A Christmas to Remember!

We were lucky to have my 90-year-old father still able to celebrate Christmas in our home along with 18 members of our extended family. I did not take a photo of my son carrying my father into our house because the sight was just too heart wrenching, but you can see him here in a wheel chair in front of the fireplace in the midst of the gift opening.



Here are the two youngest of the clan--Piper, our son's 20-month-old daughter, and Gareth, our daughter's 2-year-old son, who are great playmates.



And I have to include a photo of my favorite gift--photographs taken on Vinalhaven Island off the coast of Maine. My husband had prints made on canvas, to hang in my writing cabin in order to keep the setting of my novel-in-progress clear in my mind.

A Post Without Words

The Gift of Friends

My favorite part of the December holidays is spending time with treasured friends.

This morning I got together with three amazing, creative, thoughtful librarian friends, Julie Reimer, Linda Middleton-Koller, and Kim Faurot. We snacked on Julie's delicious holiday cookies and discussed books and reading. They also indulged me by looking at the latest revisions of my current book project. My heart was light and happy when I left their good company.

On Christmas Eve morning, as is tradition, I met with the members of my old book club, friends I have known for over twenty years: Gary, Robert, Evan, and Timothy, friends who make me feel loved and appreciated.
Still to come, a Saturday morning walk with my college friend Ann, and a New Year's Eve gathering spent eating delicious food and playing board games with three other friends. I couldn't ask for better gifts than the people who make up my life.

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry

Tamales are the traditional Christmas food of Latin countries. They are very labor intensive to make, so usually are only made for special occasions. My daughter and I took a tamale-making class at the Santa Fe School of Cooking a couple of years ago. This was an all day project for us on Christmas Eve. I made a killer pico de gallo, too.



My daughter is pictured here in her "drinking glasses" a well engineered straw that travels quite a distance! Santa brought this for her stocking.

Dreaming of a White Christmas

Here in the high desert, we've been treated to about 7 weeks of sunshine and no snow. It gets cooooold at night, down near zero most nights, but then it's back up to mid 40's during the day. All of this means the roads have been wonderfully clear as we had to drive 180 miles to Boise to pick up my college daughter at the airport, and 140 miles to Baker City and 140 miles to La Pine ( and 160 miles to Sisters tomorrow) to watch my other daughter play basketball. So no complaints there, but it makes for kind of a non-Christmassy view of my house:

And when all the packages were open and wrappings strewn about, this emerged as my favorite present:

My thoughtful husband took copies of The Compound and four of the foreign language versions and had them framed. Cool.

An Abundance of Ebenezer

Early this month I had the pleasure of seeing the Guthrie Theater's excellent production of the Christmas Carol. My favorite line was when Scrooge claimed he wasn't "rich," but instead was a "job creator." I was pulled into the story even though I've seen it multiple times and was struck by Scrooge's first ghost visit, that of his former partner Jacob Marley. Marley's ghost, who's dragging around heavy, clanking chains warns him of the danger of being so focused on money and accumulation if he wants to avoid a miserable afterlife. It's Marley's ghost who sets the stage for Scrooge's transformation.

It's interesting that we now associate the word Scrooge with selfishness and stinginess. It's a measure of the extraordinary way Dickens had with names but also our focus on the unredeemed Ebenezer. For this post I am focusing on the generous, giving, and kind Scrooge at the close of the Christmas Carol. This is the spirit that infuses so much of my experience in the world of writing for children. From editors who have been generous with their time and comments to marketing and publicity people, librarians, teachers, my KTM critique group, my wonderful agent, Andrea Cascardi, parents, and readers of all ages, I feel fortunate for such kindness and support. One other group stands out as well--my fellow spud bloggers.

Best wishes for a wonderful holiday and please look for the New York Times on Sunday with the beautiful piece by my sister about my mother in the magazine. Watch for the watering can.

Scrooged and being Ebenezer

Ever since I published my first children's picture book in 1996, I have found myself in the generous world of children's literature. My experience has been more like Scrooge's visit with the ghost of Christmas past as I visit my childhood memories frequently, in order to paint  and write better stories. The ghost of Christmas present has been the creative spirit of my amazing editor, Allyn Johnston. I have been fortunate to have had such a collaboration -- almost a mentorship in the world of creating picture books for the past 17 years. And the ghost of Christmas future? As I grow older and maybe a little wiser, I have become painfully aware of how precious creative time in the studio is-- and the privilege of making picture books about subjects that excite me and help me grow in my awareness of this world is something I never take for granted, so I do what I can to share what I know of books and their makings with others, young and old.

As for being "Scrooged", I have led two lives as an artist and it was during the transition from one to the other where I was scrooged-- when I was the more vulnerable, of course. After college in California, I moved to NYC where I lived my twenties making art, hoping to get into a gallery, be discovered, perhaps even be invited into the Whitney Biennial?! I applied for grants, artist residencies, fellowships, and found some success and many rejections. Eight years later, I met my husband, moved to the midwest and continued to paint, sculpt, and show in local galleries and museums here in the Twin Cities. It was not a gallery dealer who scrooged me or a publisher, critic, or mentor, but a peer. With the tongue of a witch foretelling my future she snapped: "You will never be a serious artist because you got married and left NYC." That is all she uttered, but it hit me to my core. "Friends" in NY had told me the same thing, but I laughed it off, yet this time it stung. I was pregnant at the time with my first child, so there was no turning back and I was beginning to illustrate my first children's picture book, which at the time, did not feel like making "real" art. Tonight my first-born is coming home from college for the holidays. She is almost 20 years old. For the past twenty years, I have been "seriously" painting picture books and writing stories, sculpting and painting in-between deadlines. Perhaps in this person's eyes, I am still not a "serious" artist, as what I do now will never be in the Whitney Biennial. But who knows? Perhaps some visitor to the Whitney museum will will be walking through the galleries with their child in a stroller and that little girl or boy will tire of looking at the "new" art and instead read through one of my books pulled from the stash of books in the back of the stroller, as my children did on visits to art museums. And to this "peer" with her stinging tongue, I say: "Bah! Humbug!"

Does Bad Luck Count?

I feel lucky not to have encountered any real Scrooges related to my writing. My friends still tell me to stick with it, and many, such as the other members of this blog, offer frequent encouragement. My few interactions with editors and agents (conferences, rejection letters, a handful of publications) have all been congenial; I emphasize few: to be honest, I don’t get out much. I attend a conference every year or two, meet monthly with a small critique group, and occasionally submit stories or poems to magazines, along with three novels over the last fifteen years. It’s a slow pace, and I’m sure that as I continue to work on my craft and finish more projects I will eventually cross paths with somebody in the publishing world who will treat me rudely. So far, I’ve rarely even met anyone having a bad day! I’m serious: I need to get out more.

