The Writing Barn’s Magic

wpid-IMG_20130211_131304.jpgSONY DSCMore months than I would have hoped for have passed since my last blog post. It’s not as if I haven’t been writing. I have. For hours on end. At this time in my life, the work I do on my novels bears more importance because ultimately, I want to leave something behind on this earth. Something beautiful. Whether it be through published works, photographs, or by inspiring the children I encounter on a daily basis, this is where my main focus remains. Still, I enjoy blogging, so I am jumping back in with hopes that I can resume a more regular routine. Thank you for bearing with me.

I recently returned from a three-day stay at The Writing Barn in Austin, Texas. This inspiring place of sanctity is run by author Bethany Hegedus, who couldn’t be more kind, welcoming, or talented. The Writing Barn is just as welcoming with its endless shelves of books, calming figurines, and the artwork of E. B. Lewis, all of which greets you when you walk through the front door. Before you even unpack your bags, you know you won’t want to leave. You want to breathe everything in, read the array of fabulous novels, books on writing, all there for visitors to enjoy. You want to sit outside and watch hawks soar above the grounds, traipse past cactus plants in search of a bunny you spot on the drive in. And the baby deer romping through the thicket, you want to enjoy their presence.

You unpack your bag and get to work, because that is why you are here. To learn. To grow. To absorb the energy that exists in this beautiful place. To look deep into your current WIP and be truthful about what needs to change. Because in order to grow, one must change, even in the way we approach our writing.

SONY DSCI was fortunate to have a dear writer friend with me. Both Nanci Turner Steveson and I had important revisions to tackle. We read each other’s manuscripts ahead of time. We took vows to be honest, painfully honest about what didn’t work, while emphasizing the positive qualities. I struggle with preferring to know where I’ve fallen short in my writing, probably because I thrive on revision. It makes me feel alive and brings out the best in me. I ask my wonderful agent to hold nothing back in terms of questions or asking me to delve deeper. The more intense a revision, the more I grow as both a person and a writer.

SONY DSCMy stay at The Writing Barn did wonders for my soul. It could have been the colorful lanterns that swing in the trees, the sound of Nanci tapping on her laptop with her headphones on, or the moments of clarity that would happen after taking a photography break outside. There is a sense of peace here, and the best writing juju. While not quite tangible, you feel the wisdom left behind by previous writers, many of them published authors. In the porch beyond the kitchen, the wooden beams hold the signatures of published illustrators/writers. Every now and then I’d look above me, knowing that I, too, would sign a beam one day.

SONY DSCWe have to believe in our writing, even when we close ourselves around our work, protecting it. Do not be afraid to do this. Think of your work as precious, like a baby fawn not ready to be on its own. For the most part, all else is beyond your control. The only thing that matters is that you do the work. Day in and day out, to the best of my ability. My father always told me to protect the energy surrounding a story, to keep it safe, until it was strong enough to send out into the world.

So that’s what I’ve been doing since I returned from The Writing Barn. Revising, revising, revising. Writing, writing, writing. Aside from that, I am living life, always thankful for the people I hold closest to my heart, thankful for the wonderful books I read each night before falling asleep, and thankful that places like The Writing Barn exist.

My deepest gratitude to Bethany Hegedus, who believed in creating this barn of wonder and inspiration and much beauty. Thank you for sharing your joy of writing with others.

wpid-IMAG0169-1-1.jpgFor more on information on booking an individual writing retreat or attending one of their classes, go to: http://www.thewritingbarn.com.

SONY DSC

SONY DSC

SONY DSC

SONY DSC

SONY DSC

SONY DSC

SONY DSC

Dear Dad . . .

It seems like forever since I’ve last posted on my blog. So much has happened over the past four months, and I apologize for not including you in my recent journeys. I have, in fact, been writing each and every day, for up to five hours at a time. In addition to working the long summer hours at the toy store, my brain was focused on ripping apart a beloved novel because I had a “bit of worry.” (I am forever grateful to the editor who used this phrase in their rejection letter, as their worry led to my worry.) I’ve spent May and June being brave, and doing something I’d never tried before. I bid a heartfelt adieu to a character in Savannah’s Mountain, and then found the courage to sit back and wait for Savannah to return to me. Whisper to me. And she did, and I listened, and I discovered that another character belonged within the pages of her story. As I tossed aside chunks of the manuscript, my father’s words echoed in my head. And this gave me strength and hope that I could face the challenge.

Set aside your personal feelings and do what serves the story best.

I hope, dear readers, to share more about this process and about other journeys, I’ve traveled since May. But for now, I have something important to do. I need to tell my father my good news: news he’s been expecting for almost twenty years.

 

 

Dear Dad,

It has been nearly a year since I last held your hand, stroked your head, and told you that it was okay to leave this earth. I know you wanted so much to hang on, and those words “I need to live long enough to see you published” stay within my heart. It is okay that you let go. You deserved to be in peace, without pain. And perhaps that is what needed to happen in order to allow each of us to grow. Since your death, I’ve worked even harder, and my writing has gone to places I’d never imagined. Maybe a bit of your immense talent was left behind on this earth, and now tiny pieces are growing within the hearts and souls of your family.

