Falling Leaves Retreat 2010

Every November the New York chapter of SCBWI offers a weekend writing workshop: Falling Leaves. Last year the group concentrated on picture books, and this year, middle-grade and young adult novels were the focus.

This past weekend, I had the pleasure of attending, and arrived one day early to work on a novel revision. After getting lost in Lake George (a booming summer town which seemed to be in hibernation mode), I found one store with its lights on. A woman welcomed me inside and took pity on me, printing out directions to where I needed to go. After four hours in the car, there was another twenty-five mile drive up a winding road in the dark. The woman warned me to drive carefully; watch for sudden turns and drivers traveling in the opposite direction.

The two-lane road twisted and turned, and after forty minutes, I wondered if I had missed my street. It was pitch black. I was starving. And then, I saw a small sign to my right for Silver Bay.

At the end of this road stood a majestic white building with a wraparound porch lined with rockers. Mine was the only car. Once I discovered an open door, I entered what looked like a living room with a stone fireplace. Few lights were on, and besides the clunk, clunk of my clogs across the wooden floor, the only other sound was a grandfather clock, chiming.

“Hello? Anyone here?” I said, wondering if I had been transported into The Shining, where Jack Nicholson might jump out at me from around the corner. “Hello?”

After a minute, a woman appeared holding a flashlight instead of a hatchet. Clearly, my imagination was working over-time.

The image of The Shining aside, I woke up the next morning and discovered I had indeed been transported to a different place. Not the Overlook Hotel, but a magical place. A world filled with serenity and inspiration, best captured by the photographs I took on my many walks.

While the setting alone was worth the trip; the retreat, organized by Nancy Castaldo, made the weekend unforgettable. The thirty-five writers in attendance were treated to the company of five editors: Kendra Levin, editor at Viking Children’s Books; Julie Tibbott, Senior Editor, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Children’s Book Group; Noa Wheeler, editor at Henry Holt Books; Wendy Loggia, Executive Editor at Delacorte Press; and Mary Kate Castellani, associate editor at Walker Books. These five women were accessible to us throughout. Charming and reachable, funny and honest, they all gave unique, inspiring presentations.

Noa talked about beginnings. Using examples from published works, she identified how to grab our readers on page one. The Wizard of Oz as an example, Kendra addressed characters and how motivation drives story. She led us through exercises to help us learn more about our characters. (I must say that this was my favorite part of the weekend. Through Kendra’s exercise, I discovered the truth behind what gets in the way of one of my protagonists.)

 

Julie Tibbott had all of us sweating for the week prior to the conference. We were instructed to bring a one-page synopsis. 250 words. Some writers had rewritten their synopsis over fifty times. Others painstakingly edited their synopsis until the length was not 251 or 249 words, but exactly 250. Working on this assignment was the topic of conversation throughout the weekend. Synopses are not easy. They can be more painful than writing the novel itself. And if you can’t succinctly describe your story in 250 words, than you may need to rethink the plot. Or other aspects of the work. Julie worked long after her presentation to help each of us. I will always have the image of Julie, head bent over at a table, reading and writing notes, while the rest of us toasted marshmallows at the bonfire.

Mary Kate Castellani also gave an invaluable presentation, discussing how she presents a project to acquisitions. ‘Handle’ is now a part of our vocabulary. We learned the importance of being aware of the market, and that knowing our selling points is a plus. It is essential that you stay current with today’s market, and to be aware of which novels might be similar to yours.

The weekend ended with Wendy Loggia’s presentation on revising step-by-step, where we had the opportunity to hear a selection of her editorial letters, which can range from one to eight pages in length. The editor/author relationship is the heart of the publishing business. Appreciate your editors, who are the true champions of your work, once you receive a contract.

In addition to the editor presentations, each writer had a thirty minute one-on-one with an editor. On Saturday morning, we broke off into groups of seven for peer critiques. These sessions were highly praised by all.