So no Scrooges – unless you count bad luck. Like the time twenty years ago when I had a story accepted for publication in the Sunday arts supplement of the Oregonian. My only previous publication had been in my college’s literary magazine, so I was absolutely thrilled with the acceptance letter (which included a check for $200). But a month later the arts section was cut from the newspaper, the editor who loved my story was out of a job, and I was back to submitting the story elsewhere. I could keep the check, though.

I never did find a home for that story. I think I gave up after a couple of years and maybe twenty submissions. The check stub is in my envelope of acceptance letters – but I’d rather the story was published.

The Three Scrooges

I have three short scrooge stories. The first scrooge experience happened when I told my mom that I was planning on writing children's books. She immediately answered, "You can't do that." It was such a surprising response from my usually supportive mom and it took a lot of courage for me to answer her, "You can't talk to me like that mom. I need your support." When she realized what she had said, she immediately apologized and has been positive ever since.

My second scrooge moment happened at the hands of my mentor, who is no longer alive. When she saw the artwork for Zoom! she said that she didn't like it and that the book seemed a little too simple to her. I was devastated and it took quite awhile to recover from those remarks. Truly, I wish she had lied to me. It was my first book and it would have meant the world to me if she had simply said congratulations.

My third scrooge event came in the form of a letter from a well-known editor. Before I was published I sent her a manuscript to look at and she replied in a very short note that her publishing house only published special books and that mine was not! Ouch!! It helped that she sent a fellow writer a similar letter, and it actually had the least sting as my friend and I laughed and laughed about that charming editor and her sharp quill.

So there you have it. Three scrooges - one reformed, one no longer alive, and one still writing those lovely rejection notes.

My Scrooge Experience

Back in the 1980s, I wrote my first novel pounding away on a typewriter in the back room of the frozen yogurt shop I owned and operated. When the manuscript was finished, I answered an ad an agent had put in the newspaper. (In hindsight, the "ad" should have been my first clue this wouldn't work.) The agent's initial response to me was that I could have been more creative choosing my pen name. (This should have been my second clue.) I wrote back assuring her that Edith Hemingway was my real name and I intended to use it. I did send her my manuscript, and she did offer me a contract, which I very excitedly signed and then waited for feedback on my novel.

The agent began sending me handouts about common mistakes new writers make (enough to fill a looseleaf notebook), and I kept waiting for specific feedback on which of those common mistakes applied to my work. Months later she asked me to make the 200 page manuscript longer, so I spent several months going through page by page and expanding the story by about 50 pages. I did not receive any feedback, except that it still wasn't long enough. Finally I said I wasn't going to do more revisions until she gave me specific suggestions on what needed to be done. After six months of hearing nothing, I received a registered letter stating that I had not followed any of her suggestions, I was unresponsive, and she was ending our business arrangement. I truly don't think she ever read any of my manuscript. Of course, I sat down and wrote a long letter back to her, stating that I was the one ending my business arrangement with her. It helped diffuse some of my anger, even though I never mailed it.

So what did I learn by this? First of all, not to jump at the first sign of interest, to do my homework before signing a contract with an agent, to find out what genres he/she represents, to find out if this person truly likes my work and if he/she has a personality that meshes with mine.

I did eventually give up on that manuscript, which is still sitting on the shelf, but I did lift an entire scene from that novel and inserted it (with changes, of course) in ROAD TO TATER HILL.

Turning Scrooges into Blessings

As you know, my sister used to call me a liar because I was always making up stories. She also told me that staring at people wasn't polite. Maybe. But that's called point-of-view. I stare to pretend I am in people's heads and think what they think.

You also know that my classmates poked fun of me when I spoke in English. Hello? Are you there? They challenged me, and here I am writing, reading, and speaking in English.

But what you don't know is that I quit writing for a few years. By then I had two published books--and a new literary agent. I have no idea why she signed me up. She kept telling me that I wasn't ready to submit, that I wasn't there yet. I felt so small I quit writing.

A few years later, an editor asked me to write a biography. I didn't think I could write it. But it was time to prove that agent that she was wrong.

What a blessing those challenges have been!

My moment in the spotlight

At one of the first local SCBWI conferences I attended, I submitted a manuscript to be reviewed by a New York Editor. I was so excited when my manuscript was one of ten selected to be reviewed and discussed in front of the entire audience.

Before the conference we received copies of the other manuscripts. I hate to admit it, but I was secretly glad when I saw that my story was better than the other nine submissions.

All the conference attendees crowded into the auditorium where the New York Editor would spend a full five minutes critiquing each story. She loved the first manuscript (which wasn't very good). The second manuscript (which was worse) she loved even more. She went on and on extolling its positive qualities and told the author to please send the entire story to her publishing company - she'd like to consider it for possible publication. It was hard to restrain my mounting excitement.

And then it was my turn. I picked up my pencil and got ready to take notes on all her compliments and any suggestions she might have.

The New York Editor made a sour face. "There really isn't anything I like about this one," she said. She shuffled my manuscript to the bottom of her pile and went on to the next story.

I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach. I remember trying to keep a smile plastered on my face, and walking through the rest of the conference on auto-pilot.

The positive outcome from this experience? I didn't give up. I went on to write several successful published books. The story that she hated (and which I still like) I use as a very successful story writing prompt with kids when I visit schools. And when I became the person giving critiques at SCBWI conferences, I remember the sinking feeling I experienced, I remember that opinions differ, and I always treat each author I review with gentleness and respect...and find at least one nice thing to say about their story.

I’ll show them and then they’ll be sorry!

Did this ever run through your mind when you were misunderstood, under-appreciated, or limited in some way? My mother banked on my spunk. She used reverse psychology to teach me to ride my bike. She bet I couldn’t do it, and I determined to prove her wrong.

Steve Jobs said being fired from Apple was ultimately a good thing. In the midst of that humiliation he realized he still loved his work and wanted to continue anyway.

Earlier in my career I turned in art for a book and the contract was subsequently canceled. The news hit me like a punch in the stomach. I curled in pain. I was so ashamed. Surely everyone in the industry knew about my rejection, I thought. I imagined a scarlet letter across my chest.

There were scrooges involved. I believe this only could have progressed to this point from lack of communication. It has always been my practice to show sample art and work-in-progress. At no point did the art director or editor alert me that they were unhappy. I received comments like, “Add more yellow.”

I was filled with self-doubt after this experience. Who would hire me again? I desperately wanted to get back up on the horse. My next opportunity came like a gift from a fairy godmother. I approached the project in a completely different style and the book garnered three stars, an ALA notable award, and many other accolades. Sound familiar, Stephanie? Yep, the book that brought me back was Elizabeti’s Doll. I am forever grateful to our editor, Liz Szabla.

There is value in disappointment. It helps define weakness, focus attention, and clarify desire.

