Joyce Magnin

Book Poetry

2012-01-12T07:49:00.000-05:00

I am THE RELUCTANT PROPHET
a PILGRIM AT TINKER CREEK
feeling ON THE EDGE OF GRACE,
sometimes BETRAYED

but always
standing in TRISTAN'S GAP.
I am DON QUIXOTE tilting at windmills
a LADY KNIGHT
in search of PLOT AND STRUCTURE.
I live THE WRITING LIFE because
I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS.

My Book poem. Your turn.
BTW,I wish I could take the credit for this idea.

Stoopid! From Planet Stoopid!

2012-01-10T09:04:00.001-05:00

Here’s the thing, I have done many, many stupid things in my life. But this morning might have been the dumbest. If fact if Stupid was a planet it would take ten thousand years for the light from planet Dumb to reach Earth.
Here’s my story:
I woke and proceeded to make my cup of coffee, which I like to do in an old fashioned kind of way—no K-Cups or Mr. Coffee machines. No, I prefer to boil water in a tea kettle and then pour it through the grinds in filter sitting directly over my favorite morning coffee mug—which for some reason I do not use any other time but morning. But that’s neither here nor there.
Usually this little routine goes off without a hitch but I’ve been under a lot of stress lately—deadlines, family, I’ve had a cold, work at school issues, learning more and more about social networking that just gives me the willies and makes me feel so public like a frog, needing to update my website, financial woes, missing family, etc. etc. Anyhoo, the kettle squealed and I made my coffee and sat down in the living room—which btw is about five feet from the kitchen!!! I enjoyed my morning java, my wake-up call, my sun is on the rise cuppa Joe, when I began to notice an odd smell. I shrugged it off thinking that perhaps it was the cat—he did just use the littler box and can be very fragrant from time to time. But as I sat there the odor was growing in intensity and still I did not get off the couch, put my coffee down and investigate.
No, I sat until I had finished the coffee. It was say, twenty minutes and the odor which smelled like a car fire continued to intensify. But no, I stayed my ground thinking it was something outside, perhaps.
Finally, I went to the kitchen and there it was, my beautiful, yellow tea kettle burning away on the most incredible orange burner I had ever seen. The smell, the smoke nearly knocked me down. I’m sure it was toxic!!!! I turned the exhaust fan on, turned off the burner and lacking any viable brain cells at this point grabbed the tea kettle. That’s right. I burned my palm! Which now I had to put under cold water as the pot continued to sizzle on the stove coil. Once the pain subsided I grabbed a potholder and . . . well the tea kettle was sealed to the burner. I had to pry it off with a knife but it left lovely yellow paint on the coils which I think will be there until Jesus comes again.
I rinsed out my kettle. It seemed okay. Some of the paint was of course missing on the bottom but hey, I wanted another cup of coffee.
Soooooo, I filled the kettle and set it on the burner next to the offending burner and guess what, that’s right, I began to smell that same tire dump fire smell again. This time, I didn’t wait, of course I as holding my hand under the cold water again—but I turned the burner off and, yep, that’s right, the kettle was now sealed to a second burner.
Criminy, I pried it off and I now have two stovetop burners with yellow paint smears that I’m sure will burn for eternity.
That’s my story.

Frosty Visits the Holy Family

2011-12-19T09:33:00.000-05:00

This is my favorite time of the year. Christmas. I love it all, the shopping the giving the decorations. Oh my, the decorations! Especially lawn displays. I love to watch otherwise lovely suburban properties transform into festive, winter wonderlands. Oh, the joy of watching homeowners string lights, some blinking, some not, all over their houses. To blink or not to blink seems to be a highly personal preference. Personally, I am nonblinking but, hey, to each his own. We see white lights, bright lights, multicolor lights, houses draped with only single- or two-color lights—and again it’s highly personal. I prefer many colors.

Large characters begin to appear, usually Santa and reindeer, gingerbread men and their gingerbread houses, snowmen, elves, angels, and, of course, the plastic holy family. You’ve seen them: Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus, who always looks like he’s got a full diaper and for some reason is rarely swaddled properly. This disturbs me. It’s cold out there on the lawn. Often an angel is lurking around the nativity. Sometimes this angel is huge and no longer matches the holy family. It stands behind them with large spreading wings—sometimes blinking, sometimes not.

I prefer nonblinking angels. But I suppose if you need an angel, a giant one is the way to go. And the wise men are most of the time present and situated off to the left as though they are still arriving. Balthazar, it seems, is nearly always face-down on the lawn. Am I right? He always falls down. Strong winds in Bethlehem.

What I find especially interesting is how the homeowners combine not only the religious aspects of the holiday but also the secular. Notice, however, as you are making your holiday wanderings this month that almost without fail the religious icons are placed on the one side of the lawn, while the secular are on
the other. Except, of course, for one house I like to visit that has Santa in his sleigh being pulled by three reindeer flying over Mary and Joseph and Jesus. He’s actually hanging from a tree limb, but the effect works. I used to wonder what could possibly be going through the homeowner’s mind. “Oh look, Joseph, it’s Santa. I told you he was real. And look, he left me an Easy-Bake Oven.”

Now we have these giant inflatable figures popping up or blowing up on lawns everywhere. Great big Frosty the Snowmen, oversized penguins, gigantic Santas, and even incredibly large inflatable nativities. My favorite is the one with the holy family inside a snow globe complete with mini blizzards every three minutes—swirling pieces of plastic in a tiny vortex. I mean, wouldn’t you just love to have been a fly on the wall at the research and development meeting that created that one. “Oh, oh, I know, let’s put them inside a snow globe with swirling snow bits. People love that.”

And during the day when the blow-ups are turned off. Geeze, it’s Christmas carnage all over the lawns.

But to the homeowners’ credit, I must say I am impressed and dazzled by how so many have chosen to keep Christ in their Christmas decorations. My father loved Christmas and always decorated the house . . . and not with those tiny sissy lights. He used only the large, manly bulbs that exploded when you stepped on them or threw them against a wall. He never put any blatant religious symbols on the lawn.

No, our nativity had a special, sacred place—on the HiFi. That’s right, the HiFi! That large chunk of furniture with the sliding door on top? For you young people, that’s where we hid the record player. Uhm, I could almost see Mary and Joseph swaying in time with Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole. Actually, they were vibrating from the beat of the woofer inside the cabinet. Nice, except there was that one time when someone stuck an elf inside the crèche. We don’t discuss it anymore. Except it’s hard to have a crèche now without little visitors. Barbie, GI Joe, various Lego people, a lama, a zebra or two. The year the chipmunks visited the holy family—Alvin, Simon and Theodore.

Perhaps this memory is why I am so affected by Christmas lawn décor. I can still hear my father hollering that elves and Zebras have no business in the manger. Just between us, I think it was my mom who committed the crime because that little tiny elf continued to appear and reappear throughout the year in the strangest places, and when discovered, Flossie would crack just the tiniest grin and her eyes would sparkle like tinsel.

But then one day, just a few years ago, as I was traveling I saw that someone had put Frosty the Snowman in line with the three kings. And it struck me: This is the gospel. So what if there’s an elf in your nativity? Or a Frosty in your three kings procession. Go ahead, invite the gingerbread men to see the baby Jesus, move Santa closer, put those snowmen right in there. All are welcome to visit with Jesus. So this year, if you are tempted to get upset when someone puts an elf in your nativity, don’t. It’s all right. We know elves are only fiction, but maybe he could represent those who need Jesus, just as they are, dressed in an elf suit even.

Ch-Ch-Changes

2011-10-28T09:03:00.000-04:00

Here’s the thing, I’ve been thinking about lately, nothing stays anymore. Particularly where technology is concerned. I’m finding this very unnerving. I upgraded my iPhone in August and now I want the new iPhone 4S. It’s been three months. Three months! I’m sick of it. If you buy a new car it’s depreciated before you drive it off the lot. Purchase a new computer? It’s old the next day. It’s true with everything from coffee makers to cameras to the food we eat. They (whoever they are) are constantly fiddling with our stuff. How can we make it better, sweeter, less caloric, less fat, faster, more innovative? Can we add a DVD or better yet, Blue-Ray to it? How many pixels is your camera phone? Oh, too bad, that’s a lot of mega pixels but they just came out with a camera with a bazillion more pixels. I mean really, someone needs to slow down. Books? Who needs paper when you can give the world yet another screen. How many screens do you have in your house? Go on, count them. I currently have six screens and I don’t mean window. Six screens from which to participate with the world, to do life. I love technology, don’t get me wrong. That’s part of the issue. I want every new gadget that comes along. I can’t afford it but I still want it. Yet I’m worried. I can foresee a day when our gadgets are simply part of us, connected, wired. That scares me. But I really wish I could have a gadget for longer than twenty minutes before it’s obsolete.
I worry about young people and the effect this might have on them. I didn’t grow up in a world where everything I purchased became useless the next day. I could believe in my stuff, hang on to my stuff for so much longer. But now a days every time I turn around something is new again. How can anyone believe in a world that in constantly in flux?
Thankfully God is not in flux. He never changes. We don’t worship God 2.0. We don’t need a screen to be friends with him. His truths remain the same, except, “Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”
Uhm, I suppose even God’s compassions have to be new every morning. His children keep changing.