The food was exemplary, the setting breathtaking, and the company of other writers–all of us different–was inspiring to say the least.

Thank you, Nancy and your loyal assistants, the editors who gave so much to us, and my writing peers who opened their hearts and let me in.

I wanted to share some of the beauty of this location, which caught me off guard. I attended Falling Leaves Retreat with one hope: to learn something new. To find a nugget. One nugget I could use to improve my writing. And with this retreat, I experienced so much more, simply because I had no expectations, except to be diligent about my own writing. Being surprised and swept off your rocking chair is much sweeter.  

For what drew me in at this beautiful location, in addition to the writing, here are a few of my photos. I hope you enjoy!

   
 
 
  

 

The Dragonfly

For months now, there have been rumors of a dragonfly living in the toy store. According to the children who have seen the insect, it spent much of its time in the stuffed animal room, but occasionally admired the puzzle boxes in the game area. The dragonfly has also hung out with the praying mantis finger puppets and explored the dress-up area, the hats in  particular. The last sighting, over a week ago, was by a little girl who asked why a bug was reading books.

I have yet to actually see the elusive insect, though the possibility of a visiting dragonfly seemed highly probable. Throughout the summer months, and even now, while the weather remains comfortable, we keep our door open, which the village’s critters see as in invitation to come in. 

Chipmunks sometimes run into our building chasing each other. Birds find their way inside, and occasionally, the village ducks have entered the land of toys, only to be chased out by a curious child wanting to pet them.  Fortunately, the baby skunks who appeared this summer  kept to themselves in the garden surrounding our porch. Nothing was cuter than the skunk twins, and I quickly became enamoured with them, as did anyone else who happened to see them during their early evening strolls.
 
But until the rumors began, we had never had a visiting dragonfly. 
 
This summer, dragonflies captured my interest. Whenever possible, I photographed them, as I did the skunk twins. The window in my writing room overlooks our front yard, and this is where the dragonflies spent much of their time. Whirring and zipping through the air, they were steady companions while I wrote. For me, they seemed to dance in the air, courting or just enjoying life

With this image in mind, I finally met the elusive dragonfly last Sunday.  I was about to vacuum the stuffed animal room when I spotted it on the rug, barely moving, except to turn its head. I bent down and ran my finger along its abdomen. Lifting its dusty wings, it managed two slight flaps.

Was this the dragonfly that the children had seen? How long had it been here? How many hours had the dragonfly spent staring out the window, trying to figure a way out, longing to be in the fresh air among the flowers, free to dance in the breeze?

I placed my hand in front of it, expecting nothing, and yet, it inched onto my fingers. With its legs pinched into my skin, I carried the dragonfly out of the store, imagining the dragonflies from my yard. How they loved my flower gardens, where they would linger on sunny days.

Outside, I held it next to a potted plant and coached the dragonfly to climb off. Instead, it clung to my skin. As gently as I could, I placed it on a yellow flower.

Throughout the day, I checked on it. While it never wandered from the original spot, at times, it moved its head, curling its abdomen like a pig’s tail. The dragonfly repeated this behavior numerous times, until the sun began to set and its head no longer turned and the abdomen had turned straight and hard as a pencil.

I shared this story with my granddaughter, whose first question to me was, “Did you help him feel better, Grandma?”

“Yes,” I told her, “I hope so.”

Free Fall Fridays and My Approach To Prompts

In the past month, I have won two first-page contests. One for Searching For Big Meanie, and the other for Majestoral Dragon. The contests were ultimately judged by two editors and it was exciting to have my pieces stand out. But in truth, I had already won something. I have two new story beginnings, actually, more than that. I have characters with voice who I long to follow. Would they have risen to the surface without the prompts? I don’t know. People have asked me whether I will continue writing past the first pages, and I will, in time. But until then, I keep these characters close at heart, protecting the energy surrounding their stories, even though I know what lies ahead for them.

