanned the austere shop...only three other craftswomen set up with small tables in a room that could've held twenty or more. It was not nearly as luxurious as the shop next door, but Denise, to me, was another creative, working her craft one bead at a time along the road. I left there, tickled by the fact, that here she is on the outskirts of the Painted Desert, in a minimalist desert landscape as remote and quiet as I'd seen, bringing beauty to those of us who may never travel that path again...but enlivening the understandings that come and go between our two worlds.

Meeting Along the Shore

2011-05-29T06:00:00.000-07:00

What is the true measure of a person...their life, their loves, their quirks or all the stories that surround their corner of the universe? Who do we count as important, the ones that touch us so deeply they fill a crevice in our hearts? When you leave, will I reach you again? Why are we here, anyway? So many questions, so few answers. But somehow now, I don't feel compelled to know.

Words and stories, faces and lives weave their way through our existence each and every day. Do I stop? Notice? Sometimes. After all, I call myself a writer. I am interested, curious. But not always. Am I a willing participant in the lives of those I hold dear? Do I come, or do I need to be dragged? Mindful in the moment? Some of the time, I guess.

Recently, I was given a golden opportunity. A clear chance to be really present in the very dear and painful last moments of a very, very special person in my life. Words, to me, have such great power. But I realize I don't always hang on every word. This time, I was given the presence of mind to know...to listen...to witness and to cherish every last word that was said.

But eventually...there were few, if any words at all. The eyes became the true windows to it all. The heart communicated in silence...a gentle grip, a tender look, the small acceptance of love. Life's end, just like its beginning, is a thing that gives me great pause. For we are all witnesses to one another. Here, not for ourselves, but for that which happens when one steps in and carries the other...into this life, or out onto another shore.

Whispering Wind

2011-05-01T14:40:00.000-07:00

Driving around early this morning, inspired by the little things...cows in the field, old corn-stalks--dangling remnants of last year's crop, and the clear blue sky towering above. On the radio comes an old fave of mine...one that was so overplayed back in the day: "Stairway to Heaven." I was such a Zepellin maniac back then!

I worked at a local grocery store and saved just about every cent I made for music, first, and clothes too, which took a close second for sure. I'd come home, run upstairs and blare that vinyl on my sad excuse for a stereo. Drove my poor brother crazy...he, after all was of the Elvis generation or maybe even Frank Sinatra, I honestly don't know. We were ten years apart. I was 18, and he, at 28 was stuck with the job of raising an angst-filled teenage girl. Led Zepellin and Mountain too, did that in a way that nobody else could.

But today? I heard it all in a different way, like the artists had changed the words. There was no angst, and no confusion...just a message I could use in my life.

"There are two paths you can go by, but in the long run there's still time to change the road you're on."

Still time! Not only is there clock time, but there's the time of the spirit...that remains still once in an actual while: that rested spirit, one that stops, looks up and wonders at clouds, chases the dreams that come only in moments, and not in weeks and years. I realize how quick I am to measure myself by accomplishments in the time of man and the world. In my life I am also trying to take two paths at once. It doesn't work that way.

So, today, I took a seat and looked up at the huge white pine, the one that towers over my cottage. I studied its wide scape of powerful branches, and witnessed our partnered hawks building another year's nest. The breeze scattered magnolia's elegant white petals on the lawn. And for the very first time, I thought of that other road.

Sitting there all quiet and still...I found an answer to a story I've been working on for three years. Of course. It came to me, just as it always does. But in its coming, this time came a lesson too. For it's only in the stillness that these inevitable whispers can be heard.

Making It Manageable: Stepping Back from the Whole and Savoring the Parts

2011-04-24T16:34:00.000-07:00

Plain and simple. My father used that phrase all the time. And yet, it's only now that I begin to wonder what he meant. Oh...I knew back then, seriously. It was a stringer placed on the end of every command. "Go and do your homework (then the look of course). Plain and simple." In other words, get your motor moving and sit down at the table, and get started right now.

I am, however, a little more complicated than that. I need to know how and why and how long and where to start. Analysis. It kills me. My other favorite game is canvasing the whole world to figure out what they think about what I've done. When I have enough interpretations of the same piece of writing, then I'm set to begin to revise. Confusing, right? Well, of course.

Complicated people crave complications. Creatives complicate, embellish and enrich. But sometimes we complicate in order to hide. If I create enough of a smokescreen, I'll never have to get the job done. My dad had a word for that too...procrastination, sloth in five syllables,
he said. On that, he was wrong. I can spin my wheels (and have) for what seems like a lifetime. But when I'm spinning, I'm also imagining.

Today? I went out into my yard and perused all the buds and blossoms out there. My magnolia was calling me again. And it's then I realized the sum total of that tree is not nearly as sweet as its parts. I studied the buds...with their velvety smooth encasements, the bit of dew on its petals. And it's then that I thought about my dad...about plain and simple, about the when and how. The time is now...the how was right there in those devilish details. 'As plain as the nose on my face!' (Yup, another Jack Murphyism.) When I write, I tend to get the sum total of the idea down on the page. Now that I'm revising, the small details, just like those velvety leaves will emerge to make the work real.

Living a Creative Life: Taking Stock

2011-04-21T17:54:00.000-07:00

Chicago! A city, a neighborhood, a living and breathing sports city. My kind of town, really. Streams of people parade up and down the streets of Wriggleyville in the hours that lead up to game time. This visit, we were welcomed with snow! Baseball was a definite no-go. With wind chills, and rain, I'll bet it was below thirty degrees at night. But I didn't go to Chicago for the baseball; I came to visit my girl. And in that, I'm never disappointed. There were countless meals with long conversations, afternoon pastries with a half-caf. latte or two, and on Saturday, in the pouring rain, we went off to take care of toes and nails.

Two days during my stay, though, I was left to fend for myself. Unfortunately my daughter had to work. I contacted a friend, Mary Jo, whom I'd met at Chautauqua last summer, and we met for lunch to catch up. Mary Jo writes picture book and is currently about ready to send her latest work out. Since Chautauqua, she's published a non-fiction piece in Rethinking Magazine and has a few other pieces in the works. Mary Jo is a life coach, a writer, a real estate entrepreneur. She, like her mom before her, has many, many pots on the fire. So I was honored, really, that she leaped at the chance for lunch.

We pulled up along a quiet street in Roscoe Village and settled upon a beautiful Italian place, Pizza Bella. The restaurant, of course, was half empty...a grandmother with her seven year old granddaughter were celebrating a birthday, a trio of working people seated themselves at the table behind us, and a pair of new parents came in with their little one, and that was just about it. Mary Jo had a number of questions for me, which of course, is exactly how I remembered her to be. "How's the work...what are you working on...", all the usual stuff. But somehow, she tapped into a chink inside my walls. She got me thinking about my work, my crowded life and all the extra angst I've welcomed into my life. She spoke of priorities, and made me think about all the clutter in my life. Committees...and more committees, living in the political grindstone, it's a wonder I can even think at all!

So...in the wake of our visit, I'm still thinking about this conversation, and how counterproductive the life I'm living is to the creative part of myself. No wonder I've had so many periods of being stuck. Now I'm listing, prioritizing and trying to get it all straight. Extra-curricular for me...means counterproductive to the craft. Instead of being able to generate more...I'm diminishing my ideas, renting out space in my brain to things most people don't care about at all! In the upcoming blog, I'll share some of my thoughts on creativity...and my plans for nurturing those tiny seeds in my life. Work needs to be that means to an end, because in the end, if that's all I've done...I've left nothing of personal creative meaning for me.

After two very long cups of coffee, the waiters started rattling around. Mary Jo had set a plan in motion, and she had inspired me to do the same. So, of course...I get home, and on my counter is a copy of Whole Living...with an article, called Second Act: How to Reinvent Yourself!

Kirsten Hubbard: YA Author + Travel Writer: author Michelle Hodkin would have given anything to be like...

2011-03-11T16:12:00.000-08:00

Kirsten Hubbard: YA Author + Travel Writer: author Michelle Hodkin would have given anything to be like...

my older sister! She was a beautiful flirt, with great taste in everything she set her eyes on. Now, I too, am happy just the way I am! I ran into a 22 yr. old girl this week though, on the brink of chucking it all and going on tour around the US with her journal and her camera. And for just a second or two, oh, how I wished I'd done that myself! Great post Michelle! Best of luck with your book, Kirsten!

The Inevitable Red Pen: Five Steps to Restoring Sanity

2011-03-06T16:22:00.000-08:00

Shift happens...and it couldn't have happened soon enough for me! I spent an inspiring night out with the girls from my writing group. We didn't come with pages or computers or even red pens; we didn't come to write, or critique, or to get too heavy into plot. We came to have fun, to laugh, tell stories, and validate all that we do.

I'm most honest with this group of trusted writing friends. And yet, I've recently put my writing into a variety of different hands. The result: I became blocked and paralyzed for a while, sinking into a winter of stalled pages and forgotten ideals. The critique itself was largely positive and helpful to my overall work. But, like most writers, I'd braced myself for more. And of course, I have to remember the law of averages...which meant that one negative comment would come. And when it did, I let it take the legs right out from under my work.

Over the course of the past few weeks, I've been writing and reading, and looking for inspiration to get back on track each day. And now, I'm finally back on top and pushing forward again. But in the event of the inevitable next time, I've chosen a few simple ideals to restore me to sanity again.

1. Who is your first...and second reader?

Who is that one person that can name your problem...put a finger on your work and get you back on track? My husband has always been my first reader. He always hears me out, and gives it to me straight every time. My second reader is that other writer-the one who's entrenched in the work too. She can look me in the eye, tell me the truth, and I know I won't fall apart.

2. Don't disregard your own common sense.

Ask yourself, 'Does this comment match my belief about this work?' If not, set it on the back burner, ask a lot of questions around it, and then enlist a few other opinions as well. Like a bad novel, a snap judgment can be an awful thing. My dad always said, "Always consider the source." If it's a caustic, hurtful comment, that doesn't seem in the least way right to you? A comment like that will never move your work along. The purpose in critique is to find absolute truth as best you can...to find that one trusted opinion that knows story and is well-seasoned at reading story, and knows the market as well. If you do get a lot of opinions that match that one, then, of course, you have a problem on your hands.

3. Establish a good boundary: you are not what you write.

Don't wrap yourself in steel, (Natalie Goldberg) but perhaps a little dark purple velvet will do. Keep a healthy distance, so you and your writing are separated in a way. You are not your writing. Earlier on in my writing, that was hard to believe. If it works, it'll show itself. If it doesn't, perhaps it simply is not there yet.

4. Shut the door...and write like your hair's on fire!

Self-doubt is poison. There's a time to write and a time to be critiqued.

Stephen King says, "Writing fiction, especially a long work of fiction can be a difficult, lonely job; it's like crossing the Atlantic Ocean in a bathtub. There's plenty of opportunity for self-doubt. If I write rapidly--I can keep up with my original enthusiasm and at the same time outrun the self-doubt that's always waiting to settle in." (Stephen King, ON WRITING)

5. Do I have to take this or can I let it go?

Writers have to take critique with a kind of grace and tough-skinned welcome at the very same time. In the end, the process is mine. I have to put the work away for a while, and begin to let it go. Later, I can trust my gut, and actually begin to have a clue.

In WRITING DOWN THE BONES, Natalie Goldberg says, "Give a piece to one hundred people, you could possibly get one hundred different opinions--not absolutely different, but lots of variations. This is where the depth of the relationship with yourself is so important. You should listen to what people say. Take in what they say. (Don't build a steel box around yourself.) Then make your own decision." (page 157)

For today, thankfully, I'm unstuck. I've got all that I need to get back on track with my work. I'm spinning words and images are floating around in my brain. Writing, like old age, is certainly not for sissies. But the cycle, the torture, the magic in the words and the images that float around in my head? It's what I love more than most anything in the world. And in the end, it's that gentle return to laughter that really makes that shift finally happen for me.

Filling the Table Again

2011-02-20T11:02:00.000-08:00

Last night, my table was filled with quick snippets of conversation, raucous laughter and stories from long ago. It was not a typical Saturday night, for too often I take the easy way out...stay at home and watch a movie, grab a bite at a local restaurant and sometimes meet friends there. But now, I've made a decision, or so I've convinced myself...to shed all the formality, the cleaning and perfectionism, and just pick up the phone instead.

It's been a long, snowy winter here in New England! 72" of snow to date! All of us are cramped inside our houses, far too often stuck in front of the t.v. screen. And while I am not much for t.v., I do find myself succumbing to the dull malaise of it anyway.

When I was growing up, we never, ever stayed in on Saturday nights. We most often went to my Aunt's house, or she would come to ours as well. We'd go to a movie...at the drive-in, a concept not too many would understand now. (Oh man, how I loved that drive-in! Was it my imagination, or didn't they wait on us by car? Maybe I'm thinking of Stewarts' Rootbeer, another favorite Saturday night treat.) On a rare occasion, when there was just a little bit of extra money, my dad would take us to Snuffy's, a local restaurant that came complete with an organ player. Did we know how to live it up, or what?!

But now? I do have a few friends who'll drop everything and go out on a Saturday night. The minute I pick up the phone, they'll meet us just about anywhere. But only a few. Many of the people I've known over the years, are locked into their living rooms now. What is this awful phenomenon, I've wondered. Is this what it means to get old? Because...if it is? I'm not subscribing at all!

My new manifesto: friends, fun, family and laughter. Back in the sixties when t.v. was just a fledgling at best, we had a different kind of 'herding mentality'. But now, we're far too entertained by that box. I also believe that all the screen time at work, the demands in the workplace and a million other factors are keeping us all apart. So? I'm putting it out there...to all my facebook/twitter friends and to everyone else in this cyber universe: Let's bring back Saturday night--make it social, and get away from the t.v. screen!

What do you do with your Saturday nights these days?

Savoring all the Sweet Spots

2011-02-04T18:22:00.000-08:00

Spread it, roll it, bake it all up and slide it into that red-hot oven...and that's when the waiting began. My favorite was always the sticky white icing that criss-crossed over that gooey top. But on that day? I said, "Easy on the frosting," I was trying to watch my weight. She immediately vetoed that, because she always had the final say. "Who counts calories on their birthday?" she said. And of course, we both started to laugh. She put her arm around my neck, gave a yank and pulled me to her, the two of us knocking heads. And even little Jen in her stroller started to laugh and kick her feet. Sugar, of course, was always our thing, and on that day? Jen was our partner in crime.

I turned back to the guy at the counter, and watched him squeeze that pastry tube and smother that bun in white. She always had it right. Massive doses of sugar was the cure for most anything. That day I was reminded of the many Sunday mornings--after church, then after the cemetery...when we went, two little girls, off to the bakery shop. Jellies, crumb buns, sugar-crusted crullers and even a cupcake or two! I'm sure my dad spent half his paycheck there, but of course we'd never let him off the hook.

The last time my sister and I celebrated our birthdays at TJ's, we figured there'd be so many more. Why wouldn't we? I mean, life just strings on and on...especially when you're in the middle of raising massive numbers of kids, like her with a tribe of five, and me with my own little three. We were right in the heart of our lives...that virtual sweet spot we'd worked so hard to get to. But here it is, February all over again. And even though she's not here to celebrate...you can best believe I'm not really alone. Because any time, I'm savoring one of life's sweet spots, seeing pictures of her grandkids on Facebook, or hanging out at a baptism or birthday, I'm seeing her and remembering, paying witness to all she was and all this next generation will be. And nothing will ever take that sweetness away! So today? On my B-day, I'm thinking of her and sending sweet vibes her way.

And as for that sticky bun? We gave it that slow savor, taking turns pulling off only a piece at a time. We fed some to Jen, and unraveled a little bit more. When we got to the end...she suddenly announced, "I'm done," before I could open my mouth to do the same. She turned her head, and forced that final piece on me. And then I watched that smirk stretch over those lips and I saw that gleam in her eye. She was turning 41, and I was not that far behind, but she was still the biggest boss of me!

Snow, Rain, Wind and Other Natural Disasters

2011-01-26T13:46:00.000-08:00

Red boots. My main staple all through my little kid years. Just try finding a pair of boots like these now. They don't exist anymore. Ours had a little elastic strap to pull them together a bit at the top. And boy, did we live in those things!

