Author: Betsy

What I am Learning in Idaho

Posted on by Betsy

Don’t rely on your cell phone to determine the actual time in Boise because you will wake up to:

1. Read the time as 7:25 a.m. on your phone.

2. Panic because the girls need to be awake by 7 a.m. for school.

3. PANIC because you have failed your sister on your first day of being in charge of the twins.

4. Turn on the lights in the girls’ bedroom, then yell, “We’re late, we’re late! Get up, get dressed. HURRY!”  

5. Be unprepared for the madness that will ensue, which will include crashing into one another as all three people simultaneously rush for the bathroom, after which  there will be tripping, scrambling for shoes and socks, and then the dog will get involved by barking incessantly.  

6. Suddenly remember—in your state of being half asleep and somewhat disoriented—that you haven’t figured how to temporarily change your cell phone’s clock (the only clock in your room, and to your knowledge, the only clock in that level of the house) to reflect the local time of 5:30 a.m.

7. Inform your nieces that maybe the time is earlier than you thought, and isn’t it a good thing they aren’t going to miss their ride and be late to school!

8. Laugh.

9. Realize you are the only person laughing at 5:30 a.m. Barking does not count.

10. Ask your niece to—just in case—check the time.  “Are you kidding, Aunt Betsy!” says the one niece after finding her watch hidden under a pile of school papers on her desk.

11. Second niece says, “Now what do we do? We’re dressed for school.”

12. Aunt says, sleepily, “Everybody, go back to bed, including the dog.”

 

Don’t Forget About the Automatic Sprinklers

1. If you happen to wake up early in a panic over the girls being late for school (and it is actually only 5:30 in the morning in Boise), at least grab the morning paper—the paper your sister asked you to save so she and her husband can read when they return in a week.

2. If instead you fall back asleep (after waking at 5:30 a.m.) and don’t pick up the morning paper before the sprinklers turn on, and the newspaper kid hasn’t put the paper in a plastic bag, so that it gets thoroughly soaked, consider # 3.

3. Bribery

4. When you open the front door because the girls’ ride is coming and the day’s newspaper lies across the front walk like a soggy, chewed-up plastic dog toy alongside yesterday’s newspaper (in a plastic bag), remind the girls how fun it is to run through a sprinkler. And wouldn’t that be refreshing to do? Like right now?

5. When neither girl responds, ask barking dog.

6. When dog looks up at you as if to say “Who do you think you are and where is my breakfast? And look, there is a quail I can chase!” consider # 3 again.

7. Remind the girls that you have no idea how to turn off the automatic sprinkler and you are still in your pajamas, and do they want their friend and friend’s mother to see their aunt outside wearing wet pjs that say Need Coffee Now while holding a cup of coffee, dripping wet?

8. When both girls raise their hand, agree to whatever they say, even if it means taking them to Panda Express for dinner that evening. Or worse, the mall.

9. After one niece turns off the sprinkler to allow second niece to pick up The Soggy Mess, thank them.

10. Thank them again while waving goodbye. Promise to pick them up on time.

11. When one niece says, “Oh goodie, that means you’ll pick us up at 1:15 instead of 3:15!” tell them you are headed to Verizon as soon as it opens so that the cell phone clock can be changed.

12. Shut the door. Pour another cup of coffee. Take a deep breath.

13. Realize dog is not in the house.

14. Panic.

15. Find dog outside, now wet from the backyard sprinkler system.

16. Feed dog. Ask dog for forgiveness.

17. Settle into porch chair. Put feet up. Soak in the view of Boise’s foothills. Ask Buddha for guidance, and when wet dog tries to jump in your lap, promise the dog leftovers from Panda Express.

18. Read. Look forward to another beautiful sunset (photos coming!). Write and write and write.

19. Be thankful for the opportunity to write!

 

How I Found the Wizard (Chautauqua: Day Three)

Posted on by Betsy

Though I am eager to start my third day in Chautauqua, I wonder how Monday can match Sunday’s experience. Not only is Send in the Clowns stuck in my head (and I can’t stop singing the song), for last night’s supper, we were treated to the best barbecued chicken I have ever eaten. And then, there were those chocolate frosted brownies next to an invisible sign with my name on it that said, “These special writer’s brownies are meant to be eaten in multiple portions. Do not eat just one!”  I think everyone had an invisible sign with his or her name, because I was not the only one going for seconds—and thirds, and then, halfway to the bus, I turned around, yelling to Nanci. “I can’t help it. Save me a seat. Do you want another brownie?”

Prior to being served dinner, we were encouraged to walk the lovely grounds at Westfield and to pick our own blueberries to eat—one of my favorite fruits. I was so smitten with photographing the blueberries that I realized–too late–that I had nothing to collect the blueberries in. I did the next best thing: I ate one after another, until a gentleman offered me his full cup of blueberries. (I savored them for days.) Thank you, kind sir!

My belly full of blueberries, I listened to the birds sing, studied insects on leaves, and then discovered The Land of Dinosaurs Versus Trucks, which is where I was when the call of “Chicken being served,” resounded through the fields.

 After everyone had eaten, we settled in our seats, where we quickly fell under Joy Cowley’s spell. If I had attended the Highlights Foundation Writers Workshop in 2010, I would have missed Joy. And I can’t imagine missing the opportunity to connect with her. Joy returned this year after a three-year absence, and she is an absolute joy!

Joy Cowley

Joy speaks from the heart and from years of experience, and with such love for others, you feel as if you are a child, alone in a room with her, listening to stories. I would have sat there all night if I could. She stressed that we must awaken our senses, connect with our inner child, and that we need to write our stories. This is essential as breathing. To write for children is a spiritual experience.

 

Joy’s speech lingers in my mind as I walk to the Hall of Christ for Monday’s first general session. On the way, I notice an animal’s tail switching from beneath a plant. I stop and bend down at the curb to look closer. A cat hides in the garden of her home. I say “Good Morning” to the owner and ask her permission to take a picture. “Please do, she loves to pose.” As I reach out and call the cat over to me, the owner tells me her name. This is a wonderful way to start a new day: meeting a cat named Alice.

I remain in Alice’s presence a little too long (Nanci secretly snaps a photo of the two of us), and then I have to run up the hill and find the red brick road (yellow in my mind) that will lead me to the Sanctuary. I arrive five minutes early, in time to grab a cup of coffee and a cold bottle of water. The day is about to get even better: the one and only Peter P. Jacobi is the morning speaker.   

Three years ago, I attended a SCBWI conference in Austin, Texas, which is where I first heard Mr. Jacobi speak. He has a presence that commands your attention with brilliance, humor, and an utter devotion to the craft of writing. His voice is rich with musicality and he ends many sentences in an upward swing, as if singing to you. I grab a front-row seat and prepare to go to a place of inspiration, unique to Peter P. Jacobi. Very quickly, he confirms the feeling I had when I first arrived here, that like Dorothy, I escaped the tornado and landed in the Land of Oz. His speech revolves around The Wizard of Oz. Pieces I had not yet understood begin to fit together on the third day of my journey at Chautauqua. Not only am I like Dorothy, but I need to be the scarecrow, the lion, and the tin man. My journey this week will be to find the way back home, to develop the courage to finish writing the story that aches in my belly, to expand the knowledge in my brain by taking numerous writing workshops, and to open my heart as wide as it can stretch, so that the words flow free upon the page. As Mr. Jacobi ends his speech, I smile, knowing I have finally met my wizard.