ReJoyce! I'm Back

2011-10-18T09:41:00.000-04:00

Here’s the thing, I’ve been terribly neglectful as far as social media is concerned and I apologize. It has been a strange month as I met deadlines, forged new alliances, researched new ideas, made new deals, tended schoolyard boo boos and well, I’ve been busy. But I have some room to breathe now so let me bring you all up to date on my mad cap adventures.

The most exciting thing is that I completed Harriet Beamer Take the Bus and sent it off to my wonderful editor, Bob Hudson who I so wish I could have with me here, watching over me as I write. The man is a genius. Harriet is scheduled to release May 1, 2012. I can’t wait to see it all pulled together.

I have three other projects in various stages of development and I am excited about all three. But it takes time to juggle all this. I’m writing another middle grade novel called CAKE which is about two magical sisters who take in foster children. I love writing abut magic and wonder and possibilities. Which is why I might have been drawn to Steampunk. I’m writing a proposal for a Steampunk YA novel now. I hope it’s good. I think it is. Kind of a Willy Wonka meets Victorian England but in Massachusetts in 1839. Uhm, weird, I know but be patient. And of course the sequel to Harriet. I love Harriet and cannot wait to develop her even more in book two.

And then there is family. No need to say more except I am so excited to announce that my daughter and her beautiful family will be moving back to the east coast next month. They have been transferred to Maine. I’m so excited. I haven’t even met my third grandson, Soren yet.

My son has discovered the joys and problems of keeping saltwater aquarium. It’s a great hobby and he loves it. The boy knows so much about fish and coral and things like feather duster worms and anemones. He rocks. But saltwater takes are delicate and need a lot of care—hence several visits to Captain Nemo’s Aquarium. I love the name and it kind of fits with the whole Steampunk thing right now.

And I’ve been hanging out with my middle daughter, Emily as much as I can. She’s a senior now at West Chester University. I’m very proud of her. This also figures in the Steampunk thing. Not to give it away but, I named Emily for Emily Dickinson. Uhm, how does that figure.

Oh, and of course not to mention various and sundry visits to the ER, the doc, church things, and traveling. Yep. It’s been a busy month. But still, I love being a writer and am so blessed in many ways.

And I’d like to announce a little giveaway. I will give away a copy of either Blame It On the Mistletoe or Carrying Mason to two lucky commenters. All you have to do is leave a comment and I will randomly pick two or three winners. Cool. Christmas is coming. These books make great gifts.

When Worlds Collide--Good Things Can Happen

2011-09-14T07:58:00.001-04:00

Here’s the thing, if only life came with an editor as sharp and wonderful as the man I am working with right now on my first book for Zondervan, maybe I wouldn’t feel so cranky, overwhelmed, bloated and stupid today, oh and like a bit of a failure. How sweet would it be to have someone looking over you from say a mile up, getting the big picture, the macro view as it were and saying things like: “This is where your character arc takes a nose dive. Add another scene.” Or, “Your timeline is not accurate you need to fill in these holes.” Or, “That scene you just completed is really awful, delete it and never look back.”
But alas and alack, life doesn’t come with an editor. Not really. I know I know we have God and friends and therapy, retail and otherwise to help us gain perspective but sometimes I wish I had someone sitting on my shoulder taking a closer look at things, kind of a content editor, the person who takes that micro look at your every move, every indecision and tells you when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em, when to take that leap of faith and when to sit tight like a bloated tick on a hound dog.
Well, and here’s the thing, I had this kind of interesting experience this week. I always suspected I have some kind of undiagnosed learning disability. I have trouble keeping things ordered and I can’t follow a set of directions if it meant my life. My spatial intelligence is no better then Helen Keller’s, believe me, if I fell down in the woods I would never get out and get eaten by wolves. And so, plotting is a big issue for me. I have to work very hard to keep my novels organized and my characters on track. But I suppose all authors have their strengths. Mine happens to be with character. I write characters and dialog really, really well. And hey, I’m not being egotistical. There is no crime in recognizing your talents and abilities. I will never understand a world where it is okay to say I’m a screw up but not so okay to say I’m good at something. Anyhoo, I was talking with a special ed/learning support teacher the other day at school, Miss Moran. She suggested I take something called a Multiple Intelligences Survey and see what kind of learner I am, where my intelligence lie, so to speak.
It was truly no surprise when I discovered that if it wasn’t for words and language I would be in an institution using hand puppets to communicate. Words are my thing. Numbers? Not so much, Music? Nope. Nature? Somewhat. According to the test, I like pets although I cannot ascertain the logic of this. (bad score in logic) So unless my cat suddenly learns to speak and can tell me where my plot dropped down the rabbit hole of doom and turmoil, I’m pretty much on my own. So, I reported my findings to the teacher and she suggested I use graphic organizers like she does with her students. So I went back to the computer, Googled graphic organizer and found a boatload of resources that would help keep me organized. And I got to admit that I was skeptical as I perused the worksheets with graphics of cheeseburgers, trees and thought bubbles. But I printed out a couple that I thought might make sense. It was interesting to me how some of the Graphic Organizers, I’ll call them GOs, made me nuts just to look at them. Too many clouds overlapping, or tree branches that seriously threatened my sanity. But I did find one with bubbles and arrows that I started using and you know what? It worked. It’s not much different from using index cards but I had to keep them in order, too loosey goosey and I never knew what to do with the stack of cards after I made it. But this G.O. somehow forced my brain to work and see the plot and where my story was going in a way that actually made my brain FEEL better. Odd but true my fellow wanderers. So long story short, if any of you are thinking about using hand puppets to get you point across to the bank, try a graphic organizer. There’s lots of them in all sorts of fun designs. Hope this helps. And thanks Miss Moran for helping me.

Does God Ever Say Sit Tight in Flood?

2011-09-09T10:25:00.000-04:00

Here’s the thing, does God ever say, “Sit tight,” when the floodwaters are rising all around you? As pretty much everyone knows my part of the country has been under water for several days, starting with the visit from Irene and now the remnants of Lee and the disturbance of Katia or whatever the hurricane’s name is. Fortunately I’ve been geographically high and dry but witness to area creeks or criks as we call them overflowing their banks and running slip shod over the streets into back yards and filling up otherwise peaceful valleys. I saw someone pull a bass out of newly formed pond on the golf course yesterday. Yeah, it’s that weird. People are being evacuated and told to move to higher ground where it’s safe from the rising waters.

Well it doesn’t take too large an imagination to wonder what the heck is going and to cite end prophecy these days. But believe me, the end of days is not the problem. I mean seriously, if Jesus appeared this minute, I’m cool with that.
Bring on the bad weather. It’s when bad weather comes in other ways, you know what I mean, personal issues, friends struggling, the death of a loved one, financial worries that keep you up at night, kids, career, did I mention financial issues? These are the floodwaters that tend to recede a lot more slowly than Ridley Creek.

These are the waters we can’t run from. But there is higher ground. The higher ground that is Jesus. We can run to him and find safety and refuge. But some days that’s hard. Someday we want God to find a way to evacuate us from the rushing emotional tides. But he simply says, “sit tight.” That’s what’s happening for me right now. Some dangerous waters are rising all around me, there’s nowhere to go and God is simply telling me to sit tight, don’t run, don’t evacuate even though everything inside of me wants to run. But, in this case, God is the chief safety monitor, the head of flood control and I’ll listen to Him. So yeah, God does tell us to sit tight in a storm sometimes because he knows that evacuation could be worse.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2011-09-05T11:07:00.000-04:00

Here’s the thing, it’s back to school week. The best time of the year for me in so many ways. I consider September the New Year. I don’t tend to be a summer person so watching the last horrid, humid, hot days slip away is bliss. I can already feel a cool snap in the air, the wind has changed. On the way to church yesterday I saw a Sugar Maple starting to turn, to burst into flames of color. This tree is always the first and I look forward to it each September. Based on this tree, I’m hoping it will be a vibrant autumn. Can you imagine Fall without color? I can’t. Living in southeastern Pennsylvania affords me many opportunities and places to see the fall colors. My kids are too old or living their own lives for this now but we used to have an autumn basket every year. The kids would bring things to add, gorgeous leaves, acorns, bits of twigs, pine cones, oak seeds, you know, the kind that you can wear on your nose or drop and they spin like tiny helicopters. Occasionally an interesting a rock and hot wheels car. And of course FOOTBAll.I love to watch the game. I'm am Eagles fan of course. Yep, School, work, sweater weather, football, what else is there.

I live near a state park so it doesn’t take much to go there and walk the well-worn paths, listening to the crunch of the fallen leaves beneath my feet. The smells of the forest come alive, musty, brown and primeval. But I get ahead of myself. Fall is not even upon us, around the corner as they say.

Tomorrow I start back at school. I am assistant in a classroom for a before and after school program and a lunch aide for kindergartner. I love the kiddoes and can’t wait to see them tomorrow. Oh, we have our struggles but mostly it’s fun. It’s matter of patience and staying calm. Best not to raise my voice—which is hard for me anyway. I am honored that I get to work these kids. They bless me in so many ways.

And it’s also back to writing, not that I ever left. But there is just something about September that makes me take it that much more seriously, makes it harder to procrastinate. I am working on finishing up edits for Harriet Beamer Takes the Bus, then it’s back to my next book for Abingdon, then the next book for Zondervan and most likely another middle grade as well. Yeah, it’s busy. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Busy is good. Fall is good. Kids are good. I wish all of you an excellent year.

Maybe I’ll make an autumn basket this year. Uhm, what should I put in it?