The prompts which led me to these pieces, and many others, came from Kathy Temean, and for this, I thank her. In the beginning, her challenges terrified me, particularly when I was in a room with other writers and writing cold.  But then, I put aside my doubts and let go. I made a commitment to believe.

I believe in prompts. I believe in plunging into cold water from fifty feet above, even if I do not know how to swim. Even if I am terrified, and filled with self-doubt.

I believe in falling on my face and writing words that make no sense; in filling a page with crappy writing. I believe that out of this, good writing can blossom.

 I believe in practice and patience and pushing myself beyond the safe zone.

I believe in the challenge of following a prompt.

Once I have stated my beliefs, I read the prompt at hand. If there is an accompanying picture, I study that, looking for details and specifics, which might propel a story. If the prompt starts with a particular sentence, I repeat this over and over. And then I wait, allowing time to pass, so my mind can chew on the inspiration while I go about day-to-day living. Other times, I lie on the floor of my writing room, turn on some music, close my eyes, and concentrate on breathing. I try to picture the characters starting to develop in my mind. How do they relate to the prompt? What do they want, and who, or what, gets in their way? Are they in an active scene? Are they alone in their head, thinking? Where are they?

As I drift to the place of imagination, my two cats find me lying on the floor. They hiss. They shove each other. Tails whack my face. Finally, one claims a spot on my chest, while the other plops on my belly. Breathing becomes more challenging than thinking about the prompt. Within minutes, the dog appears. He licks me uncontrollably. My concentration gone, my face coated with slobber, I get off the floor and . . .  go for a walk or play catch with the dog or  do the dishes or start a load of laundry.  All the while, I think about the prompt. I ask myself questions, such as the examples below.

When you study the photos for this week’s prompt ( http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2010/10/22/announcing-free-fall-fridays/) consider:

  1. Is your mc alone or is there someone walking ahead of them up the stairs?
  2. Does your mc want to return to the ground level to engage the child?
  3. Does your mc want to ignore the child and the man?
  4. Who is the man? Is he the child’s father? Are they working together or separately?
  5. How does your mc feel about seeing the young boy beg?
  6. Will the person with your mc (if there is one) create conflict, and why?
  7. Are there other people around, reacting to the child?

Typically, within a few hours, ideas begin to spark. Energy flows through my veins and propels me to write. Once I start, I do not stop until the one page is completed. This is how Majestoral Dragon and Big Meanie evolved. Both were total surprises to me, once I read what I hadwritten.

The more you let go and think of plunging through the air towards the page, the more you will surprise yourself with what you can write. Sometimes for fun, I respond to a prompt immediately after reading it, and then go through my regular routine (as stated above).  It is always interesting to see how similar or different the two pages are.

I look forward to hearing from you, and welcome any suggestions for Free Fall Fridays. May you have fun!

If you would like to read my winning pages, go to 

http://wp.me/pss2W-1Oi

http://wp.me/pss2W-1RG

Thanks for stopping by!

Hats For Sale

Ah, yes, Halloween approaches. The toy store has a full display of dress-up. Firemen suits. Fairy outfits with wings. Secret agent coats with spy sunglasses and mustaches. Dorothy dresses and red ruby slippers. Doctor coats. Knight armour. Capes, and hats. King Tut hats. Crowns. Toy Story hats. Jester hats. Princess crowns. Thanksgiving turkey hats. Witch hats. And all of these hats sit in baskets, or on shelves, or on the spinner rack, the rack I must straighten at least ten times per day because kids (really, more adults and teens) spin the rack, try on every hat, and pose for picture after picture while laughing hysterically. (The babies do not enjoy posing, and in many cases, cry.) Sometimes, I want to cry,too, when I walk to the back of the store–after another picture session–and find a multitude of hats strewn on the floor, as well as glasses.  I bend over . . . Pick up . . . Sort . . . Rearrange . . . Stretch on my tip-toes to reach the top of the spinner rack . . . Bend over . . . Pick up . . .

