A late welcome to 2015

I looked at this blog with the guilty realization that I did NaNoWriMo and then was exhausted by writing and stopped dead in the water.  I have been teaching full time, and being a Grandma to 8 month old Daisy, and giving a lot of rides to her parents who have two jobs and their own apartment but no car yet.  Don't mistake me, getting to see my son's family every day is not a chore or a curs.  It is a delight and a blessing, but it does take time I might have been writing - OR NOT.

Sometimes I think the creative mind needs to switch off at time and spend those down periods gathering info and letting ideas simmer on the back burner for awhile.

recently that creative side has become bored by inactivity and is stretching and begging to get moving again.  I just read a study that said kids need to spend time bored before they really ever turn on the creative thinking.  I believe that and I think it is true for all of us.  It is why the school's use of scripted lessons which fill every minute concerns me.  

Do you ever want to do something that terrifies you? Well, I love to have strangers read my books and post reviews, but it is scary to have friends do the same. So for February my book club (which just read Orphan Train and The Invention of Wings) is going to not only read my book, but come to my house to eat dinner and discuss it. Those who know me know I don't do the hostess thing. Unless you feel like family you don't come in the door usually. It's a old house decorated in Early American Yard sale and painted in Crayonbox colors to hide the termite damage. But I already invited them and who would have guessed they'd agree? YIKES! http://www.amazon.com/Duffy-Barkley-Tales-Uhr…/…/ref=sr_1_3…

 As always in winter here, it has been gloomy and rainy interspersed with brilliant sunrises and blue sky and green grass.  I haul the firewood every now and then but it is often not even cold enough to need to heat the house.

If you have been feeling low energy and possibly guilty about it, remember to be kind to yourself.  It is OK to let yourself sit plugged in to the chatter and appear like nothing is getting done for awhile.

When the Muse Can't Be Called By Words

Every November since I discovered the wonderfully freeing and inspiring group of people participating  in NaNoWriMo, I have jumped in at the beginning of November with the plan to write a sloppy first draft and polish it up later when I could slow down and realize that I did have a Novel in my hands, I just needed to clean-it up and make it decent to go in public.

This November is approaching again and I have found a group of other WriMo fans who are still working on last years novel while planning for this one. It has been fun and yet I have bogged down as the end of the writing on this on nears.

That is OK.

I have found my way through the bog before and I have faith that I will again.

For me, when the creativity slows down and the inspiration won't come, then I know it produces stale, forced writing, so I have to entice the muse back.

That means getting creative in other mediums, dancing, playing with sculpting fimo, hiking new trails, singing and drawing.  To get focused back on the story I paint possible book cover and play with them on Ribbet and picmonkey photo editing sites

after the first "win" onNaNoWriMo when I finished the novel in 30 days, I won a free proof copy of the book from createspace. I had it figured out how to upload it, but I wasn't thinking of a cover, so I just took a picture of one I doodled and got that proof to give to my mom.

It was going to end there.

I swear it was

 but of course we all know better now.  Seeing that "Real book" even if there was only one existing in the world.  That was an instant blast of feel good endorphins and I had to keep going. So then I read the proof and edited more and designed a cover I thought Duffy himself might have painted. Then I began writing the Sequel, "Seek Well" the next NaNoWriMo. Painting that cover came easier because I wanted them unified in appearance.

So today, even though the third book still is a few chapters short of a conclusion. When the words were stuck, I decided to design the cover anyway

I painted

Trying to keep the dome shape to the upper right

the people to the lower right

the heavy use of blue

and the back with a clue of how the transport to Uhrlin happens this time

Then, I photographed the painting and edited in the titles and other wordy stuff

and I tried to think of how to present the information that this series was now an "award-winning  Tween series"

So I think I might go with this book cover for the Third book for people who already have book one and two.

As I mentioned in my last post, I'm also thinking about putting out a combined volume with all three books included, and a different style cover, for those who want the paperback version but haven't yet invested in the first two.

 Anyway, the exercise works. I figured out the next step that the characters want to take, and they are chomping at the bit, for me to pick up my pad and pen and start following them around taking notes again.

Until next time, Happy Autumn to you, and may all your days have a creative spark.

Bogging Down in My Writing about Oregon Trail.

