Category: Writing conferences

New England SCBWI Conference 2012

Posted on by Betsy

This year’s NE-SCBWI Conference (my sixth) was different for me. As the On-the-Spot Critique Coordinator, I was one of numerous volunteers responsible for making a successful conference. In my position, I felt deeply obligated to the attendees, wanting to facilitate proper connections to editors/agents, and I’d promised these same professionals that I’d do my best to secure them additional critiques. In truth, I was scared. Since becoming the On-the-Spot Critique Coordinator less than a month ago, I have secretly fretted, while my daily early-morning writing time turned into early-morning e-mail communication, chart-making, and teaching myself how to make a spreadsheet. (I am also a committee co-chair for the upcoming New Jersey SCBWI Conference.) My manuscripts lay untouched; my muse went on strike.

Preparing for the conference reminded me of my earlier years in the business of writing for children, when I was unsure and questioned my abilities. Self-doubt hinders your growth as an artist. So I stopped thinking about What Might Not Happen (that the on-the-spot critiques would be a failure) and I began to believe that I could, indeed, pull this off. But to do this, I had to call on my Inspired Frame-of-Mind, which is strong, determined, and follows the muse with much delight, like a kitten chasing an unraveling ball of red yarn. I write what my characters tell me, and on some level, believe they are the ones shaping their stories, not me. I continue to struggle with writing for my blog, for that voice comes from a different place, where self-criticism has rented a tiny room and ignores my weekly eviction notice.

So in my Inspired Frame-of-Mind, I faced the task of being a successful conference coordinator: I worked diligently and focused on being positive, while doing everything possible to sell these critiques. The bar to succeed is set high due to the tireless efforts of our region’s longtime coordinators, who have given so much of their time over the years: Marilyn Salerno, Joyce Shor Johnson, Kathryn Hulick, Melissa Hed. Valarie Giogas. Laura Pauling. Melissa Stewart. Casey Girard. Betty Brown. Sally Riley. Jean Woodbury. Linda Brennan. Jennifer Carson. Joannie Duris. Anna Boll. Jennifer O’Keefe. Greg Fishbone. Francine Puckly. Margo Lemieux. And Shirley Pearson, who I hope can one day step out from behind the registration table to pursue her own dreams. I apologize in advance for not listing every name, though my gratitude is intended for all. Thank you! The NE-SCBWI Conference reflects your efforts, selfless dedication, and enthusiasm for our wonderful community. A community filled with hope and possibilities, which only grows stronger in the ever-changing climate of children’s book publishing.

After getting a good night’s sleep, I study my photos from the conference. And though I wish I’d taken more, the ones I share reflect a glimpse of conference magic. Joy. Love of writing and/or illustrating, love for our SCBWI community, and a universal craving for and adoration of books.

I will blog about some amazing workshops once I attend to my own writing. Nearly a month has gone by since my mornings focused on my work. Over the past few weeks, it felt as if a part of me was slipping away. Sadness seemed to circle above me like vultures eyeing a carcass in the middle of a busy street until I arrived in Springfield, where among other writers, I understood what was missing. I need to write.  Period.

The street is void, the vultures have flown away, and I now run free, filled with rejuvenation. I hope you are too. So much of this renewal of hope came from you, my colleagues. And I thank you. Perhaps, you can point to those moments that spoke to you, and I’d love to hear what those were. For me, the magical moments from this past weekend came as a surprise, and many times brought me to tears. 

1. How patient the attendees were while waiting in line for an on-the-spot critique. Please know how much I appreciated this, as well as your kindness.

 2. Speaking with first-time attendees. Thank you for being brave and attending your first conference. We need you. In truth, we all need each other.

3. Hearing Jane Yolen refer to us as her colleagues on Sunday. Still chokes me up.

4. Applauding the writers/illustrators who have 2012 books to celebrate. I love hearing a room full of people celebrate the successes of others. This is what we do best. This is what makes our community so special.

5. Having friends recognized for their work: Kip Rechea won the 2012 Ruth Landers Glass Scholarship. Marcela Staudenmaier won the 2012 Ann Barrows Scholarship. I am incredibly proud of these two hard-working, deserving women.