Contest Alert

2011-08-26T10:33:00.001-04:00

Here's the thing, in honor of my newly blue fingernails--hideously blue. I am offering to send a sign copy of my debut middle grade novel--Carrying Mason to two randomly selected people who paint their nails (finger or toe or both) blue--hideously blue and posts the image on Facebook. Honor system folks, these can not be previously painted nails.

Goodnight Irene!

2011-08-26T08:06:00.001-04:00

Here’s the thing, I might have said this before but it bears repeating under the current weather conditions here on the east coast. I am an electricity snob. There I said it. My biggest concern through this whole weekend will be that the power stays on. How shallow am I, right. Oh, I’ll make sure there’s enough peanut butter and fluff and cheese doodles to get us through for a day or two but seriously, I hate it when the lights go out. Think about it—okay, there’s always a book or six to read but no TV means no video games and I am playing Fable 2 right now which is quite cool. No air conditioning, I can deal with that. But really NO video games. This is something I cannot abide. I can make sure all my devices are charged but of course I am neurotic enough to worry—but what if the power stays off for days—how will I charge my IPhone, my IPad my MacBook? How, please someone tell me how? Do you think if I drove some place that had power they’d let me charge up? Maybe a whole herd of hamsters running in their little wheels would generate enough power? Perhaps, a household windmill?

We’ve never been through a hurricane before, well not a real one. There was something a few years ago but all I remember is the weather lady wearing a windbreaker and standing in the street in ankle high water telling us to run for cover. Blizzards? Bring ‘em on. Earthquakes? Ha, I laugh in your face. But wind and toppling power lines? Transformers blowing? Not a few of my favorite things.

Power is vital. Lights are necessary. I have deadlines to meet and well, here’s the truth. We need the light.
In so many ways.

Notes From the Cliff--Cliff Notes! Ha!

2011-08-17T09:40:00.002-04:00

“Success is counted sweetest by those who ‘nere succeed” ~ Emily Dickinson

Here’s the thing, success is fleeting. But failure, ah failure is your friend forever. Failure is the BFF of therapists everywhere, the boon of self-help articles and blog posts, the bane of the author’s existence. It’s the reason preachers don their preacher suits on Sunday, to offer encouragement and lessons in how to avoid failure or come against failure or skirt disaster. Amazon is chock full of books that pretend to tell you how to not fall off the cliff. But here’s the thing, why not embrace failure? Every single one of us has some niggling concern that we might not succeed, that we’ll have a brain aneurysm before we finish our next book or that the next book will fail so miserably people will laugh.

Every single time I face writing a new book I ask the same question—can I do this? Will I ever finish this one? What’s wrong with me? Well, nothing really. All writers and even all artists walk that thin tight rope toward failure, teetering side to side, hanging on with all our strength to the umbrella of our own giftedness, hoping it will get us across the circus tent, across the ravine to the clown car that’s waiting. Funny thing is, we climb into the clown car and the chief clown drives us right back to other side of the ravine so we can do it all again, forgetting the pain—like the pain of childbirth and actually do it all again.

I think writers love the danger of possible failure. It’s an adrenaline rush, a kind of high, the Crack we crave as we go merrily along. Writers and by nature all artists but for my purposes here and because it is my experience I will use the word Writer to represent all of us who think for some reason we are the creators, live in varying degrees of failure. The problem is that the work in progress cannot be reviewed until finished and then for the writer it’s almost too late to fully enjoy because she has already, long before the accolades, moved on to the next project and even as the awards are handed out, the praises published, is neck-high, once again in her own, persistent state of failure, in What If this is the one I never finish. She is busy battling her mental illnesses while holding the coveted trophy.

The truth is, we don’t want to finish, oh the goal is great, the awards are boffo but it’s over soon enough. The anticipation of the journey is actually more satisfying in some sick way then getting there. The trick I think is to stay on the tightrope, however much you teeter and keep moving. And, please, do not stare into the abyss of failure too long because as Nietzsche said, if you stare into the abyss too long the abyss begins staring back. You don’t want to dive into it, just be comforted that it’s there and it’s okay that it’s there—it fuels the process. It’s part of the process.

Publisher's Weekly Reviews Mason--Pretty Sweet

2011-08-15T07:52:00.001-04:00

Magnin (Bright's Pond series) writes her first book for younger readers with this middle-grade story of 13-year-old Luna, whose best friend Mason dies in a car accident. Luna decides to move in with Mason's mother, Ruby Day, who is mentally disabled, to lend a hand and to honor her friend. The plot thickens when Ruby Day's Aunt Sapphire shows up in a chauffeured limousine wearing a boa made of two dead foxes. Sapphire wants something, and it can't be good. Magnin's strengths are well displayed in this coming-of-age tale: her dialogue crackles, her wit relieves (Luna is affectionately called "Luna Fish" from a mishap with a tuna fish sandwich), and her sense of family dynamics that includes the usual verbal sparring among children is lively. Luna's parents seem a bit too Hallmark Channel good to be true, but that won't bother everyone. There's no supernatural world or dystopia here--just smalltown life, death, and growing up. Ages 8–12. (Sept.)

My Dad

2011-08-10T08:54:00.003-04:00

Here’s the thing, today is my father’s birthday. He died a few years ago. I miss him terribly sometimes. My Dad was a big, clunky SOB a lot of the time but he was also smart, funny, and one of the reasons I became a writer. I loved to listen to him tell me stories about his Army days. Dad was an officer in United States Army, one of the first to land on Normandy in Operation Overlord and participated in just about every major battle of World War 2 including Argonne, the Bulge, the Herkin Forest. Her served well and was decorated several times including a silver star. He watched men die, saved lives and became a father all at the same time. My oldest sister was born while Dad was in Europe. She was two years old before he saw her for the first time. Dad carried a small Brownie camera with him through his entire campaign and snapped photos of everything from cannons to his buddies eating Thanksgiving dinner out of their helmets. When I was sixteen I found the pictures in a dresser drawer. I remember sitting for hours looking through the images of my soldier daddy fighting his way through Europe. For Father’s Day that year I assembled most of the pictures into an album. Fortunately he labeled many of them and I was able to rewrite them under the photos. Always the writer, I titled the album—What Did You Do in the War Daddy? I presented it to him. He called me a Rascal—Dad’s euphemism for “I love you.” I have the album now.

The day he died was bittersweet. My mother had been in the nursing a home a few years and he would visit her every single day. He brought her tiny pink tea roses once a week. But that day he called Mom and said, “Flossie, I won’t be coming today. I’m gonna have to see you on the other side of the Jordan.”

My sister found him a little while later.

We told Mom at the nursing home. But she said, “I know. He told me.”

I worse a black jacket to his funeral. It was cold, the dead of February. I wore his Good Conduct medal. But here’s the thing, Dad loved Jelly Beans, well candy of any sort. But it seemed he always had jelly beans in his pocket. So I brought a bag to the service and handed them out to folks. We all stuffed Dad’s pockets with jelly beans. He loved that. But even though he could be so very mean, just before they closed the casket I clipped his good conduct medal onto his lapel. It had been a hard journey. But I think he mostly did his best.

So, Dad, you SOB, you had your tender moments. And for that I’m grateful.

What is Wrong With People?

2011-08-09T08:27:00.001-04:00

Here’s the thing, I watched the national news this morning. Big mistake. The economy is apparently going belly up again—something about stocks and credit ratings I don’t pretend to understand. Philadelphia is being over run with what they call Flash Mobs—groups of youngsters beating up innocent bystanders. London is on fire. Seriously, people are rioting and breaking things, and kicking down doors and looting, turning over cars, setting fires and beating the hell out of each of each other. If only that were possible—to beat HELL out of someone and be left with well, the opposite of Hell.

I have the answer. I’ve been saying this for years. Even my pastor suggested it from the pulpit Sunday. Ready. Here it is—simple as this. Nobody goes to Sunday School anymore. That’s it, the simple answer. These kids in the flash mobs should be in church three times a week learning the difference between right and wrong, good and evil. Back when I was a kid everyone went to Sunday School, Hebrew School or Catechism classes to learn how to behave in society and love God so that He can be a blessing to them. We learned that lying is bad, shoplifting is bad, and I suppose breaking down the doors and windows of a jewelry store and looting thousands of dollars of diamonds and then setting it ablaze would be considered naughty. Don’t you think?

Now I know this sounds simplistic and there are people out there who will tell me it has more to do with socioeconomics and stuff. And yes, you are correct but I’m telling you—a few well-paced Sunday School teachers with the wrath f God and the Love of God at the ready will go far.

The Thing about a Dust Jacket

2011-08-08T08:02:00.001-04:00

Here’s the thing, I received a boatload of books Friday. They came in two brown boxes and were delivered by the UPS guy. They were copies of my debut middle grade novel, Carrying Mason. I cried. Okay, it might be a menopausal mood swing but still, I cried. Oh, I cried when my adult novels arrived also. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like my Bright’s Pond novels are the ugly step sisters. But this was is different and here’s why. As most of you already know I have wanted to be a writer since I was nine years old. I cannot think of anything else I ever wanted to do with my life, other than a few fleeting thoughts about working for the CIA as a spy and there was that one unfortunate stint as a dog groomer, but let’s not discuss that dark day. So when the books arrived I was naturally filled with emotion and sat down and read the entire book from cover to cover as I do with all my books.