Lately, your presence is strong, and it brings me much comfort. Perhaps a bit of your spirit was in the dragonfly that insisted on sitting on our jade plant, twisting and turning his head, giving me a quizzical look. It stayed with me for nearly an hour, as if to watch and make sure I was writing on the porch and doing my work as I promised you I would. You may have been the butterfly that posed for over twenty minutes among our flowers or the red-tailed hawk soaring in the sky above me when I learned some good news.

These are moments when I look up at that great blue sky or wonder at the beauty of a sunset or lose my breath over a glorious full moon or take great joy at seeing your great-granddaughter in awe of a beluga whale. This is when I become the little girl sitting next to you in our backyard long ago, watching your fingers fly across a yellow legal pad as you tried to keep up with the setting sun. I remember swinging my growing legs, not knowing how the deep desire to write was finding its way from where you sat in a sagging lawn chair into my heart. This is when the creative seed was planted, only to grow and grow over the years, until I could no longer ignore the passion.

Now, it is still dark outside, and I have been awake since 4 a.m., because before I can go on to the stage of becoming a published author, I need to hear your voice and tell you what you’d been waiting for all these years. You saw something in me that I didn’t yet understand. At times, I still don’t. So I settle on my porch in a lawn chair and listen to one of the recordings of that wonderful, musical voice of yours. Hearing you speak gives me much comfort, and I thank you for letting me record you over the last year of your life.

Are you listening, Dad? I got the call, and I now have a brilliant and loving agent (Emily van Beek with Folio Literary), who speaks of my writing with a tone so familiar, I poured over all your emails, I can never delete. And there it was. My Emily’s words reflect yours. So perhaps you had a hand in this. Perhaps you sent her to me so I can be pushed, and will then ultimately give my best work to the world. Know that I am listening, and that I will continue to listen to you, Dad.

Know that I’ve kept my promise.

Lastly, I want you to assure that we are all good here on this earth: your children, your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. And Mom, we are watching out for Mom.

Not a day goes by when I don’t miss you, when I don’t give thanks for having had you in my life. I am so, so lucky.

I love you oodles and boodles and Skittles galore.

Your daughter, Betsy

P.S.- Dad, I’m doing great. I hope you are too.

Whispering Pines Writing Retreat 2012

This year, the method for choosing Whispering Pines attendees came down to the luck of the draw: a lottery. As long as you met the deadline, you had a chance at having your name pulled from the hat. But within a few weeks, I received a sympathetic e-mail from the lovely Mary Pierce. While I felt a sense of loss, I quickly moved on. I spent more hours writing each day, finished another novel, and wrote two new picture books. Writing fills my soul, but I kept flipping to the month of March on the calendar, yearning for the pines that whisper in the early morning, for my friends, and for the opportunities to improve my craft.

 

Why is the Whispering Pines Writer’s Retreat so special? In an intimate setting, it is one of a kind. Yes, the food is fabulous, the setting breathtaking, but in truth it comes down to the mentors. Because of Lynda Mullaly Hunt’s efforts, attendees spend the weekend with welcoming, generous, and astute editors, agents, writers, and illustrators. So when Lynda announced a few openings (provided you wrote picture books), I received a “Yes, you’re in!” e-mail. And on Friday, March 23, I bid my family farewell and headed to West Greenwich, Rhode Island.

As soon as you turn down the road leading to the retreat center, your body relaxes. You open your car window to suck in the fresh air. The pine trees pull you further along, welcoming you. Come, they whisper. You are a writer. Come be with your kind.

This year, our fabulous mentors included Michelle Poploff, Vice President, Executive Editor at Delacorte Press; Yolanda Scott, editorial director at Charlesbridge; Andrea Carcardi, Agent at Transatlantic Literary Agency; Suzanne Bloom, Author/Illustrator; Alexis O’Neill, Marketing/School Visits Expert/Author; and Jo Knowles, YA Novelist. When not critiquing individuals, they were available to attendees, always offering encouragement. Their first pages panel offered honest opinions, and ultimately a mini-class on how to craft a first page and grab the reader’s attention from the get go. . Even though my work was not included, I learned so much. I always do.

Attendees indulged in the finest of foods, had one-on-one critiques, blocks of individual writing time, and critique group sessions. Our annual basket raffle turned into a successful silent auction. Our mentors gave hour-long presentations on both Saturday and Sunday, while the weekend ended with another lively game of Jeopardy.

Alexis O’Neill shared her tips for giving school presentations, and always, you knew the feelings of kids were foremost in her mind. I highly recommend you visit and study Alexis’ website: www.schoolvisitsexpert.com. As she told us, “My assembly is always about the kids. What can I do for them?” I could not have asked for a better mentor that weekend. Alexis critiqued one of my picture book manuscripts and helped guide me in the right direction. (We both realized during my session that our names were familiar. Alexis was a judge for the 2011 Barbara Karlin Grant. My picture book manuscript, Norman and Rose, won the runner-up grant. A small world, indeed.)

Andrea Cascardi also spoke to my heart. With 20 years of editorial experience, she is a hands-on agent, offering an editorial eye. She told us to trust our gut, and listening to her, I felt as if I had found my way home. Andrea discussed the importance of moving the human heart and offering hope. One must dig deep, but also know when to take a step back. Thank you, Andrea! I am digging deeper because of you.