(Well, it can be considered a form of exercise!)

It is nice to see people enjoying themselves. Laughing and smiling. Though, sometimes we don’t have what a child wants. A five-year-old girl who frequents our store wants to be a bat for Halloween. Aside from stuffed bats and bat puppets, all I can offer is a suggestion on how to make a bat outfit, while secretly being thankful that I don’t have to do it myself.

But the best part is when a child finds an outfit he is excited about, and we have the needed size on hand. Last week, a seven-year-old boy was torn over choosing between a Spiderman/Batman cape, a police outfit, or the secret agent attire. I suggested that he try on the secret agent coat. “It’s okay,” he told me.  “Just okay?” I said, grabbing the hat to put on his head. I handed him the spy glasses to wear, and pointed him in the direction of a mirror. While he admired his new persona, I assembled a secret agent case, and then helped him put on a mustache.

“I LOVE IT!” he said, still admiring his reflection in the mirror, and then in the glass doll cases. And the glass Steiff cases. And the window behind our register. His mother paid for the outfit while the boy pulled up on the coat’s collar. With a salute, he headed out the door on a mission. “A spy mission to save the world,” he told me.

I wished him well, and headed up the ramp for my own mission: picking the hats, once again, off the floor. In the middle of my stretching routine, the phone rang.

 It was my granddaughter.

“Guess what, Grandma! I know what I want to be for Halloween and you are gonna LOVE IT!”

“I will love it. What are you going to be?”

“I. Am. Gonna. Be. A Bat.”

“Oh . . .  I love it!” She chatted while I envisioned making this costume in my spare time, which I have none of at this moment. 

The next morning, we search for  bat costumes on the Internet. Sadly, so many of them are inappropriate for a young girl to wear. (I won’t comment on this now.) Finally, we find a bat costume. A cute one. A black bat. It’s perfect, and the price is reasonable, and there is free shipping!

“How is this one?” I ask Ava and point at my computer screen. It is 7:15 in the morning. I feel hopeful. I am ready to click on the button to finalize my purchase.

“No, Grandma. That bat is black. I am gonna be a fruit bat. A brown one.”

I wonder if I can convince her to be a secret agent instead?

 

 

 

  

  

What is Your Definition of Tons?

Now that school is back in session, the energy in the toy store has shifted. Fewer people come through the door, and I can actually hear which songs are playing on the radio. During school hours, the wee ones who frequent the store are generally in strollers.  And wearing diapers. Boxes arrive needing to be checked in, priced, and displayed in an appealing way. And while I  enjoy this task, I miss seeing the children, the young customers  I have come to know and enjoy. I miss talking to them, discussing what books they are reading, and listening to whatever they choose to reveal.

This past weekend, there were a  number of memorable customers: the seven-year-old girl who proudly announced to me that she was now a Junior Dinosaur Hunter; the girl who wants to be a giant bat for Halloween and needed help finding baby bats to be her babies; the boy who always wears a tie, and has a collection of over five hundred ties; the three-year-old girl who grabbed my hand and led me through the store showing me everything she liked; the two young brothers who negotiated for almost an hour in the stuffed animal room until one brother’s terms of repayment abruptly put an end to the negotiations; and the seven-year-old girl who came in yesterday, after school, to spend her savings.

At 3:30, she walked into the store with her grandmother, dressed in a plaid school uniform. She came to buy something. Anything. Whatever she could afford with what was in her change purse, or rather a long knitted sock with a brass clasp at the top.

Generally the accompanying adult or the child, or both, are aware of how much the child has to spend. They go back and forth, discussing which toys are affordable, and which would require that the child wait and save up more money. In most cases, the child chooses not to wait. They want to buy something now. Today.

I offered my assistance to the grandmother, hoping she knew the child’s spending limit. She didn’t. “Oh, she has her own money and has to choose herself. This could take a long time,” she said. “A very, very long time.”