Today, I was outside shoveling snow (my least favorite past time these days) in my pale aqua boots. They're not exactly the same as my little girl boots, but they give me that little girl feel. I picked them up for gardening a year or two ago, and I've been slogging around in them ever since. I've always been either of two things: a barefoot baby or a rubber boot mucking around kind of kid!

The other day, I traded up for a pair of 'Chookas', a fancy brand of rubber boot with polka dots and stripes. I found them on sale, and honestly couldn't resist. But...somehow, they just don't have that same appeal. That got me thinking about my little girl roots in boots.

When I was a tiny thing of a girl, at a point where I first stood on two feet, I remember toddling around in a pair of big girl boots. Those boots, the original ones? Definitely...not my own! I could barely stand up, I teetered and toppled and landed at my father's knee. They were my sister Dub's boots, I think, and probably Carol's before her. Dubbie was six full years older and Carol, a year older than that. I coveted everything that belonged to her; I wanted it all for me.

Imagine. Six years on this planet, and then the likes of me shows up. No way my sister was going to stand for that. She was large and in charge, a personality to be dealt with for sure.But back then, my father was the boss, and she, of course, was given no choice. One time, I was bundled to the point of suffocation in my little blue snow suit and wrapped all around in a scarf. And Dub? Well, while no one was looking, she gave a hard tug on that scarf...you know, the one around my neck. And of course, when I opened my mouth to tell...but she gave me her most evil grin. That became her MO back then, and of course, I had to succumb. But down deep inside? She always had my back. And as for me? I worshipped the ground she walked on, even though it was a little tipsy at times!

There was no buying new anything back then, so those boots eventually became mine. I wore them everywhere, only taking them off for bed. I loved the scuff, scuff, scuff sound that they made. "Pick up your feet, Gael Susan." And I loved how my toes could lift them into the air. I marched in puddles and then turned around and marched back. When I was on the swings, I had to wrestle just to keep them on. But when it snowed outside, that was when I like them the least.

My dad would bundle me up, kiss the top of my head and wrap me in a scarf. He'd pull my sled down from a shelf in the garage and wax the runners with a bit of fresh soap. "Just the ticket," he'd say. "You'll be flying down that hill!" My sister, of course, would be out way ahead of me, and always made it clear that I was to leave her alone. But my friend, Nancy, was always there waiting with her brother, Peter, and her sister, LuAnn too. I'd sniff that air and fill my lungs and grab my sled by its side. I'd tuck that long pull rope right under my red mittened hand, and then I'd do the next natural thing...I'd let out a yell that'd echo through all of the yards, "Let's go!"

The four of us would race, with our sleds in the air, slipping and sliding all the way. And just as we'd hit the crest of the hill, we'd slam our sleds down, shoving off in the hard-packed snow. The goal was to make it over the brook, to get to the other side. Most of the time...we made it, but once in a while we'd land in the ice and crack through to the cold, black mud. It was then that I'd call for her, that crazy sister of mine...

"Dub!" I'd yell. "Help!" And before I knew it, she'd be running to rescue me. There are some things you never doubt. But then she'd run me back to the house, and my dad open the door. He'd give her one of his looks. "Who was watching her," he'd say. And oh man, how I dreaded those words. Everyone was supposed to be watching me, and so I was never supposed to get hurt.

"It's not her fault, Daddy," I'd say. But of course that held no water with him.

Dub would leave me behind again, and then the towel would come out. He'd wash me up and hand warm my frostbitten feet. Often, they'd be solid white all the way through. "You just don't know when to stop," he'd say. And of course I knew he was right. But honestly, it was the boots, the big sister, the smell of a little adventure, it was all that and so much more. When it came to being outside, there was no greater place to be!

And as for that big sister...the large and in charge kinda girl? Well she's wandering around in this wild universe somewhere, and I know she's heeding my call. I heard the tinkling of bells just a little while ago, a wind chime out on snow-covered my porch. That big sister of mine lives in the wind, and she's always got my back...and of course, I've always got hers!

House of Miracles

2011-01-17T14:52:00.000-08:00

Funny what the small circles of our existence reap over time. Today is the sixth anniversary of our time here in this quaint little house of ours. It's an old hunting lodge that's been architecturally redesigned, added onto and then added onto again. It's a cute little sucker, but sometimes I just feel like it's a big old house of pain!

When we first moved in, I told everyone it was like little house on the unprairie...we lost heat almost instantly, one of our faucets exploded, and then we had no water at all. How did we buy this place we wondered? Were we really such big fat suckers? There's a trout up there on top of that cupola, but it might as well have been a mackerel, the symbol of our early existence here.

We moved cross town to a one level home to accomodate my husband's progressive neurological illness. He'd just gotten his wheels, and we knew it wouldn't be long before he would not make it up our old colonial style home's stairs. So, we packed up tearfully, said good-bye to our beautiful pool, and made this quaint little place our home. It even had a cottage for writing, so we all felt that the karma was there for us all.

Now, six years later, we've had a whopper of a snowstorm, a second snowstorm really, this season. First storm...eighteen inches. I shoveled and cleared the walkways and the decks. No sweatski. This one? JEESH. It's a pain in the buttinsky. Thirty back-breaking inches of snow. I saw on twitter someone said it was like a gigantic 'snow-barf'...well, disgusting, but really? We got clocked. Just before Christmas, the gigunda screen on my gigantic fireplace decided to let go of whatever is it was that it was hanging onto in them there stones. So...I can't even have a cozy fire. And now...I'm hearing the incessant 'drip, drip, drip,' a stream of water sliding down my daughter's bedroom wall. But today, a friend from a circle of long ago came and lent me a hand. He knew. He's a roofer, and right now has over two hundred calls on his machine. In fact, he's now posted a message that he's not taking any work...at all. But he came here with four of his guys and altogether they shoveled, raked and filled the gutters with calcium chloride. He promised to come back this Thursday after the pending storm and then over the weekend too.

And right now, I'm inside, I've shoveled and upon his recomendation, shoveled to make little shelves to keep the snow off the path. I even went out and shoveled the cellar door...so God forbid, anything happens with the workings of this crazy house, I can lift that lid and do what I need to do to just get by another day! Life is good, homeownership...even at its worst, is a huge blessing. And a mighty lesson has been learned by me once more...ask, and I always receive!

So, how about those Jets, anyway?

Away in a Manger

2011-01-03T03:36:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I went to church and as the stream of little kids made their way up and down the aisle, I had such a vivid flashback. I don't know if it was all the Christmas music, the cast of wiggling kids that surrounded me, or the wiggler inside myself that just couldn't sit still. But it all just came together.

It was my dad I was thinking about again! The songs at Christmastime just play inside this head of mine. I was thinking about that manger just to the left of the altar. And I was thinking about all the ways that my dad kept me from exploding when I sat there in church. The peppermint lifesavers were a standard, and those he used all year long. But at Christmas? It was the manger and good old (well, young, I guess) baby Jesus that kept me in my seat.

"He's watching you, you know," he'd say. I'd look up at him...my dad, that is. 'How could that be?' I wondered. Baby Jesus was a statue, statues couldn't watch me...I don't think, anyway. I'd suck myself in and pull back, hidden by my dad. I'd stretch out my patten leathers and push myself further back. I'd look at the priest...Father Sico (pronounced like psycho...really!) and I'd make myself as invisible as I could. It worked. The wiggling would stop without even the sight or smell of a lifesaver. I'd look up at my dad from time to time and he'd give me a wink, or a sudden smirk. I'd smell his Aqua Velva (oh God, I loved that smell) and I'd really believe what he said. I'd make it all the way through Communion and then the rest was a piece of cake.

After Mass, my father and I would wait on line as all the other kids streamed up to the manger. Dad would always hold back a bit, adding to my anticipation and anxiety, I think. And then...that moment: the baby J and me. Dad and I would kneel up, and say a prayer...I'd stare at that huge barely clothed statue and not pray...but somehow make a wish--and while I did that, I'd open my eyes just in time to catch my dad...nipping a 'wee bit' of straw right from under baby Jesus' butt! DAD! I'd want to scream...but he'd already have his hand to his lips. And there it was...he'd tuck the straw inside his pocket without even looking around. So smooth, so casual, so clear.

Meanwhile, I'd be having a heart attack...ready to run to the confessional to tell. But Dad? No way. He'd escort me out the side door. We'd make our way to the car. And just before he'd open the door, (because of course, he wouldn't want my older sisters to see) he'd slip that little bit of straw into the pocket of my coat. "Just a little something from baby Jesus to you." He'd lean down then and give me a kiss. "Because you're such a good girl in church." And right at that moment, I really felt like the baby Jesus wanted me to have that little bit of straw. Right at that moment I was the most special one on the earth.

Getting Fired-up...AGAIN!

2011-01-01T17:00:00.000-08:00

Inspiration comes from the strangest places. Take today, for example.I was engaged in all the mundane actions that follow the busiest, most chaotic season of the year: Christmas. Other than a well-orchestrated meal, the stringing of lights, or the placement of balls on a tree; it rolls into my life, and forces me to cast aside any possibility of deep, creative thought at all. So, I take a break from the tree. I'm surfing twitter, and I come across the writing challenge. Just what the doctor ordered to jump-start the writer in me.

Last night, I pulled out my sketch book, my journals from 2010, a half-finished manuscript and all the notes from Chautauqua, SCBWI workshops and the Whole Novel Workshop I attended this past fall. So much effort, so much love. My conclusion, I'm like a fish out of water when I'm not writing. I'm currently reading First Draft in 30 Days and reorganizing a major project I've hassled with for the past few years. But while the outlining feature is terrific, it's had me in stall mode for more than a month. Time to recommit, to write and to get myself fired-up all over again.

The answer is...writing, more words, more obsessing over the ins and outs of character and plot and more daydreaming that leads me back to the page! A day at a time, it all adds up, so my time is now, the day is here...and regardless of the outcome, I'm honestly glad to commit to 500 words each day. Yes, a thousand is possible...but 500 well-crafted is simply enough for me. Happy New Year out there in writing land! 2011 is going to be an awesome year!

All Roads Lead to Home

2010-11-24T02:59:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving has taken its time, but has become my favorite of holidays. My mom died on Thanksgiving Day...and so, for years, it was a day of great grief and sadness in our small home in New Jersey. I was not quite four at the time, so many of the real memories of her evade me even now. But I'll never forget the tears in my dad's eyes when he'd lift me up on his knee. How hard it must've been for him!

One of the first Thanksgiving memories I have was the one in which my sister Dub's teacher game for dinner. I remember her name...Mrs. Tozer, Geraldine, and her husband's name, Warren. It was the second Thanksgiving after my mom had died, and the turkey was not defrosted! Who knew? My sister, Carol, was in charge of that stuff at the mere age of twelve. My dad was overseeing it too, of course, but jeesh, none of this seems real to me, even now, a million years after the fact. That turkey was pulled and plunked in and out of cold water baths to defrost it, but no luck! We had hamburgers for dinner instead! I can only imagine my father's shame. But I do remember the Tozers' laughter, and that was enough to pull us all through.

This year, I'll have 49 guests for Thanksgiving, down from the 55 I originally expected. The ranks are shifting. This kind of event is not for the faint of heart, that's for sure. Years ago, I joined my husband's family for Thanksgiving...I think I was about 21 or 22 at the time. His family of 8 (plus me) joined the McGowan tribe of 9 and that was how it all began. By the time I joined them, they'd been performing this feast for about eleven years. Now it's been well over forty!

What I remember most about our huge family feasts is not the food, or the exact conversations I've had. It's the welcoming sound of laughter that reverberates off the ceilings and walls and sticks inside the core of my soul. I know it sounds corny, and I've never told any of them this...but when you start out a tradition of grief and sadness, it's hard for a little kid to recover from that. Their laughter shocked me at first, really! But now, I live for that sound.

So tomorrow, there'll be tables upon tables in my great room. There'll be chafing dishes and platters of food. The fire will be lit, the glasses all full and the house will burst at its seams.

And I...will suck it all in for another year...me that little adoptive daughter from New Jersey, with the two families of my dreams. Honestly, sometimes I do have to pinch myself. The laughter, the love and the being together...that combination can honestly heal anything! And even though I won't be with my own siblings and my parents too, they're never too far from my heart.

Seeing the Forest and the Trees

2010-11-15T18:32:00.000-08:00

Pondering. That is actually where I've been all these long weeks. Feeling a little lost, I've been plagued by self-doubt. Blocked, but faking it all the way. But really. I'd just forgotten to look up! November has its way with me every year, but this started way before that.

Early October hit hard, work, home, commitments, visitors, etc. Distractions and diversions. My writing brain just loves them! I've been playing in the field of self-doubt lately...and that is a dangerous thing.

But today, I pushed myself out of the hole. I've been immersed in memoir with my sixth graders, carving out samples of writing and sharing them with my kids. I've been working on the all too familiar 'Show, Don't Tell' lesson, watching them and reading what they've actually put on the page. When all of a sudden a voice from the back of the room cries out..."Now I get it! It's like living in that moment!"

Well, exactly! Be the moment! I heard a football player interviewed recently, and he said when he's headed toward the end zone, he is transcended...he is the ball. So, my message to my kids was actually the reteaching my writing brain needed too; be one with the story. Not so new to me. But somehow when I'm living in self-doubt, I never seem to see the trees, because I'm staring at the forest floor.

A little while after that, two girls stopped me on the way out of class and asked...no, demanded that I think inside my eleven year old brain. The decision was about braces. "Translucent or metal," they asked. "Metal," I said. "Definitely. I love all the color possibilities...and I could actually arrange my outfits to match!" Suddenly, they (and the universe) had taught me a whole lot more than I could've learned for myself.

So hello to my inner eleven year old; and hello story again! It feels so good to have that buzzing sound back inside my brain!

Swimming Along with the Tide

2010-09-23T17:34:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had an opportunity for a 'call back,' and it wasn't for stage or screen. I'd gotten a call for a recheck from my doctor, and I was invited to c'mon back in.

Well, I don't have to tell anyone how nerve-racking something like that can be. I let myself get into a little bit of a state, but then as always, I remembered to fall back on my faith. I had more than a few responsibilities in front of me, so I tried to put it out of my mind. I'm a drama queen first and foremost though, so I knew...in order to get out of that trap, reaching out to someone else is always my only safety net in this world.

I went over to the hospital, signed in at radiology and took my seat in the waiting room. I couldn't help notice the two women sitting alongside me there. Both of them were a bit jaundiced looking and both had lost their hair. I saw them, and they saw me too...both smiled but then both turned their eyes away. I have to admit, it scared me, seeing them both sitting there. But then, my name was called and I made my way down a very long, very white corridor and sat again and waited. House Wives of Orange County was playing up on the screen. It felt surreal, honestly. Like all this was a part of a dream.

I went to the first technologist, and she assured me she saw nothing, but the doctor would just have to check. She then came back for a few more, and that made me even more nervous. She said she'd be right back...but it wasn't her that returned. The next tech that came in was from ultra-sound...I laughed at that point, and I really don't know why. I told her I didn't really want to graduate, I only wanted to go home.

But it was in that time, after she finished with me, and before the doctor came in...that a certain peace came over me, and the words...'it is what is,' started swimming around in my brain. I thought about all the women before me...my mom, my grandmother, my sister, my mother-in-law, and the countless others too. All these women throughout the ages and we haven't beat this still. But mostly I thought about my family.

The doctor came in then, and she said she wanted a first-hand look. She told me not to try to read her face and not to worry she'd tell me the truth right there. I was very, very fortunate, what I had was a cancer scare. She showed me the spot in question and told me it was really nothing to worry about at all.

Yesterday, I learned the real lesson of life...it really is what it is, and no amount of fighting can ever change that at all. I have no power over it, but I sure can treat it like it's my most important treasure. So...yesterday, life's lesson led me right to the Icecream Shop! Life is good! Icecream, babies, laughter...choose your pleasure and live it up to the hilt!

How Low Can You Go?

2010-08-23T09:07:00.000-07:00

The question isn't always how far down you can dig, but how to get there from here. Right? I do think as an author, I can only give what I've got at the present moment. But...there's a certain amount of excavation, a little bit of blood, sweat and tears and a whole lot of living that has to go on in between.