Because my first manuscript critique is tomorrow, my free time is spent walking the streets, smelling the flowers, checking on the purple martin babies, absorbing the beauty of Chautauqua, and thus following the strict advice given to me by Clay Winters on my first night here. Over dinner, Clay said, “I do not want to see you bent over your laptop or notes, sitting alone on the grass, working on your manuscript. Nor do I want to hear that you are locked in your room alone, revising and revising. That is not why you are here. Do not make this mistake, as others have. Soak in Chautauqua. Talk with other writers and mentors. Talk about writing. Talk about anything but writing. Take pictures. Sit by the lake. Listen to the birds. Unless you are given a short assignment from your mentor, don’t revise at all. Soak in the joy of this special place.”

Thank you, Clay, for those words of wisdom. Thank you!

My afternoon workshops include Writing Dialogue with Mitali Perkins, 200 Words or Less with Joy Cowley, and Characterization with Helen Hemphill. I learn something new in each session to apply to my writing.

As a group, we spend the evening having dinner at the Golf Club across the street, and afterwards listen to Mitali Perkins. Mitali is as lovely as can be, thoughtful, funny, and very inspiring. Add her to your list of Writers Whose Speeches You Must Hear.

After dinner, I walk the streets of Chautauqua with Joy, alone. We discuss our love of pigeons and children and writing. After we say good night, I head for my hotel, and along the way, I think about the young adult novel I am writing. Tackling this particular story will take great courage and an abundance of heart; a thinking brain, but not one that is judgmental. Lastly, I need to allow my spirit to dream, while I search for the rainbow. Only then will I find my way home.

The task ahead is as large as a dragon. One you can’t see, but only feel the enormity of its presence.  “The dragon of Chautauqua,” as Kim Griswell says.

I am willing to be brave.

I am not afraid to fail.

I am ready to take on the dragon.

Always Stop to Hear an Angel Sing (Chautauqua: Day Two)

Posted on by Betsy

On Sunday morning after breakfast, Nanci and I walk two blocks from the Athenaeum Hotel to Art in the Park: a craft show in Miller Park overlooking Chautauqua Lake. Because the show does not open for another two hours, artists are still arranging their goods on tables. There is pottery of all kinds. Ceramic tiles. Hand knitted mittens. Photographic images of the beauty of Chautauqua stretched across canvas. One-of-a-kind knitted handbags. Wands made from pastel curling ribbons with matching tiaras and skirts: attire for the youngest of princesses.

I remember those days: driving long hours to reach Richmond, Virginia; loading a dolly with twenty-five bins; setting up my 10 x 20 foot booth.  The hours are long. The work is hard and at times, lonely. Except for the people and the children I encountered, I do not miss the craft shows. But I am thankful, for it led me to my true path: writing for children.

While Nanci admires the handmade mittens recycled from sweaters, I check on the purple martins. The babies that live in house # 4 are braver today. Not one, but two babies expose their full heads. They peer up at the morning sky, their yellow beaks open in anticipation–hungry and helpless. I . . . am in love.

Nanci texts me that she has happily purchased a few gifts and is ready to explore the center of Chautauqua. Up the hill and over the red wooden bridge, we head for the town green. First on our list is the bookstore, then the library, and after that, any small shops that entice us to enter through their doors.

We not reach the library. Or the bookstore. Or any quaint shops, wherever they might be. We get as far as the amphitheatre—a very short, uphill walk from the red wooden bridge. Dozens and dozens of choir members warm up their voices. People swarm through the gates, accepting programs. Others park their bicycles, baby strollers, walkers, and electric wheelchairs. Seats fill. Dogs lay on the concrete next to their owners. Big dogs. Small dogs. Old dogs. Young dogs. One sits between the legs of an elderly man, seated on his scooter. Whispers among the crowd create a buzz like happy bees.

Attending the non-denominational morning service is not on our agenda, but the voices and the whispers and energy beckon. An unseen force pulls us, like the ocean’s current, and we find ourselves in the midst of a crowd, being handed a program, after which, we find a place to sit. “Let’s stay, just for a few minutes,” Nanci and I say, simultaneously.

The few minutes turn into an hour and a half. We are meant to be here, for the music, the inspiration, the enlightenment, and for me, the opportunity to open my mouth and sing with joy. Something I have not done for decades when I, myself, once sang in a church choir, where on occasion, I was a soloist.

The organist, Jared Jacobsen, places his fingers on the keys, his feet on the pedals, and the amphitheatre comes alive. There are no hymnals, no sheet music to read. All I have are words printed in the program. But I remember. My heart remembers, and the words are enough. I sing and sing and sing, as if I may not live through the night.

I have learned an important lesson on my second day at Chautauqua: be joyous. Live each moment as if it were your last. And if ever some unseen force pulls you in an unfamiliar direction, don’t stop to question why. Don’t fight the ocean’s current. Let the momentum sweep you up. Follow. Follow. Allow yourself to let go. Be brave.

We, like our characters, do not always know our needs. Listen to your inner voice. Trust your gut. If you do not, you might miss (as I might have missed that morning) the sound of an angel singing. Paul Robert’s voice is pure and rich, heartfelt and vulnerable.

At the very back of what appears to be at least one hundred choir members, a man in a blue robe clutches the bars of his walker; he pulls himself up, and then begins to sing Mr. Roberts delivers Send in the Clowns like someone being led to a guillotine, allowed to share his gift of a voice one last time.

Now, sitting on my porch, in the early hour of the morning, I hear that baritone voice. The longing in the words of Send in the Clowns intermingle with the songs of the Carolina wren family that lives on our property. A hummingbird flies over my head. A chipmunk peers between the white railings on our porch. Yes, I see you. I smile. I smile because my yard overflows with joyous creatures: finches, cardinals, hummingbirds, dragonflies, bees, moths, insects . . .  

Thank you, Mr. Roberts–for opening your heart, for allowing me a glimpse of your soul, and for handing me the crystal ball. Like Dorothy, I stare at the images that whirl past me in the glass, clouded by tiny flakes of snow. I am scared of what lies ahead in my week at Chautauqua, but I understand what I need to do: be brave like the purple martin babies. I will blink my eyes at the sun and open my wings to the light. Inch by inch, I will step further away from the safety of my home to laugh. To love. To share stories. To make new friends. To learn how to improve my writing. To become a little frog, allowing my mentor to turn up the heat in the pot where she puts me to boil. I will allow unforeseen forces to lead me where I need to go.

And I will stop–whatever I am doing–to listen to an angel sing.

Be joyous.

Be a clown.

How I Landed in Oz, Otherwise Known as Chautauqua: Day One

Posted on by Betsy

Eleven hours after leaving my father’s bedside in Chapel Hill, I am on another plane back to Washington, D. C. (my second Washington layover in twenty-four hours). With twenty minutes to make my connection to Buffalo, New York, I run the length of fifteen gates and make the flight. Nearly an hour later, we approach the Buffalo airport, passing Niagara Falls. The tremendous force of the water’s surge reminds me of my father and his determination to live, fueled by a desire that non-writers may not comprehend. My father must write, and because of this deep passion, he has lived past all the doctors’ expectations. Focused and determined, he is thankful for simple gifts: A blue sky filled with clouds. The sight of a bird on a branch outside his small window. A phone call from a family member. A smile from a caregiver. A young child’s laughter. A warm hand to hold. An extra day to live and to write; to love and to cherish. And lastly to know that his most recent illness did not keep his daughter from attending the 2011 Highlights Foundation Writers Workshop. (At the beginning of the week, all of my plans had become precarious, including my trip to Chautauqua.)