After letting her know I would help, as needed, (and that I understood her predicament), I returned to the day’s shipments. I priced the new product “Find It” and began to make room on glass shelving to the left of our register. First I put away the school themed items: die-cast school bus, remote control school bus, a Ravensburger puzzle with a school bus and cats for students, and an assortment of back-to-school books. Shelves clean, I worked on displaying the new game, which is very intriguing and sounds like a lot of fun for all ages.

Behind me the girl continued to look and look and look. “You can’t afford that,” her grandmother said. (The two of them were standing in front of the glass cases where we keep the collectible dolls.) Ten minutes went by. “No, you can’t afford that, either.” After ten more minutes, and five more “You can’t afford that,” the grandmother sighed, and suggested they go home.Pleaded was more like it.  The girl refused.

This was my signal to assist, while following my Six Steps to Get a Child To Leave the Toy Store Smiling and With a Purchase They Will Enjoy.

1. Introduce yourself to the child and let them know you will help them.

2. Assure the adult involved that you are experienced in these type of situations, and with any luck, they should be able to leave the store within ten minutes.

3. Ask the child what they are interested in, or more importantly, what they are hoping to buy with their money. (Pray that the child is not set on taking home a Steiff or Madame Alexander doll, because if that is the case, you will have a challenge on your hands.)

4. Find out how much money they have with them.

5. Knowing their interests, show them a variety of items within their budget. If they keep going back to the collectibles, distract them before they even enter that area. (You can easily distract a child by asking them questions about their family, pets, siblings, etc.) Children love to talk about themselves.

6. VERIFY HOW MUCH MONEY THEY HAVE.

In this case, steps 1 and 2 went smoothly. In step 3, I confirmed the challenge on hand. She wanted a doll. A $91.00 doll. I jumped to step 4 and asked, “How much money did you bring with you?” 

 “Lots.” She smiled and jingled her lavender and gray knitted sock, its contents clinking.

“How much is lots?”

“Tons.” Clink. Clink. Clinkety-clink.

I began to ask for her definition of tons when she sprang to step 5 on her own. “My brother has lots of money. He has millions of money. More than me.” Clink. Clink. Clink.

“I see,” I said and steered her away from the collectibles, in the direction of the games and puzzles.

“I have to sleep in a bunk bed.”

“Top or bottom?”

“Bottom. My brother–the one who has the millions–he sleeps on the top, cuz I have rules. Lots of rules.”

At this point, her grandmother sent me a distress signal. I needed to have this child out the door in less than five minutes. As a writer, I was intrigued by the girl’s conversation. What kind of rules did she have? Did the brother follow them? Did she make up the rules herself and  . . .

The grandmother was fading. Fast.

“How many dollars do you have with you?” I said, wishing to hear more about her rules.

“Don’t know. Let me see,” she said and shook her sock. Clink. Clink. Clink. “See. Told you. I have tons.” She held the sock closer to my ear so I could varify the tons of money.

“Why don’t we count what you have, just to be sure.” I walked her to the register, picked up the calculator, and asked her to empty the sock. There were wadded dollar bills–two of them, and coins. Tons of coins. Pennies and nickels and dimes and quarters and coins from other countries.

We counted. The grandmother sorted the nickels. I flattened the dollar bills. The girl made a stack of pennies. A very tall stack, which teetered precariously.

Money counted, she insisted on buying the $91 doll. Her sock contained $3.86 in American money. Two minutes remained before the deadline was up.

I rushed through the store, desperately seeking small items priced $3.00 and below. The girl dragged her feet, mumbling about the doll, and why was it that her baby brother had millions and she didn’t.

Nothing caught her interest. I had a basket filled with little Schleich animals, lanyard in different colors, coloring books, and temporary tattoos. (Silly bands were not allowed in her household.) The girl shuffled behind me, clinking her coins, and clinging to her dream of buying the doll. The grandmother announced  “Time is up.” The girl’s eyes flooded with tears.