I've been sitting, steeping, thinking and trying to live my life while I go deeper into the skin of one of my characters. It's the youngest of the three POV characters that has given me the hardest time. As everyone knows, characters do come from the deepest parts of our unconscious, but are often a conglomeration of the past, the present and our imaginings in the future too.

When I was told to go back to my work to sit and let it settle in, to marinate for a while...I had no idea what I was missing. Now I know, but I'm still struggling to make what's true and real hit the page in a big way. Today, I hit a bit of pay dirt. My fourteen year old was crying out in my mind as I drove home from the other side of town. "That's MY mother!" Her voice was screaming in my head. Well...darn-it, she's right.

I have no right commenting on HER mother! It's her story. I do have a right to slip into her skin and write it like it's happening. So today...and just for today, the blood was real, my character was seeing it, and boy, oh boy, was she responding to it. By the time I finished, I was crying right alongside her...but damn, it was really her tears that mattered--I was out of the driver seat, letting her take the wheel for a change. I hit pay dirt...and that's where the true feelings lie.

Before and After the Grapes

2010-07-29T17:05:00.000-07:00

Chautauqua; a beautiful enclave of creative, intellectual thought and meditation. It is such a hard place to describe. It's built around an ampitheater that houses daily lectures, creative discussions and a host of evening perfomances...symphonies, operas and even the Oakridge Boys!

A maze of streets with ornate, gingerbread style houses weave their way down to the sea, Lake Chautauqua. The Athenaeum Hotel with its wide porches and large wicker rockers welcomes visitors from all walks of life. There are churches of all denominations and people from birth to 90 and beyond. Small boarding houses, condominiums, larger single family homes and mansions crowd the space along the shore. But there's a balance of open park space and walking trails too.

In the upcoming days, I hope to wrap my mind around this wonderful Chautauqua experience. I was transformed by the company of strangers...like-minded adventurers that joined me while I was there. We were seekers, set on a journey to explore the craft and the ideal of writing and storytelling for children. But first we had to come to know ourselves...just a little bit more.

On the last night, Kent Brown, former publisher at Boyds' Mill Press and founder of the Highlights' Chautauqua Institute for Children's Writers, spoke of a time in his town where grapes were the currency of all that was done. The pay-off apparently, always came after the grapes were harvested. He asked us to think of our writing as not before or after grapes, but before and then after Chautauqua. I feel like I crossed a bridge as a writer during that week's adventure in Chautauqua. It sure was a Utopian place to be. I'll be passing along the little bits I experienced there in the upcoming week, and in that...I hope to process it all myself!

The Things I Know by Heart

2010-07-13T14:28:00.000-07:00

What really lies in a name, anyhow? How insulted would you be if someone forgot your name, but could remember everything about you that really mattered to them over a lifetime?

My friend, Jim, is a fighter...beyond any type of fighting I've ever known in my life, that's for sure. He's fighting fighting four brain tumors that are trying to rob him of the many things he's known all his life. Names are a problem.

But.

Jimmy? Knows so much in his heart, he actually doesn't need names to pick out his friends in a crowd. I've seen Jimmy twice in the past two weeks. He's been out and about, fighting to keep up with the world.

First, we all went out to dinner, and his wife sent him with a picture of all the guys. He showed it to us all and said, "See this horseshit? This is what it's come to..." Superimposed over each of the guys' tee-shirt was each of their names. But Jimmy was laughing as he showed it to us, still proving that he can rise above it all. A couple of times I heard him refer to my husband and one of his other good friends as "my man," which really cracked him up, and of course, cracked us up too. Laughter is good medicine. It's the stuff that our circle thrives on.

The second time, we went to see James Taylor and Carole King in concert. We met in a parking lot and drove up together, Jim and his wife in one car and all of us in two other cars. When we approached the car, we could see the look of terror in his eyes. He was overwhelmed. We immediately backed off. But once we got to Tanglewood, and the music began to play? I watched Jimmy transformed back into his old silly self. He sat back in the chair, a wicker rocker, and just let the music take him away...to a place where names and memories just drift along in midair. Music is a healer too. It allows a spaciousness and a freedom...a place to rise above it all.

The music that evening gave us all a certain sense of hope and self-forgetting. It reminded us that our friend Jim has the heart of a lion...and an army of friends that would do anything on earth to bring him to the other side of this nightmarish disease that eats at his brain each day. Jimmy tells me all the time, "Don't give me anymore of that Mets shit, or I'll kick your..." But I'm forever reminding him that it is I who'll kick his scrawny butt. Right now, however, I'm hoping he can keep up all this fighting, scratching and clawing...staying in the now. Because it is precisely in the "now" that a miracle could actually occur!

Finding My Ground and Trusting the Process

2010-07-03T19:47:00.000-07:00

Revision sure is a tricky old friend. It requires great thought and tremendous dedication to the process. When I first got started on my latest revision of this current WIP, I had to settle back in, outline a bit, but prepare for the unexpected.

Getting myself out to the cottage every day is not a problem. In fact, that's the easy part. I set up a plan, reread the previous day's work and fire up a new chapter to get started for the day. But it's the unevenness of new ground...ideas that pop into my story that really starts to make me itch.

The other day, I wandered into the house for a cup of tea, a seltzer, a sweater...to switch the laundry, etc., etc., etc. I've come to the conclusion, that I don't mind word-smithing, layering more detail or adding to a conversation. But when ideas come out of left field...well, I just fight it. I don't know what it is. Honestly. Am I afraid I'll have to write a different novel? Am I afraid the new ideas will ruin my chances for publication? I have to say...in my heart, I'm a storyteller, so that can't be the reason for my angst.

Fortunately, the answer to all of this lies in my writing group, and my wonderful mentor, Patricia Reilly Giff. Many friends and family members have offered to read my work. They know books, they're readers of course...and I completely respect them for the types of books they enjoy. But...a seasoned writer can call me on it when I'm dodging the fire in my story. My partners in crime know my pitfalls, and they always get me back on track. They keep me focused, so my eyes don't wander too far, and they force me to make my work pay-off for the reader.

Right now, I'm marinating and simmering...sometimes coaxing the flame in order to keep that one idea lit. But that is the process. And for now, I just have to trust the tender nature of the process, my writing partners, and that elusive Muse...because she eventually shows up each day. Most of all, I have to trust myself and simply write the best book I'm capable of...a word, a paragraph and a single page at a time.

Say It with Flowers

2010-05-21T17:08:00.000-07:00

There's something about a man with an armful of flowers that really just makes my day. Last week, I was shoving vegetables in a bag when a blonde-haired guy sailed past me in the grocery store. I smiled at him and his face lit up in a grin. It was the flowers that said it all.

He was a tall, rugged looking guy in a beat-up pair of jeans. But none of that mattered. What mattered was the bundle of blooms he held upright in his hands. A bit of an amateur, the smile, the carry, that much I could tell.

Today, it was my day. The door opened and in rolled my guy in his chair. I saw the grin on his face, the same one I see every day. But then, as he swung around? I heard a hint of a rattling sound. A crimson bundle was sitting on top of his lap. The occasion? Well, none really. He is so not an amateur. And that is what I love most. You see with my guy, I've learned to expect the unexpected, to savor the small things for sure. But two dozen roses? I'm spoiled right down to the core!

What surprises have you found waiting inside your front door?

An Alligator Went a Courtin'

2010-04-20T13:58:00.000-07:00

A young gentleman caller has been sitting outside my deck all day,

pacing, and waiting and watching and making this deep

grunting/croaking sound...hoping his magical mate will appear.

It's mating season around these here parts, and apparently alligators are tireless in their mating habits. Every now and then I see a fearful bunny scurry past, always careful to look over his shoulder. But. He needn't worry, this gentleman caller has only one thing on his mind.

The birds and other beasts have been talking all day too. I think they wait in tense apprehension for this guy to get his gal. Early this morning, I watched the most magnificient blue heron fly overhead and then land on the far side of the pond. Does he know the plight of our pal?

As a writer? I know the pain of his plight! I've waited on a few shores myself. I've hit 'send' and sat there, staring at the blue screen, crossing my fingers and letting go. I try very hard to busy myself, take a load off, and forget what it is I'm waiting for. If the universe wants it, the universe gets it.

Many glimmers lately though, in my pond! My friend, Jame's book, Three Rivers Rising just launched this week. (BUY IT!) That waiting took forever. She's well on her way now, though. Ann Haywood Leal's Also Known as Harper (BUY THAT ONE TOO!) awaits her baby sister. And there are a few other very hopeful stories that will find their way into this little blog soon.

So, stay tuned, dear reader. More will be revealed. As I finish here, I'm hearing a second grunting voice answering out there in the the mud! That means...all good things DO come to those who wait! The universe never lets us down!

Have you ever had to spend your days in waiting? What on earth would make you wait with baited breath much like our friend in the pond?

Living Inside the Character's Skin/The Continuing Adventures of the Revisionist Writer

2010-04-10T14:45:00.000-07:00

I am the co-pilot now. My characters are in total control. (Well, almost.)

A few weeks ago, I was surfing around on the net, looking at all my favorite blogs and reading up on my craft. Writer Unboxed is a great resource, current as far as trends go, but even more valuable in extending all the little gems that make for great story.

I came across Skyler White's guest article in two parts, so I poured myself a hot cup of tea, and read it all the way through. Skyler writes urban fantasy, which in a way, couldn't be any further from my own contemporary young adult fiction. But...as we all know, all story is connected. And technique is a collaborative effort. Writers study great writing, they generally work with a group and thankfully most people are looking to pass it on. Skyler's article suggested, Goal, Motivation and Conflict, by Debra Dixon, a primer for anyone engaged in writing fiction.

GMC is a great book, a short read, packed with great ideas and exercises related to story construction. I've posted about my current revision process, and this time, I've been a little more quiet on the blogosphere. I've decided to focus and stay awhile, live inside my characters' skins. I'm writing my story in the voices of three characters...so for each segment, I've got to all but dismiss the other two in order to follow the conflict, and chase the motivations of only one. It's a tricky process, requiring many more revisions than I'd expected. But I've grabbed hold now, and can tell I'm closer than ever before. It's all so real to me. Let's hope it's all there on the page.

Last week, I sat down with one of my writing friends, and she grilled me for the better part of an hour on Caroline. She wanted to know the who (character)...what (goal), why (motivation)

and why not (conflict) of it all. For me, Caroline was always the easiest to explain, because she's so full of conflict both inside and out. What we found though, was that I'd set her up with a conflict she couldn't overcome way too early on. So now? I've got it straight. And even though it's hard to put yourself in the mind of the character and defend your every thought and action?

The interview is an awesome way to get unstuck when you inevitably hit that awful brick wall.

Caroline is the wild child in the novel, she's risky, flirty and always on the run. She has to keep ahead of the gossip, and bowl people over with her behavior, and that in a way is how she finds love. It's not the real kind of love most of us crave, that's for sure. Caroline's concept of love is attention-driven. She's attracted to the adrenaline-pumping shock value. "If I can keep you watching me, you won't be able to resist me." So when the boy of her dreams attempts to get away, she jumps into the backseat of his jeep, crowds his space and her story evolves from there. Caroline's story is one of madness and mayhem...with lots of risks riding on her schemes.

And now that I've spent the last ten days inside her skin, I'm forced to move into the more serious goal-oriented head of Deirdre. Crazy, right? Writing makes you a bit schitzophrenic...a temporary condition, believe me. Thank God for treadmills, yoga and the great outdoors, otherwise the madness could choose to stay!

How do you escape the madness in your life? What tricks to the trade work in making your struggles lessen? I'd love to hear it!

Taking that Long Way Down

2010-03-22T17:04:00.000-07:00

I've had a head full of story simmering inside my brain. But I've been careful enough to take my time and stop along the way. The descent into a deep revision can never be taken lightly, especially when you've gone that way before. I want to put the best version of this baby on the page! I know, though, the story will never find its way into the light if it's not clear all the way through.

This time, I've done something I almost never do. I put together a 'flex-plan.' It's not quite an outline, but it's a loose rendition of what I think I see happening to each of my characters. It's lined out chapter by chapter so I'm sure to keep it all straight. Mine is a story told in three voices, so each of these girls has to be unique and true right to the end.

Just today, I've read a couple interesting blog posts that have fired me up and made me know that the universe has a message for me. One reminded me to pay attention to the very intricate details, and another told me to keep going in order to get unstuck, and then I feasted my eyes on the lesson in just letting it all go once in a while too. You see, I look to all of you out there to inspire me, shake me loose and hold my hand along the way. You give me the steps to land on, the companionship and confidence to see it through. Most of all, you let me know I'm not alone in this journey.

Life would never be the same without the small circles of friendship and inspiration we find along the way. How about you? What small circles of inspiration do you find yourself surrounded in?

Making 'Someday' Happen

2010-03-15T15:00:00.000-07:00

I was out on one of my daily strolls, walking and talking to the universe on a fine day just a few short years ago. I was asking for a wee bit of a connection to my roots back in the old sod. My mom died when I was just a little girl, and then my dad did the same. Sad story, right? Well...life moved on and so did we, my brother, my two sisters and me. We raised ourselves way back in the 60's, when the world of organized social work was just a dream of the future. But that's a story for another day.

My parents had come from Ireland, and even though they did the best they could to set their American dream in motion, they never lived long enough to see it all the way through.

My father dreamt of building a family and a home, having a garden, educating his children and living to see his grandchildren. I barely knew my mom, but I'm sure her dreams were much the same. My dad had other dreams too. One of them was to make it back home to Ireland one day. As a little girl, I'd ask him if he'd ever bring me there. He'd lean on his rake or the rung of his ladder and get that far away look in his eye. "Someday, Gaelie," he'd say.

Ever since that time so long ago, I've had that dream etched in the corner of my mind. Someday. It was always more than a possibility, I knew that day would come.

And then, a few years ago, my Australian cousin, Eilis, challenged me to meet her in the very cottage where my mother was born. "We'll have a nice dinner together there," she'd said. The thought was wonderful. I entertained it and talked about it, and then finally got real and put it out of my mind.

At the time, we were up to our eyeballs in new debt...kids in college, a new house that needed repairs, and all sorts of things we call life! But then? My birthday came around, and I suddenly realized that I was at the very same point in my own life that my dad was when there were no more 'somedays'. What was I waiting for? And even though it made no sense at all, we booked our trip...our 'roots tour,' and found our way to that little town of Castlebar along the west coast of Ireland.

With more of this to come...what dreams are etched in the corners of your mind? What obstacles stand in your way?

Wading through the Blarney

2010-03-10T18:28:00.000-08:00

About three years ago, we packed it in and headed back to the Old Sod, a trip of a lifetime...my chance to trace my Irish roots, to visit the girlhood home of my mom and to stand on a hilltop where my grandmother was born. Really, who could ask for more?

Well, in doing so, I discovered the wonderful nature of the Irish...and why I've been so chatty for my whole lifetime, really! My kindergarten report card said just that, "very chatty," short and to the point. It baffles me, even today. Amazing how we can be branded by others or brand ourselves without even knowing it.

I, for example, was born talking and I haven't shut up since. This is why I write, I'm sure! It was in my genes. When I went to Ireland, I met many a version of myself. Some a bit long-in-the-tooth, as they say over there, and some pretty young. The Irish stop everything for a good story! (As well it should be!)

But my goal in writing is to keep the story on the road, dole it out in small bites and captivate my audience all along the way. So now? I'm working on cutting back on the blather. Putting what's real on the page, and not wearing out my reader along the way. That, in the end, keeps them turning the pages!

If you had to boil it all down to a few small bites, how would you characterize yourself in two words? Go ahead, stretch the truth, brag a little bit...isn't that the gift of the Irish?

The Inevitable Fork...Writing and Living through the Hard Parts

2010-03-07T17:45:00.000-08:00

A week or two ago I rolled up my sleeves and took on yet another opportunity to revisit Eggshells, my young adult novel. I was excited and eager. You see, I'd known all along that something in that storyline was just not working for me.

But now? I've hit that inevitable fork in the road, and I realize that this time it's not going to be the race to the finish line that I'd first expected. I'm taking it slower, letting it simmer and writing shorter, hoping for pages that are vivid and clear. In the end, anything that's forced ever seems to work, so I might as well keep my focus and go after it.