Yolanda Scott discussed picture books, an absolute love of mine. She shared Charlesbridge’s unique qualities, and then discussed the vital elements of picture books: character, plot, and voice. Whenever an editor gushes over their love of picture books, I am spellbound. Thank you, Yolanda! Your words drive my current revisions, keeping me focused on the importance of structure, and picking the stronger emotional path.

Michelle Poploff addressed setting, how it has a life of its own.  Details are what bring a book to life, as long as it is all for the good of the story. What struck me the most about Michelle is how she champions her authors. An enthusiastic editor is a dream editor. I also loved being introduced to novels she has worked on. Some I was not familiar with, though that will change. Books have been ordered. Thank you, Michelle!

I have met Jo Knowles before, having attended her workshop at an Encore Presentation though New England SCBWI. Jo has a way of making you less afraid to reach deep inside, knowing it will stir emotions and memories. She addressed the importance of first pages, citing a number of examples. Jo reminded us that our job is to compel the reader early on, so to keep them reading. As a volunteer, I won an arc of See You at Harry’s. This is a beautiful story, and one that obviously came from deep within Jo’s gracious spirit. Thank you, Jo! www.joknowles.com

I think about Suzanne Bloom, how she shared some of her artwork from childhood, and I smile. Watching her draw was magical. Listening to her read A Splendid Friend, Indeed was sheer delight. Suzanne talked about making choices, her love of peeling back. “It is all about what is going to work out there,” she said. And Suzanne is right. For picture books, children need fun words, juiciness, flow, and rhythm. Like Alexis, she stressed how she is all about the children, telling us to fall in love with our characters. And in the end, she reminded us how lucky we are. We are doing our art. I am grateful for this gift. Suzanne’s words stuck with me as I drove away from the retreat. They still stick with me now while I write and revise: “You do it for the children.” Thank you, Suzanne! www.suzannebloom.com

This weekend would not happen without the dedication and hard work of a number of volunteers, but mostly two people: Lynda Mullaly Hunt and Mary Pierce. Mary took on more responsibilities this year to help Lynda, whose first novel, One for the Murphys, comes out in May. www.lyndamullayhunt.com I cannot wait for my copy to arrive, for if it reflects even a small amount of Lynda’s essence, the book will be a gift to the world of children’s literature. When I think of Lynda, a single image comes to mine, one that has beckoned to me in previous years, but more so this time: the rock in the lake. In the way that Lynda supports us, humors and cares for us, she is a rock. She is our rock, and the Whispering Pines Retreat reflects who she is as a human being. Thank you, Mary! Thank you, Lynda! 

As I drove away from the weekend, leaving my friends, feeling a bit sad, I realized this year’s message: It is all about the children. What can we give them? How can we shape the future through our stories? How can we offer hope? Laughter? Encouragement? How can our characters, who breathe life onto our pages, be examples of strength through their own struggles? How can we introduce more heroes to this world?

You must take a vow to give your very best. Make writing your profession, even if you work elsewhere. Carve time in your day to write. Carve time in your busy schedule to attend writing workshops or retreats. Seek out mentors. Become a mentor. Children deserve our best.

Yes, writing can be lonely.  It takes conviction and courage to spend hours in solitude. Yet it is a gift. As Suzanne Bloom says, we are doing our art. So open your heart, dig deep into that place of aching, and let the thought of giving something back to the children of this world lead and inspire you to revise, and revise, and revise, until you reach a level of excellence. But do not stop there. Continue to learn and grow as a writer for the rest of your life.

It has taken me several weeks to blog about Whispering Pines 2012, and then I realized why. I have a tradition of calling my father after every conference or retreat. He would relish in my words, wanting to know what I’d learned. Always pushing me to dig deeper. Since he passed in September, this is the first Whispering Pines Retreat I could not share with him.

So before I finalize this post, I sit on my porch, admiring the clouds. Visualizing my father’s spirit, somewhere in the blue sky. Surrounding me. Watching over me. Encouraging me.

I tell him what I learned at Whispering Pines.

I promise to never give up.

I remind him that whether he is on this earth or not, he will always be my rock. And I am grateful.

What Makes You Grateful?

As a writer for children, I am used to having a new character’s voice come to me at any time of the day or night. I may be dreaming or driving. Bathing or taking a walk. Sometimes, I am working at the toy store, where a conversation with a young child can easily spark an idea.

But never has a project spoken to me, at least in the way that the Look For the Good Project has. It started with a newspaper article I read in our local paper. I recognized the photo of Anne Kubitsky, who I met this past May when we were both honored with a 2011 New Voices in Children’s Literature: Tassy Walden Award. She was the winner in the illustrated picture book category. What a treat to hear her voice read Graycie’s Catch. And what an honor to see her accompanying illustrations. Anne captivated the audience with her heartfelt illustrations, and her obvious love for kindness. (I have always had a soft spot for whales.)

I cut out the article and posted it near my desk. With Christmas approaching, I hurried to finish photo projects for my girls’ gifts. My time was limited; I was behind in everything. Yet, I could not stop thinking about Anne and the whale and her vision for a community art project that would become part of a traveling exhibit, featuring postcards from all over the world in which people of all ages state what makes them grateful.