“One’s best success comes after their greatest disappointments.”—Henry Ward Beecher

Sleeping Out and the Gumby and Pokey Willies

As I child I was bashful. I liked adventures as long as they were in my neighborhood, as long as when the day ended I would be home, snuggled in my own bed. Once when I was small, my father's best friend had a daughter just my age. She was kind. Her name was Claire. Her mother was a Cajun woman and as warm as she could be. My father trusted her father like a brother. Claire invited me to spend the night out at her house. Everyone encouraged me. I wanted to go and play with Claire and her family, so off I went.

The day was going wonderfully, but as night fell and I took my bath, fear tiptoed in. I wondered what might be in the closet at the top of the cabinet: A monster surely. I felt uncomfortable and homesick and began to cry.

Claire's mom tuned to my feelings. I told her I wanted to go home and she called my parents. My dad drove over and scooped me up. I also remember being a little afraid of Gumby and Pokey. I don't know why as I liked the television show and I had the little rubber Gumby and Pokey dolls. I had a nightmare once that they were chasing me and I snuggled into my parents bed for safety and comfort. After that dream, I'd make sure to put them inside a shoebox in my bedroom closet.

My own personal Scrooge

As a writer, the biggest Scrooges in my life are not the people who don't like my books. I often don't like books that I read, which I feel is my right as a reader. We aren't all going to like every book that we read. So I get that not everyone is going to like my books. That is their right. No, the biggest Scrooges in my life? The people who don't like my books AND then feel that gives them the right to say things about my books AND me. When The Compound first came out in 2008, I was excited to see what readers had to say about it. It had gotten a starred review from Publisher's Weekly, which had also featured me in an article about debut authors. I signed up for Goodreads and reviews started to come in for The Compound. Here is one of the first:

"The premise is great: a Seattle tech buzillionaire builds a compound in anticipation of a terrorist attack, and then ushers his family into it one day ( one kids and a grandma are left behind) where they remain for years. Gradually, the kids become suspicious about what's really going on. The writing is just intolerable, though. My ARC says the author is a creative writing teacher, so I guess in this case it's true what they say about what "those who can't" do."

Wow. So it's not enough to bash my writing ( fine, everyone is entitled to their own opinion) but to throw around what is the meanest cliche about the teaching profession? Many of my friends and relatives are teachers, as am I, obviously, and I despise that people even have the nerve to utter such an awful, derisive thing. I won't lie, this one left me in tears and made me spend the whole day questioning whether I should even be a teacher OR a writer.

I then went on to get some more reviews: Kirkus, School Library Journal, etc., that didn't bash my book. So I learned not to go looking for reviews. The ones that matter the most will come to me from my editor.

And I think I've had the last laugh. The Compound has been on about 17 state reading lists, and I get emails and Facebook messages every day from readers telling me it's the best book they've ever read. ( Again, everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but I tend to like those kind of opinions!) And I continue to get warm and wonderful feedback from my students at Gotham Writer's Workshop, who apparently seem to think I don't suck as a teacher. So, to my own personal Scrooge, I say ....

Merry Christmas!

When I was a Boy

When I was thirteen months old, my mother gave birth to a little girl. My new sister was named Mary Elizabeth, but everybody called her Molly. She was born early and had problems with her lungs so she had to stay in the hospital for a few weeks. But she got better and came home.

One evening I could hear her from her crib, and I told my mother, "Baby's crying." Molly was having problems breathing and my mother called my father who came home and rushed her to the doctor. Molly died that evening.

My parents decided that I was too young to go to the wake or the funeral and nobody knew what to say to me about what had happened so nobody said anything about it.

It wasn't until I was much older that I heard about my sister Molly. Her death has had a big impact and I continue to miss her.

My Turn to Share

What’s some stuff not everyone knows about me? Let’s see. For some reason, people usually express surprise when I tell them I was born in Vancouver, Canada. (That’s me in the picture with two of my “buddies” from the old days.) My family lived in White Rock, a quiet seaside community just north of the American border, until my father was transferred to Seattle when I was eight years old.

That’s not much of a revelation, though. So what else can I share? Well, I used to play saxophone in elementary and junior high. I was first chair in the stage band. I say this not to brag but to point out the reason why: practice. I had weekly private lessons and something my teacher once said has always stuck with me: “If I skip practice for a day, I can notice it. If I skip for two days, my audience can notice.” I followed this mantra to become a better saxophone player, and in the many years since then I have used it as a concise reminder of the value of diligence.

On a more embarrassing note, I’ll share a cautionary tale from my freshman year of high school. On the first day of school my English teacher told us to write a short paragraph about our favorite movie, television show, or book. Rather than applying myself or giving any effort at all, I goofed around gabbing with a buddy until five minutes before the end of class, at which point I dashed off a few sentences about the latest movie I’d seen. The next day, the teacher read off a list of names including my own. The chosen ones were escorted down the hall to a class for remedial writing instruction. As soon as I sat down and my new teacher asked us to read a sentence and figure out what was wrong with the first letter in the first word (it wasn’t capitalized), I knew I had screwed up royally this time. I immediately apologized and asked to return to my original class, but I hadn’t figured on how many times my new teacher had heard the line, “I don’t belong in this class.” So it took a week of pleading – “I’m sorry! I’m a goofball! I didn’t take the assignment seriously! Let me write another essay and prove it to you – pleeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaase!” – before the teacher finally relented and allowed me to remedy my mistake.

Thank goodness my parents never found out. Not to mention my saxophone teacher!

Timid Girl 2

As the youngest of three, I was definitely babied. I was pretty fearless at home, but once I left the safety of my family, I was a very timid child. I remember that a high school teacher commented that she had never heard my voice - which made me even more embarrassed and shy. It didn't help that I was taller than most everyone, especially the boys. I have no idea exactly when that shyness ended (I know that it still exists deep inside), but when it finally came time to make my own way in the world, I had to speak up for myself. My first time speaking in front of an audience when I was in my 30's was a huge flop, but surprisingly the world didn't end. When I subbed, I was constantly "on stage" and I came to enjoy the give and take with the students. Now I can speak to auditoriums of students with very little fear. I guess it proves that you can change your life, or maybe it shows that once you are able or allowed to exert some control in your own life, you can feel less fearful.

Monkeys and turtles and bees, oh my!

When I was a kid, I was afraid of everything.

I was afraid of bees (they can sense fear) and dragonflies (if they land on your face they can sew your lips shut).

I was afraid of water. My fear intensified after I almost drowned, accidentally jumping into the deep end of the Holiday Inn swimming pool when I was trying to splash my older sister.

I was afraid of donkeys. When we visited Reptile Gardens in South Dakota, my parents wanted a picture of me standing next to the donkey at the petting zoo. "He's going to bite me!" I said. "He won't bite you," my parents assured. They took the picture and the donkey bit me.