The universe presented another opportunity...that looked plausible and seemed believable, so I took it. I realize now, I'd short-cutted the ending in the first round, because I wasn't seeing an ending that worked. I was forcing my way to the finish line. And now...I think I have a chance to change the outcome entirely. Forks in books are just like forks in real life. Often they lead to other forks, and a few twists and turns as well. The road grows clear, and then it gets crowded again. Writing, like life, is wonderful and tortuous at the same time.

What forks have you been presented with in life? How has your path changed as a result of it all? You never know, it might end up in print someday! ;)

Singing the Revision Song!

2010-02-23T18:48:00.000-08:00

I love when good things start to happen. Changes occur, ideas bubble to the surface, and voila! A new story appears. What was once a small bud...a bare dream, reaches up and finds its way.

Well, here in New England, nothing's budding out there. It's cold and slushy outside today, and travelers are struggling to make their own way up my icy hill. I've got my butt in the chair and I've got an idea...or two. I'm back to my sister story again. For as much as my own sisters drove me crazy growing up, I'm loving them both to pieces right now! What fodder they've given me for my stories!

Yesterday, I got a little bit of a break...an email from outside my own small circles, with a few pretty terrific suggestions for my manuscript. A few friends joined in the conversation, and now I'm back at it again. Some people hate revision, but oddly enough, I like it. The characters are all there, but the puzzle pieces need a little moving, so...hello revision! Here I am again...marinating my story, and letting new thoughts sink into my brain. I've got my laundry list, I'm clearing the wreckage. And already, I'm seeing things I never saw before!

Calling on the Universe: A Few Answers to the Questions of Ethnic Writing

2010-02-22T22:35:00.000-08:00

The universe has been talking to me! For a long time, it was an absolute no-no to write about your own childhood and encapsulate it in the period in which you grew up. My childhood was set in some pretty turbulent times, and much like the kids of today...if we ever thought about it, we'd never have left home. But we did. In fact, we left home for the scope of an entire day and no one panicked or even noticed at all.

We had a lot of freedom, but we also had some pretty serious rules and social mores to live by. Consequences were swift and final. We were, after all the first generation of immigrant parents, the sons and daughters of WWII Vets. We were brought up on some pretty fear-based ideology. My tribe was Irish. We were typecast...strongly encouraged to stay with our own kind. People had their places, afterall.

The backdrop to all this was the Cold War, the Apollo flights, the Beatles, and the Vietnam War, with actual shots of the day's combat showing up on tv each night. The hippie generation was already sporting their rag-tag, ripped jeans...burning bras and all sorts of other unimaginable things. Rebellion!

It was right about then that people of color made their way into my life and onto my block. I had a new friend named Roland. I'd watched his house being built all summer long, and couldn't wait to meet him. I finally had someone to walk to the bus stop with, and I didn't care about the color of his skin, but I knew the adults around me did.

Fear ruled the adult world, and stereotyping was the order of the day. It would, in their minds, keep us all close and locked up within our own tribe. But the battles outside were raging. The cork was already out of the proverbial bottle. My sister was riding a motorbike...she'd bought a German car, and was dating boys that were...NOT Irish!! And she had friends that were people of color and different ethnicities too. We knew people were talking. But...too bad. Hello freedom!

So now? Characters of color are turning up in my writing. But I would never go there without doing the legwork, checking in with the real representative principles of this type of story. I, myself, love books with people of varied backgrounds. I cherish the wide array of friendships I've had in my own life. But I know that doesn't qualify me as an expert on this topic. I have no right to take liberties in the ways of another cultural/ethnic group's story unless the characters themselves are honest and authentic. No cheesy, gratuitous writing of any kind should ever make it out into a public arena. For that, we all know, is just plain putrid!

I want to thank everyone for the thoughtful responses on FB this week! Please feel free to join my blog and stay close to the conversation. I welcome your thoughts and ideas. My friend Barb left me with a wonderful link I'd like to pass on here. Also, Mitali Perkins fills her blog with many wonderful entries related to life and people in a globally diverse world. There's a list of selected reads and a pretty terrific interview with Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich, author of Eight Grade Superzero. Years ago, I went to Whispering Pines Writing Retreat and met Sharon Flake, the author of a favorite of mine, The Skin I'm In. Sharon says she "writes about hope in hard places." She inspired me then, and made me think hard about my roots growing up. I think she planted a seed for me about hope...not so much in hard places, but in hard times.

Right now, that is the seed that I'm exploring. It's a little seed, so we'll see where it goes from here.

I also came across a great blog entry by JA Konrath. What a classic! He talks about knowing the industry and knowing the facts, experimenting, listening, asking questions, taking chances and staying alert. Sage advice! I'm grateful for all the ideas that surround me. But I'm most grateful for the compass that points north every morning at 5:30, and the characters that appear on the page.

Hearing Voices...and Going Along for the Ride

2010-02-15T08:42:00.001-08:00

I've been wrestling with a few wonderings for about six months now. Can white authors really write African American characters well? You see I have some great characters talking to me, and I'm wondering if a) I have the right to put them on the page, and b) if they'll they sound authentic enough. I love these characters. They came to me in the middle of writing Eggshells. I shared the two chapters I wrote as a result, and my writing friends looked at me like I was crazy.

They weren't judging me or anything like that. They were wondering why, after I'd invested a full year and a half in writing of one novel, I was getting sideswiped by another. The answer was simple: I was hearing voices. I knew in my heart I was coming to the end of Eggshells, and those four girls had become a part of the fabric of my day to day writing life. I lived and breathed inside the heads of those characters...and letting go was hard. Ending a book feels like death to me. So...my brain was doing a round-up; raking through all the possibilities and sending out a notice for free auditions!

Chrissy showed up first, and she was African American. I'm white. What? It's true. She had some pretty sassy stuff to say. I loved it! But my writing friends were not loving it, they saw this as a loss of focus. I was wondering about my sanity too. So I set it all aside and got back to the four sisters. But now? Eggshells is finished, and I'm doing what Patricia Reilly Giff tells me to do...move on and keep writing. I've found a white friend for Chrissy, and I think I now understand why Chrissy showed up in the first place. I'm a writer. I hear voices and put them down on page. I believe in the full palette of color that comes through in character...these characters need to bump up against one another. So now? I'm just going along for the ride!

Blue Skies and Letting Go

2010-02-12T06:54:00.000-08:00

Finished. Well, for now at least. I'm learning the practical art of letting go. Eggshells, my baby girl manuscript is in its best possible shape for now. It's a story of four sisters, each one unique in their age and stage, but also in the special hopes and the desires...the dreams that fuel them.

Gypsy is the fourteen year old sister, kind of the soothsayer/poet in the family. She has a knowing sense that danger lingers on the doorstep. Caroline is the wild child. She thrives on drama and takes risks the others wouldn't even dream of. Dee is the straight arrow...she's stuck her finger in the flame and learned from it. But Dee is also the family secret-keeper. She fends off the vicious attacks of the gossipy neighbors. There is plenty to talk about, that's for sure. And Kristen is the beautiful, blonde haired older sister. Married with a baby of her own, she still looks back. Understandably, Peter has had enough. But on one hot summer night at the end of June, Gypsy's sheers kick up alongside her window. Mom will take a fall and Caroline's risky flirtation will have a disastrous consequence. One that will topple them all. Eggshells is the story of four sisters faced with an unimaginable public disaster and how they pick up the pieces and put it all back together again.

This is my baby. My fledgling novel waiting to find its place on the stage of the publishing world. Letting go, for me, is the hardest part of all. I have many projects rumbling around, penciled in on the pages of my journal. But these four girls and their struggles have captured my every waking hour for the past year and a half or so. Today, it's official. I'm moving on, opening a new file, and letting my mind race off in another direction toward that new story that is waiting out there in the wings! I'm sure there'll be a sister or two...because that is, in the end, the stuff that I am made of!

Angel Birthday

2010-02-03T17:59:00.000-08:00

No wrinkles,

no lines,

or grays.

Just that smirky

smile,

and her

little leftover wink

remain.

We celebrated our

days together,

hers just a day before

mine.

Always...

a big splurge!

A creamy bakery cake...

lemon-filled

of course,

and in good times...

Dinner out

at a real restaurant...

with waiters,

and tablecloths,

and red leather

booths!

So today,

that day before

mine...

I'm remembering,

and sending

a little wink

her way.

I'm sure wherever

she is...

there's whipped cream,

and lemon...

and lots

of licorice,

and laughter

too!

Why We Query...and other dull points of Writing Interest

2010-01-28T18:03:00.000-08:00

For purposes of pure torture, that's why. How does one cram the whole body of a novel into two or three very tight, very succinct paragraphs? For the past three weeks, I've been working, thinking, dreaming and living with this one paged nightmare crammed inside my head. And I've finally come to a conclusion.

Well...duh. Everybody in the publishing biz is looking for a pitch. They're sick of the dog-drooling, self-serving authors out there. Well, I don't know about you, but I have been caught with my mouth hanging open at a conference or two before. "Tell me about it..."

Ummmmmm. Well, it all begins when...blah-blah-blah. And then that's it. I'm tongue-tied, my eyes are bulging, and I'm looking for my first means of escape. But what I've come to find out is that I'm not practiced and polished, I don't have the plot nailed down in my head. For me, that is a danger. Back to the drawing board, you'd say. I get it. If I don't know it well enough to talk about it, it's not all there to begin with.

So...after a year of returning to the drawing board, revising and rethinking. I finally think I've written the book I set out to write. The characters are clear. There are four of them, well...four sisters telling the story, which means four voices whispering their parts. There are many characters in all. In the past, taking those four story lines and condensing all of them has been a problem. But the art of reduction, boiling it down, looking at it, practicing and polishing has finally helped me to get to where I thought I was before. And now? Voila! The query begins to take shape...and it is not so bad after all.

The Chance Encounters of an Occasional Shopper

2010-01-11T16:06:00.000-08:00

Well, anyone who knows me knows that that's a big fat lie. Occasional? Okay, no. I love to shop. But. Legal shopping season is finally over. And now? I'm broke. So, I find myself in places like Target and Homegoods...not Walmart. (I'm boycotting them...but that's a whole 'nother story.) I really think if we had more art galleries around here, I'd probably be less dangerous in the wallet department, or so I tell my husband. He smirks.

I was checking out a few odd items at Target last week, laying them on the belt when I heard an unusual exchange between a customer and the cashier. "I don't know which works with my food stamps, and which doesn't, I'm really embarrassed." He had a nasally lisp and pretty much spoke at the top of his lungs, so there really was no eavesdropping going on here. Pinky swear.

"That's okay, you don't have to know...the machine just figures it out." She stood there, focused entirely on him. "And as far as the foodstamps, I just got off them. Don't be embarrassed. Everyone needs a little help sometimes." Okay, well...I wanted to reach right into my wallet, but I kept my mouth shut and gave the man the dignity and space he deserved. And really, the cashier was doing just fine without me.

But then he had to enter his pin number, and he couldn't remember it. He was in a bit of panic. The cashier was calm as a cucumber. She just reached over and the next thing I knew, she was punching in some numbers. How'd she know? Could there be some kind of emergency pin?

Now it's my turn. While he's gathering his things that are kinda sprawled out all over the place, and the cashier starts ringing mine up, he suddenly discovers something she forgot to ring on his order. She zaps my receipt, suspends my order, and he looks at me and says, "I'm really sorry." I tell him I really don't care; I'm in no hurry at all.

The cashier finishes me up then...and as I'm collecting my bags, I see him getting ready to brave the freezing cold temperatures outside. But...he's lost his gloves, so I help him out a little bit with that.

"Stay here and get bundled before you go out there," I say. I don't mean to be demeaning, it's just the mother monster inside me. He's a grown man, I tell myself.

"I know, you're right," he says. But then he stops and smiles, and he's captivated by my new boots. "Those are really cool boots."

"You like them?" I say. "Santa gave them to me."

He winks at me then. He has that little twinkle in his eye. Like...he knows who the real Santa is. "That Santa's a pretty cool dude." They're my brand new gray suedes with the buckles along the sides, and I absolutely love them too.

"Or dudette," I say. My friend is now adjusting his wool hat. He starts to crack up. I wave then and he waves back, and I head out toward my car laughing. My friend had a pretty good sense of style, that's for sure. And I had a chance encounter at Target...priceless!

It Happens

2009-12-29T12:51:00.000-08:00

What is often forgotten is the most important thing to remember of all. People are more important than things. I know this in my heart, I believe it with everything inside me, and yet I get caught up in the disastrous blockbuster hit called Christmas year after year after year. Some one of these days, I'll get it right!

This year, I had a great reminder...the shattered lamp. Liam, the four-year old lampmaster, was rolling around at the end of our Christmas celebration, no doubt hyped up on the cookies and candies (Loves his Mike & Ikes...calls 'em jelly beans), when he knocked over the prized living room lamp. Everyone was all astir. I checked to see that his little paws were okay then got the broom and dustpan. No big deal. The lamp? Gone, of course, but who cares? I broke its partner two years ago in a similar way when I was compulsively vaccuuming and forgetting about the effect of cords on their attachments.

Last year, it was Grandpa and the red wine on the white rug...before that it was a broken coffee pot or something of the like. And what am I reminded of each time? It happens. When I was growing up, it happening would cause a sudden rampage, guilt and blame and then certain punishment for sure. My dad would remind me that he came from Ireland with five bucks in his pocket and that his children would one day learn to respect that. I didn't get it back then, but of course I do now. Still. Things are things.

One thing I know is that Liam learned his lesson (probably) when the crash of the lamp scared him half out of his wits. And as for the lamp? Well, my bro-in-law, says to send him the bill...and make it a $1500 lamp the likes of which his wife would want to buy! My sister-in-law, Trish, says go to Target, spend $20 and send him the bill for the $1500! (All tongue and cheek, of course.) They both make me laugh!

I'll do neither of the sort. I'm sure I'll replace that lamp eventually...or go green and light candles. But I'll definitely remember the fun we had that day...the food, the people, the stories and the funny reactions of the crowd. Our family has many more important things to think about. People are important, things are not. Christmas will come again...and all the things I chase after in stores? Well, they'll all break and let me down eventually. I love my family...the Lynch Tribe. No Murphys here this year...those crazy people from my tribe--and those are the losses that, in the end, are the hardest for me to overcome!

We Are Stardust...We Are Golden

2009-11-30T18:04:00.000-08:00

Ingrid Bergman. That's who I want to be. Given a lasting contract to assure continual stardom through her "formative years." Absolute pure beauty, clear talent...and the tears? Well, forget about it! She made it all look so easy. But then, she did have three husbands to juggle, so you gotta know that in itself makes her a great actress!

I'm sitting here watching Crosby, Stills and Nash and Bonnie Raitt too, belt it out...you know, The Rocking Roll Hall of Fame's gathering at MSG. Last night, Bono and Sprinsteen and Mick Jagger, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel and a host of other voices that I could listen to forever. Tonight, we've been switching back and forth between Straight, No Chaser an acapella group and the rock show. And I'm actually amazed at how well preserved their talent is after all these years. I mean, c'mon...thirty years on the road and they can still harmonize, and eek out their emotions on the stage. Then walks out one of my all time faves...Jackson Browne, the greatest storyteller of all. Controversial, yes. But man the voice and the craft! He's got it all. "When the morning light comes streamin' in...I'll get up and do it again." Well, now that's a message that sure didn't come easily to me. I was far too busy struggling for the legal tender he sings about. But now? Well, I still struggle, but I've got it. The message is always in the music. Their message endures and so do they.

So, tomorrow morning, I'll be Ingrid, Bono, Jackson, Sting and Bruce and Bonnie too. I'll be focused and true. I'll get up and do it again, because it's what I do. Writing, like music, art and acting takes time, and no matter how long it took to get me there, I'm golden.

Daydream Believer

2009-11-10T17:38:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning to the most hopeful news! In fact, for me it was a validation of all the years I've spent out in space during my waking hours! I am after all, a hopeless daydreamer. It's something I can't help, and perhaps I shouldn't even try.