My father would have loved this project and perhaps this is why the idea of it tugged at my heart. Even in pain, he would always stop to be thankful: thankful for the clouds, the comical behavior of a tiny chipmunk, the love of his family, the opportunity to speak to a grandchild or his great-granddaughter, and the ability to express himself through his writing. My father always appreciated the warmth of another’s hand, a stranger’s smile and compassion. A clean pair of sheets. Socks on his cold feet. His thinning hair being brushed. A small window so he could watch the birds outside.

The more I thought about Anne’s vision, the more grateful I was for my family, especially while I poured over photos at CVS, waiting behind a woman who had left her coupons in the car. I told her there was no need to apologize, even though it was nearly midnight and I had worked for ten hours at the toy store. She went to her car for her coupons and her bonus bucks, and when the total was finally tallied, she needed to spend 98 cents more to be able to use her CVS bucks.

“I am so sorry to hold you up,” she said.

“Relax, take your time,” I told her, studying a photo of my youngest dressed as Santa at the age of six months. (I had taped cotton balls to a bib to use as a beard.)

“Just buy some candy,” said the clerk.

“I don’t eat candy, though my dad does, but only one kind.” The woman perused the candy selection, not finding what she was after. She became flustered and then . . .

“Perfect! I found it.” She held a bag of Skittles in her hand.

My father’s favorite candy.

I believe his spirit is out there, watching over his family, nudging us when we need that extra push, and especially while our family struggled to get through our first Christmas without him.

This encounter was my father nudging me.

He would have been so grateful for that bag of Skittles, and so I contacted Anne to see how I could help with the project, because I believe in her message: the importance of reflecting on what is good.

My father taught me this, and I am forever grateful for his lessons. Every day I follow his example and find beauty in this world. Beauty that makes me stop whatever I am doing to wonder, and to be thankful for the smallest of miracles: the extraordinary within the ordinary. In this post, as with others, I share some of my photos, including the grateful postcards sent by my five-year-old granddaughter.

What about you, what makes you grateful? Ask yourself, ask your children, ask your friends. Ask a stranger. Spread the word and send a postcard. Send two. Write something. Draw something. Reflect on what is good. As Anne likes to say, “You are invited to write/ paint/ draw a glimmer of gladness on a postcard.”

The project’s link is www.lookforthegoodproject.org. There you will see a sample of many of the inspirational cards being received. Press links are included here: www.lookforthegoodproject.org/about

Postcards are needed by the 15th of January, though any received after that will become part of the exhibit. (You can mail multiple cards in one envelope to save individual postage). The premier show will be held in New London, CT on January 28th  at the Custom House Maritime Museum. I hope to see you there!

I have a template for three postcards per sheet that you can print on cardstock and cut up. Let me know if you would like a copy emailed to you. I always keep a handful in my purse to share as needed.

Happy New Year to all, and may you find what makes you grateful in this world. Be thankful. Peace.

P. S. – Dad, I miss you. Love you always, Betsy

 

 

 

 

 

 

How Writing Can Heal

Do you know the feeling when something wonderful is brewing? Something that will lead you to the heart of a story that you thought had promise, but the potential was yet to be discovered?

These past two months, writing has helped me grieve the recent loss of my father.  I refrained from blogging to focus on my work. I even forced myself to rise earlier than the sun each morning, so that I could write in peace. Not a small feat if you know me well. Having to get out of bed early and assure that my two daughters were awake for school was torture to me.

Now I write before the sun first appears, for up to four hours, undisturbed–except for our yellow tabby that slyly inches across my writing couch and thinks I don’t notice his paw reaching over to my laptop until he plops halfway across my body and the keyboard.

I scoot Joey away and write whatever comes to mind. Or welcome new voices that have popped up in the recent days, or revisit an unfinished manuscript. (In the past month, I have written two picture books without thinking about them ahead of time. In a way, they wrote themselves, one morning between my first cup of coffee and lunch.)

In this same vein, my younger middle-grade protagonist, E. B. Louise, returned to my world one morning at 5:45 am. Still curled beneath my covers, I was not ready for fall mornings, when it is too cold to get out of bed because the heat has not yet kicked in, and the thought of having to race across a wood floor in bare feet to use the bathroom made me shiver. I decided to test the strength of my bladder and stay beneath the comforter.

E. B. Louise started to yak, yak, yak at me, and then it felt like a heavy encyclopedia had been dropped on my head.

You know,” she said, while I rubbed the not-real swelling knot on my forehead, my covers pulled to my chin. “You are not paying attention to me and I need to finish my story.”

Let me tell you, if my dad were still alive, I would have called him for advice–right that very moment, even though he was not a morning person. He preferred to write after midnight.

“I’m stuck,” I said and pulled the covers over my head.

Get unstuck.”

“Can’t you see that I am sleeping?”

Makes no difference to me,” said E. B. Louise.

As much as I love the darn kid, she does not give up. I think this makes me love her even more.

I slipped on a fuzzy bathrobe, poured myself a cup of coffee, and then planted my bum in my writing chair. While my computer warmed up, I watched a bird peck at the corner of my window. Peck. Peck. Peck. With the E. B. Louise document open, I stared at the words.