“You said you like dolls, right?” I said.

She nodded, beginning to cry.

“What do you feed your babies?”

“Cheerios, jello, crackers . . .”

“How about a baby bottle?”

“Okay,” she said and wiped her eyes.

I leaned closer to her and whispered. “How about two baby bottles?”

She beamed and followed me to the register. Out dumped the money. We all shared in counting out  $3.17.  “You’re an angel,” her grandmother said as they left the store.

I wished them well, thinking, I am not an angel. I am a writer who is incredibly lucky to work at a toy store.

Our website is finally up and running. Most of the pictures were taken by me, which I hope reflect the true essence of The Toy Soldier. www.toysoldiermystic.com

Never Forget

Last year, while attending the water fires in Providence, RI, I happened upon the Wall Of Hope: a community response to September 11th. Set beneath the street, the area is decorated with hundreds of tiles, many created by children.

Beyond the Wall of Hope, the canal was filled with people laughing, music blaring, and the scent of fire. Yet, in the area of the wall, no one spoke. People of all ages moved silently about, reading, taking pictures, crying, remembering.

For those who have not had the opportunity to see this memorial, I wanted to share some of the images that touched my heart, and have stayed with me ever since.

We must never forget the lives lost that day, and the lives affected by diligently working at Ground Zero. Firefighters and police officers are honored and remembered (and rightly so), but paramedics and EMTs were also present, and are mentioned less frequently. They deserve to be recognized.

A peaceful day of remembrance for all.

Beverly the Moth

My day starts with the arrival of my four-year-old granddaughter. It is barely 7:00 a.m. She prances in, kicks her sandals off her feet (leaving them where they land–in front of our refrigerator), and stops cold.  

“Grandma . . . Grandma! Look at that little cute moth,” says Ava.  

Cradling a cup of coffee in my hands, I nearly trip over her shoes to get a closer look. Yes, there is a moth on my counter. An unusual pink moth. But, cute?  

“She is berry hungry, Grandma. I need to feed her.” Ava opens the refrigerator door. Out comes a bottle of apple juice, a can of tuna, a container of lettuce–   

“Where are the fruit snacks? I need some fruit snacks,” she announces. “Please!”

Back into the refrigerator goes the bottle of apple juice. The can of tuna. And the lettuce. I hand Ava a package of fruit snacks. She demolishes the serving, offering only one “yucky green” colored one to the moth. The moth shows no interest. It doesn’t move. It  may even be dead. I lean closer until I am several inches away from the insect.

“Is she eating, Grandma?”

“No, she is not eating and–” The pink moth flies toward my face, then back to the counter as if to say, “Yes, silly human, I am alive.”

 “See, Grandma, I told you she was hungry,” Ava says with a smile. “I am getting a toy for her.” A minute later, Ava plunks a pair of plastic puppies on the counter. The moth continues to pose. After five, very long minutes, we watch and wait for the moth (now dubbed Beverly) to do something. Anything.

“Maybe she wants to go outside,” I tell Ava. 

“Oh…”

I coach Beverly onto my hand and then transfer her to Ava’s hand. Beverly escapes. I capture her. Ava tries again. Beverly escapes and I track her down one more time. The moth back in Ava’s custody, I remind her to keep her hands clasped until she is safely out the door.

“Okay, okay, Grandma.” She whispers, “Goodbye, Beverly. I will miss you, Beverly . . .”

I open the door.  Ava opens her hands . . . Ava says, “Uh-oh . . .”

Beverly had no intention of ever leaving my home. And as for what happened to the little pink moth, well . . .

Here is the newest story that Ava dictated to me while drawing her own illustrations.

BEVERLY THE MOTH

Beverly was a little pink moth. All alone. Then Beverly found her family. Her family lived in a tree. It was a little tree. The color of yellow. A little like a yellow crayon. Then Beverly saw the baby moth. It was a beautiful baby moth.  And the pink moth was the mom, Beverly.  