The NY Times posted an article relating the true nature of dreams to the daily functioning of the human brain. By day, in my most alert state...my brain apparently represses my dreaming. By night, my brain warms down, and the dream state takes over. Shaking loose all those electronic impulses? I guess. Freud and Jung would be crushed. Will their theories become the stuff of fiction like my daydreams?

I remember and always come back to Stephen King's reference to how well the brain is trained to be ready to dream at the same time each night. (This pearl came in his book, On Writing, a Memoir of the Craft.) Current neuroscience is apparently pointing to this idea too. My brain's on a schedule, that's all. Makes me wonder, though...about all those wonderful kids I have in my class who are a bit disorganized and at times out there somewhere in space. In today's world, it is said that they have 'executive functioning issues.' To my crazy mind, they're probably the next brood of artists, musicians, writers, and crafts people that will fill our eyes and our ears with wonderful sounds and gorgeous imagery someday. They're the doodlers, the drifters, the beautiful dreamers too! In my perfect world? Schools will one day validate them all, allowing large expanses of time for the pure pursuit of a dream.

When the Darkness Comes

2009-11-03T17:57:00.000-08:00

Simply inspirational? Well, I'm not so sure. When the darkness strikes, as it has this week, it suddenly turns the world on its end. I got home today and hit my chair instead of putting on my running shoes, as I promised myself I would. So...tomorrow, all right?! Jeesh.

I found myself ready for a nap, but fought the feeling. And now? It's 9:02 and I'm ready to put on my pjs. And tomorrow morning? My candlelight writing? Well, the darn sun starts coming up and it's got me so confused. I guess I should be grateful. But instead, I'm hatching a getaway plan. Could I live in the southern hemisphere with my cousins November to March and here in New England the rest of the year? What do they call those people? Snowbirds? I'll become a migratory old bird.

I sat in an inservice today and instead of keeping my focus, I was distracted. I couldn't help it. I'm disoriented, alright? Flocks of geese were hanging in mid-air, floating and gathering and then floating some more. There's a tree out back at school that's been half-red and half-green for two full weeks now. And that so-called last rose I posted about over a month ago? Well...that last rose lasted until this past weekend and now there are four more!

Personally, I'd be happy if it just stayed the way it was...dark in the AM with a longer day at the end. But, I guess I'll have to leave that up to the universe...and just do my part to make it through to the end! (Could we just hold off on the snow?!)

An Omen on the Doorstep

2009-10-03T09:47:00.000-07:00

My friend, Laura, sent me an message today...writing--it's a zen thing, or something like that...let it come to you! Well, here's what came to me today. And I am not lying.

A dead bird. Specifically, a mourning dove with one eye half-open...rigor mortis had set in, and she was belly up right smack in the middle of the doorstep to my oh-so-sacred writing cottage.

I went all flustered back into the house, and my husband (you know, the guy in the wheel-chair) says, "Well, I'd love to help, but..." And there was that smug, guy smile on his face. URGH. So I went to get my shovel. It wasn't until I returned, that I noticed the half-open eyelid. That was my undoing. I slid the shovel underneath the damn thing, cursed every coyote and red fox that I know living around my woods and sent the mourning dove flying (well, not so much) into the forest below...well, that was my hope. Instead, I did my lousy freaked-out hurling. Thought it would go out and down, well you know where this is going. It went up and came down instead!! At first, I thought it was gonna come down on me. I let out such a yell, that I'm certain the whole world of creatures heard me and ran in the other direction!

After that, I grew more determined. I was not going to read into that omen. Was it an omen? No, I told myself! I was so done with that trauma. I'm going to block it out, and just go in there and get with that zen thing again. But then...I opened the door, sat down at my desk, and the fire alarm's high-pitched, very intermittent squeal sounded. You know the one. It usually goes off in the middle of the night and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end? I was not going to listen to that all afternoon! I jumped up onto the couch and dangled from its back, ripped the stupid thing off the ceiling and tossed it inside the house. Remember that helpful, smug wheelchair guy inside? Well...I stuck it on him! For once, I got the last laugh.

Now...barring any other unforeseen disasters...the rubber meets the road. Why does it have to be so hard? Sing it to me, oh zen master...and make it loud!

The Last Rose of Summer

2009-09-23T15:13:00.000-07:00

I had a funny feeling that this would be the last one. I stopped, leaned over and sucked in that sweet scent. Everything that was once summer was packed inside that bloom: rose sherbert, perfect!

I hate when summer ends, fall comes and spoils all the fun! Who wants to get back into a schedule, who cares to go to bed as early as my kids' grandmother? And the beach...the sound of the waves crashing on the shore? There'll be no more of that.

But then, Autumn settles back in and I hear that lone screech owl in the trees at night. The harvest moon shines through my diamond window; there's a tinge of orange on the tips of the maples and a cool breeze wafting through my window. This weekend I had my first taste of fresh apple crisp and I thought about lighting a fire in the fireplace. But...I didn't. It was summer still.

But now? Well, now I'm bowing down to reality, giving up my denial and getting ready for those sweet Indian summer days. There's nothing like a long ride on a river with blazing colors in the background to put me in the mood for fall. I'll savor the warmth, spend a little more time outdoors and live in the moment forgetting, as best I can, that awful season that follows...that which will remain unnamed for now!

Hats Off to the Kennedy Family

2009-08-29T07:47:00.001-07:00

My father came to America with the shirt on his back and five bucks in his pocket, or so he'd tell you. But to me, he came with much more than that. He came with great hope and the dream of a new tomorrow. My father's childhood was lived in post-famine Ireland...a time where the few left swallowed the grief and images of the past and got on with the business of living life for the generations to follow. Trouble was, there was never enough. So my father, like many others, left Ireland, but he never forgot her.

Today, the Kennedys come together again in a very public way to grieve the loss of one of their own, Senator Ted Kennedy. As a child, my father would've told you that we, the Murphys, were a member of that tribe! At times, we thought him to be somewhat delusional, but we humored him. On our living room wall hung a portrait of Jack and Jackie, over our door, hung a golden horseshoe wrapped around a small carving of Jack Kennedy, and on our coffee table, lay a Kennedy tribute ashtray.

Were we fanatics? Well Dad was, that's for sure! But now I understand. My father never lived to see the full measure of the Kennedy legacy but luckily, I have.

Over the years, the mere mention of the Kennedy name hearkens me back to Jack Kennedy's call to service, to Bobby Kennedy's valiance and to Ted's longstanding fortitude and commitment to his family's values and to those of the many more who came to America from Ireland. They knew what hardship was and they never turned their back on it. Ted Kennedy's affiliation with the poor of spirit is something that we of Irish heritage feel at the cellular level. That is why hostility lingered for so long on its shores. But the Kennedy tribe rose up and came here, rose in their social standing and brought everyone else along with them. My tribe is connected! And although I'm a Murphy/Lynch and clearly not a Kennedy, my tribe is named hope and the actions of that tribe are the good works that we are called upon to perform in our time on earth. We are asked to never cast a shadow on those less fortunate than us. For there are always the less fortunates, my father would say. And when he said that, there was always a sad and distant look in his eye. Now I understand. For even in this land of 'milk and honey,' there are those without healthcare, without a meal on their table and whose legacy has shortchanged them in their educational opportunities.

My father came from the soil, he came as a farmer, he came with nothing. The Kennedys gave him hope for the possibility of greatness. They modeled for him and for me the actions of good work that can help the least of our brethren. Jack Murphy was the least of Ted and Bobby and Jack's brethren. They sailed yachts and enjoyed the spoils of a good life, living with servants as royalty. We sailed in our Ford automobiles and were called to service for others of greater means. But one thing is for certain...in heaven, Murphys and Kennedys alike have many a great tale to tell! And of course, there's quite a feast to be had! My thanks this day to Jack and Bobby and especially Ted who was clearly not a perfect man, but who took on the work of three men in his short time here on earth!

A Walk Along the Shore

2009-07-23T07:34:00.000-07:00

Clouds swirl,

flags unfurl,

waves roll

and uncurl,

a carpet

of water unfolds:

Small scallop shells,

a bit of seaweed,

a mermaid's purse,

a single crab's leg too.

A bounty...

from the bottom

of the sea

to me!

Summer Surprise

2009-07-16T08:46:00.000-07:00

Whitecaps rumble

and roll,

the ocean

is the loudest

voice by far

on the beach today.

And even when

an occasional high splash

rises up,

it is gathered up,

and forced

forward

toward the shore...

Where people wait

and watch,

barefoot yet bundled

building sculptures

in the warm sand.

Storm's coming, they say.

Kids and kites

and frisbees too

all tethered

to this wild wind.

But even as grey clouds

gather in the east,

their swirls

are still unformed

and undecided.

And then: Look!

Over there...

in the far-off distance--

a glimmer,

a ray,

and a hint of blue.

A surprise,

a smile...

a letting go.

That storm

blows off,

the beach

fills up,

and swimmers take

their places

along the shore

once more.

Blondes and Diamonds

2009-07-03T19:47:00.000-07:00

Stuff. It's summertime...just the right time for getting rid of all the things in my life that I simply don't need. Clear the wreckage, cart it all off, and make things more manageable. Well, the thinking and the intentions were all there. The feeble mind apparently was not.

I looked down at my finger yesterday and noticed that my diamond was missing! I'd just gotten to the mall, stopped in the ladies' room and realized with horror that perhaps it'd taken a trip down the drain never to be seen again. I retraced my steps, ransacked the trash-twice, and went to security to leave all my information. I even had a mother and her four children rolling underneath my car to no avail. My husband sat calmly, watching another chapter unfold...he's been there before with me, but this time, it seemed like the real deal. In fact, he was certain the ring was probably at the bottom of the Great Swamp.

Last night, I was awake at 1:30, 2:00, 2:30...you know the drill: retracing a week's worth of movements in my mind. Mental torture, plain and simple. This morning...I talked things over with a few friends, and everyone agreed that the best we could do was pray to St. Anthony. So...of course I did. And just as the song says--"he's gonna find me some piece of mind,"

that is exactly what happened. I returned home, went through the car and my pocketbook just one more time, and then gave it up. I walked back into my bedroom and glanced in my jewelry box...and of course, you know the rest. Lodged underneath a few other random items, a familiar sparkle caught my eye. My anniversary diamond! It was the first very real evidence that my husband had a drop of money to throw around after...fifteen years of marriage!

So how could it be that anyone would be so stupid as to lose a diamond? Multi-tasking: the art of cleaning the jewelry box while talking on the cell phone. I was slipping off my ring to try on all the old rings of my past...and I walked off and forgot to slip the right one back on! Once again, evidence of my true blondness!

Tomorrow, I'll be off to the food pantry with yet another loaf or two in the name of St. Anthony...patron saint to the abstract-random blondes in this world!

Extreme Summer!

2009-06-29T17:15:00.001-07:00

Kayaking for Dummies

This weekend, I went off on a little excursion in my brand new Calypso kayak. We're no extreme kayakers, just quiet water types...gawking, communing with nature, and lots of chatter too. My husband's boat is a fisherman's kayak...with huge pontoons to keep him afloat. He tells people they're his "training wheels." He has a pretty serious neuro-illness...spino-cerebellar ataxia, which has left him with very little balance in standing, and walking is pretty much out of the question. But out on the water...it's pretty darn hard to keep up with him!

We were cruising along having a good old time, when the wind picked up, the sky darkened and huge, storm clouds came rolling in. We raced back to shore. Obviously, Tom can't make a running dash...so we always have to plan ahead and know that there's no time to waste. We hoisted him out, ran for the wheelchair, and basically ran the drill.

Once we were pretty well set, we spied an eager, young guy standing along the shore getting ready to put in. His kayak was a definite rental with marker identification written all over it. He had a bike helmet on his head and in his hand was his single paddle. I didn't get the bike helmet, honestly. But, he was ready to go. I wanted to mind my own business, I really did. But the sky was pitch black and the mother in me worried.

"Are you gonna put in by yourself with the storm coming?" I asked. He bristled. How dare I question him.

"Of course I am," he said. "I'll just pull up along the shoreline and find a spot if it gets bad." Well, that would be fine anywhere else, but not in the Great Swamp. There is no shoreline...just tall weeds growing out of water...thus the swamp.

"There's not really a shoreline for parking," we said. We thought we were pretty funny.

"Well...I'm from NYC," he said, all puffed up. "I know everything about parking!"

Other kayakers were joining us, pulling into shore and disembarking in a hurry. We all chuckled a little bit, while he wobbled away from shore. Rotsa ruck, buddy. This ain't no bathtub, and I'm not seeing a rubber duckie either...but I'm sure it's there under the helmet. You'll be using your expertise parking in the weeds with those nasty junebugs, at least a few skeetoes...oh, and snapping turtles too!

It was, after all, just another day at the pond, where story abounds...and where the rock and roll is the real deal. (Maybe the helmet was to ward off the sparks!)

Got Talent?

2009-06-08T17:04:00.000-07:00

Much has been written, blogged, twittered and Facebooked about Susan Boyle. You'd have to be an alien not to have heard of her.

Susan, a forty-seven year old church lady, decided to finally do something for herself. All her life, she'd wanted to be known as a singer. No doubt, she met with a fair amount of skepticism. But she brought her best game that first night on Britain's Got Talent. And you know what? The rest of us are all just a little better because she did. In fact, if you google talent, guess whose face you'll see?

Today Jane Friedman, of the Writer's Digest variety...There Are No Rules poses the age-old question: Does talent eventually get discovered?

One writer is very candid in her frustration related to the many mountains we must climb in order to become published. Let's face it, there probably is a glut out there. Even if a project truly is print worthy, it has to find its way into the right hands. Luck? Timing? Well, of course.

But add in just a dash of hard work, commitment, a skin made of leather...lots of chocolate and a great sense of humor, oh...and flexibility too--that's all you need. You might as well pack a suitcase, because you're in it for the long haul. What Susan Boyle found on that stage that night was not fame or fortune...of course that will come. But when she lit up the world with that smile, it was all about the validation--YES, you can...and she did. And so...Susan Boyle, in her own small way, made believers of us all.

Easing Off the Internet

2009-05-27T17:45:00.000-07:00

I've called a semi-halt to my chronic FB-twittering-blog-sapping brain drain. I'm back to mornings immersed in story and afternoons of revision. As a result, I'm feeling the threads of stories tighten. I'm more connected to the story arc, and thinking about my characters' wants and needs...and their back stories too. In fact, recently I've started dreaming about my characters again! It's not really surprising. I've got my groove back.

Many believe that authors need to spend their time in an array of self-promotional activities to launch their careers. For me...I am slowly learning the value of focus. There is no depth without it.

So...back to work. As for my blog, I'm still be peeking in, adding content from time to time, but I'll be keeping a firm grasp on the old saying, 'first things first!'

May! Short Fiction Month

2009-05-14T19:55:00.000-07:00

Finished up a six week poetry study/writer's workshop with my sixth graders last week. Loved every minute of it for a lot of reasons I'll save for my teaching blog. I decided to start a unit on short writing as a follow up. I wanted to sharpen my own writing skills and clear the wreckage of added writing, so I started carrying a small lined notebook around in my bag. All my people-watching is paying off. Every day, I wait for that moment...a character, a setting or an incident that catches my eye. I think it may have been Daniel Pink's website that got me started on this. (Try his 6 word autobiographies!) I'm writing 50 word pieces, micro-fiction which are really small snapshots...a window on the world.

Turns out the universe was calling me again! Check out today's piece in the Afterword. It's short fiction month! I found it first on Dan Wickett's site, Emerging Writer's Network, with lots of recommendations for good shorts to read.

My kids in school are loving it! At this time of year, they don't want to hear a word about grammar. They just want to write. So I let them. It helps them get their ideas down, share with others and then go back to their work as never before. They are not as overwhelmed as they were in longer forms of writing. And...I'm sneaking in all kinds of lessons related to crafting varied sentence structures, relating it back to the good old change-up a pitcher uses in baseball. It's about economy, fluency, a quick story arc and precision. Reluctant writers? Not in this format!

Ira Glass on Storytelling

2009-05-07T17:09:00.000-07:00

Check this out! It's worth the twenty or so minutes. Ira Glass speaks at the Gel Conference on personal narrative and how it hooks us inside and out. I love the radio show, This American Life, and was therefore drawn to this site for the purpose of a casual perusal, quick glance at what's happening out there.