Trick or Treat Blog Adventure to be Posting  on Halloween with giveaway and links to Author Blogs

Logo Design by Tammie Gibbs

On August 3 I gave you the prologue to my Oregon Trail, work in progress, and on Sept. 12 I shared the first chapter.  I guess I am ready to revisit that trail again, and try to figure out why something that was flowing smoothly has become bogged down.

 I keep avoiding opening the document, finding that blogging, or facebook, or planning an entirely new novel have a lot more appeal at the moment.  I suspect that it was so easy to write at first, and I have the whole thing outlined and finished in my head, and somehow that has translated as "finished" in my motivation too.  Why was it easier to write two Duffy Barkley novels, when the actual writing was harder, than to force myself to finish Della and Kenyon's story?

I find myself re-reading what I have, with pleasure, but when I get to the final chapters, where all I have is a paragraph, planning where the chapter will go, I suddenly find that even sitting down to write out bills has more appeal.

Chapter 2  Kenyon (From 1990s) 

  “Dear Diary,

     Dad is trying to get me to smile like he can just trick me out of a “bad mood.”  Why can’t he see that this isn’t just a mood – it is my life ruined forever!  My Whole Life!  Just now he slowed way down and leaned forward like he was trying to crawl up on the dashboard and I yelled at him, “What are you doing?  Keep you eyes on the road!”  but he was staring up in the sky like he didn’t care if we ended up dead in a ditch.  I should want to end up dead but that convinced me.  I’m not ready to die yet. But I am ready to drive!

     “Girls – Look!  It’s a bald eagle!”  He looked back with this hopeful smile on his lips like some dumb bird could make me forget that my friends were getting farther behind us at every mile.

     Melissa started to twist around to see but I pulled her back down and snapped at Dad, “The only Eagles I care about are in Philadelphia – and that is only if Pittsburgh isn’t playing.  Stay on your side of the road!”

       He looked sad, and angry – I thought maybe I’d gone too far and held my breath but he shut-up and started driving again.  Doesn’t he get that my whole life can go by and I won’t forgive this?  There is no justice in the world when you’re 15.”

     Kenyon snapped her book closed and clipped the pen to the front cover.  Her mind drifted back to the late night Deli where her Grandfather had given her the desk.  They had just come from a Pirate Game and it had been a long standing habit to go to the small, corner deli after a game.

     Kenyon had felt bittersweet.  Happy that her beloved Pirates had won but anxious because she didn’t know if she would ever sit in their stadium beside her Grandpa again.  She bit into her sandwich.  Nothing had as much flavor as a hot pastrami, on rye, with mustard, onions, and sauerkraut.  Did they have sandwich shops in Oregon?  She swallowed the suddenly flavorless mouthful and blinked against the burning in her eyes.

     Grandpa reached out gently, and dabbed a bit of mustard from the corner of her lips with a rough, paper napkin.  “Penny for your thoughts?”  Kenyon shook her head abruptly and forced a small smile.

     Grandpa picked up his own hoagie and made exaggerated signs of enjoyment as he chewed, rubbing his tummy and smacking his lips, eyes rolling and tongue flicking out to lick his lips.  He snatched the dill pickle spear off her plate and dangled it between his thumb and pointer finger, “Ah, Heaven.  The Pirates win and I share Manna with the world’s most beautiful sport fan.”

    Kenyon laughed and found that she could eat again.  He patted her back approvingly and waited until the sandwich disappeared before pulling a large box out from behind his chair.  She had seen him take it from the car, of course, but wasn’t sure she could accept his gift without melting down into puddles of tears.

     She turned sideways on her chair and allowed him to place the package on her lap.  “What is it?”  Smiling right then might have been one of the bravest things she had ever done.

     “Just a little something I found at a garbage sale and thought it would be perfect for keeping you from forgetting your tired, old Grandfather.”

     Garbage sale was his only name for the garage sales he loved to frequent, more for the chance to snoop into peoples lives, and exchange gossip and chatter, than for any real interest in the items being offered.  Pittsburgh had a tradition of visiting with neighbors, family and passers-by on the swings and gliders on the wide front porches.  For Grandpa the yard sales were a happy extension of that tradition.

     At first, Kenyon hadn’t figured out how to open the seemingly, seamless box, but as she explored the stationary and exclaimed over the malachite pen, she found a cellphone with pre-paid minutes and she had been comforted by the evidence that her Grandfather intended to hold tight to the ties that bound them together as both family and friends.