Nothing happened.

I glanced up at my dad’s Pinocchio collection that now sits on the top shelf of my bookcase, and this is when the kid started to yak again, though she sounded like me.

You know,” began E. B. Louise, “when you start to shake, mostly in your belly, like you did right before you learned you got the part of Maria in West Side Story, it means something wonderful is about to happen. Do you remember that feeling, the same one you are having now?”

I nodded, feeling ever so crazy, and wondered if I needed to find a good therapist before lunch rolled around, possibly breakfast.

Instead, I sat there and listened to the kid, until a distraction was called for, because my head was spinning. Clearly, I was not fully awake. And I preferred—this early in my day—to not feel crazy. So I lay on the couch in my writing room and opened to the first page of Clementine and the Family Meeting, because I needed to worry about someone else, and exactly what was this family meeting about? (I admit to loving Clementine by Sara Pennypacker possibly a little too much.)

So I was worrying about Clementine, and her brother Bok Choy or Brussels Sprout or Cabbage (whatever his name is at any given time of day), as well as trying to ignore E. B. Louise and  . . .

Then I heard my dad talking. “You need to rewrite the E. B. story in first person.”

Well, I thought, I already have a lot going on today, and who knows what Clementine will learn at this family meeting and I am not sure how I am going to react, and to be honest, I am exhausted from being awoken out of sleep by an encyclopedia (not literally) being dropped on my noggin.

I think, at this point, the Blue Fairy winked at me. But before I could dash for the phone book to look up Therapists For Those Who Are Mourning and Slightly Confused About The Lines of Reality, inspiration tugged at me. Hard enough, that I put a bookmark in the newest novel about Clementine and returned to the document at hand.

I began to rewrite in first person, and suddenly it all made sense. E. B. Louise bounced onto the page, and within the first paragraph, she had me.

Why hadn’t I seen this before?

Do you know the feeling of standing up to your ankles in the ocean and then a huge wave hits you and you are pulled under water, which scares you, because you can’t swim, but you find yourself laughing at the exhilaration of the unexpected moment?

This is how it felt when after weeks and weeks of missing my dad, I remembered what it was like to lose myself in writing for children.

The wave hit me hard, and the joy of dancing with words and images, knowing I was creating something wondrous, rushed back. Though it is hard to define, you feel it in your core; your belly quivers.

E. B. Louise struggles with her own loss: the loss of her beloved grandmother. Suddenly this child was showing me the world through her eyes, and how she was coping; her undying love for her  too-small elephant slippers, and how truly funny and unique she is. (My dad saw the very beginning of this piece, when I only had a voice that had come to me while raking leaves outside.)

He said, “You know, the slippers are her story.” How right he was.

I have been trying to tell this story of hers, when all along, I should have handed E. B. Louise the reins, sat back, and let her speak, so I did exactly that.

E. B. Louise talked so fast, I could barely keep up. I typed and typed, remembering how much I love spending time with her, and more importantly, what it felt like to laugh.

I even heard my father’s laughter. Musical. Rich. Filled with playful delight and joy.

Two pages of revisions done, my fingers paused on the keyboard; I looked up at Pinocchio and Geppetto. The Blue Fairy and Jiminy Cricket.

I took Pinocchio off the top shelf and twisted the figure, as if to make him dance, remembering how much joy it gave my father. These beloved Pinocchio figures, including Mickey Mouse, once adorned his writing space, and now sit in mine. He gave them to me when I helped pack up his many manuscripts into boxes, that now remain undisturbed in my house. Until the time is right and I am strong enough to open them.

The figures remind me of my father’s spirit, his passion for writing. 

They remind me of the promise I made before he died.

They remind me that characters need to feel real, as real as the boy Pinocchio becomes, because children, our readers, deserve no less than our very best.

In the early morning, I feel the most connected to my father’s wondrous spirit. Outside the world remains silent and dark, and the owls still call out to me. But inside my writing space, with Pinocchio cheering me on, I am creating, all the while surrounded by my father’s wisdom and guidance, his belief in my abilities as a writer.

Not only have I remembered what it feels like to laugh, I have remembered how writing makes me feel alive.

And I am grateful.

P. S. I’m okay, Dad. I can take it from here.

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

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

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.

 

Good News and A Promise to My Father

The past few weeks have been crazy for me. I spent another week in NC, tending to my parents; I returned home to find over forty manuscripts waiting in my pile of mail to be sorted and distributed to the proper agent or editor; and I had a slew of NJ SCBWI raffle donation emails to respond to.

I also held a secret—a secret I had learned two days prior in the presence of my father.

 

After an afternoon of doctor appointments, my father sat in his wheelchair in the living room. As tired as he was, we needed to discuss his wishes. The topic: when parents age, what becomes most important is quality of life, not quantity.

“I want to write and spend time talking to and being with my family,” he said. “That’s all. No more hospitals.”

“Okay, dad. No more hospitals,” I said, knowing what that meant. Yet, I understood his deep desire to write, and his need to feel up to doing so.

He, in turn, understood my mixed feelings about his decision. Instead of taking a much-needed nap, he wanted to help me. (At that moment, I knew why I am the way I am.) I am proud to say I am my father’s daughter.

