Ah, spring!

The view from my porch is pure heaven this morning! Nature accidentally shipped us some weeks of May in April. The air is make-you-want-to-run-around-the-yard warm and smells extra rich with oxygen. Sequins of dew glisten in the grass. Trees wear new-baby fuzz of green and rose. The birds whistle to each other, enjoying the view from their own porches. And here I sit, queen of all I survey, pecking on Minnie, my lovable laptop.

I wasn't this happy a few weeks ago. I ran into a rough patch when I felt as if my muse had not only deserted me but had come to the wrong address in the first place. I was stuck, stuck, stuck, and I despised everything I wrote. I do not pooh-pooh fortune-cookie fortunes. The one I drew read "Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence." So I kept slogging. I also needed this quote from Ellen Potter's interview on my friend Clara Gillow Clark's neat blog: "Things I hate about writing: I guess I don’t really hate anything about writing, but there are lots of times when I slam my head down on my desk and moan, 'This is hard!'” I eventually saw where I had wandered off course. My muse and I reconnected. I learned/relearned a few things that I hope will make me a better writer. Writing is not for the faint of heart. There sloughs of despond, but there are green fields, too.

I still think I'm a pretty lucky person.

Heroes and Shadows

Kim Griswell and I are going to talk about our favorite subject, the Hero's Journey, at a Highlights Foundation Founders Workshop soon.  The date is April 16-18 and the place is Boyds Mills, PA. This is a little more in-depth look at the stages and archetypes of the classical hero's journey described by Joseph Campbell and Christopher Vogler. We will be focusing on the Shadow, your hero's ultimate test of the quest. We'll show how the ideas apply no matter what kind of children's novel you're working on. If you love this stuff, too, and would like find out how to use it to strengthen your manuscript, come join us. KL Going, author of KING OF THE SCREWUPS, will be our special guest. Here is the link.

And here's the view from my porch now

I actually enjoy snow, but it was a little hard to adjust to, having just returned from warm and sunny San Diego. I have two uncles living there, my mother's older and younger brother. My mom passed away several years ago and I like to keep in touch with the family that remains. My uncles are 92 and 86, but you would assume that each is ten years younger if you met them.

I had brought some old family pictures with me--pictures of my grandparents when they were courting and of my mother and uncles when they were children. I wanted to ask my uncles to give me more information about who was in some of the pictures and where they were taken. That led to their getting out even more old photos, as well as diaries and other memorabilia. What followed was a story fest, as my uncles relived their childhoods growing up in a small mountain town in Virginia in the 1920s and 1930s. Afterward I realized that something magical had happened. I had heard so many stories that a hologram of the town had formed in my head. I could stand at the end of the swinging bridge that led to the school and watch as boys (being boys) tried to swing the bridge and scare the girls. I could look up and see Uncle Jack as a small boy playing on the flat roof next to the apartment he lived in while the family's new house was being built. I could look up the steep street in front of that house and see my Uncle Harrell coming down on a sled, with his friends keeping watch at the intersections.

Both of my uncles live very much in the present, but for at least a little while, the past became alive and touchable.  I thank them for that gift.

Color Me Happy

I have some good news to share! Heinemann Publishers bought a story from me for their Leveled Literacy Intervention program--for a series of short books for 5th graders reading at a lower level, and they are interested in seeing more. So I'm feeling quite content at the moment. I seem to be getting back on track to being a writer.

I've been reading a lot lately about the creative process. I finished Anne Truitt's series:  Daybook, Turn, and Prospect: The Journal of an Artist. I'm reading Wabi Sabi for Writers. I'm rereading Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain. So it seemed quite serendipitous when I received a new book written by an old friend, Jillian Sullivan. It is called Fishing from the Boat Ramp, and it takes the form of a dialog between Jillian and a friendly, mysterious mentor. It has many wise and helpful things to say about the writing process, expressed in beautiful language.  Here is a short excerpt:

"'Writing is like flying a kite," he said. "You don't know what is up there, what invisible currents or energies are there or how the air works. You launch the kite up, you hold the string in your hand and you feel the energy hum through it. You look up at your kite duck and leap and soar and you have wonder. You know you hold the string, yet you are not making the kite fly."