The big thing was the dust jacket. I don’t know what it is about a hardbound book with a dust jacket but it somehow makes it all more, literary, novely, writerly or bookish, maybe even permanent. It’s not an E-Book that can be deleted. (Although E-books are good too, there’s room for both) Maybe it takes me back to those days at the library when I would climb the stacks looking for a new author to read, when . . . and I might be wrong . . . but most of the books had dust jackets, that’s how I remember it. I worried about the dust jacket. I was always afraid I would rip it. Most of the book jackets were already bandaged with tape and so crimpled that one more small rip or crinkle wouldn’t matter. But I worried. I didn’t want to make it worse so I always took the jacket off when I could and set it neatly aside while I read about Pippi Longstocking, or Harriet the Spy, or the mating rituals of East Indian elephants. And then I replaced the jacket and returned it to the library. Back then I was a good citizen and returned library books. I’ve gotten a little slack in the department.

So here I am with a dust jacket with my name on it, wrapped like a comfortable blanket around the book I wrote. Oh, and the flaps make nifty bookmarks. I’m really not being prideful, although I am proud of my achievement, but I am mostly touched and even spellbound that this is really happening. Sometimes it seems impossible that this pigeon toed, stringy girl from a Westbrook Park row home got to have her dream come true. It’s as though I’m nine years old again. But the truth is, I am more a testament to perseverance, hard work, stick-to-it-tive-ness as my mother would have called it. Forty-five years is all it took. And hey, if you rip the jacket that’s okay. Just be sure to tape it. Maybe someday I’ll be rummaging through a library and find a copy all taped up, a battered and hopefully well-love book.

The Cheese Never Stands Alone

2011-08-05T08:19:00.002-04:00

Here’s the thing, the past several weeks have been busy. I was/will be teaching at summer conferences, not to mention attending to my own writing schedule. I just got back from the Montrose Christian Writers Conference where I taught my ever-growing-in-popularity-it-seems fiction clinic. This time around I had 16 first time novelists and one interloper. And I must say, it was one of my best clinics so far. I absolutely love doing this. These small groups, these communities of writers and lovers of words become family if even for a just a few short but intense days. That’s them in the picture. I love them.

What’s fun is the variety of manuscripts I get to read. Everything from a children’s books set in a Dystopian Society to Women’s Literature to Fantasy. Sure, all the books need work. But hey, whenever I read my own books published years ago, I wince and wish Superman could fly backwards around the globe and reverse time. But no, there comes a time with every manuscript when you have to stop adding and subtracting words. But sometimes it takes a village to raise a book. To make it publishable—that’s the thing, that’s the big thing and probably the subject of another post down the road.

I especially enjoy watching the light bulbs go off inside the workshopees minds when something I say about Point of View or Dialog or what have you sinks in and they get it. I enjoy watching the participants get to know each other and trust each other and learn from each other even when I’m not around. It’s community.

My approach is simple—talk about novels. Talk about growing an organic story that builds and develops and thrives starting with premise and pressing through to character, structure, setting etc. We talk about how one aspect of the novel naturally grows out of the other. The cheese never stands alone in a novel. If it did, the dream, as John Gardner calls it, will end.

I’m in the process of reading 12 more manuscripts for the Greater Philadelphia Conference next week. I already know it’s going to be great.

Stupid Jokes

2011-07-19T14:38:00.002-04:00

Here's the thing, I took my son to a pet store today. It was very very far away. A two hour drive. But I must admit it is a totally cool place. Adam's latest hobby is fish. Yes, that's right fish as in aquariums and water and fish and plants and fish and water and well, he likes it. So yeah, I was a good mom and took him to this amazing pet store in far far away land.
They had everything you can think of from chameleons which were really neat to the teeniest tiniest shrimp. Guess that's why they call them shrimp--they were like an eight of an inch long and cost $3.99 each. Uh, yeah, right.
Anyway, on the long long drive home I discovered Adam is a sucker for a stupid joke. LIke this one:
Q: What is big and yellow, sits in a tree and is very, very dangerous?
A: A one hundred and fifty pound canary with a machine gun.
He laughed and laughed.
I love him.

Long Ago Summer

2011-07-15T10:57:00.002-04:00

Here’s the thing, for some reason I started to wax nostalgic the other night about summers gone by. I’m not sure what brought the flood of mostly sentimental longings and memories rushing to the forefront of my mind. Perhaps it was the thick, humid air, or the buzz of a mosquito, or the crack of a baseball against a well swung bat. I remembered the warm summer evenings when we got to stay out past nine because it was still light out. My mother would bring trays of crescent cut watermelon slices to us on the stoop where me and my compadres, six or seven awkward, free for the summer hooligans sat scheming about what to do next. We’d slurp the luscious, red flesh of the fruit and spit the seeds as far as we could under the moon and the street lights just coming to life.

The sounds of neighbors arguing, horns blaring, music drifting on woolen air that smelled of fresh mown grass and cigarettes. It made you think you could lose your mind if you didn’t find something to do. We all had legs that ached to move and hands that needed a job and over active imaginations that made every unusual car on the street full of kidnappers and the occasional passing airplane on its way to Istanbul.

Someone, it didn’t matter who, would suggest a game of Hide ‘n Seek because it was something to do on a sultry, sticky night when no one could sleep. We’d toss the melon rinds into the yard for the squirrels and cats and coyotes and wolves and then we’d scamper through the neighborhood. Boundaries were my house—because it was an end row and the last house on the block where the weird people lived with the one daughter with the greasy black hair who only came out that one Saturday to bury a headless Barbie Doll. The people who built the bomb shelter in the backyard and stocked it with Campbell’s soup and Band Aids. The only family that would survive the nuclear attack we all knew was coming.

Hide n’ Seek on my block was not a game for the faint of heart. It was all out war between the hiders and the seeker—one summer school parolee combing the usual places looking for a kid to tag and then chase back to the light pole—to base. Being on base was one of the best things summer vacation had to offer. There you were safe. Safe from anything anyone could dish out. All you had to do was yell, “On base,” and no one dared lay a hand you. It was code of the block.

Then, almost without exception, every single night someone would kick the light pole right in the sweet spot and all the lights would buzz off for a few minutes. It was like the great eyes that watched had gone blind and for exactly six and a half minutes the street was plunged into utter darkness. Only the inadequate bulbs of a few stoop lights cast a small ring of yellow that barely shown because the moths drawn to the light eclipsed any brightness they had in them.

But when the lights went out our simple game of hide ‘n seek became dangerous. No longer an innocent game it became a game of Catch ‘n Kill. Now everyone became a hider and everyone a seeker and our row was transformed to Lord of the Flies Avenue. When getting found meant getting tackled and pummeled like a piñata full of gumballs unless you reached base. The only thing that would save you was tagging base, tagging the blacked-out street light pole.

It was only the light that saved you.

Until some member of the tribe cried and went home and then one by our names were called from the stoop. It was time to go home.

It Takes Two men and a Truck to Water the Lawn

2011-07-07T07:22:00.001-04:00

Here’s the thing, I’m at my desk this morning working when I hear this noise outside. It was a sound that went: Squeaaaak! Grumble. Shoosh. Squeaaaak! Grumble. Shoosh. Squeaaaak! Grumble. Shoosh. Unable to bridle my curiosity any longer I went to investigate. It was a large township truck and a man in an orange shirt walking behind it. He was carrying an orange hose. He was watering the pretty flowers and trees along the street.That's them in the picture. It made me think. Geeze. All that manpower to water the plants. And that got me thinking even more, leave it to the men to figure out how to build a giant machine to water the azaleas or whatever they are—they’re pink mostly. And that got me thinking if the men had the babies that's probably how they’d bathe them. Just line all the children up on the street. A big struck drives slowly past while another man sprays them down. Job done. Go home.

The Smudge Issue

2011-07-06T10:07:00.004-04:00

Here’s the thing, I have a smudge on my monitor. It’s been there for about two weeks. Yes, that’s right two weeks. Ever since I started the edits for Harriet Beamer. What do you suppose it means? I could very easily clean it off but for some reason I don’t want to. It’s not really in my way or impairing my vision. I tried to take a picture of it. It's not that I'm lazy. Ordinarilyy, the spot would have been gone by now. I will clean it when I finish the edits. It will be my reward for when the job is done. Most writers I know celebrate with chocolate or a nice dinner. No, not me. My celebration will be a clean screen. Does that make any sense? Any of you psyche majors out there who can tell me the psychology behind my smudge. Is there some deep-seated, smudge-related thing going on? How about you, is there a smudge in your life you can’t seem to Windex away?

Guns and Elephants

2011-07-01T11:00:00.002-04:00

Here’s the thing, yesterday I met a man who killed an elephant. Adam, my twelve year old son and I were invited to go shoot guns with our friends Jon and Dave and Hank from church. For some crazy reason, perhaps it will be fodder for a book someday, I was really excited about going. So we trekked over to Jon’s and loaded up his truck with six different rifles and a boatload of bullets and off we went to Honeybrook. (It’s near Lancaster, PA). But first we stopped at an Amish farm where I had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Yoder. Then we hit the rifle range. Mr. Yoder, an eighty-three year old Amish farmer was already there shooting away—pretty amazing considering he has macular generation. What a sweet, sweet man. I would have taken his picture but the Amish frown on such things. Anyhow, after a safety first lecture, Jon got Adam and me equipped with “ears”. Headphones to block the noise because it sure is loud. Even though we were firing 22s. Relatively small bullets but Jon told me it was the bullet that killed Robert Kennedy—so there you go.