Even in pain he reaches out to us. He supports my writing and relishes in my small successes. Every day, his attitude inspires me. Recognizing my struggle with his decision, he began to tell me his wonderful stories. He talked. I listened and laughed, while arranging books in the living room. (I had just purchased two tall wooden bookcases for the apartment.)

I want my father to get better, but he needs to be able to write. Just as I need to write. Like I need to breathe, eat, and sleep. This is when we are at our happiest.

I am certain the seed for this desire came early in my life, planted by my father—a lifetime writer, and my mother—a lifetime reader who studied children’s literature at Bank Street.

Looking over at him, I thought about this, when my cell phone rang. I had won the 2011 New Voices in Children’s Literature Tassy Walden Award—middle grade category. My entry: Savannah’s Mountain.

My dad stopped telling his stories. He sat in his wheelchair and listened to me. He listened to me be astounded and humbled.  He listened to me cry.

Being in his presence when I received the news is a moment I will cherish forever.

After I shared the secret phone call with him, he asked how my writing was going.

 

I can’t write right now. I have to take care of you and mom. There is too much going on.”

“Then do something else creative to fuel your writing. To help you relax.”

“Okay, dad, I’ll go outside and take more pictures—only if you promise to rest.”

He stared at me in the way that lets me know he is thinking, so I waited until the words came. “The ability to write is a gift, never to be taken lightly.”

“I know, Dad, and I don’t.”

“You must love the gift. You must care for the gift. But most importantly, you must feed the gift.”

“Feed the gift? Is this another ploy to get more Skittles?”

“No, I have some left, but if you’re going out later . . .” He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a package of his favorite candy. After eating one piece, he continued. “You feed the gift by writing as much as you can. Wherever you can, even when life throws hardballs at you, one after another.”

“Like now?” I asked.

“Exactly like now. Life will always throw challenges at you, and there will be times when the world seems ruthless and unforgivable, but you can’t let that stop you from doing something you love. You have to make yourself a promise.”

 

Savannah’s Mountain involves promises, and the need to keep and honor a promise. So it seems fitting that before my dad headed for a nap, he asked something of me. “Promise me you will keep writing, even when I’m gone.”

I can’t imagine a world without him, without being able to pick up a phone to call him, or see and talk to him on Skype. A world without his humor and Skittle seeking schemes is a world I don’t want to imagine, not now, not yet. But my father asked me to make him a promise, so I did.

“I promise, Dad. As long as I’m breathing, I’ll continue to write.” I pushed him to his bedroom, gave him a kiss, and headed outside with my camera on my shoulder. After I took some of the photos I am sharing in this post, I found a quiet place overlooking bird feeders, blooming iris, and a family of deer.

I did as I promised. I wrote for my dad. I wrote for me. I wrote for the sheer joy of writing.

 http://www.shorelinearts.org/tassywalden.cfm

http://www.norwichbulletin.com/living/x767232538/Ledyard-woman-wins-250-prize-for-unpublished-childrens-book#axzz1M8v0Toiw

http://paulakaymac.blogspot.com/2011/05/writer-spotlight-betsy-devaney.html

Skittles, Jello, and a Lack of Fries

My return from North Carolina coincides with the beginning of spring in New England. After missing my first flight, I wind up taking a later one. Much later. My arrival home is well after midnight, when I am too weary for words. In the dark, I drag my suitcase across the driveway, up five steps, and then retire to bed, in hopes of escaping my nagging thoughts. Remembering what I was unable to accomplish while visiting my parents makes sleep difficult, but I arise early, and in the daylight, I happily discover that some of NC has made its way back to Connecticut. Bulbs have begun to break through the earth in search of the warm sun. Hope, for me, has returned.

I let the sight of the blue iris and purple crocuses soak in, and then I begin to tackle the fall leaves that have provided a blanket of warmth and protection for my flowerbeds. I rake, pull weeds, and then head inside to make a few phone calls to the medical staff at UNC. Back in the sunshine, I smell the flowers, and throw balls for Merlin, our sheltie, to catch, my cell phone nearby.  

Yet, I am desperate to do more. I want to fix our broken health care system and keep Medicare and Medicaid from dwindling down to nothing. I want to cure any and all diseases that inflict suffering. But I can’t, and it makes me feel helpless at times. Helpless to those I love and know, including customers I’ve met at the toy store where I work, strangers I’ve spoken to in passing, and people I’ve read about.

I sit on our front stoop, throw another ball across the yard for Merlin, and wonder if anything I do matters enough, especially in the face of everything else the elderly have to contend with.  I want to scream, but instead I focus on the small acts of kindness.

Small acts of kindness do matter. They matter very much. They can be as simple as a hug or listening to a person tell a story, much needing to be told, or greeting a stranger, who appears to be suffering, to ask how they are doing. Let them know that someone cares.

Life has its ups and downs; joys and tragedies; failures and triumphs. Don’t let that stop you from doing the small things, as my father reminded me just last week. Even when the situation resembles a solid brick wall and seems so insurmountable that you’d rather hide under the covers all day, think about chipping at the wall. Little by little. These are the ways you can empower your characters when they are facing their own brick wall. Do not bring in a bulldozer to knock down the wall for your character. Give them small actions to do, and then, as a writer, stand aside and let them be. The character must figure it out on their own.

