Beholding beauty – Betsy Devany

Experience of a Lifetime

Posted on January 24, 2015July 23, 2019 by Betsy

I am a firm believer in once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, which is why I didn’t hesitate to apply for Emma Dryden’s weeklong workshop, held in July 2014. Yes, I adore Martha’s Vineyard, but add Emma Dryden to the experience? I was in.

This year, veteran children’s book editor and publishing consultant, Emma D. Dryden returns to the Noepe Center for Literary Arts to, once again, teach The Art and Craft of Children’s Book Writing. Emma, who is smart, funny, and so approachable, brings along her expertise and her undying passion for children’s literature. Her enthusiasm is contagious, and it set a tone for the unforgettable week. The balance between workshops in the morning, and free time in the afternoon, to write or explore the island’s beauty, was perfect. Our group of twelve attendees quickly fell into helping each other: Reading, critiquing, bonding over our love of children’s literature.

There were magical, takes-your-breath-away sunsets, the ones people gather on the beach to watch (and applaud for) every evening. There was the lone blue heron that swept gracefully into the harbor as the sun lazily welcomed a new day. There was my daily experience of padding through a sleepy Edgartown as dawn approached, past the street sweepers, relishing in the smell of fresh muffins baking at a nearby bookstore bakery. There were Emma’s writing prompts that ignited new stories within. And the evenings, in which we’d gather together as a group, preparing dinner, those were some of the best moments.

If you do anything this year to advance your craft, or feed your writing soul, attend Emma’s workshop. You can register here, plus read more detailed information on what topics Emma will address: http://noepecenter.org/emma-d-dryden-the-art-and-craft-of-childrens-book-writing-july-5-11-2015/

I left the experience with so much more than I’d hoped for. Renewed confidence, new and nurturing relationships, and lasting memories, that still feed my creative spirit today. For a brief slideshow of some highlights from our week on this beautiful island, follow this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=60PFQsjqk0k

A Writer’s Distractions

Posted on July 27, 2014 by Betsy

When I struggle with putting words

to the page,

I step outside,

breathe in fresh air,

then search

for tiny miracles.

In truth, distractions

of the extraordinary.

Yet, tiny miracles always bring me back

to the place I’m avoiding.

I, too, want to silently dive deep,

explore a daylily (or an untold story)

unnoticed,

except for the curious human

with her camera,

avoiding her writing.

But isn’t that where magic happens?

Where the best of stories

are born?

Even if fear both propels us forward

and holds us back?

And then I find myself in awe of tadpoles,

having ventured for too long

and too far from the house,

on this path of distraction.

Tadpoles, which have never much interested me,

but now do.

Which invites a flood of questions,

questions about my characters,

and this story I am compelled to write.

So I leave my critical self outside

so she can enjoy

what the world has to offer.

Perhaps, she will find solace

in the company of a frog.

Or take the time to wonder

at how beautiful

a gorilla’s feet are,

while I slip away unnoticed

before she follows me.

The Importance of Being Present

Posted on June 20, 2014July 23, 2019 by Betsy

“Red moon,” he said,

his two-year-old hand reaching for mine

in the dark.

As urgently as my granddaughter

grabbed my arm, earlier that day.

For her, it was the return

of the hummingbirds.

She’d spotted a female

resting on a high branch,

a potential mate preening

his feathers nearby.

Our clothesline, his stage.

Then . . . a flash

of iridescent red,

high-pitched squeaks,

beating wings that

skirted our hair.

Breathlessness

as abandoned homework

danced

on a breeze.

We chased it, laughing.

If not for children

reminding us to be present,

how many miracles of life

would be overlooked?

The insect in a daylily.

Shadows in the woods.

The beauty of a half-dead

Japanese maple tree

clinging to life.

Its unfurling apple-peel like leaves

shimmering in the sun.

Do our heads always need to be down?

Our brains wired and ready

for instant response

to Facebook notifications,

e-mails, texts, twitter updates?

Look. Up.

Find beauty.

Give a child your full,

undivided attention.