     Now, she reached into the desk and extracted a sheet of writing paper and an envelope.  Instead of her diary, she needed to write a thank you note and up-date to let him know that she felt his love with her every time she set her hand on the silky smooth wood of the desk.  She glared out the window at the landscape, which was so not Pittsburgh.

     She set the tip of her pen to the paper as her Dad swerved to avoid a plastic bag filled with garbage in the center of his lane.  The van swerving made her draw an angry line across the clean paper.  In frustration she balled the paper up and flung it on the floor of the van.  She started to put her pen away, but drew a calming breath, sighed, looked out the window and took out another piece of paper.  Grandpa would still love to hear that she was using his gift.  Melissa looked up from her electronic game and smiled but didn’t try to make any demands for the moment.

 ____________________________________

I do realize that I am not being much more co-operative than my protagonist here.  Kenyon is stubborn but, in refusing to finish her story, so am I.  I told myself, I have to finish this first draft before I can start a new NaNoWriMo novel in November.  I hope to keep that promise.  At lest, I have opened the file and am rereading the words I wrote, and trying to hear the voices of the two girls as they travel the Oregon Trail, 150 years apart.  I just never realized when I first conceived of this book, that even the 1990s girl might be history when I finally put her in front of an audience.

Reading and Writing are Woven Through My Life

When I try to recall the various times and places and people who were important to me, I find that they are often linked in my mind to the books we shared, or the ones that I was reading while I was there.  Even times when I was completely tunes in to the "real world" were often more real in my mind, thanks to being able to compare and contrast them to the stories of other times and places.

My first memories are of sitting on my Mom or Grandma's lap and begging for "Chicken Little" again and again, or reaching out to poke the newspaper while balanced on one of Dad's knees at the breakfast table.

Reading to my guys began when they were born and a dozen years later they still love a good story

 I remember first Grade with books written in the strange phonics of ITA, where my Clifford, The Big Red Dog had Book spelled bwk and school was skwl.
I did not have social skills for dealing with people my own age.  Until I started school, I was surrounded with great grandparents and Great aunts and uncles and could easily talk to people in their 80's and 90's - but 5 or 6!!! No.

So reading became my refuge, hiding behind a book allowed me to escape eye contact and gave me experience and "friends" and practice at the things kids did and thought until I could finally leave Nancy Drew or Trixie Belden on the shelf and talk to flesh and blood friends too.

Hooked my son on Star Wars Novels and his first poem was about Star Wars

This freckle faced "Me" loved books

May be why glasses became essential in 4th grade and by this 10th grade shot no-one could imagine me without them

Even when I came out from behind the book, I used books as a way to connect to people.  I wrote my own stories and gained in confidence as people asked to see what I was writing and actually asked for more.  ARound 8th and 9th grade I discovered the other readers in my school, and we shared our passion for the best books by adding our name to the library waiting list.  I remember some of the most popular books were scary. I was thinking that Hunger Games was too twisted for Jr. High kids until I remembered that, that is when we were devouring, Flowers In the Attic, Carrie, Jaws, and The Exorcist.  Of course we also loved less scary books and The Outsiders and The  Once and Future King were big too.

I think I loved this dress due to Laura Ingalls

Freshman year of college, I really began writing poetry and met my husband.  He loved reading too, and we share a literature book from that year with several favorites, including, "A Rose For Miss Emily" and "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"  We wrote a lot that year but looking at my poems I see that they are less poetry and more a journal of the hormonal teenager who has found her "soul mate."

and my husband loved Dr. Doolittle so the animals also came thanks to books

We ended up having a house full of books, two sons, and at one time, a dozen parrots, 2 cats and 2 greyhounds.  The craziness often drove us to taking long road trips, where, instead of reading, we would listen to books on tape, and that is how I shared the first 4 Harry Potter books with boys who were too young to read them themselves.  Later the books were devoured by the boys on their own, but I miss those family drives with the story shared between us.

Going to See Writer, Timothy Zahn was a family Treat

Finally I got brave enough to publish my own fantasy novels, and they have slowly been making their way into the wider world, but not even the thrill of holding my first printed book can equal the feeling of having my family hanging on as I read aloud from 280 typewritten pages, and they were just as involved as when I was reading, "a real book" to them.