Though I wanted to bring in a bulldozer to help my father, instead, I focused on cheering him on, so he could do what he needed most: return home to write. Writing is what keeps his heart beating, his soul singing, his mind marching forward. He, in turn, wanted to help me, knowing I had set aside my writing to be with him and my mother. Through humor, my father—a lifetime writer—gave me a gift. He reminded me that a novel—especially one written for children—must have elements of hope, places where the reader can catch their breath and scenes that enforce humor.

While my father did not exactly use those words, that is what he was trying to show me through his actions, using a real-life situation. Essentially, he planted the seeds to burn in my belly, so I would yearn to write again. Write about hope and hopelessness, all layered with humor.

I realized this later on the plane ride home, when I found myself spontaneously smiling, and then bursting into laughter over Skittles. The ache in my belly returned and while people dozed on either side on me, I picked up a pen and let it lead me home, words spilling across the paper, faster than the speed of the plane.

Thank you, Dad, for this:

I arrive at the after-care facility to check my father out for the evening. Tired of the bland meals he had been eating for the past two weeks, he wants real food. I find him waiting in the front living area, looking tired and weak, but still able to entertain the other patients in the near vicinity. After greeting the three women seated near my father, I help him out of his chair.

“You need to check him out,” says a woman with a gruff voice, pointing her cane at me and my father, who is now grasping the walker, afraid to let go.

“I do?” I ask.

“Yes, otherwise they’ll think he’s run off.”

Clearly, he is not capable of running off.

“Oh, Lord, they’ll come looking for me. They’ll send the police and—”

“Dad, I got it. I’ll run upstairs and take care of this.” I seat him back down and leave him to tell more jokes, all of which I’ve heard a number of times.

Upstairs, the nurses’ station is unoccupied. I walk up and down the halls. Bells are going off in two rooms. People are moaning. I want to leave now. Then I spot two elderly women, both in wheelchairs, voicing their opinions.

“That woman is so dang bossy. Likes to think she runs the place.”

“Uh-huh.”

“’Cause of her, I’ve been waiting and waiting for my medicine, and they were supposed to bring me some more Jello. Red Jello. I hate that green stuff.”

“The man in #304 is hoarding Jello in his room. I seen it.”

“He is? Maybe I should wheel down there and pay him a visit. Man weighs a ton. Don’t need more Jello. I’m the one who needs it. I am gonna starve to death staying in this place.”

I tap the shoulder of the main talker. She spins around to face me. I smile. “Excuse me, but do you know where I might find a nurse on this floor?”

“Why you need a nurse? You can walk.”

“Well, I need to sign my dad out for the evening, so I can take him out to dinner.”

The Talker’s eyes light up. “You got a car?”

“Yes.”

She nudges her friend’s elbow. “You got room in your car for two more?”

“. . . Not really,” I say and picture my car loaded with two walkers, my luggage, one wheelchair, and my parents. The only room left is on the roof.

“Where you taking him?”

“I don’t know yet. I need to sign him out first.”

“Who’s your dad?”

Unsure of what room my father is in, I pray it isn’t #304, even though their description of the man didn’t fit my father. I tell them his name and wait.

“Oh, yeah . . . Mr. Devany, I know him. He’s a hard worker. Wants to get out of here real bad. Shows off in the exercise room.”

“That’s a nice surprise,” I say.

“Uh-huh, they say if I can walk like him and get out of this wheelchair, then I can leave too.”

I turn back to search for the nurse. Nothing.

“I bet you’re strong enough to get out of the wheelchair. Just keep trying. Keep believing you can do it,” I tell her.

“Thank you, young lady, for believing in me. I will keep trying.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, nodding. “Do you know when the nurse might return?”

The Talker again bumps elbows with her friend. They laugh at some inside joke.

“You’ll be waiting all night for her, I reckon,” offers the Talker.

Ten minutes have passed since I left my father downstairs. I head back to the nurses’ station, desperate to find the log-out sheet. The two women wheel behind me, while one shouts, “Just sign any ole paper and leave it there.”

“Are you allowed to do that?” I ask, tentatively.

“Hell, no, but we’ll vouch for you.”

I find a pile of papers citing the activities for the week. I turn to the backside and scribble a note, noting the time of the departure and expected return.

Then I run downstairs to break my dad out of the place, walker and all.

“Hurry, Dad, we have to go. Now!”

“I can’t go. I need a dollar. Two dollars.”

“What for? We’re running late. Mom is waiting in the car.”

He clutches the walker and pushes it toward the front desk. “See that red box there? The store has been out of them for a week; my supply is nearly gone. I eat one an hour. I’ll never make it through the night.”

I have been in NC for less than two hours and I am already facing an unforeseen challenge. I follow him to the desk and ask the young clerk for assistance.

“Skittles. Mr. Devany loves Skittles.” She points above her head to a red box filled with the candies. “We just got them in today, along with the Reese’s Pieces.

“Oh, Lord, they got Reese’s in too? Now I need three dollars.”

“Dad, we have to go.”

“I can’t leave until I get my candies. They’ll be gone by the time I come back.”