I am here because of him, because of this man whom I love and cherish. He is my hero and my mentor, my father and friend. His needs became my only focus, when I was summoned to NC this past Monday. Prepared for the worst, I got on a plane, carrying his favorite music: Wildflowers by Judy Collins. Yet when I reached his hospital room, he was eating chocolate pudding and asking for his laptop. In what one would call a true miracle, though a temporary one, he astounded the medical staff, his family too. Knowing how short his time is, leaving him was nearly impossible, but he wanted nothing less for me. In his own loving way to force me out of his room to head for the airport, he did what he does best: he made me laugh. My father popped a red Skittle in his mouth, waved two fingers at me, and then returned to working on his current manuscript. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on your writing. I’m okay, I’m ready to ease on down the road.”

Along with his love and support, his words and his humor, he allowed me a few of his beloved trinkets: a small Pinocchio, Jiminy Cricket, and Mickey Mouse. They sit on the dresser of my hotel room, and the expressions on their faces keep me smiling and laughing and hoping.

 

At the airport, I meet up with my dear friend, Nanci Turner Stevenson, and eventually we realize (she does, at least) that we are in the wrong part of the airport. And that people have been looking for us. Reunited with one of many groups of attendees and mentors to arrive, we board a van and head for the grounds of Chautauqua.

Upon our arrival at the Hall of Christ, we are greeted with smiles and hugs, handed bottles of cold water and a bag of books. Orientation is quick, and then our group of attendees disperses in search of their housing. “Just follow the red brick road,” someone says. And we do, though it doesn’t take long for me to lose my group and trail away from the red brick road, which I imagine is the yellow brick road. The surroundings steal my attention; there is too much to soak in. I am a five-year-old child again, holding a crisp one-dollar bill, in the middle of a candy shop filled to the ceiling with gumdrops and hard coffee candies and penny sticks and lollipops and saltwater taffy and sweet tarts and anything else a child’s heart might desire.

I am no longer in Kansas or Chapel Hill or UNC Hospital or a care facility. There are no hospital beds, grey carts loaded with medicines, elderly people trying to escape, or women cradling doll babies in their arms, rocking in a chair—alone in a small room.

 

Chautauqua is, as Kathryn Erskine describes after our first dinner together as a group, Brigadoon. Sunlight dances on leaves. Chipmunks streak across the brick road. Birds sing. The bell tower chimes. Music from long ago drifts through open windows. Piano music from down a hill pulls me past yellow houses with blue shutters, white houses with wraparound porches, and colorful summer homes that remind me of the Gingerbread Cottages in Oaks Bluff on Martha’s Vineyard. Blooming flowers burst with color: blue hydrangeas, orange poppies, yellow and burgundy daylilies, echinacea, purple clematis, cosmos, lace capped hydrangeas, phlox, and impatiens. Porches welcome you with rocking chairs, swings, and hammocks. Figurines dance on the lawns with open arms. And everywhere you go there are bicycles in shades of blue, orange, red, yellow, green, black, and silver. Wicker baskets on handlebars overflow with fresh flowers, books, or fruit. Some parked bicycles link together, like the elderly couples who walk the grounds, holding hands. Couples sit on benches reading newspapers, side by side. Children play outside, laughing. Chasing. Running with sticks. Jump roping. Rolling across the grass. There are no disengaged children or teens glued to their electronic devices. Time has rolled back to the years when children could be children.

I pull a camera from my SCBWI bag. Click. Click. Click.

I pull the camera away from my eye. Am I really here? Is this place real?

Dinner is well proportioned and delicious. There are mentors at every table and the process of meeting others who understand the part of you that is most essential (the writer or illustrator part) begins. We talk. We laugh. And after dinner, we listen to Kathryn Erskine tell us her story, and in doing so, she gives us strength and courage to continue down the yellow brick road.

As the sun begins to set, I wander past attendees relaxing in rockers on the porch, down steps . . . past a fountain adorned with flowers . . . across the lawn, until I reach the water, where brightly painted canoes and kayaks rest on the sand, upside down. Boats nod, like babies being lulled to sleep. The sky melts into a mauve pink accented by blue, that deepens as the night grows darker. This is where I discover the first gift of my journey here: the Purple Martins. I fall in love, watching the parents croon to their babies, feed them, protect them. With patience, I catch glimpses of their courageous young, peeking through the round entrances to their nests. First the point of a tiny beak appears followed by two curious eyes, then another beak and another set of eyes. I climb on a wooden picnic table and stand on my tiptoes.  I count. Thirteen babies peer at the sky, waiting for their parents. Watching. Wondering. Seeking the courage to fly on their own, alone.

Like the Purple Martin babies, I watch.  I listen. I wonder.  I soak in the beauty of the night, the songs of the birds, the motion of the water, and the laughter of the children, being children. Throughout the week, I will soak in the knowledge of the faculty and welcome their inspiration in this community, which celebrates the arts. And then, I will fly with courage and conviction and great joy, as the purple martin babies will do.

The world I have been spinning in (a tornado of stress and fear) has landed with a boom in this nurturing creative environment: a place where anything is possible, as long as you hold tight to your dreams. I may not fly with the Purple Martins over the rainbow this week, but this I know: My life will never be the same again.

Good News To Share

Posted on by Betsy

With upcoming plans to visit my ailing father, who lives in Chapel Hill, I’ve been worried—and feeling a bit guilty—about leaving the toy store in the middle of the busy summer season. To compensate for being gone, and to starve my guilt, I’ve put in extra hours, which is why I agree to open the store on Friday–a last minute request. I arrive without eating breakfast, and do not pack a lunch or snacks. If all goes well, two employees will arrive around noon.

At 12:30, I am free to go, I write myself out on my timecard and then head outside, accompanied by my rumbling stomach. Suddenly a thud . . . thud . . . thud captures my attention. The Fed Ex guy is unloading large boxes from his truck onto a not-so-small metal dolly.

I hit the button to unlock my car.

Thud . . . thud . . . thud!

Grumble, grumble, grumble goes my stomach.

I dare to look back. The dolly is piled so high, I can no longer see the Fed Ex guy, though I hear him grunt. I hit the remote to lock my car, and then walk back across the parking lot to follow a hunch. Across the numerous boxes are manufacturer names in bold print: Bruder, Creative Education, Harper Collins, Crocodile Creek and Madame Alexander. I know what this means.

“Are these boxes for the Toy Soldier?” I ask.

“All of what’s on this dolly, plus there’s still more big ones in the truck.”

Grumble, grumble, grumble.

Nagging guilt settles in. Nag. Nag. Nag.

I stare longingly back at my car, but my feet don’t move. The owner is alone with a relatively new employee, who I have been training. Groups of people walk into the store. Customers walk out carrying red bags. A young boy plays with his newly purchased popgun. Pop! Pop! Pop!