I was afraid of turtles. My fear didn't stop me from entering the turtle races during the Park and Rec summer program at the local playground, because I didn't have to actually touch the turtle, all I had to do was bring a dollar from home and a turtle would be raced in my name. Then one year my turtle won, which meant I had to carry the turtle home so it could race at the next level of competition. Gingerly I held the turtle by its shell and ran until it began waving its claws, then I'd drop it on the ground. That's how I made it home, about five feet at a time.

But my biggest fear was a statue that my mother had in the living room. It showed a monkey sitting on a pile of books written by Darwin, examining a skull. I'm not sure which scared me more, the monkey, or the skull. In order to make sure that this evil monkey didn't do anything bad to me, every night when I went to bed I had to honor that statue by going to sleep facing it. I went to bed facing the same direction for years.

Thank goodness those fearful days of childhood are over!

My Biggest Childhood Fear...

I grew up in south Florida, and I often hopped on my bike and rode three miles to the beach. So you'd think my biggest fear might be the occasional alligator that I encountered stretched across the bicycle path OR the nearly 9-foot lemon shark that swam within a few feet of me when my father and I were standing along the seawall. Yes, these were a little "off putting" to say the least, but the creatures that gave me nightmares were the giant blue land crabs!

Whenever we had a heavy rain, the land crabs were flooded from their shallow holes, and they came out snapping. I hated going out my front door on a rainy morning because the crabs often took refuge on our front porch--not just one, but sometimes four or five. They were blue and white and pink and sometimes spanned more than a foot with their claws outspread. I could hear the clicking of their feet on the terrazzo floor of the porch, and their claws looked strong enough to snap off a toe or a finger. There was a nearby park where my family often went for picnics, but I always avoided the sandy/muddy area sloping down to the pond. It was pockmarked with holes, often with large eyes peering out at me and with a claw ready to attack. No, I was never actually grabbed by one of those claws--except in dreams.

Would one of these scare you?

So Many Secrets

I was born so blond you couldn't see my eyebrows or eyelashes. Soon my hair grew brown but for a highlight in front of my head that stayed blond. I didn't like it because people asked me why did my mother dye my hair. Worse yet, on the first Friday of the month the nuns, who were my teachers at Academia Santa Maria, made those students whose uniforms didn't fit the code stand in front of the whole school. It didn't fail. No matter how much my mother said that my highlight was natural, the nuns insisted that it wasn't. Now imagine that for a girl who was timid.

People think I am bubbly and energetic. Little do they know that those same teachers wrote home saying that I was too timid. Timid, believe it or not, I was. On top of that, my classmates had been speaking English since kindergarten. I was just learning. And did they laugh! There are certain words I still cannot say, like sheep. It comes out as "ship." Now take that last word and end it with a "t". I always say linen, never "sheet."

Speaking of cows. . .

When I was eleven I was a cow. Actually this is only half-true because I was only half a cow. My best friend, Leslie and I created a joint Halloween costume. We used a grocery bag for the head, added on ears and even curly paper eyelashes. We painted big brown spots on a sheet, braided yarn for a tail, and wore a cowbell. The best part was that we practiced walking in step, sitting and crossing our legs simultaneously. Leslie was the tallest girl in our class, so guess which half she got to be? And that meant all the kids at school felt entitled to slap me on the behind. It was worth it though. Sharing made for the best Halloween ever. My daughter was inspired to have this experience too. Here she is in '05 as Dolly Llama in a costume I created for her and her friend. She's lucky; she's the tall one.



More stuff you never knew about me:

I used to wake up in the dark and change into my school clothes then get back under the covers until it was light. I wanted to be ready. My father caught me at it one time and told me it was only 1:00AM. I'm the most eager person you're likely to meet.

I was hit by a flying saucer while walking my pet skunk. Wait—do you already know this story? Stephanie does because it shows we were meant to collaborate on Elizabeti's Doll. In Massachusetts, my father built stonewalls surrounding our land and flanking the steps that zigzagged up our back hill. I claimed a striped stone for my own, wrapped some rope around it and dragged it behind me—Pepé Le Pew. It was a windy day in early spring. Our aluminum snow saucers still leaned against the cellar door. One caught the current, flew across the yard, and hit me under the nose. You can still see the scar from the stitches. In high school I found an advertisement in a magazine from some children's book institute. I sent in a variation on this story and received a letter back assuring me I could have a career in children's books. Guess you could say I was marked for this.

A little sumpin' about me...

Our theme this round is to tell something about ourselves people may not know. And I suggested we reach back to our childhoods to do that. Here's me and my older brother:

I grew up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. If you don't know anything about dairy farming, here are the basics:

1. There are cows.

2. Those cows need to be milked twice a day. Always. 365 days a year. No days off.

3. Those cows also need to be fed and watered and cleaned up after, because what goes into a cow always comes out, in a much bigger and smellier quantity than it went in. And, trust me, they don't clean up after themselves.

4. Did I mention the cows?

When I was in third grade, my job was to feed the calves. Sounds simple, yes? Hold on. We kept our calves in hutches, small wooden calf-size sheds, up on a hill. I had to carry grain and water up that hill, two buckets at a time. Ever thought about how much a calf can drink? Trust me, on a hot day in summer, a lot. I have no idea how many hundreds of trips I made up that hill and back down by the time I turned ten.

Speaking of age ten, here's me at the Jackson County Fair with my calf Popcorn:

(No, I didn't win a blue ribbon. Or even a red. I got a white ribbon, one of those "Thanks for coming, I'm sure you'll find something else you're good at...")

As I got older, I did more chores. I fed the cows, which meant I progressed from buckets full of grain to wheelbarrows full of silage. ( chopped-up hay from the silo) Those puppies are heavy, trust me. And one filled while you pushed with the other one, so if you dawdled at all, it would overflow and then you'd have to shovel. Which I did a lot. Not just silage. I remember coming home for Thanksgiving my sophomore year of college. The barn cleaner, the thing that cleans all the gutters out, had broken. And I stood there for hours, knee deep in cow manure, shoveling.

Milking cows was another chore I did for years. But I digress. This is not all about the work. I meant for this to be about the cows, and that, even though they were tons of work, I loved them. And I named them. Most were named for characters out of books I had read. And I was constantly out in the barn playing with them, so by the time they had grown up to be milking cows in the barn, they were so friendly and gentle.

My parents no longer have cows. Now, if I want to pet a cow, I have to call upon rancher friends out here where we live. And in the spring when the fields are full of calves, I stop by the road and get out and walk over to the fence, hoping one will stray my way so I can pet them....

The Persistance of a Writer

The will of the way of writing is sitting down, being, writing against the hard waves,--learning, becoming better, teaching what you learn, learning better, writing story, being blessed, teaching what you learn, learning better . . .