Out the door, down the ramp we go. Step by step, inch by inch. All the while, I hear about the Skittles and the Reese’s Pieces, and then, how the care facility lacks French Fries and cheese biscuits. We finally make it to the car.

“I don’t think I can get in the car, I’m too weak . . .  just thinking about running out of Skittles.” He leans against the car and feigns panting.

“Fine,” I’ll get your Skittles, but you have to get in the car first.”

Ten minutes later, he is seated and buckled in; I fold the walker and place it next to my mother’s. After I find a five-dollar bill in my purse, I head for the ramp.

“Don’t forget: One Skittles. Two of those Reese’s things.”

Candies safely secured in the car, we head for real food. I forget that it is a Saturday night. The restaurants are all crowded. The search for cheese biscuits is unsuccessful. Red Lobster has a one-hour wait. I park the car; check the waiting time at other restaurants: Longhorn Steakhouse, Chili’s, Ruby Tuesdays. All one-hour waits, if not longer.

Back in the car, I lean my head against the steering wheel and groan.

“It’s kind of late. I need to eat soon so I can take my medicines. Did the nurse give them to you?” my dad says.

“I didn’t talk to the nurse, Dad. No one was there.”

“Oh, Lord, you didn’t sign me out?”

“No, Dad, I left a note with two women in wheelchairs.”

“Oh, no, that had to be Miss Eula and Bessie. They will be in my room, right now, stealing my Skittles.”

I assure my father that his new package of Skittles is safe in my car, though I can’t attest to the honesty of Miss Eula and Bessie. A loss of three pieces of Skittles is small change in the scope of things.

Finally, I find a deli. One I am familiar with, and which has easy access. I open the car doors. Take out the two walkers. Unfold them. Set one up in front of each parent.

“You gave me the wrong walker,” says my mom. “Mine has the tennis balls for feet.”

I swap the walkers, and then, like a cheerleader, I root for my dad to rise up and out of the car seat. He does, followed by my mother. Creeping along, we make our way into McAllister’s Deli. Ten minutes pass. We find a table. My parents sit. I grab three menus from the front counter and bring them back to our table. For the moment, life is good . . . until my dad reads over the menu.

“Where are the French Fries? I don’t see French Fries listed,” he says.

I consider the arithmetic, and then share the math with my father. “Dad, I am one person helping two people, both on walkers, and we are all starving. All the other restaurants have long waiting times and it is currently 9 p.m. Do you know what that equals?”

“No French Fries?” he says.

“Bingo,” I say and hand him a bag of chips.

P.S.- Dad, I love you, oodles and boodles and spaghetti galore. I can feel you writing across the miles. Know that I am too.  XO

P.P.S – Miss Eula, keep believing. You can do it! One step at a time.

 The link for this week’s Free Fall Friday is http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2011/03/25/free-fall-friday-13/

What is CWORS?

CWORS

abbr. 

1. Children’s Writer Obsessive Revision Syndrome

This is the place where a children’s writer is stuck. On one page. One paragraph. One sentence. And while meticulous revision is necessary, there is a point when you cross over into CWORS. How do you know when you have left your editorial mind behind and fallen victim to the critical voice?

1. Your eyes are glazed over. 

2. You have spent the last three hours or worse, three days, reshaping a single page–or three pages, if you are preparing a submission for the Rutgers One-on-One Conference.

3. You have sent your critique partner, or whoever might read your work, twelve different versions of the one page. In one afternoon. Of course, with multiple thank-yous generated across the body of the e-mail.

4. Your reader has stopped responding through e-mail. You dial the phone and get a busy signal. You come to the realization that they may have taken the phone off the hook to save themself from your babbling.

5. You close the file and decide to fold the laundry.

6. You fold one shirt, and then open up the document again.

7. You read your one page and sincerely think you know the answer to the problem, but you can’t truly identify the problem.

8. You spend another two hours, swapping words and phrases, and in the end, you revert back to the original, which hopefully you have saved as a separate document.

9. Except for an empty box, you have no concept of how many crackers or cookies you’ve nibbled on for the better part of the day.

10. You curse at the empty coffee canister.

In my case, when I first noticed the symptoms, but didn’t recognize their meaning, I called my father. He has been a writer for over fifty years and since I have embraced writing for children, he has offered me words of wisdom. Sparingly. One of his favorite phrases is: Dangerous Mind. The mind you slip into when CWORS takes over. In a sense, you become dangerous to your manuscript, and more importantly, to your characters.

I had slipped into a state of obsessive revision without knowing why or how I had gotten there. And when I tried to share with my father, one of the twelve newer versions, he stopped me. “Whatever you do, don’t read another word,” he said, “You are a danger to your work in this frame of mind.”

“What frame of mind?”

“The place where you are right now. Revising over and over,” he told me. And then, he offered me five words. “Back away from your manuscript.” Nothing else.

On that day, I learned how to recognize the symptoms of CWORS. They do not often appear, but when they do, I now know how to react accordingly. Along with the date on which CWORS began to take over on a particular piece of writing, I write myself a note and promise that the work will remain untouched for a period of time. In general, two weeks.

And then, I back away from the manuscript, call my dad, who is my sponsor for CWORA (children’s writer obsessive revision anonymous) and thank him.