And so we set aside homework

to wonder at hummingbirds.

Delayed bedtime

to gaze at a brilliant full moon,

shrouded in a milky

red-and-blue veil.

“Look, Grandma!” he said,

his small hand swallowed

in mine.

Clouds shifted; the moon disappeared.

But not the moment.

The moment of just

being.

He ran down the driveway.

“Moon is gone! GONE!”

I raced after him,

swept him into my arms,

guided his tiny arm toward the sky.

“Watch and wait,” I whispered.

Together, we silently anticipated–

not a ding or a chirp or a tweet—

but the reappearance

of an unreachable golden ball

nestled in the night sky.

A ball my grandson called “Red Moon.”

Yes, we need to be brave

in our writing,

but we must also seek the courage

to be present.

The Wishing Flower

Posted on May 3, 2013July 23, 2019 by Betsy

Growing up in the Devany family, I was beholden to my mother’s Look Beyond Yourself Birthday Tradition, which stemmed from her philosophy to always think about other people. On their one special day in the year, the birthday child had to buy (or make) gifts for their siblings. In my case, there were three. Grabbing anything off a shelf was not allowed, she wanted us to think about what each person would really enjoy. It was a lot of pressure, and some years we tried to outdo one another.

My second birthday without my father was yesterday. Last year’s was tough. I had no desire to celebrate. I let the phone ring without answering. I spent hours alone by a reservoir, watching birds. My gifts sat on the table unopened. Not until I saw two great egrets, one landing high in a tree while the younger one fished, did I realize the problem. I’d been waiting for something. When the elder flew off, as if confident that the younger bird would be okay on its own, I knew.

I’d been waiting for my dad to call and wish me a happy birthday.

Yesterday, I rose early to write. I wrote for four hours, my way of connecting with my father on the day I long for him the most. Then I thought about my mother’s birthday tradition. I looked beyond myself and discovered what makes a birthday joyous are simple, unexpected moments. When you find yourself cheering for others on your special day, and moments like these:

The hummingbirds returned.

A momma bird laid her final egg in a nest atop our porch fan. My seven-year-old granddaughter made a sign, warning everyone to Not Turn on the Fan because babies are sleeping.

Ava and I wandered your yard, searching for hidden beauty. Both of us with cameras. She discovered tulips, which I don’t recall planting.

An overwhelming number of people wished me a happy birthday, which meant so much to me. Truly, I can’t thank you enough.

My eldest daughter scored a 97 in her nursing exam.

My youngest daughter was invited to teach at the prestigious Gathering 2013 for Paul Mitchell as an educator.

We saved a bumblebee that was trapped in our window.

Ava’s excitement over spotting birds in our yard—cardinals, yellow finch, hawks.

Gorgeous sunrise at the start of the day.

To be captured by a child’s wonder. “Grandma! Look how blue that flower is!”

The day ended with a wonderful Italian dinner out with my family. I returned home with my husband to find colored pencils strewn across our living room table, and a picture, Ava had made. Perhaps she knew what I’d wished for earlier that day when she picked up a dandelion. My greatest treasures are handmade by small hands with the purest of love.

“Grandma, do you know this is a wishing flower?” she had whispered, as if she held magic in her hands.

“It is?”

“Yes,” she said, holding it to my lips. “Make a birthday wish.”

Sometimes, wishes do come true.

The Writing Barn’s Magic

Posted on March 1, 2013 by Betsy

SONY DSC More 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.

I 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.

My 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.

We 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.

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

Dear Dad . . .

Posted on August 30, 2012 by Betsy

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

Posted on April 13, 2012 by Betsy

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?

Posted on January 6, 2012 by Betsy

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 15^th 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 28^th 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 I Found the Wizard (Chautauqua: Day Three)

Posted on August 6, 2011 by Betsy

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

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

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

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

: Joy Cowley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am willing to be brave.

I am not afraid to fail.

I am ready to take on the dragon.

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

Posted on July 26, 2011 by Betsy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be joyous.

Be a clown.