Adam shot first. He’s a natural. It was great to watch Jon instruct him and then watch Adam’s smile grow every time he had a good “grouping.” He did great. I’m very proud of him. Then it was my turn. The rifle was heavier than I thought it would be. But after I got comfortable—it’s all about center of gravity and having your butt in the right place. I loaded the rifle, sighted and fired. And guess what? I did pretty well. I always did have good hand/eye coordination. And I will admit, it was a blast.

Next they let Adam and me shoot the bigger rifles. Holy Cannoli boys and girls. The 22 didn’t really have a kick but the big gun, quite a shock to the shoulder. But it was okay. I could feel the blast in my chest also. Adam thoroughly enjoyed firing the bigger bullets also. Jon said these are guns that take down moose.

But then, this fella Dave showed up. He killed an elephant once. Apparently you only get to kill one elephant in your lifetime—regulations and it costs something like $60,000. I was fascinated with his story. He and his PH (professional hunter) tracked the elephant until they were positive Dave would have a clear shot. You don’t want to nick or miss shooting an elephant. He shot it “across the heart”. Dave said the elephant, the largest land animal, traveled a bit until he finally fell—taking a tree down with him. What happens after the poor thing drops is crazy and amazing. The Botswanian people eat elephant meat and use everything they can from it. And since you can’t exactly carry the beast out of the jungle—Dave said he was over 65 years old and weighed around 13,000 pounds—the villagers come out and butcher the thing on the spot. What a site that must be. It takes an entire village to butcher one elephant. Dave got to keep the ivory which is stamped with a unique serial number and Dave is not allowed to sell it. Now before you get upset about it (like I was at first) here’s the deal, elephant shooting is regulated by the African government. It’s necessary to thin the herd otherwise the elephants will destroy the land needed for the other animals’ habitats, not to mention the people. They only kill the old, bachelor, retired elephants who are no longer breeding.

It was a pretty neat day all around. I bet Adam will the be the only kid in the seventh grade come September to say, “I met a man who killed an elephant on my summer vacation.”

Getting the Summer Hate On

2011-06-30T07:12:00.001-04:00

Here’s the thing, I pretty much hate summer. There I said it. And here are ten reasons why I hate summer. For those of you who hate the word hate, well . . . there you go.
1. The heat. What the heck? It is so hot and humid my brain is sticky. And if you scramble the letters in heat you get hate so, there you go . . .
2. Sweating. Yeah well, that goes along with the heat, especially when you have inadequate AC. Why shower?
3. People who ask me what I’m doing this summer. Like it’s anything different from the rest of the year. I just add sweating.
4. People “on vacation”. Nuff said.
5. Sweating.
6. Women wearing insane looking sandals, especially the kind that make them look like Spartacus.
7. Traffic into the shore points. I mean come on people. Go home.
8. Bugs
9. Sweating, heat, humidity, no air, can’t breathe. Did I mention that?
10. I can’t wear black without . . . you guessed it, sweating.
So come on now, be honest. What do you hate about summer?

Why I Love Middle Grade Books

2011-06-29T08:15:00.002-04:00

Here's the thing, I love middle grade literature. Now don't get me wrong, I enjoy grown-up books also and I love writing them but today I wanted to tell you why I enjoy middle grade books and why I enjoy writing them.
These are the things I see as a reader of middle grade literature.
The middle grade years are a time in a child's life that is full of innocence yet sometimes profound wisdom. And this can be seen and felt in the books.
Anything is possible in Middle Grade books.
There is a quality of magic and wonder in these books.
Honesty, courage, hope and resilience are overarching themes in most MG. Qualities I believe we all wish we had in great quantity.
Comedy. Middle grade books are often full of charm and laughter.
They're short. Although this is changing and that's okay. I can read several in a week's time and come away just as satisfied if not more as if I had read a 400 page tome.
As a writer of middle grade literature I enjoy all of the above and using all of the above to tell a story. Because story matters. Story first. It's kind of like taking the Hippocratic Oath--First do no harm. For authors I think we should all take a similar oath, call it the Tolkien Oath, First, tell a good story.
They're short, but don't have to be I can write a good novel in less time. Less words. But each word MUST be carefully, specifically chosen.
The writing is tight. As a writer of MG I endeavor to write only the sentences that are necessary.
Kids know good writing. You cannot fool them. Writing for kids keeps me on my toes.
The audience. Kids of this age are voracious readers. They keep coming back for more and will read anything from a literary to a fantasy. They just want a good story.
If you haven't read much MG fiction, I suggest you give it a try. Some of my favorite authors are Jonathan Friesen, Kimberley Willis Holt, KAtherine Patterson, Kathi Appelt, GAry Schmidt, Joan Bauer and the list goes on.
Now go forth and read, you'll be glad you did.

Free Agnes--And Not From Prison

2011-06-15T10:06:00.002-04:00

Here's the thing, my debut novel, which incidentally was named on of the top five books of 2009 by Library Journal is now free for the downloading, ha, kind of a new meaning for Free-Loading at Amazon and CBD. Go for it. Now. Even if you've read it, download it. Please.

Counting the Stairs

2011-06-15T08:43:00.003-04:00

Here’s the thing, the other day I was reading a young friend’s blog. You should also. It’s really good. Find it here. Anyway, I scrolled through a couple of posts and found one where Ivy admits that she compulsively counts stairs. Holy cow, I said. Me too. I can’t help it. I have been doing this for as long as I can remember. It was so nice to know that Ivy, a brilliant, talented writer and scholar also shares my obsession. I suppose that’s what it is—an obsessive-compulsive thing. Most stairs have thirteen risers. I find that interesting. I don’t know why, but I do. Hogwarts would have been great fun to count. This compulsion never gets in the way of my life and no one, until now, knows that I do this. I even count the same stairs—like the fire escape steps I use to get in and out of my apartment, every single time. Thirteen. Try it and see if I’m not right about the stairs in your life. But please, don’t stare.

Who's that Woman Behind the Mask?

2011-06-13T07:39:00.005-04:00

Here’s the thing, I was having breakfast with my friend Rachel that other day and we got to discussing, well discussing ME! Sheesh. I can be so rude. Anyway, we were talking about some travel plans I have relating to my writing career (I'm heading to the American Library Association National Conference), about my deadlines and books and career when we discovered that I am suffering from IMPSOTOR SYNDROME. Yep, that’s right. IMpostor Syndrome. Seems I mentioned to Rachel how I will be at the conference with REAL writers. This in view of the fact that I have published four books with four on the way and achieved various and sundry awards and accolades. Which all adds up to me still not quite achieving Real author status. Rachel, who by the way, has studied these things, said, "You have Impostor Syndrome.

Now, Imposter Syndrome is nothing new or exclusive to me. It was first identified by a couple of psychologists in the 1970s. Many people, particularly women, suffer from IS, which is essentially an inability or perhaps an unwillingness to believe in one’s success. I think it’s something that creatives deal with more than say, accountants or zookeepers but I might be wrong.

At its most elementary level a person with IS sits around waiting for someone to call them out, to discover that they are frauds, totally untalented and unworthy of any accolades, awards, money, prestige, whatever received. It’s true. I just know that one day an editor is going to call me and say something like, “What the heck were we thinking? You can’t write! Give us all our money back.” So far this hasn’t happened—quite the opposite, actually.

But I got to thinking, that Impostor Syndrome is really just another form of anxiety. A little fear, a little anxiety is a good thing, otherwise I would be walking into open elevator shafts and petting ferocious pit bulls. So, anxiety keeps me alive. In a similar way, IS (Impostor Syndrome) keeps me from getting a swelled head, from dipping into the pool of narcissus, from thinking myself better or more highly than others. It helps to keep me grounded in my own reality and to genuinely be pleased when a colleague succeeds. IS is a filter that wards off mega self-delusions.

However, believing that I am fraudulent author has a downside. I think it can paralyze me sometimes. When IS is at its most active is when the internal editors, (who in my case are three, pot-bellied, men upholstered in three-piece suits smoking cigars), gather around and tell me I am the worst writer on the planet and should be sitting in Author Prison on fraud charges. So, yeah, IS can be damaging to one’s career.

How do we beat it? Uhm, I don’t know. By believing in your own abilities? Maybe. But does something deeper need to happen? And like I said, isn’t a little bit of Imposter Syndrome a good thing? Do you struggle with this. Are you concerned that someday you’re going to wake up and realize that all your success is a sham?

Four and Twenty Blackbirds Baked in a Pie

2011-06-07T09:02:00.002-04:00

Here's the thing. You rally can bake live birds into pies. What a hoot. So-called animated pies or pyes were the most popular banquet entertainment back in the 13th and 14th century. The nursery rhyme "Sing a Song of Sixpence . . . four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie," refers to such a pie. According to the rhyme, "When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing. Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the King." True story. Not only did the birds sing but they probably flew happily and with a beak of relief, out into the banquet hall. But that's not all, my pretties, rabbits, frogs, turtles, other small animals, and even small people (dwarfs) as we learned yesterday were also placed into pies. Sometimes pies had birds and a dwarf to be released when the crust was cut. The dwarf would emerge and walk down the length of the table, reciting poetry, sketching the guests, or doing tricks. Now how politically correct is that? Yikes. Anyhoo, just in case you want to bake a pye with blackbirds, here's the recipe.