What I found was a very informative, emotional discussion of how storytelling is an inside job.

It's tentacles tend to hook from the very deepest part of us...a true inside job!

If you're like me...a real story junkie, you'll love every minute of it!

Magnolia

2009-04-24T03:35:00.001-07:00

A Rumphius Challenge

Last Friday in April! Get outdoors! The whole world's a poem!

Peepers

emerge,

announce

themselves

one by

one

building

a consensus

of rhythm

and night songs.

Daffodils appear

too

along the hillside,

a startling display

of dazzling yellow,

but magnolia

trumps them

all,

lasting only

a day or two,

she bursts

on the scene

a head full

of pale pink.

A swirl of

wind

could wisp

her away...and

I'll stop

this day,

and look

and savor,

for soon

that burst

will

be gone.

My Own Backyard

2009-04-19T07:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I left the backyard of my dreams...in a way. Well-manicured, shady in just the right spots, a lazy river and a kind person that brought food or drinks at my beck and call. Well, that's jut not reality, and I know that even I would get bored with that after a while.

So, we packed up, just the two of us and hit the road...cuz heck, we were having way too much fun! We hit the road with our bags and our heads stuffed full of the sounds and sights of another great time at the beach.

Traveling with a wheelchair is a huge hassle, so...we put on our patience. I dragged the wheelie monster suitcase, and we rolled that wheelchair homeward. There were bags slung over my back too. I cursed myself for all the stuff I packed (Eight books, all read--and then my sketch book and journal, laptop too.) We put on our armor and got ready to do battle with the airport, on this the weekend that marks the end of spring break. What we found, though, was what we almost always find: the miracle of the stranger...willing to hold the elevator, watch the bags, wait that extra second or even extend a hand when we needed it. It always happens. So...even as we progress in this crazy process called illness, I have to remember not to awfulize, we are not alone. I sometimes tell myself we'll never be able to travel again...well, no. People are happy to help. Well most normal people...that crabby butt guy last night at the airport? Karma, and not me, will bite his butt! Miracles of kindness abound. It is at the core of human nature.

As for me? I'm happy to be back to the rhythm of my unmanicured backyard...where there's sunlight, hawks nesting, daffodils and magnolias in bloom, and a calm I can count on today! The rake will have to wait, though, for at least another day!

Alli-gator Inspires Fear: Paradise Lost

2009-04-14T17:58:00.000-07:00

Okay, well...I've been warned. We are living in their ecosystem. But...

all's quiet on the western front, in fact who would imagine anything

was lurking there?

Well, today, "Ali" decided to go for a swim in my backyard. But not to worry, I've gotten a lesson in how to run away from an alligator. If it's a girl alligator, she's won't be more than ten feet long. No big deal, right? Wrong!

So...I'm thinking maybe a girl originally from New Jersey, transplanted in Connecticut should be happy with the icky things we have like daddy long legs, wood spiders and itty bitty mice and forget about any plans of relocating to this sunnier locale. It sure is tempting, though, especially after the two million feet of snow I shoveled this past winter. Brother. There is no paradise after all!

What no Vampires?

2009-03-29T15:52:00.000-07:00

Rollin' out some garlicky meatballs today, a memory popped into my brain and I found myself in the kitchen laughing away. My BF is used to this. If I'm not talking to myself in there, I'm often laughing...and sometimes singing too. I know, a bad scene.

But today, I started thinking about those Sherman Avenue Murphys again...you know, my roots. What a street that was! Many small homes, cape style, but Dutch colonials and a few old farmhouse from the days of the apple orchard too. Ours was a cape...very cute, I like to think. My dad was meticulous about it.

The Cucurellos lived in a Dutch colonial down the street. I could sit on my porch and just about inhale the smell of garlic coming from Grandma Cucurello's (Angie) kitchen. It was there that I first tasted the love of my life: pasta! When I'd come home from their house, my dad (aka Archie Bunker) could smell the garlic. "Go right upstairs and change your clothes!" Oh brother. "I didn't come all the way across the ocean to smell that abnormal smell."

"But Dad!" Well, you know what ensued after that. Archie, I mean DAD, always got his way. Then one day, the Cucurellos invited Mr. I'm-ALL-Irish-ALL-the-TIME to dinner. We were all so excited, we could barely stay glued to our skin! Imagine. Well, he went alright, but not after a WHOLE bunch of dawdling and dilly-dallying...something he'd never allow in me.

We sat down at the table and they stuck a medium-sized bowl in front of him. The larger bowl of pasta and "gravy" with that wonderful garlic smell was divvied out by Rose Cucurello, the diminutive mom of the household. I could see my dad's expression of fear from the corner of my eye. I feared for the Cucurello household. Big Dan (weighing in at about 350) was in his place, at the head of the table, getting ready to say grace. A few words were mumbled by my not-so-grace-filled Dad under his breath. It was then that Angelina, his partner in prayer (another story), hopped up from the table and grabbed another bowl from the kitchen. This time, it was the butter and pasta for wimps bowl. Archie B. was saved! Boo-hoo!! But...what my dad didn't know was that he needed to pace himself. He fired down the pasta...believe it or not, he'd never even had THAT before! And then came the leg of lamb and all the trimmings! I thought my father was going to die! It was so worth the price of admission, I laugh even now thinking about it.

But that was the end of our garlicky pasta days...in fact, we didn't even have pizza in our house until my dad died. As sad as his death was...there was a silver lining. As he would say, before he was even "cold in the ground," we were concocting all sorts of things in his kitchen.And what did we fire up first on that Irish stove of ours? It wasn't meat and potatoes, that was for darn sure! 'Twas our own bootleg version of Grandma Cucurello's pasta sauce that we'd tried so many times before of course! (Don't tell Dad!)

I Can Hardly Wait!

2009-03-19T17:21:00.000-07:00

National Geographic's Africa (1996) is a wonderfully epic series entitled, Africa, which explores the vast regions of this immense continent through the eyes and therefore the lives of its people. There's a spiritual essence that grips and binds the viewer to the very real day-to-day struggles, the simplicity and the camaraderie of a people fighting for their livelihood, for their day-to-day survival and for an embedded system of beliefs that has endured there for centuries. The cinematography is breathtaking. But what stands out for me is the carefully crafted respectfully told stories within the narative of these productions.

Then comes along a little book with a very strange title: The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency. It was placed in my hands and honestly, I gave it little attention at first, setting it aside for the larger stack of books on my list. When I finally got around to it, I fell in love. Precious Ramotswe is a highly endearing character. Kind and confident, she takes on the small problems/mysteries that fall upon her doorstep as a most unlikely private investigator in Botswana. The authentic voice of Precious is most unmistakably captured by Alexander McCall Smith. Imagine that! A white Anglo-Saxon tells the story in the voice of a Botswanan female!

And now, HBO offers its fans the a seven part series beginning March 29th. Facebook has established a 'fans page,' with interviews with the master-storyteller, Smith. He speaks of the idea for the detective agency as a "literary device," a useful tool in exploring the lives of the occasional agency visitor. Small plot lines become entwined in the life and travels of Precious, of course. "Everyday somebody can come in with a fresh issue."

More than a few editors at the SCBWI mid-winter conference challenged authors to think outside their comfort zone. They spoke of creating stories that were less known to them, residing instead in the outer realm of possibility for us all. Stretch ourselves, they said...invent rather than recreate. In my estimation, that is exactly what Alexander McCall Smith has done. He has captured the very nature, the spirit of Botswana in a way that is so very real and appealing. And yet this is no travelogue, no recounting of his own experiences there. Could it be that he is the reincarnated Precious Ramotswe in the body of a 20th century white gentleman?

Kathleen's Irish Soda Bread Recipe

2009-03-16T15:25:00.000-07:00

The story goes that good Irish cooks never measure, so when I took down this recipe at Kathleen's table some twenty-five years ago (on the back of an envelope), I was given that disclaimer. It took me many a try to get it all straight.

Irish Soda Bread: Preheat the oven to 375*

Sift together:

2 1/2 C flour

1/2 tsp. baking soda

2 "generous" tsp. baking powder

("a bit of salt") 1 tsp.

"a few" spoons of sugar (3-4)

Cut 3 tbsp. of softened buttered into the dry mix.

Add 3 tsp. caraway seeds

1 egg

1 C buttermilk

1/2 box of raisins ("In good times, I always add more!")

Roll out onto a lightly floured bread board and knead for just a few minutes. Shape and cut with the "sign of the cross" using a sharp knife. ("Always remember to say a small prayer.")

Bake for 45 mins. Serve with a generous amount of butter, and a good hot cup of tea!

I make two loaves at a time and bake them on a greased cookie sheet.

(Be sure to read the story below for a bit more of the backstory on this recipe.)

My thanks to Mrs. Vokes for all the wonderful loaves that were dropped off on our doorway. We never caught you! You were a true Irish rascal!

The Sweet Taste of Soda Bread

2009-03-15T05:07:00.000-07:00

On any given March 17th one thing in the Murphy household was certain.

Kathleen Vokes would come and go, leaving a warm loaf of Irish soda bread on the front step for sure. My brother and two sisters and I would fight for the chance to be the one to find it there, but in truth...she was a sneaky one, so you just never knew when she'd come.

There were other times too, when Mrs. Vokes would turn up with her soda bread, quite often in fact, for she was the quiet white-haired matriarch in the neighborhood, and she had a very watchful eye and a kind spirit to match. We were a bit of an oddity in our neighborhood, having lost both parents by the time I turned eleven. My brother, ten years older than I, was the breadwinner, as was my sister Carol. Mrs. Vokes had always played a quiet role in our family, tending to my mom when she was sick...for she herself was a nurse. She'd come up with one of the two daily pain injections, and sometimes Carol would run down to her before the time was up, because Mom was desperate and unable to wait.

But I was oblivious to most of that. Mom died when I was just a bitty girl, and then Dad later.

Mrs. Vokes, to me, was a mystical character. She had wild white hair and pinky toes that stuck out at the ends of her cloth sneakers. She always wore an apron or held a trowel in her hand. She, like my dad, tended that small plot of land as if it were a farm in Ireland. I'd skip down the hill and knock on her door and often find her in either place, the garden or the kitchen, and then I'd be enlisted to roll out the pie dough or dig up some lost bulbs, hidden deep in the soil.

But my favorite, by far, was the making of the Irish soda bread.

I hadn't seen Mrs. Vokes in many years, having left to go off to college, to begin my first teaching job and to buy a home of my own and have my first baby. But, to my delight, on a trip to my brother's, I discovered her there once more. Matt was just six months old, and so I propped him up on the kitchen table. She was pulling an apple pie out of the oven and so the kettle went on and we talked. I asked her if she'd give me her Irish soda bread recipe, which of course she did. There was no recipe, really...it was a 'bit of this and a bit of that', but I've managed to figure out the this and thats and have made more than a few over the years.

When I got in my car to leave that day, we were both teary. It'd been so long, and in that short visit, I realized just how much she meant to me as that bitty girl so long ago. As fate would have it, though, my car wouldn't start. We went back in amidst the fitful cries of my little guy, Matthew. He was starving. So, as only she would, she slipped him onto that generous hip of hers and got him smiling and laughing again. But then it all stopped and the crying started again. It was then that I realized the secret incredient of all my visits to Mrs. Vokes. She switched him then from her hip to a seat atop the table, dug into that sugar bowl of hers and shoveled a heaping teaspoonful of the white stuff right into his mouth! I was horrified, but hysterical at the same time. We both laughed and laughed, and Matt's crying of course stopped. Good old Tommy Sullivan rescued us then and we were off on our way.

Sadly, that was the last time I saw her, but I have a lifetime of memories from that kitchen, some of which are stored in my Middle Grade novel, Forever and Always, a story of a young girl growing up with only a dad, who learns to find mom in the small places, in the stories of people and the events that shape her life, those nooks and crannies of the universe.

Tomorrow's entry: Mrs. Vokes's Irish Soda Bread Recipe. Stay tuned!

More Will Be Revealed

2009-03-02T14:53:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is the anniversary of Anne Biggins Murphy's birth...circa 1911! Anne Biggins traveled the Atlantic, arriving at Ellis Island from County Mayo at the age of seventeen. She was blonde and beautiful with sparkling blue eyes. And best of all, she had a job waiting for her. She and her sister, traveled by boat. Kathleen, apparently, was so sick, she barely survived the trip, but eventually regained her health over time. Anne's destination was the Atterbury's home in Plainfield, NJ. The Atterbury's were an influential family connected to the stock market, as far as I know.They lived in what was then considered a mansion in the Sleepy Hollow section of town, known for its grand homes. That was long before my time. I was a late-life baby, the last of four. My mom had lived through my dad's deployment to Normandy, Sicily and North Africa, where he was awarded the silver star for bravery. She had raised four kids and built a home here with my dad. They were, as people tell me, the most Americanized of our tribe. Mom received her citizenship ten years after she landed and was proud as can be of that.

But at the age of 46, just three short years after I was born, my mom died. In those days, no one talked about people after they died. Especially the Irish! My mother was a saint, that was all I needed to know. And...she was was watching down on me from heaven. Jeesh! Try stealing an extra cookie or lying to your teacher about homework when you know that. The 'old Irish', as we younguns called them, were always telling me how gorgeous she was and how I was 'the picture of your mother.'

On a trip to Ireland about three years ago, more was revealed. I got more of a picture of the woman, and the land from whence she came. Turns out, she was not a saint! Yay, I can stop trying to live up to that standard...it actually hurts to try! She was a spitfire, loved clothes ("a clothes-horse" they called her) and most of all, she loved people. I stood in the white cottage where she was born and got to see her school house down the hill. We drove up onto the small mountaintop to see where my Granny Biggins was born!

My cousin Marilyn sent me a letter a number of years ago too, telling me how my mom cared for her and for her sister after their mom died, washing her hair and letting it dry out in the sun, and talking them into the next phase of womanhood during their early teenage years. Another cousin, Eilish, a member of the Australian part of the clan told me how my mom had arranged to have her mom come over too. But Nora met her man, and that kept her in Ireland...and then later off to Australia, so that was not to be.

Many angels have shown up in my life over the years, and like my mom, they've left their mark too. I've recently received all her papers in the mail, as I ready myself to apply for my Irish Citizenship. In that group of papers I found of course, her birth and death certificates, her baptismal certificate and her marriage license. That's what it boils down to, as my dad would say. But you know what...she boiled down to a whole lot more to a lot of people. So Happy Birthday, Annie Biggins! The world is a better place because you arrived in it!

God Loves Penny Candy Too!

2009-03-01T19:40:00.000-08:00

Story finds me, even when it's not supposed to. I swear. It's not my fault! Today we had a second collection, and on those days, I often feel sorry for the very nice man that passes the basket. The second collection is an exercise in futility in these economic times. But that's not what struck me this day.

The basket was passed a few rows in front of me and I watched as a boy of about seven or eight knelt up on the pew and tried to put a couple bucks in after he'd missed his chance in his own row.

He obviously hadn't processed the fact that his mom had given him as many of those green paper suckers as she did. He stared at the cash with eyes wide. "Whoops!" he said then. And in a flash, he grabbed back a dollar or two from his initial donation. A look of relief and a devilish smile spread over his face once he'd rescued his bucks. It amused me and the man passing the basket, "Candy money!" I whispered. He laughed and I did too. I'd have done the very same thing. That's why my dad never trusted me with more than a nickel, a dime or once in a big while, a quarter!

Just Hangin'

2009-02-26T18:00:00.000-08:00

Well, I've been busy spinning my wheels again. You see, I am practicing what most writers love most: avoidance! Blogger and Facebook have wormed their way into my brain, taking up enormous amounts of time and what limited brainpower I have by day's end. This morning, I slept right through my writing time, because I was up way too late the night before. That cute little bugger, the internet is becoming a monkey around my neck. What am I avoiding?

The dreaded QUERY letter. Oh God, do I hate those things! How does one reduce two hundred pages of manuscript to one paragraph or two? I've always been a lousy self-promoter to begin with. My other obstacle--revision. I'm back to work on a completed young adult novel, straddling the two worlds of new work and old, trying to go back, while I'm addicted to the new story, that new character and the full array of possibilities there.