6. Harry Bliss’ keynote address, accompanied by his illustrations. Harry made me laugh and cry. What a privilege and honor to be in that room.

 7. Seeing how hard the conference staff and volunteers worked, noting their dedication not only to their job, but also to their constant desire to make attendees feel welcome.

8. Observing people from afar: laughing, smiling, sharing news, congratulating. Hoping and dreaming.

9. Hearing Sara Zarr’s keynote address, during which I was reminded why I love the Frog and Toad series, and more importantly, why I love Sara Zarr.

10. Celebrating the Poster Contest winners. So much talent!!

11. Being present when Brian Lies received his 2012 Crystal Kite Award. Congratulations!

12. Being a part of the first Novel Academy, brilliantly run by Sarah Aronson, Carolyn Coman, and Nancy Werlin.

12. Lastly, Kate Messner and her TED talk on world-building and imagination. I can’t help but get choked up when I think about this. (I thank Kathryn Hulick for asking Kate to share her speech.) Kate is very special, not only as a gifted writer, but as an avid contributor to our world’s future. She believes in children, that they can make a difference if we tap into their young minds and eager spirits.

“What if . . .” Kate asked.

What if . . .? I thought.

My initial response was: What if we didn’t have Kate Messner or her books in this world? Her spirit? Her dedication to children, and her belief that they can alter our future for the better? I cannot imagine such a loss. Driving home, other What If questions came to me, related to the conference: What if we didn’t have the talent and support of Jane Yolen? What if books didn’t exist? What if stories weren’t allowed to be told? What if we didn’t embrace failure? Would we lose our chance to grow? What if we didn’t try hard enough? What if we weren’t active listeners? What if we were unable to open our hearts so to receive constructive feedback? What if we didn’t have Harold Underdown’s wisdom, generous spirit, knowledge, and support? What if we gave up on ourselves too soon?

What if . . . SCBWI didn’t exist?

We don’t have to imagine the unthinkable because we are truly lucky. We have Kate Messner, Harold Underdown, Jane Yolen, Harry Bliss, Sara Zarr, SCBWI, and all the many, many talented and generous artists in our community. I wish I could name everyone, but know how much I appreciate you, including the editors/agents/publishers. And most importantly, our young readers. I am so grateful to be in the business of writing for children, and for being a proud member of SCBWI.

In ending this post, I hope that each of you will guard and cherish whatever inspired you over the weekend, no matter the source: A workshop experience. A book you had autographed. Conversation with a new or old friend. A phrase that tugged at your heart. An image. A helpful encounter with a professional. A photo. An unforgettable illustration. Someone’s story. A challenge, for which you rose to the occasion. A smile from a stranger. Perhaps, even a memorable slice of cake! Whatever danced in your head as you traveled back home, embrace it. Be thankful. Believe in the impossible. I do.

May you find great joy as you write and revise, draw and dream in the weeks and months ahead. Hold on to the magic of the conference. It only leaves us if we let it go.

Betsy

Whispering Pines Writing Retreat 2012

Posted on 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.

How I Found the Wizard (Chautauqua: Day Three)

Posted on by Betsy

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

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

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

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

Joy Cowley

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am willing to be brave.

I am not afraid to fail.

I am ready to take on the dragon.

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

Posted on by Betsy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be joyous.

Be a clown.

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

Posted on by Betsy

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Jersey SCBWI 2011 Conference

Posted on by Betsy

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

David Caruba

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

 

Grace Lin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

           

The NE SCBWI Annual Conference-2011

Posted on by Betsy

I am still reeling from this past weekend: a glorious three days spent with writers, illustrators, and professionals in the field of children’s literature. The NE SCBWI conference was a thorough success, and not just in my opinion.