 If I’ve waited this long to eat, what’s a few more hours? A man walks by, ripping a piece of powdered fried dough and I start to follow him, really it is the dough I am after. Then, visions of turkey and cheese with avocado wrapped neatly in a tortilla come to mind, as does lemonade, freshly made, and—

Thump-thumpity-thump. Here comes the darn dolly. I dash ahead of it, run into the store, cross through the 12:30 departure time on my time card, and then tie my apron back around my neck.

“What are you doing, I thought you—”

“Don’t ask,” I tell the owner.

“Did you forget something?”

“No, I tried to leave, but . . . you need a little more help right now.” I sidestep so a young mother can wheel in a baby stroller.

“We’ll be fine,” says the owner. “You’ve been working too much.”

I gesture to the open door as the dolly arrives. “Do you want me to still leave?” I grab the scissors so I can start opening cartons.

“Welcome back, Betsy!” she says.

Until nearly seven that evening, we unpack over twenty boxes, price close to five hundred items, and manage to rearrange the store in preparation for Saturday. (Thank goodness, the Blue Squid is two doors down from us. I don’t know what I’d do without their scrumptious bakery. If you are ever in the area, trust me, you have to indulge in their award-winning cupcakes! And their famous four-cheese macaroni with lobster.)

 

Somewhere during the afternoon, my husband calls to tell me about a phone call, which I am not home to receive because I am still at work.

“I can’t talk, we’re really busy here,” I tell him, taking Playmobil boxes from a child’s arms for purchase.

“Just listen while you ring,” he says, sounding excited.

I run the register with the phone cradled against my shoulder, which is how I learn that I am the runner-up for the 2011 Barbara Karlin SCBWI Grant. My picture book manuscript, Norman and Rose, won the hearts of the prestigious judges.

I am incredibly lucky, humbled, and in a bit of shock. Since May of this year, my writing has been recognized three times. My other wins were for my middle-grade novel, Savannah’s Mountain. I float up the ramp to tell my boss, and then I resume pricing dress-up capes. Pink capes with sequins. Purple capes. Red velvet capes. Capes for knights. Capes for kings. Capes for queens. Superhero capes. Batman capes, which reverse to become Spiderman capes and are really cool.

Once the capes are priced, there are princess wands and headbands and jewelry and sparkly crowns and dinosaur tooth boxes and pirate tooth chests and lunch bags with matching backpacks, sandwich containers, thermos, and drink bottles. Fancy Nancy dolls arrive, along with Pinkalicious sets and books, books, and more books.

When I finally get home—seven hours past my scheduled departure—all I want is to sit at the table on our soon-to-be finished wraparound porch, put up my feet and relax.

There is a slight glitz in my plans.

My table is not empty.

A certain someone is sitting in one of my chairs . . .

And that certain someone is using my computer—without my permission.

No, it is not Goldilocks, nor the three bears, though three creatures are clearly discussing something important. (For those of you unfamiliar with the Baby Bossy Frogs, read http://betsydevany.wordpress.com/2011/04/22/a-bath-for-bear/ )

“What are you and the Baby Bossy Frogs doing?” I ask Norman.

“He’s a star, he’s a star, he’s a star!” sings the less bossy Baby Bossy Frog. “And we are checking his Amazon ratings!”

“Norman has no Amazon ratings, it’s not an actual book and–“

“I am in charge!” says the bossiest of the Baby Bossy Frogs. “You are supposed to do Norman’s hair, while I type submission letters.”

“I want to type,”says the less bossy Baby Bossy Frog, “and it’s my turn to wear the glasses.”

I try to get the frogs’ attention, but they pay me no mind.

I try to capture Norman’s attention, and all he wants to know is: (1) Where did his porch swing disappear to (2) How soon do we leave for our book tour, and by the way, he needs his own suitcase.

“Norman, there is no book tour. At least, not yet.”

“But he won, he won, he won!” says the less bossy Baby Bossy Frog.

I congratulate Norman (he is the inspiration for Norman and Rose), and then I lead him back to reality. “We haven’t sold the book yet. And we still need an agent.”

Norman corrects me. He, at least, already has an agent—as of this afternoon. I have yet to read the contract, which the bossiest of the Baby Bossy Frogs offered to Norman, but I have concerns. I know how Baby Bossy Frogs can be.

Once Norman understands the actual status of the winning manuscript, I leave the Baby Bossy Frogs to console him while I call my father.

He is weary and in pain, but welcomes my news with all the enthusiasm he can muster.

I may have missed the important phone call to learn of my win, personally, but I do not miss the opportunity to share the news with my father. When he begins to sound tired,  I ask to speak to my younger sister, who is visiting him first, but she is not there.

“Where did she go?” I ask.

“She’s running an errand,” my father says, and then he pauses, as he likes to do before he reels me in. “She’s getting my Skittles and candied Baked Beans, I ran out in the hospital. The doctor forgot to write my refill, so he had to call my prescription for Skittles in to the pharmacy.”

Oh Dad, how I love you. You are a hard act to follow.

For everyone who has wished me well and sent congratulations for my most recent award, I thank you, as I thank the SCBWI for this recognition. I am deeply honored.

 

A Dream to Dance

Posted on by Betsy

The summer has presented me with challenges–one after another–and some, which I had hoped to avoid.  Having an ill parent with few options for an acceptable living environment is something I would wish on no one. It is my worst nightmare, and to avoid feeling physically sick over the situation, I try to find small moments each day to see beauty in the world, and to appreciate the wonder of others.

 

My five-year-old granddaughter is a blessing, particularly now when my family faces some of the hardest decisions of our lives. Ava makes me stop, forget about the barrage of depressing phone calls, and take a moment to live life in an idealist way.

 

In our large front yard, I am free—even for just thirty minutes—to laugh, chase Ava through the grass with our dog Merlin, and wonder at the miracles of the tiniest of creatures. We remain like statues when the hummingbirds zoom above us. We watch the bees on my Echinacea, revel in the sight of a butterfly, and kneel on the cool ground to peer into a daylily to marvel at fascinating insects, which appear to be from outer space. They are smaller than ants in actuality.

A frog leaps before us and Ava is off, chasing the tiny amphibian, catching it . . . losing it . . . and then catching again. Her hands tightly clasped, she tells me, “Grandma, the frog is berry thirsty. And he needs a home to live in.”

Just like my father, I think. Why is it that we cannot find suitable housing for the elderly where they can be respected and loved and treated with dignity? I brush the thought aside and head indoors for a small bowl. Ava follows, and my eyes stay fixed on what is contained within her grasp. “Don’t let that frog loose in the house,” I say. The cats would have a field day.

I fill a small, short container with water, and we go back outside. With great care, Ava places the frog in the bowl. It swims happily, and then leaps for freedom.

“Uh-oh,” she says, leaning over to trap the frog once again. “I think he wants some food.” With great precision, she keeps the creature safe, while using two fingers to add clumps of grass and a smattering of dirt. The frog back in the bowl, it swims the best it can among its new challenges, and then escapes.

“Uh-oh, says Ava, clamoring to catch it. The frog is faster than she is, and soon is nowhere in visible sight. “Oh, no, I didn’t find it a friend!”

“We’ll find something else.” And we do. On the porch, we discover an injured moth. Carefully, Ava scoots it onto the palm of her hand. “Oh, Grandma, he is so sweet. Can you fix him, please?”