So, instead of getting back to work on any one of the aforementioned items...I'm hanging out, dangling, blogging and watching Katherine Hepburn and Bogie in African Queen. I've been warned about the black hole called the internet by all my friends. Bogie and Kate have encountered raging falls, massive swarms of mosquitoes and now they're lost. Boy, do I know how they feel. "You've paid your money, so make your choice," says Bogie. "That way," says Kate pointing. Ironically, 'that way' sends them into a swamp of muck. They've got to paddle, and push themselves..."All the twisting and turning we've done, we'll probably come back where we started. This river is crazy," he says.So what does he do, this Bogie. He gets out and into the murky water and pulls the boat along. When the leeches came, I had to turn it off!! Enough already. It's time to write again. Hangin' out always looks so good in the beginning, but then what looks cute always turns ugly. Time to hoist myself onto dry land, get my butt in the chair and focus on the next right thing. Query, revise...and work toward the new piece. 'That way,' I say! Let's hope I make a better choice than Kate. Brother!

Who Says?

2009-02-22T08:14:00.001-08:00

Picture books are not wanted anymore...WRONG! They are much more expensive to produce, though. And therefor should become a coveted form of art and story. I predict that picture books, after a long period of absence, will re-emerge in a way that was never imagined even five years ago. I do. They are treasures of our culture...real windows into the dual world of writing and image-making. I can't imagine living without them.

I had to wait for Wabi Sabi, written by Mark Reibstein and masterfully illustrated by Ed Young. I'd read a piece about the lost original illustrations that showed up in the back of a church. By then, Ed Young had completed the second round of illustrations. I was excited about the storyline, because I teach world cultures to sixth graders. But, Wabi Sabi, so it seems, was in high demand. There were none on the shelves. Now, I know why.

Wabi Sabi is, on the surface, a pretty common type of kitty, one that would probably live its life unremarked upon by most passersby. She takes a journey, one my kids at school would call...'a steppingstone' type of trip, to find out the true nature of her name. It is in the less perfect, the ordinary, that she finds the absolute true meaning of who she is and what that means.

Wabi Sabi herself is a teacher, much like the picture book itself. In my collection, I have many, many picture books...most, you'd have to wrestle me down to the floor for! In fact, if there ever was a real fire at school...I'd probably be the last one out of the building. I'd be stuffing my bags with all the magnificent works of art that sit on that shelf along the wall across from my desk...not too far from my watchful eye. Picture books are incredible launching points for lessons...in writing, in world cultures, in life. In all of these hard times, I do think the picture book will survive...and perhaps make some sort of comeback. These are the times when our spirits need a lift, a small escape of the thirty-two page illustrated type, a little wabi sabi book that has it all...a small kitty, a little journey, a bit of haiku from the masters, and an eyeful of beauty!

The Curious Case of a Wonderful Movie

2009-02-20T12:12:00.000-08:00

Curiously Wonderful!

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button deserves everything it's nominated for and more. It's a terrific story, which unfolds through the eyes of a wonderful character: Benjamin. Benjamin is somewhat reminiscent in a way of Owen Meany. (A much nicer version...very wistful and full of appreciation of life and people.) It actually has that southern feel of Fried Green Tomatoes too."You're odd," says Daisy. You bet he is. But it's the odd and irregular that we long for in great story. I love great writing. And what could be better than a deathbed revelation told through the words and vignettes found in a journal of a missing person. Benjamin Button is an anomaly from birth. He is born old, and lives his life in reverse, becoming younger each day. Kate Blanchett (Daisy) is the beautiful childhood friend, who becomes his love and soulmate over the course of their parallel lives. Each night, whether near or far, they wish a soft good night to one another. Yet beyond this unfolding tale lurks death and Hurricane Katrina, both knocking all the while from the outer realm of time. This story is framed as a reminiscence and we begin with a huge clock set in 1918 in a train station somewhere in New Orleans. The clock's minute hand spins backward, and so does this tale. I fell in love with F. Scott Fitzgerald and the whole notion of writing in my own college days. But I'd never read this short story. The screenplay was so well done that my 'Doubting Thomas' sat there silently for once and even cried at the end right alongside me. Which in itself is a miracle! This movie crosses not only racial barriers, but age barriers, handicapping barriers and barriers of culture. My cup is full Benjamin. I hope you clean up! (Did somebody forget to nominate Kate?)

The Wind Blows

2009-02-20T07:25:00.000-08:00

The door

slammed,

but went

unnoticed

at first,

amid the clatter,

the raucous

laughter

inside,

it came.

Footsteps

that scurried

toward

the door,

were

silenced and

rebuffed.

Laughter was

made silent too,

for there

was a newer,

more somber

mood.

Grim news

had come,

and stayed

a while too.

But then…

after a bit,

a hopeful

smile,

a giggle,

a wink...and a nod,

And

darkness

lost its grip.

And it

was spring

once more.

The wind

swung

that door wide,

Leaving

winter's darkness

outside.

But inside,

the laughter

always

remains.

Sage Advice from a Master

2009-02-18T08:45:00.000-08:00

Saturday, February 14th, better known as Valentine's Day to some, is also known as Kids-heart-Authors Day. All over New England, authors flocked to independent booksellers to show their love and support to these last safe harbors of informed discussion related to the children's book industry. I don't mean

to demean the efforts of the big chains, but my heart still clamors for those small places in our world where children and books can be celebrated for their own sake...and under one small roof. Because, after all, I am still a kid.

On Saturday, I went off to my favorite independent bookstore in

Fairfield, Connecticut: The Dinosaur's Paw, Jimmy Giff's store, where I am regularly delighted with the presence of my mentor,

the Newbury Honor Medalist, Patricia Reilly Giff. Pat's class is a treasured part of my writing life. I'm a regular there...and so are my

good friends, many of whom have become recently published! But none of that matters when we're there. What matters is Pat. Her soft voice, her gift of story, and her keen sense of the market are all that

matters. She's amazing! Just hearing the words I've written in that New York accent of hers is a treat. It gives me a real sense of possibility...of hope.

I spoke to Pat during the break this week about an idea she had for my work. It was, as always, just the right thing to do. I spent this week deconstructing and then reconstructing parts of the book and now I see the characters in new ways...as they relate to one another. It works!

But then Pat asked me, in a very quiet voice, "Why did you stop [writing]?" She'd never asked me that before. I've been with her for many years, but I went AWOL for about five years. I had no reason good enough...so I just told her I was a dope, that's all. She smiled then. "It'll probably make for good story in the long run. Nothing ever gets wasted, you know."

We had a good laugh about the stupid things that take us away from ourselves. But as always, she got me thinking. Why did I stop? Well, I didn't stop writing, I just stopped pushing toward the finish line. I went to my critique group monthly and I did go to SCBWI conferences; Whispering Pines, New Hampshire. I spent a few sessions with Anita Riggio and learned to add depth to my work. (I-heart-Anita too!) But I stopped working toward the outside realm...with a real audience in mind and publication. I stopped understanding the buzz of the business. And worst of all, I stopped this terrific connection with Pat. My husband's illness, raising my kids, managing my teaching career. Sure, I was busy. But none of that is a good enough excuse. You have to write toward the finish line, no matter what. And that's what I get from Pat. She's right. There's nothing more satisfying in the world than the writing itself.

So...I, the kid, heart all you authors out there--published or otherwise! I no longer have that need to distinguish, although I'm in awe of all those that do make it over the finish line. They do it one idea, one word, a string of sentences...and with a butt in the chair, every day and always.

And of course, I *heart* Patricia Reilly Giff, what a master she is!

Cooking Up Story in the Grocery Aisle

2009-02-12T18:53:00.000-08:00

I never understand why people would want to give up those daily treks to the grocery store. My husband has been trying to get me to use Peapod for about three years now. I'm just not the Peapod type. I'm a writer. I like to pick everything up, turn it around, squeeze it, smell it, and compare it to every other thing like it. I know, waste of time, right? Wrong. I've always been a little putzy. Used to drive my sisters crazy. They'd send me to the store, and I'd always get distracted. It's not that I love the grocery store. Really. And it's not that I so enjoy picking up and putting down all the things on my grocery list...well, I usually don't have a list. But I love to people watch. Especially in the grocery store.

Today, I was pushing my cart out of the produce aisle, when a blonde-haired woman in a baggy twill kind of coat came straight out of nowhere in my direction. She looked me straight in the eye in a kind of expressionless way. Not like she didn't see me, but she wasn't processing me I don't think, a little worrisome. I didn't give it too much thought in that moment, though. She was quite pretty with very, very pale white skin, a little bit of leftover lipstick and bright blue eyes. But I kept thinking once she saw me, she'd let me go since I was there first, and it was the right move. I had her typecast as a pretty kind lady, fortyish, a little tired...probably waiting to pick up one of her kids in town. My cart was pretty well into the aisle, so I got ready to keep making my turn. And what did she do? Well...clearly, I am slipping. She came at me even faster. I had to veer to the right at the very last second and let her pass. She went by me with a smirk on her face. She was playing 'chicken' with me! Dared me, and I stepped down.

Later, I came across her again. She was shaking her head and talking to herself. Now I'm thinking maybe she was late for a date with her therapist, I don't know. So much for my grocery shopping. My dad used to ask me what was going on between those ears of mine. I'm a writer...those wheels just keep on spinning. I love to take it all in, store it in the aisles of my brain. You never know when you might need a shopping cart maniac. Story happens, characters too!

Quite a Storyteller

2009-02-02T17:34:00.000-08:00

America can still rock out!

So...who would even know what's going on in the world, the economy, the job market...just to name a few? The Boss took the stage and rocked out to the heavens! Today, I was on my treadmill listening to a few of his tunes, and a few other assorted tunes as well, and I started to listen just a little more carefully to the lyrics. What a storyteller he is! That led my right-brained mind to think a bit about the conversation I had with my sixth graders today too as they recalled with exact detail all of the commercials they saw last night. We discovered one pattern in all of them...the one great ingredient: story! Maybe it's because we're studying African stories, naming the structures and likening them to anything that we know in our story world. I don't know. But one thing's for sure, marketers are much keener on story, than ever before. They have to hook us, hook us quickly and keep us from hitting the remote to change the channel. That was the message from all the editors at the conference...hook 'em quick, and keep those pages turning! Pages turning equate to dollars and cents, that's for sure. As for the Boss...I've been hooked for years. He makes me proud to be a Jersey Girl, that's for sure!

Keep Writing, Keep Hoping...Keep Sending!

2009-02-01T15:44:00.000-08:00

See this? This little tube represents hope!

I was worried about this year's SCBWI conference, I really was. Last year, so many of us were able to head down to NYC, and stay overnight there. Little did we know, that the days of luxurious spending like that might be behind us. Not to worry, I'm not going to add any more of the bleak thoughts on the economy to your day. I got a little worried, though, when Claudia

Gabel, my very first break-out speaker was half-way through her presentation and announced that we could not send our work to her, because she'd just lost her job. I began to wonder what my day would be like. There were many questions about what lies ahead, both spoken and unspoken, as we shuffled en masse toward the door.

Next-up: Jennifer Greene from Clarion. Therein lies the hope. Jennifer spoke for nearly forty minutes about books, elements of good writing, and then...the future. "Everyone knows during these tight economic times, consumers will buy two things: a ten dollar tube of lipstick and books for their kids." Keep sending, she said, keep sending. I had the good fortune of crossing paths with Lin Oliver, whom I love! She brings such fun and laughter to these gatherings. We had a momentary conversation about the mood and tone of so many of the people there. She was worried, I think, about the tone. Lots of pessimism out there.

Me? I'm going with the lipstick factor. I'm not going to be unrealistic. But it doesn't matter. There's nothing we, the little guys and girlies, can do about this big monster they call THE ECONOMY. I've decided...yeah, there was a monster in my closet, and now he's out in the living room. But you know what? No one took away my computer, my ability to eject the words out of my brain, and to play on the page! Jane Yolen herself showed up on the screen...as did Tomie dePaola, The Blue Rose Girls and a whole array of others, but Jane said, "Just get your Butt In

the Chair," and so...I shall. Just this moment, Tommy Lee Jones, in the movie In the Valley of Ella came on the screen and said to Charlese Theron's little boy, "That's how you fight monsters. You draw 'em in closer. You lure 'em in. And you smack 'em down." I'm smackin' that monster down too. I'm using a little hope, a lot of determination...and a big comfy chair, so my butt, and my brain, will stay put.

2009-01-29T17:26:00.000-08:00

One more day until I'm off to this year's SCBWI Conference in NYC. The economy has certainly had its effect on that small circle of writing friends of mine. Lots of tough choices out there. This year, however, I am so very proud of my two good friends, Ann Haywood Leal whose Also Known As Harper (Henry Holt) will be available in May (mine's on order) and Jame Richards' Three Rivers Rising (Knopf) will follow shortly thereafter in 2010. Yippee! Two more babies over the hump and into the marketplace.

Ann and Jame are truly magnificent writers, and to my good fortune friends of mine through Pat Giff's writing class. I do believe we own our seats there in the Dinosaur's Paw in Fairfield, CT. (There are only 20 seats in all!) We're dedicated to Pat and to her belief in us along with her knowledge of what works and what doesn't work on the page. There's a pattern and rhythm to her thoughts and ideas and if you stay long enough, you tend to infuse all those little understandings into the fabric of your work. Listening to Jame and Ann's work read aloud by Patricia Reilly Giff has been a little slice of heaven in my writing life.

Every year when the conference rolls around again, whether I'm attending or not, I get that sense of...okay, where am I in all of this? It has not been until recently that I have begun to market my work, and to feel that sense of urgency in doing so. Prior to that, I think I must've thought it'd get out there through osmosis, or even perhaps through the behind the scenes work of some all-knowing book fairy! Now, I've gotten that 'slap in the face' realism, in part, because of the state of the market, but also because I'm surrounded by a great group of friends in writing. We are each other's cheerleaders riding this shaky raft together. The conference bolsters me through those very cold mornings when it's just me and that blue light of the computer screen. It gives me a hope, a belief and a connection, which to a writer is everything and much more! For children's book writers and illustrators, this marks our New Year! (And for those who won't be there...it's dinner at Centro, that's for sure!)

Keeping Freedom

2009-01-24T20:09:00.000-08:00

Innaugural

clippings

and shavings,

assorted flags,

and fluff,

the less historic

remnants

left behind.

Moving vans

and moving crowds

have all

moved on.

In their wake,

a steady stream of

comments and

commentary,

a well-trained

lens

fixed on

every breath,

every word,

and every

action too.

What it must be like

to be Barack Obama,

Taking the

Whole

World

in his hands,

Making a few

bold actions,

Waiting and watching

Listening

to Washington's

response and reaction.

And all the while,

keeping cool,

holding tight

to his very own

blackberry,

a connection to

another world,

that small circle

of freedom

that keeps

the ground

under his feet.

Small Circles

2009-01-18T07:40:00.000-08:00

I am a surfer! I twitter, blog and surf the net to study the current status of the writing industry, to find websites that inform my love for writing...but mostly to seek and find the footprints of those that are successfully becoming published in these turbulent times. Like it or not, this is the way to go these days. If I want to find my audience, I have to help them find me a bit first. I have to prove my viability in terms of networking in this wireless world. I don't mind it, but I know I can get lost in it too. And so...I keep coming back to my goals for this year. If I want to get my two books out there...and the third and fourth that I'm currently working on (it's a disease, this writing, honestly!), then I have to do what I've done all my life. I have to continue to rely on the small, but varied circle of friends that are out there...my army of good friends who know that I'd do anything for them as well. I didn't have this figured out when I was a young adult...trying to deal with all the crises and dramas of life, that's for sure! But over the balance of my life, I've learned to lean in and let my friends carry me sometimes...and at other times, stand strong and let them lean in on me. I travel in small circles, but they...are the best of the best people this world has to offer! As my circles travel...the network grows, and so, in turn does mine. For all my friends that are out there now...I have not lost my mind! I'm a blogger, a twitterer...but first and foremost, I'm a human and to me, it's more important that I hear YOUR ideas than for you to hear mine. My dad's highest compliment of a person was..."He'd give you the shirt off his back!" Well, dad...that's a scary thought! But how 'bout the last chip in my bag...my last french fry, or the last sip of my latte? These days, I think time is the proof of real friendship! So...to those of you that have been a part of my circle forever, or those that have just recently joined, thank you for helping me find my way each day. You are welcome to my time, the coat off my back and anything else that matters to me at this moment in time.