The goal is the walk. I offer myself this lesson, well, again and again. Still the word and the story show up. I'm juggling life and the cost of houses and college educations. This puts a pressure that is not conducive to creativity. Instead, it says go, work, give--somewhere in that space I still write. I see the moon and I walk the lake with my dog and watch it turn silver, watch pelicans dip their beaks into that silver lake, sipping a silvery fish. It slows me down, my dog swims, I sit on the levee and feel grateful. It returns me to myself and I shed my skin.

Giving thanks

One of my goals the past years has been to give thanks for the many opportunities that come my way. On a school visit to Gilman, Wisconsin in 1997, I was presented a beautiful Gratitude Journal by Heather Palmer, the art teacher. Heather told me that the journal was one in which I should write down things I was grateful for. I started doing this and came to value the practice. It's helped me cope with the ups and downs of publishing and reminds me how fortunate I am to get to do what I love when so many people struggle with so little. On this Thanksgiving, I give thanks for all of you and send all best wishes for a wonderful holiday.

Flexible Goals!

Mock-cover for *new* book

The image above is a "pretend" cover I made a few years ago when working on a story I had actually begun in 2003 after going to the symphony to hear Bruckner, my composer husband's favorite composer. On the program for the evening was Stravinsky's "Petrushka" and in the program was a gorgeous photo of Stravinsky and the dancer, Nijinsky. Something struck me from that image and I was compelled to begin a story about what happened when Stravinsky met Nijinsky. I am telling you this story because after 8 years of working off and on the story, it has just been offered a contract with Harcourt Books- part of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt! With this wonderful news comes a complete re-ordering of goals- and thus the title of my post: Flexible Goals!

Igor Stravinsky and Vaslov Nijinsky in 1911

Because this picture-book-to-be culminates in the premier of the Rite of Spring in Paris on May 29th, 1913, we have imposed a very quick deadline for publication- wanting it to come out on time for the 100th anniversary- spring 2013! I had just begun the illustrations for another book, but with my editor's blessings, I have pushed that deadline off and now have a goal of finishing the sketches for WHEN STRAVINSKY MET NIJINSKY by January and the final art by April of 2012. I have found that when my goals touch upon my heart's desires, I can meet them. This story and its characters lives deep inside my heart and imagination. I know I can meet these goals!

I have another goal that seemed to come out of thin air, but it is also seated deep in my heart's desires- While lying on the couch with the flu at the beginning of November, I acted on an impulse to register with NaNoWriMo and begin writing a middle grade novel that had been bumping around in my head for over a year. Spurred on by NaNo's pep talks and support from writer friends, I have embarked on a journey of writing that I do not want to let go of. I love my characters, my setting, and the plot begins to simmer, though not thickening yet. November is nearly over, but I am setting what I hope is a workable goal of writing two pages a day, even through the above deadline!

Goals are often attached to commitments. Over the past five years I have committed myself to being the script writer for Circus Juventas and I have committed myself to visiting schools and libraries as an illustrator/author. The Wild West is the theme for this summer's Circus Show and the script is nearly done. Usually I would linger over the winter holidays, finalizing the script for the unveiling in the new year, but I have already spoken with the Artistic Director and set myself the goal of finishing by December 12th before the circus school's winter break. And almost with some kind of sixth sense, I have not scheduled myself with too many school visits this winter leaving open time for illustrating WSMN~ what a gift for the new year!

One Life, One Goal

Today is my 48th birthday, and so thinking about goals seems appropriate.

Ever since I was in grade school my primary dream/goal has been to be an author. Over the intervening years I have kept the faith and continued the quest -- through the rise (and eventual decline) of Minimalism, the supposed Death of the Novel, the resurgence of Children’s Literature (thanks, Harry Potter!), the dawn of the Information Age, and on into a new Millennium. Along the way -- while juggling jobs, relationships, and my own family -- I have managed to publish two stories, a haiku, a humorous essay, and, this past summer, a poem. So I guess I’m an author, of sorts, but I have yet to achieve my main goal: to write (and publish) a novel.

I have written upwards of 10 different novels in the course of the last 20 years, all of which reached various levels of “completeness” but none of which, so far, has developed into a finished manuscript. Currently I have drafts of two different novels I am working on, either of which might be “the one” that allows me to finally realize my dream. To be honest, some days I fear I will lose the will to keep plugging away, but then I come up with a new character or a scene, and I plunge back in again. I believe I will continue doing so until either I succeed or mortality catches up to me. Until then, I’ll stay hard at work. Wish me luck. It can only be a matter of time, right?

Besides, if I didn’t keep trying to write, what else would I do?

Make Big Plans

On my computer I have three different signs, and I'm adding a fourth this weekend. To my left, I have the sentence, "I have 12 stories published by age 56." Since I'm 51 I'm a little worried about this, but still, it's a good goal to shoot for. In the middle of my computer frame I have a note from my aunt that says, "Follow that light." We had a discussion last time we were together about finding what brings us true joy, and even if the light is faint, to be true to it above all else. On the right side of my computer I have the words, "I have a Caldecott." I know that you're not supposed to say that wish out loud, but it is a wish and I need to remember it and write for it in the hopes that one of my illustrators hits a home run. I don't want to bury that dream under superstition. My fourth sign, that I will put on my computer once I finish this blog, is "Make big plans." The words popped into my head last week and they haven't left (everything else seems to have!). I don't know what this means, but it sounds very hopeful.

My daily goals are a little less pie in the sky. I need to work on the syllabus for my children's lit. class. I need to review illustrations for one of my books and turn in my comments by Monday. I need to respond to the students in my Humanities class, and I need to turn in papers to be copied for my class. All are doable. Some are more overwhelming than others. Most will be done in the next week.

My goals for the next few weeks are to come up with some new story ideas, or revise some old ones. I guess that's not too bad for someone who is not the biggest fan of planning.

Goals, Vague and Specific

When I was in college, it seemed I had forever ahead of me, and my goal to become a published author was just "sometime in the future." But the older I got, the faster time flew. I began setting goals by decades--still vague enough that I had an entire ten years to accomplish them. At 40, I decided to be published sometime in my 40s, and I achieved that goal. Then I set the goal for my first "solo" book to be in my 50s--I achieved that goal. I also found that I was not satisfied by simply achieving those vague goals. I needed to keep writing, but those "sometime in the next decade" goals were not specific enough.

These days as I am facing the reality of mortality during my father's fast decline, I am back to baby steps--specific goals set for a few days at a time, squeezing writing in as I can, but with the primary focus on making the most of the time left with my father. I am also bolstered by John's words about being brave and not simply being satisfied with what I've done in the past. Now I must push myself to take chances and try something new and different.

On Your Mark; Get Set; Go! (Semicolons, commas or periods?

What you see here is an illustration by Salvador Dalí of Don Quixote de La Mancha translated by Peter Motteux. Poet David R. Wagoner gave me the book when he learned that I was writing about Dalí.What an honor!

That precious gift is forcing me to finish the Dalí biography by next spring. I also want to revise Late She Came to Know, the novel I had talked about here.