Can I heal my father? No, and I know I can’t fix the moth’s wings, but I don’t say this to her. Instead, I follow her around the yard.

“We have to find the moth a place to rest, that’s nice. So he can get better and fly away,” Ava says. “He wants to go back to his family.” No matter how large or small a creature is, Ava is always concerned that they have a family to be with, or at least, friends.

Until our new porch is completed, all of my garden statues are under our red maple tree, and this is where she heads. After she walks around the tree, twice, Ava settles on a cherub lying on its back.

“Perfect,” she says, “This is just perfect.” She hopes the moth will survive, despite its apparent odds, and in the morning, when she checks to see if the moth is still there, she announces happily that it has flown away. The family of moths is reunited. (I find it later—lifeless and snuggled in the crease of the cherub’s wings—in a place she did look and I do not tell her.) I want her to believe the moth lived, as I wish to cling to the belief that the situation for my father will improve. I am not prepared to let go of hope. Some days, all we have is hope.

Satisfied that the moth is settled in for the night, Ava resumes her frog search, and with unbelievable luck, she finds it, or its sibling, or a relative of some sort, I guess. Her new mission is to find the frog a friend. The sun begins to set, which does not deter Ava in her quest. She carries the frog in her clasped hands, while I follow and dig where directed. I check under leaves, around flowerpots, between rocks, and anywhere else, she believes the frogs are hiding from her. In the meantime, twilight falls upon us.

“Ava, you have to find somewhere to put the frog, and not in the house.”

“I know, I know, Grandma.”

Clearly, this quest will soon require flashlights.

Suddenly, Ava remembers one garden statue not under the maple tree. “Come on, everybody!” she says. Merlin and I follow her to the backyard.

“Look, everybody, this is just perfect.” Leaning over, Ava places the frog in the middle of a statue of two frogs. “Perfect! Now, he has a family!”

Thankfully, the frog seems content; he stays exactly where Ava places him, until she runs off to chase a fleeting dragonfly.

“Is he still with his family?” she calls back to me.

“Yes.” Well, for the moment he is, before leaping through the white fencing to explore a world free of curious little girls, intent on being matchmakers or reuniting long-lost family members.

We chase fireflies until I hear the phone ring. While receiving an update on my father, Ava finds other lives to run. Once the conversation with my sister ends, I learn that Ava has played matchmaker with our cat Terrapin. Terrapin is to marry Ava’s Steiff black leopard and have two babies, instantaneously. The wedding ceremony is performed without complications. To my surprise, Terrapin does not flee the makeshift alter, and she even poses for formal photos without a single complaint. Well, maybe a glare or two. Once Ava knows that the babies are being tolerated by the new bride and groom, we settle down to read books . . . and books. I am thankful for the distraction.

Now, two days later,  I sit by the window, awaiting the return of the Baltimore orioles. I review the pictures I took with Ava, and the photos I was fortunate to have the opportunity to shoot the day before, on my way to work: a Great Egret and a Blue Heron. Both phones (cell and landline) are charged and by my side. I have already taken six calls this morning regarding my father, the first at 4 am, at a time when I was doing one of the following: ripping off covers . . . whipping them back, staring at the clock . . . trying to not look at the clock, fluffing my pillow . . . punching my pillow,  opening the window . . . closing the window, petting a cat . . . shoving a cat off of my chest.

I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I cannot write. And with the beginning of each new day comes the knowledge that my father will be calling, at any point, to ask about my writing.

Through his pain, my father continues to check the progress of my submissions; to remind me he is running out of time. I am losing this race to find success before his last breath, but I will not give up, even knowing I cannot fix what I want to fix, need to fix.

 I will remember the promise I made to my father and to myself. Whether it is through my photography, my interactions with my granddaughter, or another creative outlet, I will find the way back to my words.

In the past, my return to inspiration has started as a low hum, which quivers like a hummingbird’s wings, until I reach out to snatch it. Other times, lightning hits, catching me off-guard. Whichever way the relentless desire to create returns, I am ready. My heart is open, and until that moment, my inspiration comes from the hawk that soars in the sky above our house each night. Drifting on the wind, it flies free and without worries. I watch and I dream . . .

I dream of dancing. I dream of dancing across the page with words and images. I dream of dancing to places only I can find, kept safely, for now, within me.

This is who I am.

This is what I know.

I am my father’s daughter.

  

New Jersey SCBWI 2011 Conference

Posted on by Betsy

This year the 2011 annual New Jersey SCBWI Conference took place at a new location in Princeton, NJ, where I had the privilege of working behind the scenes of such a large undertaking. While I have attended the yearly NJ conference since 2007, this was my first time I co-chaired a committee. My volunteer responsibilities didn’t stop there, I spent hours in the weeks leading up to the conference checking spreadsheets, pouring over attendees’ personal schedules, and whatever else needed to be done. Kathy Temean and Laurie Wallmark are tireless leaders, and I couldn’t help but say Yes! whenever they reached out for help. In the end, it was fun, truly. If you can volunteer for a conference, do so.

Kathy Temean planned, organized, and ran the NJ SCBWI Conference, as only she knows how to do, with Laurie Wallmark at her side. Her inspiration for creating a one-of-a-kind conference stems from her heartfelt desire to give children’s writers and illustrators the best possible outlet to improve their craft, make connections, and to have numerous critique opportunities. What conference have you been to where you can pay for more than one critique? For conference statistics: http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2011/06/13/conference-stats-and-ideas/

The Wyndham Hotel is quite large, yet it offers a beautiful outdoors, which was taken advantage of by attendees, editors, and agents. There are trails to run or walk on, a lake to relax by, and wildlife to discover. You can easily find a chair to lounge in when your head is spinning from all the information you are trying to absorb. Ten minutes in the sun can do wonders, just ask Katia Wish, the fabulous illustrator.

The conference extended to three days this year, and brought in 13 agents and 13 editors.  Plus there were two art directors, an artist rep. and an editorial consultant for a total of 30 Industry Professionals without counting the many published authors and illustrators who shared their expertise with the members.  Kathy also invited two new literary agents to join us on Friday night for the mix and mingle, and Saturday.  For every nine peole attending the conference, there was one editor/agent. Odds were everyone got to talk to many of the faculty over the weekend. Such opportunities continue (thanks to Kathy) throughout the summer. Check for availability. http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2011/06/08/update-on-summer-networking-dinners/

The number of generous people who donated items or time for the scholarship raffle amazed me. You can see in the pictures some of what we had to offer. This was the first time we used the main stage, and we certainly had our challenges setting up. In the end, it was successful and fun for all.

 

Excitement built over the weekend over the first time eBay auctions of the editor and agent critiques. Only Kathy and Laurie would think of doing this. It worked!

David Caruba

I am just now going over all the notes I took at the workshops I attended. There is a mound of paper begging my attention, and fighting my desire to spend the day outdoors, photographing the birds and insects. They fascinate me. It makes me see the tiniest of details, which inspires me to write.