Something was different this year. Maybe because we were enlightened by the presence of the SCBWI founders Lin Oliver and Stephen Mooser. Or perhaps it was that the writing goddess, Jane Yolen, captivated us. Whether she was speaking, walking the hallways, or signing books, she brought her brilliance, her passion, and yes, her wonderful sense of humor to the event.  Add the one and only Tomie dePaola to the mix and the almighty Harold Underdown–at times sporting a Boston Red Sox hat–and . . . talk about surreal.  I was in writing heaven! And on top of this, we had the opportunity to watch a screening of Library of the Early Mind. Everyone, at least in the field of writing for children, needs to see this. We were honored to have the two filmmakers present: Edward J. Delaney and Steven Withrow.

Richard Michelson had us on the edge of our seats with the story of how he became a prizewinning poet and children’s book author.  I plan to visit the R. Michelson Galleries located in Northampton, Massachusetts. You should too. His speech surprised me at times, but went right to the heart. Good writing at its best.

In truth, every speaker, including all the workshop presenters, was fabulous. In between workshops, the hallways were filled with glowing comments.

My head spins from all the information I obtained, the wisdom I absorbed, and the inspiration that now fuels my writing. So much so that I have put aside my notes and let my subconscious do what it does best.  As always, once I get all my new ideas on paper–thus to lessen the overcrowded feeling in my brain–I will sort through my notes and organize them accordingly. (I will blog about this actual process in the coming weeks.)

Like Whispering Pines, I plan to break up my posts on the conference, partly because I am bogged down with preparations for the upcoming New Jersey SCBWI conference. I am a committee member and volunteer, and I have lots to do before I head down Interstate 95 for Princeton, New Jersey.  (For those attending the conference, I look forward to seeing you. Please seek me out to say hi if we haven’t met before!)

Thank you to the conference committee for all their diligence and deep commitment to having the best conference possible. They achieved this goal, and much more!

I am eternally grateful to the Ruth Landers Glass Scholarship committee for choosing my middle grade novel, Savannah’s Mountain, to be this year’s recipient of the award. I humbly join the list of past winners, and I promise to honor, more than ever, my commitment to writing quality children’s literature. My congratulations to all the illustrators who won at this year’s conference.

The word I will leave you with is the word I remember the most from the conference: community. It came from Lin Oliver, and I cradle that word in my soul where it keeps me warm, and not feeling so alone at those moments when I need it the most.

Community. Let the word roll off your tongue. Feel its power, it’s undying support. In the business of writing for children, we are fortunate to be a loving and sustaining community—unlike so many other professions where greed and jealousy prevail. Writing and illustrating is a solitary experience. But we are not alone. We are in this together, supporting one another, cheering one another, and encouraging our peers. Yet, we must honor the necessary process of being by ourselves. We must close the door and find that place, which takes us out on a limb, alone. Sometimes scared, but hopefully always driven to create. To create the very best that we can.

Keep that sense of community before you escape to the work that only you can write. Then turn off the phone, the internet, the fighting desire to sink your bottom into the couch and flit from site to site, from Face book to Amazon ratings, to anywhere else because you fear the empty page.

You are not alone in that fear. Yours is not the only empty page being stared at. At this very moment, all over the world, there are writers and illustrators and creators–your vast community–having those same thoughts. Fighting those same struggles.

Believe in yourself. Give the world your very best work. Create what only you can create. And always, always, feel the support of community. Know that when you reach a personal milestone your community celebrates with you. Be thankful for this. I know I am.

I will be back next week with more from Celebrating Milestones. Thanks for stopping by!

Inspired to Revise: My Thoughts on Peeling Away The Layers

Posted on by Betsy

Whispering Pines behind me, I prepare to journey to the land of revision. My coffee cup refilled, I escape to my writing room with the dog and a cat, or two. (If I don’t extend an invitation to the pets in the beginning, I will have to endure the sound of paws traipsing up and down the hallway, after which, tapping and scratching on the door will commence.) 

Once my furry family members settle into their usual spots, I close the door to the world behind me and slip to the place where doors do not exist, where the open sky welcomes me, as do the surrounding pine trees. While this place is not in my writing room, it is in my mind, my memories. This world sits in my heart where I can tap into it, and so, I do.  Eyes shut, I drift to where I need to be, alone in my mind with my story.