Beverly the Moth

Beverly did not know she had a baby. The baby was orange. (“Is that a good color for a moth, Grandma?”)  

Then Beverly got lost in the land of toys.  

Beverly was scared of the little tiny toy dogs. She wanted to go home. But then, Ava picked her up and carried her outside. And when Ava opened her hands, Beverly flew back inside the house. And now, we cannot find her.  

Where is Miss Beverly Moth?  

What is she doing?  

OH NO!!!  

Beverly Moth is in Joey, the cat’s tummy!  

Joey's Full Tummy
Joey at the Tree of Moths
The Tummy Ache

Joey the cat got big tummy with big legs. He eats too much food and now he has a horse in his tummy. He wants nothing else.  

The end

Written by four-year-old Ava.

Searching for Butterflies

Whenever I work in my gardens, go for a walk, or play outside with my granddaughter, I look for butterflies to photograph. If a flicker of yellow or orange flits past me, I run for my camera, hoping. Have the butterflies arrived?  Might one linger on top of a flower long enough for me to capture it in a photograph? What does their arrival mean to me?

By the time I return with camera in hand, the bright colors have disappeared, and I begin to wonder if my imagination is playing tricks on me. Yet, I do not give up. I continue to wait for their arrival and instead, focus on the insects invading our yard: bees, wasps, beetles, mosquitos, and pincer bugs. Just to name a few. This has surprised me, as typically, I abhor bugs. I do not want to touch them, nor do I want them to land and crawl on me.  They destroy my gardens and are obsessed with the scent of my skin. Ticks cling to me as if I were a magnet. And last summer, bees built an underground nest beneath my front garden. Not knowing this, I was happily weeding early one evening when a swarm of bees flew from their hole and attacked me.  As I ran screaming for safety, three followed me into the house. My face was swollen for days.

Last month I visited my nine-year-old nieces in Idaho, who are fascinated by bugs. And rocks. Mostly, bugs. I put aside my fear and disdain for insects and saw them through the eyes of a child. Through my camera, I became fascinated by these tiny creatures. And that change grew out of seeing the tiniest details. The way some insects’ eyes look like an alien’s. How they scratch at their heads with one of their legs while resting on a flower. How hard they work. How comical and cartoonish they appear. How they court and mate in similar patterns to humans.

As in all well-written stories, details are what bring the pages to life for a reader. They allow us to go deeper into the story, tugging at us until we unconsciously slip through the pages and into the world we are reading about. As I followed the insects with my nieces in Idaho, I felt as if I was falling, and being pulled, into a world I had never visited: a world of the tiniest of creatures from another planet. The details sparked my interest. They drew in me, and surprisingly, made me yearn for more.  This desire reminded me of how I feel upon reading the final page of a well-written novel. (A good book leaves you satisfied at the end, yet sad. Sad, because you don’t want the book to end. You want to linger with the character, remaining in their world.) These are the books I covet; lined up on my shelf where I see them early every morning as I settle down to write.

And so, while I wait for the butterflies to arrive, I photograph bugs, still unsure why I am compelled to follow them. Perhaps, there is a story there. A character longing for my attention. All I know is that I will follow the insects as long as I am inspired to do so. Until the pieces fall into their places. Until I understand why a small bee captured my attention for thirty minutes. Why I let my dinner get cold while I photographed a cricket couple in the pouring rain, clinging to a daylily. Why I cry at the sight of dragonflies chasing each other in the early evening, their bodies zipping over my head.

I have opened my eyes to the world of bees and beetles and dragonflies, following the advice quoted on an Idaho shopping bag: “Do one thing each day that scares you.” And that I have done, never knowing how much pleasure I would get in return.

The Stable

One of the things that I live for are those moments of surprise. Moments you don’t anticipate. Moments which take your breath away. For me, this week, it involved a stable. And a horse. And a bale of hay on which I sat on a warm day in Boise, Idaho.