 

Grace Lin

As for being inspired at the annual NJ SCBWI Conference, I was, many times over. What comes to mind immediately are two names: Grace Lin and Holly McGhee. I have heard Grace speak before at a NE SCBWI event, and she is charming and down to earth and sucks me in with her first sentence. Her message is to find your own voice, to not be who you think you should be, but who you need to be—the person only you can become. If we follow trends, we give up a part of ourselves, and risk the chance of losing the connection to who we truly are. It can be scary, but ignore the temptation. Honor you. Honor your unique gift. Love what you have deep inside you. Let it rise to the surface and be free, even if you are afraid.

 I see Holly McGhee, founder of Pippin Properties, standing at the podium, vulnerable, honest, as if exposing a piece of her so that we might be brave enough to follow suit. Long after the conference, her words linger in my head. Sleeping has been difficult. She touched the part of me I’ve kept hidden for so long, and now will not slip back into the darkness of my soul. I find ways to avoid it. I work long hours at the toy store, spend hours following subjects to photograph, play with my granddaughter. Anything but write about those moments. Nothing works. When I close my eyes to surrender to sleep, my body responds, while my mind does not. It is wide-awake. It screams at me. I toss and turn; try to read, and then I have no choice, because Holly’s words envelop me until I get out of bed, pad down the hall to my writing room, turn on the light, and write until the ache subsides and I can fall asleep.

This is what you want a conference to do for you. You want to learn something new. You want to see old friends and make new ones. You want to laugh, go for a walk, breath in the fresh air, write, and find a new direction to improve your WIP. You hope to make a connection with an editor or agent, but you never count on this. Mostly, you want to be inspired, to be scared that if you don’t listen to the beating of your heart, your story will never be told.

Consider attending next year’s annual conference, or any other event run by the New Jersey chapter. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed. And for those who see room for improvement, stress the positive, too. For a large event run in a new facility, kinks are to be expected. Thank you, Kathy, for listening to all, and suggesting ways to improve next year’s conference. If you volunteer, you will see how much hard work goes into running this.

For Holly’s inspirational speech, here are the links, featured in four segments. Thank you, Holly, from the bottom of my heart. You touched my life in a way that I did not expect.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ygwXTuqAgj8&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5HzgXKeV1I

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uKDsPVZxYqU&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDFZ5Ojp800&feature=related

 

 

           

A Whale for Steven (A story for Father’s Day)

Posted on by Betsy

On this father’s day 2011, I share a story from the toy store. A story that affected me greatly, long after it happened. It involves the love of a father for a son, and every time I think of that day, I am reminded that gifts do not always come wrapped in pretty paper with spiral ribbon. They sometimes come in the shape of stories. This gift of a story is one that I will treasure as long as I live.

A WHALE FOR STEVEN

by Betsy Devany

Closing time has come and gone at Olde Mistick Village, the sidewalks are filled with more ducks than people shopping. Neighboring stores are dark, their doors locked, and their employees on their way home. It is time for me to call it a night.

Our marionettes swing in the breeze; the pink flamingo seems to wink at me. I gather the puppets outside to carry them into the store. Behind me there is quacking. The three ducks who rule our front yard are on alert. The white leader honks at a lone male that slipped under the fence and entered their territory. The leader’s two sidekicks join in the chase, nipping at the uninvited younger mallard. The white duck pecks at the intruder’s neck; his wings flap with agitation.  I move towards the gang of birds, clapping my hands until they separate.

“Do you break up fights every day?”An older man walks in my direction, followed by a younger man. With the same chiseled chins, the two are clearly father and son.

“This is the first fight I’ve seen today.”

“You still open? We won’t be long, I promise.”

“Uh . . . sure, yes, come on in.” I smile.

“We need to hurry, Steven. This woman wants to close.”

Steven, who looks to be in his late thirties, dashes into the store. “Whales, where are your whales?” His attention shifts rapidly from shelf to shelf. “I need a whale.” He looks up. He looks down. Lions are pulled from their shelves. Tigers. Bears. Cats. Dogs. None of the stuffed animals are right. Hoping to locate the whale he remembered having as a child, Steven continues to push toys aside. He mutters, “Big. Brown. Brown with beans . . . Big. Brown. Brown with beans . . .”

“He’ll never find it, not the way his was, with the fabric worn around the tips of the eyes and the end of the tail from his constantly caressing it.” His father adds. “And the head was flat from Steven leaning into it, night after night, when he was a child.”

Steven, who has traveled over an hour to get here, is missing more than just a stuffed whale from his childhood.

We do not sell brown whales in the toy store, nor do we sell giant whales. The largest we have is a 24-inch white beluga whale. I hand Steven the beluga.  He brings it close to his nose, leans his cheek against it, and slides his face back and forth brushing the fabric. “Do you have a bigger whale . . . brown whale . . . filled with beans?”

“No, we don’t, I’m sorry.” While I search for anything close to what he describes, Steven paces . . . and paces . . . and then he notices the three-foot lobster displayed on a high shelf above his head. He stands on his tiptoes and reaches for the stuffed sea creature. “This will do,” he says.

“No, Steven, we’ve done this before.  You’re not thinking clearly.” The father takes the lobster away and leaves the beluga whale in his son’s arms. He sighs—a long sigh. His hair is grey and thin. He removes his glasses and wipes them clean. He sighs again, and then says to his son, “We’ve made these trips over and over again, from New York to Massachusetts, and to anywhere else that might hold the promise of a brown whale. Steven . . .  Steven, look at me, son.”

Steven’s hold on the beluga whale loosens. I catch it before it hits the ground. “We have catalogs. Perhaps I can find a large enough whale for you,” I say and hand him back the beluga.

The ends of the father’s mouth turn up, forced out of kind appreciation.  “That’s nice of you, but we’ve been looking for a very long time. I never know what he wants.”

I head to the back stock room, grab six catalogs, and carry them to the front desk. Steven follows me, his arms clutching the beluga.

“How big of a whale do you want?”  I ask.

“Very big.” Steven focuses on his shoes while clinging to the toy. We go back and forth.  I flip through pages. He peers at pictures. “No, not right,” he tells me again and again.

His father stands next to him. “Steven, look at me.  Look at me, please.”  Finally, Steven lifts his eyes. “We aren’t going to find a whale. Not like your whale.”

“I want a whale,” says Steven. “I want a big, brown whale with beans.”

“Steven, we need to leave. This kind lady wants to go home.”

“My whale, we came to get my whale,” Steven reminds his father.

The father turns away from the counter and gently tugs at his son’s arm. Steven digs his heels in. Thirty minutes have passed since they first walked into the store.

“Tell me about your whale,” I say.

“He doesn’t know what he wants. I’ve been looking and looking—they just don’t make toys like they used to.” His father tugs again.

“Steven, what did you love most about your whale?”

Steven turns, looks at me, and walks back to the oak counter. He runs his hands along the wood.  “I liked the way the beans inside felt.”

“They don’t make animals with those beans anymore. Too many safety concerns,” I say.

Steven swirls his fingers around the shape of a large knot in the oak.

His father sighs. “Thank you for trying, but he’ll never understand.”

I arrange the pens next to the register; straighten the shopping bags. I glance in Steven’s direction. “Besides the beans, what else did you love about your whale?”

“Soft, it was soft . . . I could sleep on it.”

We have a two-foot penguin, but it is not soft.  We have large stuffed dogs, but they are not whales. We have a three-foot lion, but the color is tan, like a pale honey.

Then I remember Gus. “I have a bear, a large bear,” I tell him. “And it’s brown.”