It comes from the Epulario (The Italian Banquet), published in 1598.
"To Make Pie That the Birds May Be Alive In them and Flie Out When It Is Cut Up - Make the coffin of a great pie or pastry, in the bottome thereof make a hole as big as your fist, or bigger if you will, let the sides of the coffin bee somwhat higher then ordinary pies, which done put it full of flower and bake it, and being baked, open the hole in the bottome, and take out the flower. Then having a pie of the bigness of the hole in the bottome of the coffin aforesaid, you shal put it into the coffin, withall put into the said coffin round about the aforesaid pie as many small live birds as the empty coffin will hold, besides the pie aforesaid. And this is to be at such time as you send the pie to the table, and set before the guests: where uncovering or cutting up the lid of the great pie, all the birds will flie out, which is to delight and pleasure shew to the company. And because they shall not bee altogether mocked, you shall cut open the small pie, and in this sort you may make many others, the like you may do with a tart."

By the way, I should note that I am getting all this from a book called Pie: A Global History by Janet Clarkson

The Scranton Mine Disaster

2011-06-07T07:14:00.005-04:00

Here's the thing, I was really really looking forward to meeting the chickens. I was really really excited about going into a coal mine even though I wasn't sure I'd actually be able to do it. I had every intention of meeting with two writing groups and putting forth my pearls of writerly wisdom. But as Robert Burns said:

"But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane [you aren't alone]
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley, [often go awry]
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promised joy."

I never made it. Well not the whole way. I wasn't feeling well when I left to drive to Scranton on Friday and by the time I arrived I was pretty much sick--with a head cold/sinus/snot/sore throat crud thing. My hosts, who I will tell you about a little later. HINT: Think Gotham City, Police Commissioner. Anyhoo, my hosts were so very gracious. I did manage to make the book signing at Northern Lights Espresso Bar. It was fun. That's the mic I sort of read into--unfortunately I sounded like a complete idiot. It was like my brain had been fried. I was, to say the least embarrassed, to say the most, mortified and I swear I will never do it again--but I often say that. The place was awesome. Scranton ROCKS!! I had never been to a First Friday celebration. Every town should do this and celebrate the arts. Every town! But I went back to the Pennsylvania State Police Commissioner's house--that's right, and crashed. The next morning I was supposed to go to see the chickens and do the coal mine tour and meet with to writer's groups but I was just too sick. I had to go home. My dear friends and students Leslee and Cindy were sad and so was I. But I just couldn't do it. So I drove eighty miles an hour all the way home--a two hour drive, I did in in one and a half. I went to bed. Slept until four o'clock, got up. Was starving. Ate whatever I had in the fridge. Went back to bed.

I feel better today. My throat is still a little sore. I still cough off and on but at least I can think again--at least I seem to be thinking. I will get back to Scranton very soon. I promise. I still need to meet the chickens and go into the coal mine and meet the writers. SCRANTON, I SHALL RETURN!

Books, Chickens, Coal Mines, and Claustrophobia

2011-06-02T06:47:00.005-04:00

Here’s the thing, I want to tell you about my weekend. Except it hasn’t come yet. But I am really excited about it. I can hardly wait, so I have decided to tell you what I can. I am driving to the Scranton, Pennsylvania area tomorrow. It’s pretty much a straight shot up the Pennsylvania Turnpike—in fact—all the way to the end of the turnpike. Now that’s a scary thought, isn’t it. “Drive to the end of the turnpike.” Uhm. Anyhoo. I am going to sign books, discuss Bright’s Pond, Harriet Beamer, Carrying Mason, writing and pretty much anything else folks would like to discuss about books and writing. Hopefully sell a few copies also.

But, this weekend is more than a typical author appearance. I am going to tour around up there and see some sights—including Bright’s Pond. Well, not really. BP is all in my imagination but the model for the town is definitely an amalgam of several small towns in the mountains of PA. So it will be great to walk around and see the towns and glean even more PA small town quirk to use in my novels—believe me PA can be quirky. And not only that but I am going to get to hold a chicken! Yep, pretty exciting stuff. You see, I am working on a new middle grade novel and there are chickens in the story. I need to do some research so my friends and students, Leslee and Cindy (excellent writers btw) are going to shepherd me around and take me to a chicken place. I want to hear the chickens, smell them (yuck) and hopefully maybe snatch an egg or two from one.

Then, not only am I going to hold a chicken. But, now hang on to your bloomers, but I am going to tour a coal mine—an actual coal mine. Yep, I am going to get into a coal car and travel I don’t know how many hundreds of feet underground and see the actual workings of a coal mine. This life has always fascinated me and I am hoping to write a novel about coal mines one day—so yep, it’s research. The tricky part is this. I am claustrophobic. Always have been. So it might get ugly down there. I hope I can breathe. I hope I don’t get too scared and panic and make the tour guide person bring me to the surface. I really, really want to do this. I will be praying, and I hope you all will also, that I can make the whole trip in the mine. I pray I won't be too . . . CHICKEN. HA!

After that, it’s more food and drink. And then back down the turnpike. I won’t be posting again until Monday. I will have pictures. I will let you all know how I did in the coal car. And with the chickens. I’ll take lots of snaps to share.

Man O Man—writers have more fun than people.

Hook, Line, and Sinker

2011-05-31T07:28:00.003-04:00

Here’s the thing, I’m an idiot, apparently. Okay, my bank person said I’m being too hard on myself but still, it happened. I fell for it. And I paid the price. Here’s what happened: On Saturday I was preparing to teach my monthly writer’s class in my home. I was going over notes, rereading manuscripts, tweaking some comments, vacuuming, dusting, taking out the garbage, cleaning the litter box, putting clothes in the dryer etc. etc. when a very authentic, true to Apple’s slick graphic look, warning popped up on my laptop informing me that my computer had been hacked and a terrible virus is running rampant through her little brain. At first I clicked out of it thinking, “that’s weird.” I didn’t even know I had a virus protection program on my system—a computer condom I suppose. But then it happened again. I click out. It happened again and I was twenty minutes away from my students arriving. I clicked out and restarted the computer. This time, not only did the little virus warning boxes pop up but there was also a disgusting porn page staring at me. I panicked and felt rattled.

All I could think was that maybe I really did have a virus. It never happened before. MAC has been stellar at dealing with this. But then I thought, maybe the virus program came pre-installed on my MAC and I’ve never needed it before. It didn’t ask for my administrator password which seemed even more official. So, and this is the IDIOT part, I went ahead and gave the program permission to “clean” my computer. But first I had to purchase the virus programs. It looked so Apple official. So I signed up, gave my credit card info and BAM! I had been scammed. The RATS. But I had a class to teach. So I tried not to think about it

Four hours later all I could think about was the $59.95 I had just spent. Not a huge amount of money but with cataclysmic consequences. I felt sick to my stomach. I knew something was wrong but I didn’t know what t do. How could I be sure? It was just a feeling. My computer was running well. No more pop-ups. No more porn.

Then I went out—errands and such, still feeling sick, worried and like my whole financial life was about to drown. Not that I have much money. Saturday night was awful. I couldn’t sleep. So Sunday morning I got on the computer and investigated this MACDEFENDER program and sure enough. IT’S A FRAUD. A SCAM. There was info all over the internet about it. Reports of people falling victim in the same way.

The result of all this: I had to cancel my card, lockout my checking and savings accounts and file a fraud report. Then wait until 11:00 when my bank opened (it was Sunday). I went to church first. Then the bank. The woman who helped me was so sweet and gentle. She changed all my accounts, had me sign the fraud claim and gave me a new debit card. Fortunately no more money was siphoned from my accounts. But it wasn’t over yet. Next I had to get the virus off my computer. Apple had a very easy solution which I followed—about six steps including resetting my browser which knocked out all my bookmarks, and other vital info which will need to be re-filled over the coming days. It was a harrowing experience but I weathered it. My bucks are safe but I have to tell you I’m a little nervous about using my card online anymore. Is there such a thing as post-traumatic scam disorder?

Community, Book Clubs and Lemon Squares

2011-05-24T08:45:00.003-04:00

Here’s the thing, book signings are pretty much a hit or miss situation unless you’re JK Rowling or Hemingway. Most writers know what it’s like to sit at a table and twiddle their thumbs hoping someone will stop by while fighting the urge to chew their arm off. It can be aggravating. There’s nothing like a book signing to make you feel all alone in the world. Although, gaining even one new reader is worth the effort. So I won’t stop doing them. But, visiting book clubs is a delight. I thoroughly enjoy sitting with a group of people (usually all women) who have read my book and are now eager to learn the story behind the story.
In a recent profile with Publisher’s Weekly I talked about the importance of community and why I write about community. This is why I love Bright’s Pond. It really is about the town, the people (ok they’re a little nuts) but still they work together toward a common good or common goal. They feel comfortable walking in the back door and saying “hey,” sharing a slice of pie and their troubles as well as their triumphs.
I believe book clubs do this for folks. Reading books in community is a wonderful way to share a common interest, reach a common goal and then discuss and trade insights, learn from each other and hopefully discover something new about yourself or a friend.
When I visit a book club I am often thrilled by the questions, the depth of reasoning. I smile when a reader sees something in my writing, something tucked between the lines that I didn’t even know was there. So much of writing is subconscious, between the lines. I like it when they laugh at the right places and commiserate with my characters.
It’s also interesting how each person settles on something particular, usually a little bit different, on a different page than their book club comrade. This, I think is how book clubs should work. Each participant bringing something different. And yeah, the cookies and lemon squares and coffee don’t hurt.
One of the questions I am asked most often is how do I come up with my names. Names that PW found worthy of Roald Dahl, ok, shameless self-promo there. But hey. Anyway, I usually tell them that my characters arrive already named. I have never sat down with a baby name book or a phone book or any other resources and excavated for exactly the best name. The characters tell me. And this explanation is satisfactory to book clubs. I think it even makes readers more interested in the writing process.
I also appreciate book clubs because they remain loyal to the writers they enjoy. This might sound a bit self-serving but writing is not only an art form—it’s a business. An aspect that all writers have in the back of their mind at all times. But loyalty is a two way street.
Since I’ve started publishing regularly I’ve changed my narrative viewpoint a little. In the beginning I wrote what served the story, served me, served the characters. And that’s still true. But I also write more with my readers in mind, book clubs in mind. I listen to what they say and have found thai I am quite intentional about incorporating some of their insights, wishes for my characters etc. into a new book.
That’s what I like. Community. My books are never really written in isolation. I write to be inclusive. Readers matter.