I have spent the last five weeks revising a novel, trying to finish a second novel, attending SCBWI conferences, and working on a web site for the toy store where I work.( I had the pleasure of doing the photography for the site.) While I reminded myself to do my weekly blog, the days and weeks passed by so quickly, I soon discovered that over a month had gone by. I had hoped to slip back into a routine of blogging, but after three days, I had ten drafts. None of which were complete.

And then one of my niece’s needed to be taken to her horseback riding lesson at a farm, where not only twenty horses lived, but also sheep, llamas, chickens, goats, ducks, and a stray turkey. After the class practiced in the ring, they set out to ride at the base of the mountains, and any waiting parents retired to their car. With a camera by my side, and the exquisite landscape before me, I had no desire to follow suit. Instead, I followed the baby lambs, visited the turkey, and when the sun became too unbearable,  I headed to the stable to escape the heat. Except for the occasional rooster crow, the building was quiet, the temperature cool, and the thoroughbred spotted horse captured my attention, as well as my heart.

I never go anywhere without a notebook and pen, and so I sat on two bales of hay, which pushed against the stall of a brown horse. (Before my sister retired to the loft above to rest, I snapped a picture of her sitting at the same spot.) I leaned against the wooden planks, while the horse nuzzled my head. I expected the pen to dangle from my fingers. I expected to be stuck, but then I looked at the door at the end of the stable, and inspiration poured in like the sun peeking through the stable doors. Pen to paper, I wrote, finding the voice of one of my characters who has eluded me in the past week. I saw the stable as she did. In the moment.  Breaking only to shoot pictures of the two horses, I completed four pages by hand, and not once, did I miss having my computer. 

When I return to Connecticut, I will carry these memories with me, as well as the inspiration, and the honor of having been in the presence of such magnificent creatures.

Inspire Children To Write

Yesterday, my four-year-old granddaughter asked me why I am always writing.

“Grandma, why do you always do that?”

“Because I love to write. And I am writing stories.”

“Oh,” says Ava.  She picks up my notebook and studies it. “I want to write stories too.”

I turn on my computer. “Okay, Grandma will type it out while you tell me your story.”

Ava appears to be thinking. She walks around the room. Picks up toys: her stuffed dragon, her plastic unicorn, her bear in a princess outfit.  “I need to talk the story into the microphone,” she tells me.

I hand her my compact recorder and turn it on.  Standing tall, and using hand gestures, she begins to share her story (after lining up a slew of her stuffed animals on my couch to be her audience).

And thus, Princess Freed, begins:

Keep in mind, her new word for the week is apparently.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Once upon a time there was a beautiful unicorn.  And a princess. And the princess’s  name was A Flower. She lived in a faraway castle.

It was berry, berry faraway, Grandma.

And the dragon flew, blowing fire at the princess. Then this enormous bird came and he tried to get the dragon but the dragon was berry fast. He was too fast. He went soaring through the air, flopping with enormous wings up above the body. Then a bird came with a bubble blower in his beak, holding the bubble blower, and he tried to shoot the dragon who tried to blow fire but the bird winned.

The dragon was dead and he couldn’t move anymore and the princess was freed . . .

So apparently . . .  the princess really wanted to buy a new dress. But apparently she could not drive and get to the mall. So the princess flew on a Pegasus. Then the Pegasus went to the zoo and left the princess at the mall. A Flower could not get home.

Then apparently a huge hawk came flying through the air to drive the princess back to the palace . . .

But a dragon ate them for lunch.

And the princess was dead.

But then the hawk spit her out of his tummy. She did not taste berry good.

The end.

Oh . . . and they all lived happily ever after.

By Ava.

After dictating to me, she decided to draw her own illustrations. Next, I hope to discuss story structure with her, the importance of details, consistency, and having the protagonist solve their own problem.

Look for a revised story in a future blog.