Steven studies the floor. “I want a whale. I need to bring a whale home tonight.”

The three of us stand in silence. I check the time. The owners must be wondering why I haven’t called with the day’s sales.

“Let me show you the bear,” I say.

“It’s hopeless. We’ve kept you long enough,” the father says.

“I’ll be right back.” From the stuffed animal room, I carry the three-foot floppy bear to the front desk. Gus has lived in the store for quite some time now. Before I close up at night, he gets an extra pat.

“He’s very soft,” I tell Steven.

“It’s not a whale.”

Now I am the one studying my shoes. “I won’t be able to find you a large whale tonight.  Just hold the bear, see what you think.  He’s brown and soft. You can lean into him.”  I hand the bear to Steven, who pushes his nose against Gus.  He plops Gus against the counter and leans into him. “He is soft. I like him.”

Yes, I like this bear myself—very much.”

The father pulls at the price tag. “The bear is $130. You didn’t bring enough money.”

Silence returns.  I shift the catalogs together and form a single stack, place them on the floor while the father stares at the door. Steven’s face is buried into Gus’s fur.

I want to buy the bear for Steven, show him he can love Gus as much as the whale.  I want to watch him walk down the sidewalk with the bear in his arms, even though it’s always hard when I let go of a stuffed animal I’ve grown attached to, but Steven did not bring enough money.

Then, holding the bear tightly in one arm, Steven reaches into his pants pocket.  He removes a black leather wallet, worn with holes visible at every corner. It is a wonder the wallet doesn’t explode all over our wooden floor. A penny pokes through one end, but does not fall out. His wallet is thick with papers, some yellowed, some coated in a worn plastic. There is almost five inches thick of paper memories.

His father settles into a stance; feet spread apart, firmly planted on the wooden floor—a familiar routine, I imagine. His hands out of his pockets, he turns his palms upward, as if waiting at a communion rail.

Steven pops the wallet open and forms the shape into what appears to be a triangular leather cup. “I want the bear,” he says.

“Let’s count,” says his father.

Steven places two twenties on our wooden counter, then another crumpled twenty.

“How much is that,” asks his father.

“Sixty,” says Steven with confidence.

I separate the bills. “Eighty, you have eighty dollars here.”

Steven pulls out a five and a ten—ninety-five. When he stretches the leather further, the penny falls to the floor, where it remains. Next, come the one-dollar bills, all carefully folded into triangles, the points as worn as the wallet.

“One. Two.  Three,” he counts.

There is something magical about the wallet, which is not diminishing in size.  Instead of pulling rabbits from a magician’s hat, he conjures up one-dollar bills out of faded leather. How does the wallet hold all of the tightly folded shapes?  I expect him to run out of money, yet Steven continues to hand another and another dollar bill to his father, never looking up or breaking his rhythm. Not once.

His father unfolds and flattens each bill, using a quarter to work out the creases.

The stack of money on the counter grows higher.

I wait and watch.  “Why do you fold the dollar bills into triangles?”

Holding one bill in his hand, Steven lifts it to the corner of his right eye. “When I’m sad . . . this makes me feel better.”  He taps the edge of the triangular shape against his skin. Three times. He passes the bill to his father.

“May I ask what Steven has?”

The father talks and talks and talks, like a dam overflowing. Like a man who hasn’t been noticed in years.

I cannot tell you what the father was wearing that day, but I can tell you his words—his story. I can describe the medicine bottle he has carried in his pocket from the seventies, day after day, year after year. The label so worn that it barely reveals the name of the pharmacy. Except for the lingering chalky stink of medicine, the bottle remains empty. The father rolls the medicine bottle between his palms as he tells me that the colored dye in the medicine, administered when Steven was a baby, caused a cerebral allergic reaction. Steven has two markers of autism, and some mental retardation. Years later, they learned that the damage was irreparable—long after Steven’s mother left, taking his brother and sister with him. Steven was six years old at the time. The mother changed her last name, never contacting Steven and his father.

The father talks and talks while Steven continues to pull one-dollar bills from his wallet. He earns $100 per month, emptying trash containers at a pharmaceutical company.

“You really love that wallet,” I say.

Steven nods, eyes still downcast, his larger lip protruding over his top lip—almost swollen looking.

“When did Steven lose his whale?  Do you have a picture?”  I ask the two men, one talking and talking, the other pulling triangles of money from a worn leather wallet.

His father quickly shakes his head.  “No, not with us; it upsets him.”

“It makes me sad,” adds Steven.  He taps the corner of his right eye with another folded dollar bill.

“Six, he was six years old,” says his father.

I lose count of the money on the counter; imagine Steven as a six-year-old boy snuggled against his mother, the whale by his side until the two of them banished at the same time. Is his search for a whale or a mother who abandoned him?

“You only have $128. Are you sure this is what you want?” the father asks.

Steven hugs the bear to his chest. Gus’s feet dangle at his knees. “I want the bear. It’s a soft bear.”

“You don’t have enough money,” his father tells him.

Steven opens his wallet. He peers into it, pulls out the yellowed papers. The magic is gone.

“I . . . I can give you 10% off.”

“You don’t have to do that,” the father says.

“Yes, I do.” I smile and ring the sale through, recount the money and hand him $4 change. I make a mental note to pay the difference after they leave. Steven immediately folds the dollar bills into triangles before tucking them into his wallet.

“I hope the bear makes him happy.” The father strokes Gus’s arms. “I never see any emotion from him anymore, he’s on so much medicine; it numbs his emotions, his personality. At least he doesn’t scream and cry like he used to. But he never laughs or smiles, either.”

“I’m hungry,” Steven says.

“What do you feel like eating?” I ask.

“Steak!”

I give the father directions to a nearby restaurant and recommend they walk through the village so they can stop at the pond to admire the newly hatched baby ducks.

“I have to put my bear in the car first, so he’s safe,” says Steven.

The two men step outside the store. I bend over to unlatch the door in preparation for closing, and as I do, Steven turns to me and smiles, revealing slightly yellowed teeth.

“You have a beautiful smile,” I say.

The ends of Steven’s mouth turn up even more. Now his father grins. “I haven’t seen him smile is such a long time. It is worth more than the cost of the bear, more than the time in the car and the price of gas.”

“I hope your search is over. How long has he been hunting for the whale?” I ask.

“Thirty years, just Steven and me, we’ve been looking for thirty years.”

Steven’s smile is broad. He is thirty-six years old and no longer fixated on his shoes.

“Thank you for listening,” the father says. “Thank you for allowing me to go on and on.”

“Thank you for sharing your story. Have a nice night.”

If  I could, I would have found them a large, brown whale filled with beans. But all I found was a bear named Gus, and for once, it seemed to be enough.

What is An Antagonist?

Posted on by Betsy

After attending the recent New Jersey SCBWI Annual Conference, I had to make an unexpected trip to Miami. When my family calls for help, I get on a plane. I’ve earned a lot of miles this year.

On a better day towards the end of our trip, my sister and I ventured into the Florida Everglades, though we didn’t last long. She quickly became tired, and then a storm came through. Before we headed back to the hotel, I managed to take this picture of the sky. You can see the dividing point where the rain ends. I find it quite fascinating and beautiful.