I picture myself sitting on a pile of dry needles, leaning against a tree trunk, surrounded by my WIP characters. Speckles of sunlight dance in the grass as clouds roll through the sky. Two squirrels chase each other across the lawn, up a tree, and then back down again. In my mind, I yearn to pick up my camera and take pictures or go on a walk with my characters. Anything but, dissect my manuscript. Why? Fear.

It takes courage to slice and dice something we have poured out heart into. It also requires confidence and skill. And because of the recent Whispering Pines conference, I feel stronger. I fight my fear and self-doubt with the tools I’ve acquired. With Cheryl Klein’s book Second Sight at my side, I am prepared to battle. My manuscript may resemble a battlefield for a while, but in the end, I will win this war with myself. I will cut and chop. I will dice and shred. I will strip away the layers of my manuscript, like a Sycamore or Birch tree with its peeling bark.

I have always loved these types of trees. Their beautiful camouflage appearance fascinates me, especially knowing that the peeling process is the tree’s way of shedding scale insects and heavy encrustation of moss and lichens. The Sycamore tree provided much comfort for my young nieces and me when my sister was ill a few years back. As bark peeled away, it left sections of unscarred tree trunk. We saw this as a clean slate, new possibilities, and most importantly, hope. When revising, I keep a piece of Sycamore bark on my desk. Inspired by how the tree sheds unwanted insects, I work my manuscript with the goal of shedding those characters and passages that do not aid or move the story forward.

While the process of revising can feel lonely at times, I am not alone, as reminded at Whispering Pines. In the places where I get stuck or unsure, I picture the circle of Adirondack chairs by the lake. I see the smiles. Hear the laughter. Writers for children are incredibly warm and supportive of each other. I hope the remainder of my pictures represents this.

 

Thank you for stopping by and sharing this experience with me. I hope to see many of you at Whispering Pines next year!

This week, we have featured another of our NESCBWI members for Free Fall Friday. http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2011/04/08/free-fall-friday-contest-5/

NE SCBWI Whispering Pines Retreat-2011

Posted on by Betsy

Memories of attending the NESCBWI retreat in previous years stir as I turn left into the entrance for Whispering Pines, one hour from where I live. I pass houses, a farm, a cabin sheltering a pile of wood, ponds, and of course, rows and rows of pine trees. I slow my car down to fully enjoy my return to this place of beauty, where anything is possible if you follow your dreams with conviction.

Arriving at Whispering Pines feels like coming home. Home to a place I don’t often visit, but upon my return, the forest wraps around me: a well-worn blanket, rich with memories, and sweet with the scent of pine. I welcome the embrace.

I check in at Sycamore, find my room, and snap a few pictures. Then I head out to greet those familiar places, the ones I want to snuggle up to: wooden chairs on a porch overlooking the lake, pine trees reaching for the sky, and the circle of Adirondack chairs, which for me symbolizes the group of writers and mentors soon to arrive. The pictures I take lack color, resembling the winter that persists in hanging around. It will pass soon; colors will burst forward. Flowers will stake their claim, as will the leaves on the trees. But for now, the day is grey, though not for long.

The family of writers arrives, with Lynda Mullaly Hunt leading the way. I cannot imagine a weekend without Lynda. She is a dedicated leader and one who roots for all. Lynda’s essence comes through in the pictures I took of her and the people who assist her in running this event. The smiles are infectious, as is Lynda’s excitement for the weekend. Truly, I would follow her anywhere, if she were running the show.

 

 

 

 

 

There is the annual parade of baskets, all donated by the attendees. Pink baskets, yellow baskets, blue baskets, all filled with books and toys and chocolates, and anything else you could imagine. Soon, our meeting room is lined with these enticing treasures. The countdown has begun. The attendees decide which baskets catch their interest, and then make strategic plans as to when to drop their tickets in the corresponding buckets.

Our process of picking and choosing comes to a halt. The mentors are ready to join us for the social hour in preparation for the first of many award-winning meals. The hour goes quickly, and though the time is short, I can see that all the mentors (Cheryl Klein, Cynthia Lord, Ammi-Joan Paquette, and Mary Lee Donovan) are truly there for the writers. Accessible and willing to share all they know, they genuinely want to help the attendees, and they do, every step of the way, beginning with First Pages.