Leave It Alone and It Will Come Home

2011-05-23T07:52:00.001-04:00

Here’s the thing, yesterday I had the honor of reading and speaking and signing books at my local library in Havertown, Pennsylvania. It’s just up the street. I love libraries. I love the stacks of books, the energy, the sounds, the lighting, all the signs and posters and notices on bulletin boards. Everything. But yesterday was a special visit. I told the audience how as a child I would wander the stacks of the library in search of literary treasure and how I would often find a corner in the library and sit and read usually until the librarian would tap me on the shoulder and tell me my mother called—it’s time for dinner.
One of the questions that I am asked pretty much at every event is about ideas. Where they come from? What do I do with them when I get them? The short answer is, “I don’t know,” which to some extent is true. I really am not sure what makes one thought an idea and another thought, “oh yeah, I need toilet paper.” Ideas are out there, I suppose. Sometimes I think I’m like Velcro moving through the universe and ideas glom on to me like burrs on my dog’s fur. I pick off the good ideas and discard the bad. This much I do know, ideas, the best ideas happen when I’m not thinking about needing an idea. For instance, if I’m stuck at the beginning of a novel I try not to force the issue, instead I let the ideas come to me however they will. I’ve read that ideas happen, solutions to problems or puzzles come when we rest our brains, stop thinking about the problem. This allows our brains to work at the subconscious level and voila! Ideas spring forth.
The best way for me to cultivate ideas is to play a video game, go for a drive, run, take a shower, or do some needlework. I think it’s because when I’m engaged in those activities my writer’s brain is disengaged from the problem at hand and able to do what it needs to do without me getting in the way. If that makes any sense.
The trick is in remembering those ideas. I find it especially hard to jot ideas down while driving. I beg for red lights so I can write it down in my Moleskine—which I have with me at all times. Because it’s true what they say, you never know when lightning will strike. My advice to anyone who is searching for an idea or a solution is to take a walk, play a game, engage in something totally opposite of that task. The idea will come. You just need to give it a rest. I think this works for astrophysicists and bread bakers (dough needs to rest to rise) as well as authors. It makes me wonder if there is any problem that cannot be solved if you leave it alone long enough.

Waiting in Writing Land

2011-05-20T14:00:00.002-04:00

Here’s the thing, the first two weeks of actually writing a new novel are tortuous. You might as well put bamboo shoots under my fingernails and light them on fire. And even if you did, I would die. Because no amount of harassing me will get a story started. I know the general direction the story is going. I have a beginning, a sort of middle and an end (although nothing is etched in granite). But, when the writing begins I need to wait. Because my stories always begin with character. And characters need time to speak their minds.
In this case I am waiting for Charlotte Figg to speak to me. She has risen among the rank and file of Bright’s Pond, called her name the loudest and has convinced me that she will tell Bright’s Pond number five. It’s called the Yankee Doodle Pie Disaster, after all, and who better to tell a story about pie than the queen of pies herself. So yeah, that’s the easy part. But try as I might, I can’t hear what Charlotte is saying. I thought it might have something to do with the minor ear issue I’ve been having. I went to the doctor today and had “a procedure” and I can hear much better but still, no Charlotte. I suspect she’s not ready yet.
So what do I do to hear my characters voice? To raise my awareness of her needs at the moment. A few things.
I walk.
I play video games.
I read.
I wander the internet.
I talk to Mango, my cat.
I pray.
I talk to Charlotte. I take her out—for pie and ask her. “So Charlotte, what’s going on? What does this story mean to you?”
She isn’t answering. I don’t think I did anything to offend her. It’s just part of the process. First lines, first scenes tend to come in an “all of sudden,” “out of the blue,” “lightning strike” sort of way.
The good thing is that I know the first line when I hear it and very seldom change it. And once I’m committed I can write like the wind—sometimes 5000 words a day. The trick is getting to that jumping off place.
Oh, I’m not concerned. It will happen. And soon. I know it. I can feel it, taste it, smell it. I just can’t hear it yet.
The neat thing about this book is that Charlotte Figg has become a fan favorite character. Everyone just loves Charlotte.
Writing is often all about the waiting. Learning to be patient and content until all that work that has been going on in that odd, surreal place between imagination and reality becomes evident. For me there are never bright flashes of inspiration. No, not for me. My first lines, first scenes, first words, always rise up like the answers on the Magic Eight Ball.
I suppose this method would not work for say a neurosurgeon. “I’m sorry, but your tumor will have to wait until I hear a voice tell me it’s time to remove it.” No, that would not work. I suspect most other professions would have an equally difficult time convincing others that waiting is part of the process. Well, maybe baseball. Players wait for the pitch they want—usually they don’t get it. But the waiting in baseball is a wink in comparison to authoring. No, creative have it tough. We are forced to wait. Wait. And then wait some more. I suppose painters feel this, sculptures, photographers who wait until the sun is I just the right place. It’s an honor to wait. Not on line at the grocery store, but then again I guess it kind of is when you consider how many people don’t have that luxury. Waiting is a good thing.
So, I will wait. Charlotte’s vice will be heard and the writing will begin. Stay tuned.

Writers Wandering in the Wilderness? I Don't Think So

2011-05-17T09:52:00.002-04:00

Here’s the thing, if you write, continue to write or are just beginning to write you will undoubtedly hear the phrase, Write What You Know” at some point. The problem with the statement is that it can be easily misunderstood. I don’t believe it means if you know baseball, then you should only write about baseball, unless you want to. No, the word “KNOW” is pivotal.

In yesterday’s post I told you guys how it took forty years for me to become a successful author. What was going on in all that time? Granted, much of that time was spent in simply growing up and doing LIFE. But I have also come to KNOW an awful lot. And therein lies the treasure.

From the age of nine to fifty I had many experiences, trials and tribulations, joy and sorrow. All of which have gone into my bank of knowing. This is what I think the statement means. I’ve known joy. So I can write about joy. I’ve known grief, so I can write about grief. That’s how it works. Writers draw from their life’s experiences in order to allow their characters to function. Flannery O’Connor said, “We write WITH Characters and Action, not ABOUT character and action.” Only by tapping into our past experiences enables writers to present believable characters in story. Writers must be feeling to revisit the hard places as well as the joyful places.

As a young woman I did some things I am not proud of but now, through God’s grace, I can use those things to make me a better writer. I don’t need to tell anyone the details—it’s the experience that matters, the learned truth, the shared feelings that help bring verisimilitude to my craft. The people of Bright’s Pond astound me in many ways. Look, I never grew a prize-winning pumpkin. I know nothing about it and gardening is not one of my favorite activities. But, I can research pumpkins. What I can’t research is the joy and defeats of the endeavor—that comes from the wanderings, the willingness not to forget what I’ve been through. I might ot have birthed a pumpkin, but I’ve birthed babies. It’s the joy of the actual experience you bring to the fictional one.

It ALL matters. More tomorrow.

Success Begins at Fifty

2011-05-16T08:41:00.001-04:00

Here’s the thing, when I was nine years old I decided that I was going to be a writer. Little did I know it would take forty years, the literary equivalent of Moses wandering the desert, for that to come true. I was fifty years old when I “received the call” that my novel, The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow was going to be published by Abingdon Press. They were starting a brand new fiction line and yep, Agnes Sparrow was one of their debut novels. I was filled with an odd combo of feelings that swung from elation to relief to utter fear, and honestly--embarrassment. Finally, after all these years of trying I was going to see my dream come true.

Sure, I would have loved it if the dream had come true twenty years earlier. There’s something to be said for having physical energy and mental agility, but it didn’t. I was fifty years old when my career left the launching pad. It was a rocket (I hope) that kept getting delayed for one reason or another—usually my own fault. I struggled with that for a while but then I chose to embrace the notion that my success began at fifty, exactly when it was meant to begin. I’m okay with it now.

I don’t believe that the time spent in the wilderness was good for nothing. I graduated from high school—still with the dream in tact, found employment, went to college, got married, raised three children—I’m still raising my son—that’s right, he’s just twelve. He was another later-in-life success. I struggled through various degrees of financial hardships, medical traumas, near-death diseases, car accidents, teen years with my daughters, driving lessons, shoe-tying, toilet-training, marital separation, etc. etc. etc. But still in the back of my mind in the midst of all that life, I still knew that I knew that I knew that I was meant to write. I refused to give up, even though there were many times when I quit for a season, became so frustrated that I prayed for God to take the dream away from me and replace it with an undying fervor to work at a car wash. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It just sounded easier.) Emily Dickinson said that, “success is counted sweetest by those who n’er succeed.” I made that my theme song for a while, convincing myself that reaching for the stars was somehow better than grabbing hold of one. You see, pre-success holds more possibility than actual success.