While working on both, I will study how to use the mechanics of writing--punctuation, capitals, italics, sentence structure, paragraph length, white spaces--to show the mood of a scene. All this time I have been concentrating on word choices. I won't stop. But it's time to pay attention to those commas.

Taped to the inside of my dresser is a handwritten note dated November 13, 1993. It reads: I will produce a quality children's book. Over twelve years later, after the publication of The Best Pet of All, I made the addition: I did produce a quality children's book! I've kept that note inside my dresser to remind myself that it's good to have goals and that dreams do come true, even if the road to their realization is long.
Like Christy, most of my goals are the short range ones. Currently my goal each day is to finish the sketch for another two-page spread for my current picture book project, with the goal of having a revised dummy to send to my editor by the end of the month. When I think of all the work I need to do in order to complete the final artwork by spring, I panic. But can I finish one sketch today? Yes, that's doable. And when even that seems insurmountable, I turn to smaller goals: I will finish the sketch of this one character before lunch. Small step by small step I'm inching toward my goal: the completion of the first book where I am both author and illustrator.

Goals: the long and short view

Many years ago at a family party a friend of my mother's asked me my “five-year-plan.” I bristled. Was this a party or an interview? I assumed the phrase originated in a self-help book, but a little Google-action showed me it dates back to the Soviet Union and China in the mid-to-late 1920s. While web surfing I found sites offering templates for creating personal five-year-plans, and many more sites with strategies for setting and working toward goals in all areas of life.

I did realize my childhood dream of becoming a children's book author-illustrator, yet most days I am not aware of my distant goals. I'm only aware of the flashlight beam illuminating the near spot on the path so I can put one foot in front of the other. Do I know where my path is leading? Not really. I hope when this project concludes there will be another one ahead. My graphic design teacher scolded me for just accepting jobs that fell in my lap. He said I should steer my career.

I'm great at meeting imposed deadlines. That is one reason I take writing classes or join writers groups. It's important to switch from this mode of pleasing others to looking at what I want and then break that down into tasks I do for myself. I can look to one example where I did this with happy results. My second author/illustrator project, Dreaming Up: A Celebration of Building will publish with Lee & Low in fall 2012. I set the goal of submitting this project for consideration on the pub date of my first author/illustrator book. I chose to put aside other ideas in development and focus solely on this. Those other half-baked projects still call to me now—a MG novel, a biography, concept picture books, poetry, and more. The ideas bump into each other and compete. I need to stand back and get a distant view. Where do I want to go? Uh-oh, I might just have to develop a five-year-plan! Which project should be the next to develop? For those of you who entertain multiple ideas at one time, how do you decide?

Here's a couple interesting bits I found in my web explorations:

A creativity coach's web site (http://seedfiddle.com/) introduced the concept of Kaizen (Kai=change; Zen=good). “Kaizen, also known as 'continuous improvement,' is a long-term approach to success that systematically seeks to achieve small, incremental changes in processes in order to improve quality and achieve significant goals. Said simply, it is all about the power of small steps.”

Another site offered a helpful mnemonic, SMART goals:

S - Specific
M - Measurable
A - Attainable
R - Relevant
T - Time-bound

Writing to Win

This is my youngest daughter and I this past
Saturday night, moments after she and her teammates won the Oregon 3A State Volleyball
tournament. From the moment the season started, even before the first day of
practice, she told me she wanted to win state. That goal was one shared by her
teammates, only three of which had even been on varsity the previous year. And
things looked good for the first 6 weeks of the season. But then our middle
hitter blew out her knee, sidelining her for the rest of the season. The team
didn’t have a replacement for her, our school is small, so they just
reconfigured the line-up. They missed their middle hitter, but they made do,
and they still thought they could win state. They were undefeated in league
play, and had a 28-2 record going into the quarterfinal, which they took easily
in three games.
But our semi-final game on Friday night, our girls
played the worst game of their season. They couldn’t serve, couldn’t hit,
couldn’t pass. It’s easy to win when everything is working, but when it isn’t,
well…then you need to dig deeper. And they did. I don’t know how, but they managed
to eke out a win. I think I was prouder of them for that win than any other
game this season. And when they stepped on the court for the championship game
on Saturday night, I could feel it. They knew they could do it, and they played
like it. Minutes after this photo was
taken, my kid got a gold medal around her neck.
How could a team just have a goal of winning state
like that? Because that’s the best you can do, and they wanted to be the best.
What if their goal had been to have a better than .500 season? Or to finish top
3 in their league? Decent goals, but really, what would be the point? Don’t you
have to dream as big as possible? Why NOT have a goal of that gold medal draped
around your neck?
My husband pointed out that during the semi-final
game, a game we needed to win in order to make the finals, our girls were
playing “to not lose”, instead of playing “to win.” And I realized writing is
the same. I start each book with a goal. But is my goal big enough? Am I simply
writing to “not lose” instead of writing “to win”? Each time I start a book,
shouldn’t I have the loftiest goal in mind? I mean, if my goal for my book is
simply to have my friends like it, or to make the shelf of my local bookstore, or
to get a dozen fan letters, what’s the point? Like my daughter, why aim for
anything else BUT the state title? For me, why not admit yeah, I’d love a best-seller or a Printz or a Newbery? If I don’t have that level of goal in mind
when I write, what’s the point?
There are seven volleyball teams that drove home
from Eugene today without the state title. They’ll all try again next year, and
someone else will win. Just like each year, there are hundreds of authors who
don’t get the big awards, myself included. But each new book I write, I’m back
in the running. I’m writing to win. And, like a state volleyball tournament, it’s
exciting, because you never know when you might just meet your goal. My
daughter, and her dreams, taught me that.

Be Brave

In order to do good work, I need to remind myself to be brave. Bravery doesn't mean not feeling fear but going forward in the face of it. To do my best work, I need to enter places that are uncomfortable and painful. Like many people I prefer not to, but for a story to jump and have resonance I need to be more honest with myself and go places that are difficult. With the recent death of my mother, I've been thinking about all kinds of things, and one of them is a tendency in myself to hold back. I am aware of places this shows up in my life and in my writing and feel the need to explore this. I also want to write some pieces that are different from anything that I've done. I will continue to repeat these two words: be brave.

Ideal Conditions for My Best Work?