You can find out more about the book here.

Meet Minnie

I have a new friend. She's sitting on my lap right now. She's small, sleek, and black. She's a great listener. The cats ignore her.

No, I didn't lose my mind and get another dog. Minnie is my HP Netbook. My fingers dance on her delicate keyboard. My muse feels at ease with her modest, non-high-tech appearance. I can sit where I'm warm and comfortable to write. It's love.

Since I started this blog to track my transition from working editor to stay-at-home writer, it's time to give a status report.

• I have some regular free-lance work that I enjoy. Of course none of it came from the dozens of letters I wrote, but maybe that was just putting my intentions out to the Universe.
• I have a wonderful, encouraging agent who is shopping one of my novels around. The responses have been negative but kind, indicating that I'm on the right track, but not there yet.
• I am working on a new book, and beginning to be excited about it.
• I am building a comfortable way of working. I seem to write best when I feel relaxed and safe. Writing is a risky business. Since it's too cold to sit on the porch, I have a new favorite spot--in a floor recliner, under a quilt, in front of my faux fireplace. Well, the fireplace is real, and the fire is real, but it comes from one of those cans of gel that crackle like a wood fire, behind a faux but convincing log. Music is softly playing on my computer. My muse is content. I practice a trick I learned from my writing coach:  I start by writing in my "Time Tracker" what I'm going to work on, for how long, and what my mood is. It's a quick way to focus. And when I finish, I have the satisfaction of logging that in, too.
• I discovered that I can keep my energy up by switching from one activity to another. If I get tired of writing, I can practice my guitar, or go for a walk, or crochet, or sketch, or read about writing, or sort something.
• I keep in touch with friends on the Internet, with lunches and outings, with letters.

So far, I have to say, so good.

A Little Miracle

When I went in for a routine echocardiogram, I didn't know what it was. I had a vague image of being hooked up to something like a lie detector, with needles scribbling lines on a graph. It turned out to be (am I the last person to know this?) a lot like the pictures they take of babies in the womb, cold jelly and all. When I looked on the screen, there it was, the engine that runs everything, pumping its continuous complex rhythm:  in with the good blood, out with the bad blood. Little doors opened and closed with perfect timing, over and over and over. I was astounded. How had I not thought about this mysterious machine that floats like a living planet in the middle of my chest? What makes it go? Where does its life come from? My reaction was not unlike my amazement at seeing a sonogram of my son. (I almost expected to recognize little fingers and toes.) I was confronted with a miracle. I am thankful, on this Thanksgiving Day, for miracles.
(This is not my echocardiogram, by the way. I pulled it from the Web. I wish I had asked for mine, though.)

One Man's Trash Is . . . Still Trash

Nothing ruins a good walk like globs of trash littering the sides of the road. After muttering curses for a while against the people who use the scenery as their wastebasket, I finally realized that I could pick up the trash and then I wouldn't have to look at it. The next time I set out, I carried a kitchen trash bag and a pair of gloves. Before I had gone half-way up the hill, I had filled the bag and could barely carry it. (That was when I learned to start collecting trash on the way down the hill.) It was a Sunday afternoon and several people drove by, but no one acknowledged my lonely quest for tidiness. Maybe some of them said to themselves, "Look at that poor lady cleaning the roadside. I swear I will never toss another beer can out the window."

I did have plenty of time to make some observations about litterers:
In my neighborhood, at least, Busch is the beer of choice to swig in the car and toss out the window.
Malboros are a favorite of litterers.
Cigarette filters are not biodegradable. Couldn't we get them to put that on the packages? Would anybody care?
Construction workers seem to lose a lot of equipment along the road. I found a level, a box of screws, and some siding.
I couldn't understand the reasoning of people who toss out soiled disposable diapers. Then I looked up "disposable" in the dictionary, and it became clear. "Disposable" means "designed to be thrown out." The diaper tossers are very, very literal.
The strangest object I found was a long green shoelace tied around the neck of a plastic alien. Maybe someone was taking the alien for a walk and it got away. I took the shoelace home to repair something, and the alien--well, it's pretty cute. I think I'll keep it.