In the moment when I took that picture, I thought about weather, how powerful it is, and how much damage it can do with little or no warning. This brought to mind the topic of antagonists because in some novels, weather provides the conflict in the story.

On the drive back from our short trip to the Everglades, I considered the meaning of antagonist, mostly because the topic came up at the recent New Jersey SCBWI Conference. What is an antagonist, and do all stories require the presence of one? The answer is yes. All stories need conflict. Something needs to get in the way of your protagonist to thwart their continued efforts to achieve a goal or fill a need or want.  

The question that arose in the workshop was whether an antagonist had to be a person. The answer to this question is no.

A quote from Wikipedia:

An antagonist (from Greek ἀνταγωνιστής – antagonistes, “opponent, competitor, rival”)[1] is a character, group of characters, or an institution, that represents the opposition against which the protagonist must contend. In other words, ‘A person, or a group of people who oppose the main character, or the main characters.’[2] In the classic style of story where in the action consists of a hero fighting a villain, the two can be regarded as protagonist and antagonist, respectively.[3] The antagonist may also represent a major threat or obstacle to the main character by their very existence, without necessarily deliberately targeting him or her.

On that day in Miami, we dealt with more than one antagonist: the weather and my sister’s illness. Both thwarted our plans to enjoy the beauty of the Everglades. If the alligator had jumped any higher out of the water, I would have listed that too.

An antagonist can be devastating weather, an incurable disease, or the racist attitude of an entire community, among many other possibilities. The protagonist can also get in their own way caused by their behavior. This situation can make the most interesting of stories, though it is more difficult to pull off in an effective manner.  Consider that your main character is a sociopathic liar. They may yearn to connect with others and to follow a path of honesty, but their personality doesn’t allow them to change. Who or whatever keeps your protagonist from getting what they seek is the antagonist. Without this element, you have no conflict, and thus, no story. Or at the very least, an incredibly boring story, which elicits no desire, on the part of the reader, to turn the page.

Elusive antagonists are far more interesting and provide a steeper challenge for your protagonist.  It is easier to combat a person than an attitude or an uncontrollable part of yourself that you’ve yet to reckon with. Think about the alternatives when you create your antagonist. What places the biggest blockades in the path of your main character? Don’t make it easy on them. Keep the storm coming, and make it elevate in intensity. Slather the pages with conflict.

In the end, this will improve your story. So no matter who or what your antagonist is, lay it on thick. And have fun creating those antagonists. I know I do.

Why It’s Easier to Kill My Darlings Than Tame My Spider Plant

Posted on by Betsy

One of the topics discussed at last week’s NE SCBWI conference was the importance of ridding your manuscript of overgrown scenes, useless characters, and runaway descriptions. If you don’t pay attention to where your story is going, there is a good change it will run wild.

Wild is exactly what happened with my spider plan—the one that currently hogs the ledge of our bay window.  In the past year, the plant has thrived, and now our front yard view is no longer paramount. There is something in the way, and that something is green.

I have had this plant for years. My mother first brought it home in the mid-nineties. It flourished until the day she moved to North Carolina, which is when I promised to take care of it. At the time, I knew little about caring for plants, especially indoor ones, but I feigned confidence. Shortly after she left, the plant began to wither. I watered it. Perhaps too much. Perhaps too little. Whatever the reason, its future became evident—all too soon. There was nothing pretty about it.

I tried to ignore the signs. Stems curled at the ends where the green had turned the color of dirt.  Pieces of plant dropped to the ground, where they lay lifeless, until I was inspired to vacuum. And there was the fact that my husband suggested, more than once, that the garbage can was an alternative habitat for the spider plant.

The signs continued, and whenever my mother asked how the plant was doing, I changed the subject. Then one day, it dawned on me. I was killing something that meant a lot to my mother, something I had promised to take care of. When I shared my epiphany with my husband, he said,  “It’s only a plant, Betsy.”

I sought the help of garden experts, friends, anyone who might help me rescue the plant I was clearly obsessed with, and was almost beyond hope.

Paying heed to the experts’ advice, I tried new ways to aid the plant’s recovery. I talked to the thing. I begged it. I even cursed at it, and then, with luck, patience, hard work, and perseverance (all traits a successful writer needs) the spider plant leaped from the edge of death and responded with vigor to all the attention that I gave it.

Again, my husband reminded me, “It’s only a plant, Betsy.”

Yes, but it was so much more . . . which brings me back to writing.

We all have those darlings in our manuscripts, you know, the characters we come to know and love. Their every appearance on scene gives us the greatest of pleasure. They make us laugh. They make us cry. They offer absolutely nothing to the plot. Nothing. Aside from our darlings, there are those long and flowing passages filled with evocative descriptions that also offer nothing to the plot. Whether it’s a character or a description or a setting or a superfluous scene, the presence of certain elements can thwart the very essence of our manuscript and change the view we intend to create. The reader cannot see through the window into our story. There is something in the way. Like an overgrown spider plant.

What does one do?

A professional or seasoned writer will tell you to get rid of them. “Kill them,” they say. “Toss them from the pages of your manuscript without remorse.” “Have a drink and relish in hitting the delete button over and over again. It will feel great!”

Will it?

These conversations are typically one-sided and contain little or no feeling of mercy or remorse. You, on the other hand, are overwhelmed with the sense of loss, guilt, and shock, mostly because the expert’s suggestion comes with added enthusiasm and much delight over the process. You sit there speechless. They pump their fists in the air, hungry for another stimulating experience of killing beloved darlings; of deleting entire chapters with the tap of one button.

I understand the experience now, and I will tell you that it is freeing—and fun—to let your darlings go. I do hug and kiss them and apologize profusely first, oh, and I promise to use them in another manuscript, perhaps feature them as the main character. (I will do anything to lessen my guilt connected with the characters I create, or rather listen to when they appear from nowhere to tell me their story.) As for superfluous scenes or descriptions, I have an Everything Deleted out of Necessity document where all of this goes. You never know when you may need something.

It is for the best of your manuscript. Trust me. I feel your pain. I know your struggle. I am there too—not with the writing—but with the plant: that over-grown spider plant that continues to grow and grow and sneer at my husband with glee while it expands across the windowsill and redefines our view of the front yard.

While I have not yet tackled the plant, it seems I may not need to. Not only does the green beast irk my husband, but now also our two cats—and our two visiting cats, who were supposed to stay with us for one week, and now six months have gone by. After incessant arguing over which one cat gets to sit on the limited portion of sill unclaimed by the green beast, they cats have joined forces. They discuss their strategy at night while I am trying to sleep, as cats will do. What exactly is their Kitty Plan of Attack? They bat at the baby plants, chew on the leaves; use their teeth to pull on the dangling offspring. If my view of the front yard does not soon improve, at least there will be room for two cats—not one—to soak in the sun. May this bring some peace to our household, because I am not about to kill my mother’s plant. Even though, it is just a plant.

And yet, it is so much more . . .

In closing, I leave you with a quote of my own. (This week I seem to be stuck on W words.)

The words we write must awaken the senses of the reader. They must bear weight to the world we have created. Why? You want the readers to wonder, to wrestle with their own thoughts, and to always want more. Meaningless words wander aimlessly across the page in a waste of space. They attribute nothing wondrous at all, except to become a wall, which stands in the way of our readers’ wants and needs.   Betsy Devany 5/11