For the past two weeks I have been down with the flu. I would not normally recommend the flu as conducive to ideal conditions for one's best work, but the mandatory stillness of sickness forced me to take time and reflect on the past 6 to 8 months of my creative life. Though creative with plenty of out-put, I would not label the past 6-8 months "ideal conditions." I was too often racing from one deadline to the next, saying "yes" to too many things, and working 10 to 12 hour days. Now that I am returning to health, I am purposefully nurturing the ideal conditions for my best work:

• Pause ~ Find moments throughout the day to pause and appreciate what I am writing, drawing or painting.
• Let Go ~ Begin the day with yoga and a brief meditation to let go of all the to-do lists that begin making themselves as soon as I wake. They will return. they always do.
• Morning is my best time for work~ Clear mornings for writing, sketching, painting.
• Write and draw/paint on ideas that do not have a deadline~ I am a very fortunate illustrator with manuscripts to illustrate on contract for the next several years. I love having a deadline to work with, like all of my fellow potatoes, the deadline spurs me on. But giving time to stories and pictures without deadlines adds excitement and adventure to my studio life!
• Connect with those who believe in me~ I am very fortunate to be working with an editor who believes in me. I am still not clear how it all happened. When I sent her a dark, scary first interpretation of the story SCARECROW years ago, she didn't throw out the contract, though I think everyone at Harcourt was urging her to. Instead, she gave me more time. Her patience and belief in me gave me courage. I also have an artist/composer/writer husband who is intimate with my creative process from the ecstatic successes to the weepy failures, and still he believes in me. And friends. I have cultivated many artist/author friends to share work and life with, all of whom are essential for my best work.
• Read ~ Make time for reading. Picture Books, Chapter Books, Adult fiction and Non. Make a pile of my favorite reads nearby so I can refer to them when inspiration is needed.
• Walks ~ A daily walk loosens my cluttered mind and if I open my eyes, something is bound to inspire me.
• Take Time Off ~ I have a too-strong work ethic. If I am not busy on some task, I feel worthless. Having sat around the house for the past two weeks, reading, watching movies, looking through poetry and art books, and sleeping, I am convinced that time off from everything is essential to doing my best work.

I just have a few errands to run...

In reading the previous posts, I see a lot of talk about distractions. I remember the author and illustrator of the Titch and Daisy books talking about mopping her floors instead of working on her books. She said that her son knew when a deadline was looming, because that's when she did housework.

I, too, am subject to distractions. My husband even accused me of creating errands that I had to run instead of working on my projects. The nerve! (Of course he was right!)

The right conditions usually present themselves after a few days of psyching up to work on a story. My brain finally kicks in and for a few blessed weeks, I'm focused on either creating a new story or editing and revising the ones I'm working on. My best revision ideas come when I'm waking up in the morning, trying to go to sleep at night, or trying to take a nap. It does make sense that when I finally remove the distractions my brain is allowed to be creative. Of course, it means that sleep does not come as easily even though it looks like I'm getting a full 8 hours, plus a nap every day. Usually the distractions creep back in and I have to regain my focus - sometimes later rather than sooner.

Creativity is an unusual friend that needs unusual nurturing I guess. I am grateful when it visits me!

Short, Focused, Bursts of Time

Some people would think long, unstructured periods of time would promote the best opportunity for creativity. But I have found I am most productive and creative in small, focused, bursts of time, especially when I have a deadline I'm trying to meet--and I don't mean a self-imposed deadline. Large periods of time overwhelm me by pulling me in too many directions with too many options. I could do this... Or maybe I could work on that... And then I'm distracted by the deer outside my window, or I need to throw a load of laundry in the washer, or maybe I'll take a walk first, and so on...

I completed my MFA in Writing while working full-time as Coordinator of Admissions in a busy Maryland community college and while having my daughter and young grandchild sharing our home. Believe me, there were many distractions, but the deadline of having to produce a packet of creative and critical work every three weeks was my taskmaster. I devoted my one-hour lunch break each work day to writing in a study carrel tucked away in the basement of the community college library. I knew I had a limited time to accomplish a lot of work, and I was able to dive into it quickly. The hard part was to stop and re-enter my regular work world at the end of that hour. Of course, I had to fit in other early morning and late night hours at home, too, but those short bursts of time kept me going!

Now that I have more freedom, I have to designate hours here and there (with a specific beginning and ending time) to get myself on track. And nothing helps more than having a deadline from an editor!

More Time, Please

I love my writing life. Let me count the ways.

1. Research

2. Revision after the first draft is down

3. Reading

4. Exaggerating

5. Eavesdropping

6. Creating characters and worlds

7. Visiting schools

8. Speaking at conferences

9. Book signings--mine and that of other authors

10. Meeting famous authors

11. Blogging with my papitas calientes

12. Participating in writing list-serves

13. Talking to my readers in Facebook

14. Participating in my writing group meetings

15. Teaching writing at the Whidbey Island MFA program

16. Teaching writing to high school students

17. Teaching writing to elementary school students

18. Answering e-mails

And then there are the precious moments with my grandsons, family, and friends--including my Maltese dog, Lily.

If I could only have more time to write all the stories I have in my head, my life would be perfect.

Slow and steady

I agree with Stephanie and Christy about all the distractions that keep me from creating books. Why am I so easily led astray from what I want to do most in the world? This past month in particular, I have come to view the Internet as the Enemy, at least with regards to me being productive with my current book project. I tell myself that I need a break and I'm only going to check my email and WHAM - two hours have gone by. Even more than that, being on the computer affects my thinking in a negative way that I can't explain; it leaves my brain mushy and less creative. As I face up to this new book's deadline I am doing my best to follow this rule: absolutely NO checking my email until I am done with my creative work for the day.

As far as other conditions that help me with my work, having enough time to think, experiment, and play is helpful. I am a slow, methodical worker, and I'm learning to embrace that and not feel like a slacker just because others are twice as productive. But I also need deadlines, otherwise I will drag out my work for years (and years). And for a slow thinker, I sometimes come up with my best ideas under harsh deadlines (like this past Halloween when I had only a few hours left to carve pumpkins and I came up with some of my best ideas). So that's a balance I seek: time to work slowly, yet a deadline that holds me accountable.

Other than that, give me a can of Pepsi, a couple of homemade chocolate chip cookies, and the privacy of my apartment's little studio and I'm ready to work...as long as I stay away from the computer.

Foraging vs reaping

This round we're posting about the conditions that contribute to our best work. Like Stephanie, who wrote about distractions and procrastination, I first want to focus on what prevents me from working at my highest level.

As a self-employed creator, I need to hunt and gather for my livelihood. When I was offered my first book to illustrate, back in the early 90s, I worked as an art director for Four Winds Press. It was a part time position. I worked three days in-house, leaving me the other four days to create. This was an ideal situation for me. When Simon & Schuster bought out Macmillan, there was no longer an option to work part time. I had a fledgling illustration career started—this was the whole reason I'd gone to NYC; I knew a full time art director position would not allow sufficient left-over time for my own work. I have been freelance art directing/designing and illustrating/writing since the mid-90s. When I have a lot of work lined up into the future (stockpiles from hunting) is when I'm most productive; only then am I not agitated about finances. When work is scarce, I need to devote more energy to foraging, less to reaping. Foraging seems to scatter my energies. I try to cover too much ground. I'm considering part time employment again to address this issue. If I can be still enough, centered in one place, then I can harvest.