 

Time constraints do not allow every first page to be read, though every writer learns from the session. In this case, we gained more knowledge than anticipated. The four mentors were thoughtful, honest, and educational in their responses. I found myself taking notes, as did many other attendees. Key notes: (1) The first page should hint at where the story is going to take you, and reveal your main character. (2) Let the information unfold. Trust that the reader will get it. (3) Don’t manipulate the reader. (4) Ground us in the place so that we know where we are. (5) Don’t start the story with The Dreaded Dream.

Saturday begins with A Breakfast to Die For. (I would need to do an entire post on just the food that we were privileged to consume.) I think almost everyone said they needed to hit the gym hard after Whispering Pines.

After indulging our stomachs, we head out the door  . . . past the lake . . . over a quaint bridge . . . and into Laurel, where once again the baskets catch our eyes; the sun bounces off the glistening cellophane, highlighting all the wonderful goodies. Thanks to our leader, Lynda keeps us in line and on schedule.

Mary Lee Donovan addresses picture books. She reads us exemplary examples, and has us all laughing and appreciating her selection of well-written picture books. Using one example, she demonstrates how a particular story upholds the basic elements for a picture book, and carries these elements across thirty pages. Then she gives us a fun challenge: an exercise that will influence my future writing. It was clear she enjoyed this exercise, at least how it made us sweat. Thank you, Mary Lee! You rock the art of picture books!

 

Cynthia Lord follows, and is captivating as always. She gives us more than a glimpse into how she revises, using Touch Blue as an example. (Touch Blue is her second novel, and just as good as her first, Rules. If you haven’t read them both, I highly recommend that you do!) At the end of her session, I have a detailed list of tips for revision. Thank you, Cindy, for your insight, and for sharing your knowledge and experience with us. You are one of the best!

Cheryl Klein continues the discussion on revision, and weaves in her own story about a blanket, and how she is determined to finish making it.  I loved this story, and I am rooting for that blanket to meet its deadline. You can do it, Cheryl! Every writer needs to buy Cheryl’s book, Second Sight. I repeat: every writer. The book is a master class taught by a master of literature. I could go on and on about Cheryl, but my word count for this post would be ridiculously long. Thank you, Cheryl!

After another indulgent meal, the afternoon continues with critique groups, alone time to write, the book sale, raffle ticket sales, and one-on-one critiques with mentors. (Some of this I addressed in my previous post on Whispering Pines.) Having Cynthia Lord as my mentor was the highlight of my weekend. Kind and thoughtful, she gave me clear advice on how to wrestle my beloved character who wants to do many things. Sorry, E. B., your trip to Jupiter is now cancelled. We will negotiate later.

Sunday winds down with a presentation by Ammi-Joan Paquette, an agent for Erin Murphy Literary. Who doesn’t love Joan and her books? Until Whispering Pines, I had not yet read The Tiptoe Guide to Tracking Fairies. What a delight! I wanted to melt into the story and run with the fairies. After listening to Joan’s presentation, I realize, more than ever, that having her as an agent would be a dream come true. I hope that a number of you will see that dream to fruition. Thank you, Joan, for enlightening us on your role as an agent. May all your clients find much success!

Lynda always invites an illustrator to give a presentation on Sunday, and this year we are graced with the presence of the talented and down-to-earth Jennifer Thermes. I always look forward to the  illustrator session. Thank you, Lynda, for finding this gem of an artist. I hope you all have the chance to see Jennifer’s work, and to read her wonderful books. Thank you, Jennifer, for sharing your art with us.

Lastly, there is the infamous Jeopardy game. (I suspect this is one of Lynda’s favorite events of the weekend.) Knowing us all too well, Lynda throws us off guard and switches our seating arrangement. We count off, go to our designated tables, and prepare to win. Or lose. All in the name of fun.

All too quickly, the weekend comes to an end. We say our good-byes, exchange hugs, and then return home, ready and anxious to revise. None of this could have happened without Lynda, her assistants, and our marvelous mentors. Thank you all, and see you next year!