Larger than Life

2009-01-11T07:18:00.000-08:00

Her absence

was so

obvious

yesterday,

and yet

her presence

was too.

We longed

for her

in our

remembering-

her calico print

blouse in the

framed picture,

the mom that

wore that blouse,

so many

lifetimes ago.

Even the gold

ensconced edge

of the Lenox dish,

she herself selected

as a very young

bride.

And then,

of course,

her wedding gown too

evokes a story,

bought on sale...

to fit the occasion.

Who else would

do something

like that?

The details of her life,

remain so clear

in the small tangible

remains.

But then...

there are the babies

she'd never meet,

her granbabies

bringing

us all together,

uniting us

once more

to take a look back,

and to look

forward too.

For there--

in those

impish grins,

in the silly chorus

of childhood voices,

and in the clatter

of footfalls,

she lives,

even now,

causing trouble,

stirring them up,

Calling our

hearts

to always,

always celebrate

the joy

in the laughter...

And isn't it

the laughter,

the fun,

the trouble-making

that she

was most about?

Inspiration

2009-01-08T18:43:00.000-08:00

Ah, the wisdom of Snoopy. Thank you, Charles Schultz! "Learn from Yesterday. Live for Today. Look to Tomorrow."

My life is a confluence of writing and story these days, and boy am I loving it. I'm finding inspiration in the darkened mornings in that dim light of my computer screen. I've connected with many others out there who are, like me, working the craft...and doing the day-job to keep the lights on at home too! Jill Corcoran's blog is loaded with all kinds of information related to marketing, writing, and life in general (http://jillcorcoran.blogspot.com/). Grace Lin's comments on the "Blue Rose Girls" blog (http://bluerosegirls.blogspot.com/) have also evoked a great deal of thoughts and ideas for me too. What I love most, though, is the fact that so many in the field of writing avail themselves to each other in such a giving way. Honestly, where else in the world do you see that? Could it be that our work is so satisfying, we don't feel the urge to pull the maneuvers we see in the all-too-political world of 8-4/9-5 out there? I love writing. I love writers. Edgy writers, corny writers, silly writers, sarcastic writers too. I'm blown away by the many out there, who, like me, live by that blue light, eagerly awaiting the arrival of that invisible critter...the morning muse that shows up with my morning coffee each day. This morning, I swear, there was a faint smell of coffee on his breath too.

Meanwhile...back in the classroom~where the other hat lives:

Today I went off to work...to my classroom where we're immersed in a study of story. I told my kids their homework tonight will be very simple. These sixth graders are home scouring their shelves, looking for all the favorites that enchanted them or lulled them to sleep long ago. We've read Harold, the Mouse and his Cookie, Where those Wild Things Are, Brave Irene...and many more. They clamor for more...but I've got to get THEM writing. Tomorrow, we'll compare story arcs, plots and problems and then we'll comb through all my picture books. Following that, they'll start on all the favored novels that stack my shelves. All the while looking at the patterns they find there. They, like me, are searchers. We're looking to find what works, what doesn't and how we, as authors, can reach an audience. The process...the people, the writing, all of it flows together, and right now...it's all good! Writing and thoughts about writing encircle my life and make me eager to get up and look to tomorrow for more! Let's hope that Mr. Muse brushes his teeth before he joins me, though! ;)

The Resolution Police

2009-01-04T18:00:00.000-08:00

But officer, it was so worth it! Okay, I didn't subscribe to the Resolution thing, so I wasn't really worrying about the New Year's Cops coming after me. Now my conscience is bothering me. I thought I was doing okay and didn't need a list of dos and don'ts. But.

Here it is the fourth day of the New Year, and I'm off the wagon.

Between today and yesterday, I said good bye to two of my three kids, and my third asked me for money to go buy ice cream. I handed over a ten, all the while telling myself 'no' inside my head. But when he returned, I realized we were partners in crime! I couldn't find the icecream scoop fast enough.

I know, I know...I caved so quickly. I can rationalize anything. He bought Reeses! What?! It was plain vanilla, strawberry or chocolate when I grew up. Well, that's a lie. The drug store's soda fountain had chocolate chip mint, peach, strawberry, cherry vanilla too. (Boring!) Nobody ever thought of mixing candy into the ice cream. Us kids did that on our own. At any rate, once again, I digress.

Back to the writing and resolutions.

Here's my plan for '09:

1. Say no to everything that has nothing to do with a) family and b)writing.

2. Market myself more. (I put this above writing this year, because I'm pretty clueless about it and I need to get public about that.)

3. Just write. Last year, I wrote a middle grade fiction novel between the months of October '07 and April '08. I began a young adult novel in July and finished it in November. I've never felt more satisfied.

4. Meet with my new group more often, perhaps visiting new ways of accomplishing that.

5. Read more.

6. Have fun! (This is really numero uno...thus the ice cream.)

See y'all at the SCBWI Convention in New York at the end of the month. I'm hoping for some inspiration to get that funky feeling out of the world of children's publishing. It's going to rebound...kids keep reading, so we've gotta keep writing. What else would we do, anyway? Like the ice cream, wild horses couldn't drag me away, that's for sure.

Back to Basics

2008-12-30T11:35:00.000-08:00

Getting Back to that Little Gray Shack

Some call it a cottage, some call it my little

gray shack. My son Tim calls it 'the cabin.' I call it my home away from home, but I haven't been out there too much lately. I've been out in the world shopping, baking and making myself crazy.

I've had my nose into politics and sports...work and the comings and goings of my kids.

I've read a multitude of resolutions lately and that is just not my thing. But I will make myself one promise and that is...that I'll use it, so I don't lose it. Recently, a friend told me I should rent that space out...pay my taxes. Imagine that.

When I was a very little girl, my friend Nancy Steck had a barn in her back yard. As barns go, this one was pretty nice with a loft and none of the animal smells that other barns in our neighborhood had. It was the place of many a clubhouse meeting, and the place I went to escape from the world. The Stecks didn't care...it was an open door to my imagination. I spent hours there, setting up teddy bears and talking to myself while I waited for the other kids to join me.

We had weddings and communions...we even baptized my dog, Lucky (how original!). I loved it there.

Now, I've got my own writing cottage...and inside that cottage is a desk and a fireplace, a bed, a couch and a small bathroom. I can escape for hours at a time if I choose, such is the circumstance of my life at this point. Last year, a family of sharp-shinned hawks built a nest in a pine tree above the roof of my cottage. I was entertained all spring while the babies learned to fly...flopping sometimes from branch to branch rather than springing forth into the open air. This year my two babies Thin Skinned and Walking on Eggshells are going to take flight too.

I'm going to put them out there into the world of middle grade and young adult fiction and let them flop around on their own. Who knows what might happen.

In the meantime, I write. Sometimes in my pajamas, sometimes in my jeans, but always, I write. When I'm not writing, I'm thinking about writing. My right-wired brain juggles a million thoughts at once, sometimes driving my kids (and me) crazy!

Right now, I'm writing a teaching memoir and another young adult book too...first chapter...no title, but I know, if I build it, it will come. The main character is African American and I'm lily white...go figure. Who knows where it came from. I never know...I let it be. Time and space are all that I need. And both...to my absolute good fortune, are covered!

2008: Everything changed...a new spring is coming, and life feels good all over again! The sharp shins will be back, the nesting turtles will too...and America has a second chance to get it right too. All is well. And in my little gray shack, anything is possible, that's for sure!

Better Luck Next Year

2008-12-29T15:23:00.000-08:00

A Tale of Two Seasons

Remember the Titans?

Remember the New England Patriots? Remember when Chad Pennington wore green and white and was a great guy, but not much of a quarterback in New York?

Remember Brett Favre's tears and the drama that surrounded all that? Who knew?

Well, this is the life of a sports fan...not a fanatic, mind you. You'd never catch me calling in on one of those ridiculous sports radio shows just to hear myself talk. This is my final, I promise, statement on the current state of affairs of my beloved Gang Green, as they dump Eric Mangenius...and hope to find someone better to lead the charge next year. This is not a sports blog, nor do I want it to become the random ramblings of my demented mind. I am glad I'm a writer and a teacher, and that I don't live my life in the spotlight like these guys do. It's certainly a very cruel life!

So farewell to Eric Mangini...perhaps you, like Chad, will fare better elsewhere. Brett, I'm sure, will retire this time, for real. Meanwhile, I fired the whole Jets team a number of years ago and found myself lost when football season began once again. For now, none of the teams above...with the possible exception of the NY Giants...and possibly the Pittsburgh Steelers (Oh God...I didn't say that!) have the only possibilities for me in the balance. This job of hanging on to a team that makes me believe for the first half of the season then leaves me laying flat in the end zone come playoff time is pure torture. Thank God for pitchers and catchers, a mere 49 or so days away! Go Mets...bring on springtime! (PS: Mets? Well, that's a whole 'nother story. My son would not allow Mets ornaments on our tree this year for fear that it might collapse!! But ya gotta believe, and so I do.)

2008-12-14T15:46:00.000-08:00

Go Big Green! Well, it was not supposed to be a big hurdle, the Bills' Trent Edwards was standing on the sidelines watching in frustration. Brett was having a great game. "Looks like he's still got some juice in that shoulder," the announcer said. You bet he does. But. The Bills nearly beat my Gang Green! We were favored by 13 points, and won through divine intervention by a measly three points. I'm going to ask Santa to send us some deeeeeeefense in the weeks to come. C'mon Jetsies, let's rework the game plan. Time for Man-genius to get us going again. J-E-T-S, JETS, JETS, JETs! It's a "W," after all...we'll take it.

Full of It.

2008-12-13T13:38:00.000-08:00

Did anyone see that moon last night? I had the thankless task of taking out the garbage, or dealing with the smell of it when I woke up this morning. Yick. I ran out in a long-sleeved tee and jeans...and sock feet too. I know, crazy, right? Well, that is the life of a hopeless right-brained writer. And then I stopped dead in my tracks. The sky was a deep blue and the silhouetted pines edged the horizon. That huge white winter globe hung there too, over the garage, a show for me alone. I stood there, like a dumb little kid, garbage bag in my hand and feet frozen to the pavement. This morning, I awoke and my moon was still there, suspended over the farmer's field, distant but very much evident in the early morning. And then...what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature tractor and eight...bulbous brown steer. Well...no, they were a mix of black and brown, now that I think about it. The farmer was bundled, and he was following the curve of the land in a very purposeful drive up and down the hillside. I wanted to stay, to ask him, what in the sam hill he was doing at 6:30 AM in December. Don't farmers sleep late in these winter months? I had no time, I was late.

But later, my curiosity got the best of me. When I got to my coffee stop, I had to ask one of the guys there. Of course, I learned, as I already knew...I am full of it. I call myself a country mouse, but I know absolutely nothing. I'm a country romanticist is what I am. I love all the fluff, but I know nothing of the work. Apparently that farmer was fertilizing. Fertilizing! What? That's the strangest verb I've ever heard. He was dumping cow poop on his field. The real verb should be something like manuring, but not too many people like to think about things like that. Cover it up and make it sound pretty. Make it fertile, Mr. Farmer, dump your poop. It's okay.

Now I'm beginning to hear the talking heads talk about my Jets and what's going to happen if they don't win tomorrow. More manure, and lots of it. It's drama and hype, plain and simple. Lots of fertilizing going on there. I'm a Mets fan and a Jets fan...and if there's one thing I really am thin-skinned about it is all the "fertilizing" that goes on around my teams. I still believe anyway. I think I'll just step outside and look up. I know my moon is hanging out there over my garage. And all will be well with the world. Ya gotta believe!

Oh Christmas Tree

2008-12-08T17:15:00.000-08:00

Call me crazy. Here I go again. I drove down Main Street in my hometown the other night, and it sure didn't look like the "Main Street" that has been talked about for the past three months. The luminaries were lit and the houses were too. The little kid that lives inside me was dazzled by the old fashioned sights and sounds of Christmas. Last year, a giant pine tree that stood alongside Hawley Pond in our own Ram's Pasture was taken down during a windstorm. It was a huge blow to my New England home town. (No pun intended.) That tree always irritated me around this time of year, though. It never seemed like the right choice in my mind's eye. This year, our Christmas pine is much smaller, but my eyes seem to welcome it just the same. Christmas and all the other holidays are something we can count on in our tradition. I've been crazed with shopping, and trying so hard to curb that spending too. I can't seem to convince my husband that shopping is a patriotic act! Christmas is smaller this year, but small is the new BIG! Like the tall pine, all the buying and having and craving never seemed normal. So now...it's the smaller that means so much. I may be out there shopping, but this year it's all about finding that just right gift for each of the people on my list. Less is more and small is big. The lessons just keep on coming. (The photo above was a gift from my new friend, Bunnybua, a soon-to-be world famous graphic designer from Thailand. Be sure to visit her website at bunnybua.com.)

Green Beans and Gratitude

2008-11-26T17:40:00.000-08:00

Okay, well...I've carried about twenty bags of groceries into my house, cut more onions than I care to think about, shoved more stuff in my oven than it's seen in months, and it's not even Thanksgiving yet! And...I'm not the one who's having Thanksgiving this year!

Thanksgiving is a mega-event with two huge Irish families coming together (the pre-birth control set). In the old days, pre-microwaves, they did all of this with six/seven kids running around. TV was black and white and they had no childcare either...they couldn't even toss a dvd in to occupy those ankle-biters! Wait, I was one of those ankle-biters...well, not in one of these households. I grew up in a NJ household, this is a Northern Westchester crew. I was of the shanty-Irish variety, although my father would have none of that. To him, we were just as "white curtain Irish" as any other! But we were always told to mind our manners, or the neighbors would think we were no better than shanty Irish. On a visit to County Mayo, the home of my mother, I found out that they had no knowledge of that saying...or perhaps they wanted no part of it, I wasn't sure about that. Their silence made me think about it anyway. I've never used that expression again, until now anyway. I began to respect what that expression really means to the many who starved over there in the "old country."

For now, we're living off the fat of the land...literally! I do LOVE Thanksgiving. What could be better than coming together one more year to stuff our faces, share our stories, and celebrate all the ages and stages, the face of the good life? So, it's back to the green bean casserole, and oh yeah...the creamed onions for Grandpa too. Nothing new, only the familiar. This is the only time all year that I can honestly say I will be opening a can of Campbell's mushroom soup. Have you ever wondered about that wobbly white stuff inside that can? I sure have! But for now...for the sake of tomorrow, it's all good. (And Dad...I will be sure to mind my manners too!)

Writing for Life

2008-11-22T17:47:00.000-08:00

I sometimes wonder what I would do in life if I couldn't put my thoughts down on the page...well, really the screen. Having just finished another great session with Pat Giff, and spending the evening hanging out with my writing friends, I realize that this is how I want to spend the rest of my life! Funny how it took me over half a decade to claim that, but there it is. My favorite time of day comes at 5:30 in the morning, when often a few leftover stars, a small lamp, and a computer screen are the only lights in my home. My coffee cup sits next to me and this time of year, I've got my small woolen blanket which came straight from Ireland (Foxford Mills) over my lap...of course, I'm still in my pj's and my eyelids are half-open. But...I've heeded the words of Stephen King, who mentioned the fact that the brain is trained to dream at night (although I don't often sleep after reading his fiction), so I've trained my brain to write in the mornings. I've finally given in, and done what Pat Giff has told me to do for so long. This is so counter-intuitive for me, really. I've never claimed to be a morning person. I write at this hour before my crazy brain gets cluttered with all the ideas that crowd it in planning for eleven and twelve year olds or the politics of work, or even the random needs of the world around me. I've always had that before school anxiety...after all, that job requires constant preparation and attention to detail. But now, my right brain starts my day...and that, for me, brings peace. That is how in the past two years, Thin Skinned and now Walking on Eggshells have found their way out of my head and into the world. Mornings are now, for me, a little slice of heaven.