Playing out this analogy, it also helps to have great farmers—trusted writers groups, an editor who knows how to fertilize what is best and weed out the worst, makes for the heartiest crop. My best work comes when I have this community of support.

When the stars align...

Writing is very enabling for a procastinator like myself.

I need to write today, but...it's cloudy.

I need to write today, but...there's a Battlestar Galactica marathon on SyFy.

I need to write today, but...we need dog food.

Basically, anything can be a reason to not write. So what conditions are right for me to get something done?

Luckily, I don't have to wait for the stars to align.

Tomorrow is the first day of 2011 National Novel Writing Month, which I plan to participate in. So for the next 30 days, I'm going to have to make sure the conditions are right.

It helps to have an idea, and I do have one that I'll start writing on tomorrow.

It helps to have my laptop sitting in a productive place, other than the couch in front of the tv.

It helps to have a hot drink at hand.

It helps to have quiet, so I will walk the dogs early so they will be more inclined to nap the whole day.

It helps to have convenient food so I don't take too much of a break. I plan on making a big pot of chili later today.

These may all sound a little silly, but for a procastinator like myself, eliminating all the things that keep me from writing is exactly how I end up getting something done...

Anyone else doing NaNoWriMo this year?

Traveling for Research and Inspiration

As a person who’s had a few publication credits but has not published a novel (yet!), I haven't done any traveling for school presentations. However, like others on this blog I have certainly traveled to do research for my work, whether it be hiking in the alpine backcountry of Rainier National Park in search of pikas and marmots to star in a middle grade novel, or visiting Fairbanks to reconnect with the town where I spent my formative years.

I don’t have much advice regarding trips of this nature, other than to say remember to check your supplies a few times before you depart! Once, on a trip to Rainier, I drove 3 hours to the park, hiked two miles (uphill!) off the road, came upon a family of marmots playing just a few yards off the trail – and then realized that amongst the various notebooks, snacks, and water bottles in my backpack I had forgotten to bring my camera!! Although I stayed for a few hours and had fun watching the pudgy little critters going about their lives, I sure would have liked to take some pictures. Luckily, I made several trips researching this particular project and so I had other opportunities to photo-document my discoveries. (A picture from one of these later trips accompanies this post. If you look on the boulder near the pine tree in the lower right corner, you might be able to see a marmot lounging in the sun, admiring the view. Though I took most pictures at closer range, I couldn’t help but take this long-view picture, thinking, “That marmot sure has a nice view from her front stoop!”)

I have traveled to several writing conferences as well. When I think back on these experiences, no real advice comes to mind except to remind everyone never to book a hotel room over the internet without talking directly to the hotel in question. I learned this lesson the hard way a few years ago when I visited Portland, Oregon, to attend a book festival. I arrived at my hotel, checked in, and went to my room—only to find that I had been assigned a smoking unit with two double beds instead of the non-smoking room with king bed I had reserved. The gal at the desk, though sympathetic to my predicament, could not accommodate a room change because there were no vacancies. When I told her I had made a reservation weeks in advance, she asked if I had spoken directly to the hotel. I had not, and that’s when she told me that many online reservation sites do not actually guarantee you will receive the room you reserve. Most if not all of you probably already know this, but I add my little tale as a warning for those who may not!

David LaRochelle's New Book

Hi Fellow potatoes, just saw this in The Horn Book. Thought you'd all like to see it too!! Congratulations on the nice write-up David!

Boo to you!
By Elissa Gershowitz
Halloween’s not just for little boys and ghouls. Here are some funny, eerie, and downright creepy titles to scare up readers of all ages.

The goofiest of the group is David LaRochelle’s picture book The Haunted Hamburger and Other Ghostly Stories. Ghost siblings Franny and Frankie demand a story before bed. Of course, one is never enough, and Father Ghost is persuaded to tell three. The humor is freewheeling and perfectly calibrated—diapers! lipsticky smooches! yuck!—for the book’s audience. Paul Meisel’s illustrations lend an exaggerated tongue-in-cheek quality. Perfect for Halloween (but too good not to read all year round). (6–8 years)
Read More…

Salt Lake City Here We Come

I am travelling very little for my books right now, although I do get to make a quick trip up to Forest Falls to a one room school house at the end of this week. I am hoping to see the trees changing colors and feel a bit of winter up there. We've been in the 80's here lately and while I love the warmth, I do feel a little jealous of those with snow and fall colors.

I loved Christy's blog about finding things to write about wherever she travels, and as I commented on her post, my husband and I are doing a great deal of travelling to Salt Lake City to visit our son and his girlfriend. In following this pathway, I see that I could write about the national parks or the salt flats that we visit on our way to his apartment. They also have a gigantic copper mine that can be seen from space. The possibilities are endless, and thanks to this new way of viewing my travels, perhaps some new stories will be born. Thanks Christy! Happy travels to all potatoes.

Travel and Taxes

Twenty years ago my husband and I spent our honeymoon in Hawaii and New Zealand. We lived in Brooklyn at the time. I worked as a children's book art director at Four Winds Press, but had originally moved to NYC study illustration at Pratt Institute. I was nurturing other illustrators in my job, but still hoping for my own picture book contract. My husband writes, so we decided to combine forces on picture book projects and make our trip tax deductable at the same time.

We collaborated on a whaling story set in Hawaii and submitted a dummy to Rosemary Brosnan at Lodestar Books. I worked with Rosemary in my first publishing job at Dutton and she had been pestering me since to show her my portfolio. The whaling story was not acquired, but Rosemary saw something she liked in my work and offered me my first picture book to illustrate, Juan Bobo and the Pig retold by Felix Pitre. At tax time the whaling story covered the Hawaii part of our honeymoon. My husband and I also came up with stories set in New Zealand. Perhaps some day I'll dust off my Maori story, A Paddle for Mokopuna, and I should definitely polish my dummy for my husband's funny kiwi story, Lester's Bug Hunt Goes Bad.

Whenever I travel, even within the U.S., I make sure there is some way I can make the experience meaningful for my work life (nudge, nudge, wink, wink—write it off!) When I moved to California after living eighteen years in NYC, I was thrilled to have research that took me back "home." Sky Dancers is about Mohawk high steel workers building the Empire State Building. I spent extensive time researching in the NY Public library as well as the ESB, and as a bonus got to reunite with dear friends, too. I enjoyed traveling to many Noguchi exhibits in New York, Seattle, and Los Angeles when I researched The East-West House, and recently gave a presentation at a Noguchi exhibition in Laguna Beach. All of these trips combined business and pleasure.

When I leave home to speak at conferences, give presentations, meet with publishers or editors, I save all my correspondence documenting our plans, a calendar of my appointments, and any pertinent receipts. If I travel for recreation I make sure to come up with new story ideas set in that location. There is nothing really shady about this. I'm a storyteller—visually and verbally. I approach life finding the narrative around me.