Thrilled to hold my first book in proof

Still Thrilled with two novels in print

 Still, I wondered, what leads from reading other peoples stories to needing to create my own?  My first "job" was helping my Grandpa, tan rabbit hides and mount them on fiberglass forms, with glass eyes and deer antlers.  I sold those, "Jack-a-lopes" to the tourists along with richly detailed stories of the life and habits of the critters.  I think that is when I became hooked on having an audience and knowing that my words had the power to make someone wait for the next one, or pull out their money, or laugh, just laugh.

Posing my Anne Geddes Sunflower baby in my Yard

Judy, my first and most faithful best friend

Oh Give Me a Home

Every game I made up for my dolls and my 2 younger brothers, every story I acted out to my classroom or told to my sons, drew me deeper into the part of me that finds reality best felt against the backdrop of creative storytelling.  I can feel pain and sorrow when a friend dies, but survive it a little easier because I've experienced it in a slightly more removed manner first, when reading Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows.

I can recharge my batteries, but can our kids?

 I think of myself in a lot of different roles and a lot of those are roles that drain my energy and exhaust me.  I am a Mom, a wife, a teacher, a daughter, a friend, a writer, an artist, an Aunt, a pet owner . . . and the list feels like it doesn't stop.  But when I feel emptied and listless, those are the same roles that turn around and give back to me, until my joy and energy are filled to the brim and ready to be shared out once more.

When I can't think of a new thing to teach, or another detail to put in my story, when I pick up my pencil and swirl it listlessly across the page and toss both the pencil and paper away, When my sons seem to generate one call after another from frustrated school administrators and my Mom is sick and so is the dog

That is always when I suddenly walk down a new path and come face to face with wonder.  When a child makes me laugh and a giant wave makes me reach for my camera as it floods my vision and my imagination

There is a waxing and waning of energy.  I give and receive it so often that I usually don't notice exactly how often I am met with the very thing I need.

  so what am I concerned about?  I have always been around schools.  i was a teachers daughter, a student in public schools, a college student, then teacher and a mom. My focus and my life flows to a calendar that begins the year around labor day.  But schools change, slowly they shift back and forth along a pendulum, responding to the needs of the students, the values of the community, the budget, etc. 

I don't like the changes I see lately.  I see the same things a lot of you do. There are concerns with anger and bullying and defiance.  There are budget shortages and teacher cut backs and huge class sizes, and huge and out-of-shape students.

 I love the kids I work with, but I caught myself breathing a sigh of relief that my own children are not just starting school.  I wouldn't want them to face the sad state that I see ahead of so many students in the lower grades now.

     Recently I was asked to come in and talk to some middle school classes and some upper grade school classes about my novel.  Instead of coming in as their teacher, they saw me as a writer, and there was a degree of fascination and awe in the way they talked to me, and a different set of topics than I talk about when I teach them.  I was saddened to hear their response to my questions about "Have you ever taken play dough and rolled a snake or a ball, and then flattened it?"  Of course they had, Right?

 NO!!

And in a kindergarten room, I pulled out a box of water color paints, In JANUARY, and the first response was the universal one, "What's That?"    Half way through kindergarten and they had never painted?

I looked at the kids and asked if they could tell me where the music room was, and no-one under 5th grade knew.

I look around my house, at walls overcrowded with my kids paintings, and shelves of amateur pottery and I remember the delight in singing Raffi and Hap Palmer songs for the millionth time.

They told me they wanted to be writer's and artists, but their teachers tell me they have to follow scripted lessons, heavy only on the subjects that will be tested.  The teacher who spent a year in Japan leaves her Japanese items at home because it won't be tested.  The former soccer star, never takes her class outside, because the day follows the script provided by the publishers of the textbooks.  The field trip to the marine mammal rescue center, no longer has time to happen, until those last two weeks, when the tests are finally over and a bit of real education can slip in.

We all know in our hearts that the things we loved in school were the creative moments.  We dreamed of painting, or doing experiments, or singing, or winning Red-Rover, (Can't play that, someone might get hurt) or spinning on the merry-go-round, (those are too dangerous too).

We didn't long to go to school to sit packed in rows of desks and recite formula learning, so that we could vomit it back out onto the scantron bubble test answer form.

And in a lot of ways, we are failing our kids by focusing so Damn much on if they can pass!