Lastly, for those who follow my weekly post on Kathy Temean’s blog (Free Fall Friday), the inspiration for this week’s writing challenge comes from our own Carlyn Beccia.

http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2011/04/01/9995/

I will be back next week with more photos from Whispering Pines, and my own process of revision.

Images of Whispering Pines

Posted on by Betsy

I start the day by applying what I’ve learned–or had reinforced–at Whispering Pines: an extraordinary writing retreat held annually in Rhode Island, and sponsored by the NE SCBWI. (I promise to blog about the conference specifics by the end of the week, and to thank everyone who deserves undying appreciation. There is much to tell and share!)

For most of the morning, I practice The Art of Killing Your Darlings, otherwise known as forcing yourself to rid the manuscript of those scenes and characters you love most, but which add nothing to your story. Sometimes, not so easy to accomplish. To prepare myself mentally for this ordeal, I first remove any and all feelings of guilt. I shove the guilt out the window to a place also reserved for Those Darlings No Longer To Be If I Am Ever To Sell This Manuscript. (I do hope My Darlings are not listening. If they are, I love you!)

Next, in preparation for the kill, I take baby steps. Instead of my writing, I  apply The Art Of Killing Your Darlings to my photograpy while I sort through the photos taken over the weekend. As always, I captured hundreds of pictures, all of which I was compelled to take. Like the characters who appear out of nowhere, whisper in my ear, and then pull me like a magnet into their worlds, I followed, in this case, the whispers of the pines.

The process of Dealing with Those Beloved Darlings or Babies goes more quickly than usual, which is surprising. I scan each picture on my computer, and if it doesn’t quickly grab me, like a well-crafted first page, I hit the delete button. When I am prompted to ponder my rash decision with the words, “Are you sure you want to delete?” I hit the button with full confidence.  Not a hint of hesitation. My inner voice has spoken. I trust it.

While studying what is left of the two-hundred plus pictures I originally took, I discover the reason behind them. Cynthia Lord, my mentor for the weekend, shared with us her process of writing Touch Blue. (If you haven’t read this novel, do so. Touch Blue is wonderful!) Cindy likes to visit a place, so she can notice the tiny details first-hand. Details such as bits and pieces of mussel shells left by seagulls, dropped from high above, in hopes they will break. The mussels eaten, tires drive over what is left of the shells, crushing them. What remains is beautiful. Shimmering shades of blue dance in the sunlight like bits of broken glass.  

During the block of time set aside for writing or critique groups, I found myself walking instead. And that was okay, because it felt right. Right for me. Still trying to wind down from a recent, stressful trip to NC, I needed to decompress.

At first, I walked with hesitation down the windy road, heading away from the conference. Should I be writing? Should I be revising? In truth, I was in my mind. Thoughts of my manuscript swirled in unison with the swish, swish, swish of the pine trees swaying in the breeze. For me, the healing process had begun.

Now when I choose which images to share on this blog, I understand what I was doing. I was listening to Cindy. I was searching for those details that only a visitor can discover on their own. In a place where pines whisper to you, surrounding you with beauty and grace and inspiration.

These are the images I share with you today:

Water resembling melting chocolate (if it were not so blue), the swirls enticing onlookers to purchase a fresh pound of fudge, their taste buds on high alert.

Water so blue that it becomes a work of marbled art. Art I want to touch. This picture will go on my wall to remind me, always, what Cindy told me.

A hawk high above the trees, flying free, its wings spread open, its movement effortless. Oh, how I envy that.

A rushing stream I discovered on the drive out, which compelled me to pull to the side of the road, so I could capture the image. Freeze it in time, forever. Seeing it now, it invokes the happiest of memories: witnessing a Vermont glass blower, blowing bubbles with my granddaughter, experiencing Yellowstone National Park with my family.

Lastly, the sign leading me out, away from this place I did not want to leave. I remember hesitating by the sign, not wanting to go, until I realized what this weekend had given me.

In being shown the way out, I discovered the way in. To the place where my characters have patiently waited for me. Knowing I am ready, they now lead me back to my heart, my words, so that I may surrender, once again, to the singing of my soul.

No other gift could be greater than that.