So, what was going on in those forty years to prepare me for becoming a published author? Plenty. Tune in tomorrow for more. And let me know if success has come late to you. We can commiserate or celebrate together.

Why Do I Do It?

2011-05-14T11:32:00.001-04:00

Here’s the thing. Why is it that whenever I start a new book I suddenly feel like a failure, like the worst writer in the world. That there is absolutely no way I can write another book. It’s crazy. I know there are stories inside of me, but there is just something extremely difficult about beginning a new project. It’s like my ideas are encased in some impenetrable fortress that I can’t break into. I get cranky and sullen and want to spend the day playing video games instead. But yet, like the call of the siren I am lured back to the keyboard or the yellow legal pad and a brand new Dixon Ticonderoga number two pencil and the urge to put words on paper or on screen rushes back with all the energy of a . . . bet you thought I was going to say a locomotive or tornado, no, like a slug. I sit and I wait for something to pop out of my brain and onto the page—something brilliant, something that will make people say, “WOW.” But no, I sit in silence, waiting for my muse, who for me is an odd little man in a three piece suit who smokes cigars and hurls insults at me, to show up and inspire me. This is not a great way to make a living.

But eventually, a thought ambles by like little foxes from a bramble bush and then another and then another and I do my best to grab them, wrestle them to he ground and make the ethereal concrete. This is when I spend most of my time lingering in that strange world somewhere between the imagination and the literal. It’s not always a happy place. This, I suppose is why so many writers turn to alcohol or insanity.

The funny thing is that I think my ideas are good ones. I play with them a while and then, quicker than they came, the ideas burst like balloons and fall flat to the ground and I have to start over. Or, I have two or three notions that I want to develop. Three very different ideas and I can’t decide which one to work on. This is where I am right now. I mean how do you decide? In my mind can set the ideas out there and see if one or the other or the other rises to the top but there must come a time when I say, “Enough. I choose you.” The trick is in staying committed until the writing is done. Writing that first exploratory draft where I search for a voice, character, plot, all that stuff that goes into making a novel. It’s hard. Characters come easy—most of the time—story takes a little longer and plot—well plot can take forever or so it seems.

So why do I do it? Why do I torture myself this way? Writing is like being adrift on the ocean sometimes, hoping and waiting for the next wave of words to ride you safely to shore. I do this because frankly it’s the only thing I do that when I’m doing it I don’t feel like I should be doing something else. So I will sit with my cranky, corpulent, old, muse and watch the smoke from his cigar swirl around and wait for it to swirl itself into an idea I can use. Writing is waiting sometimes. It’s hard.

Book Dedications--So short, so meaningful

2011-05-11T09:14:00.003-04:00

Here’s the thing, they say book dedications are an act of love. It’s the next best thing to having the subject of your dedication’s name tattooed on your chest inside a big, red heart. And if you’re like me, you read the dedications even though you might not have any inkling of its meaning, whether it’s pedestrian or filled with secrets and longing. Dedications can be sweet, silly and mysterious. Of course many authors dedicate their books to a spouse. And, as in the case of F. Scott Fitzgerald, they do this in every book. For example, Once Again, For Zelda. And, given the sorry state of their marriage the words “Once Again” sound a bit tired. Ayn Rand dedicated Atlus Shrugged to her husband and her lover-two different men. Most of the time we have no clue who the person or persons are that the author names. Roald Dahl dedicated James and the Giant Peach to Olivia and Tessa. I suppose book dedications have a bit of immortality to them—just as books do. Oh, they go out of print but it seems to me that once a book is out there, it’s out there forever. So perhaps dedicating a book to a person we love, someone who has had an effect, maybe good, maybe bad on our lives is a way of making them immortal also.

Behind every-- “This Book is dedicated to . . . “ is a story. A story of the special relationship between an author and his or her friend, spouse, dog, sibling, student, even inanimate objects as was the case for one author whose name escapes me that dedicated his book to his beloved typewriter—a Remington I believe.

Here are some of my favorite dedications:

Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
This book is dedicated to
My son, GUY JOHNSON
And all the strong blackbirds of promise
Who defy the odds and gods
And sing the song

Corneila Funke, Inkheart
For Anna, who even put The Lord of the Rings aside
To read this book.
Could anyone ask more of a daughter

And for Elinor, who lent me her name
Although I didn’t use it for an elf queen

There are many books dedicated to a wife or husband (some having out-lived the marriage)

Mark Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
To my WIFE
This book is affectionately dedicated

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, by C.S. Lewis
To Lucy Barfield
My Dear Lucy,
I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand, a word you say, but I shall still be
your affectionate Godfather,
C.S. Lewis

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
To Mackenzie, my beautiful daughter, I dedicate her ink and paper twin
(The story behind this is that JK was pregnant as she wrote and both the book and her daughter were finished together.)

Zora Neal Hurston dedicated her novel Jonah’s Gourd Vine:
TO
BOB WUNSCH
WHO IS ONE OF THE LONG-WINGDED ANGELS
RIGHT ROUND THE THRONE
GO GATOR AND MUDDY THE WATER
-THE AUTHOR

Larry McMurtry, Lonesome Dove
For Maureen Orth
And
In Memory of
The nine McMurtry boys
(1878-1983)
“Once in the saddle they
Used to go dashing . . . “

So, what are your favorite book dedications? Include it in the comments and I will pick two people to receive an autographed copy of Griselda Takes Flight, dedicated to my dear friend Nancy Rue or if you’ve already read it, Blame it on the Mistletoe which is dedicated to my mother.

Without Mom

2011-05-06T06:59:00.002-04:00

Here’s the thing, Sunday will be my first Mother’s Day without my Mom. As most of you know, my mother passed away just before Thanksgiving and only three days shy of her 89th birthday. It was a tough passing. And I think this Sunday will be difficult. For over fifty years I had a mom. Sure, things weren’t always great but she was always there and no matter what the situation, she was always ready with a smile or a pat on my hand. The thing I appreciated most about my mother was, well, for one thing, her sense of humor. I’ve said before that Flossie was one of the funniest women I had ever experienced. Sometimes, it wasn’t intentional and other times she was quick and sharp and could pull a pun or an odd connection out of thin air. She could also bake pie better than anyone—hands down, THE best crust maker on the planet. I remember the cherry pie of 1982—the stuff of legend. There was simply something magical about this pie, as there was magic in so many things she did. The whole family felt it AND tasted it. I’m not sure I will ever be able to replicate that magic in anything I bake or do but maybe I’m not meant too. Maybe that magic was expressly my mother’s. And that’s okay. For a child of immigrants and cowboys—true, my grandfather was a true-life cowboy—a cattle puncher, my Mom did okay. She taught herself practically everything by doing—except to drive. My mother never learned—she just couldn’t mange it. Probably better that way. What she did learn was the sport of baseball. Mom loved the Phillies but not always. She learned baseball out of respect and love and a healthy dose of, “can’t beat him, join him,” for my Dad. She watched with him and learned the game as the years went on until she became an avid fan, rarely missing a game. And she could spew barbs with the best of them.

My mother amazed me at times. She could clean a fish in record time. I remember watching her do it. The way she would hold the fish and run the knife up the fish’s belly and in one swoop remove the guts and lop off the head. She always fed the heads and innards to the night critters. I’ve watched her pluck and butcher a pheasant, ducks, and quail and then turn around that same night and sew dainty details on a blouse she was making. She could make warts go away and soothe sore throats. She made everyone’s wedding cakes and wedding dresses and still had time to minister to the neighborhood children, making certain all the kids within her corner of the world were at least given the opportunity to attend Sunday school. She worked in the nursery, taught girl scouts how to decorate a cake and make icing flowers, she altered dresses for a woman badly scarred from a fire. She loved animals and once nursed a baby robin back to health. The bird had a broken leg which she forced the vet to amputate. The bird lived with us for a while. My mother was pretty much fearless. Except on the day she died. Oh, she knew she was walking into the arms of Jesus. It wasn’t death that scared her. The fear was in the leaving. She didn’t want to leave us without a mother. Just a few hours before she took her last breath, I swiped a tear from the corner of her eye with my finger. It was a stubborn tear. I knew it would be the last one and so I kept it on my fingertip for a few seconds as though I held the last drop of magic and I could take it home, but no, it was Flossie’s magic. I miss you Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.

Just so you know . . .

2011-05-04T16:03:00.005-04:00

You can purchase my books either paper or digital from these places.

Barnes and Noble

Amazon

CBD

Borders

What fun!

They make great Mother's Day gifts. Moms everywhere love Bright's Pond, especially the pie. Send me your proof of purchase and I will send you the recipe for Charlotte Figg's Very Special Fresh Strawberry Rhubarb Pie.

An Ode to Pollen

2011-04-26T10:58:00.004-04:00

Here's the thing, since it is still April and therefore still National Poetry Month I wrote a poem which I dedicate to all my fellow allergy sufferers. I sincerely apologize to Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Ode to Pollen

Oh, pollen, oh pollen
How do I loathe thee?
I loathe thee to the depth and breadth and snot
My nose can make when feeling
Out of sorts with itchy throat
And itchy skin
And watery eyes to boot.

Oh pollen, oh pollen
How do I loathe thee?
You make me sneeze and cough
And clear my throat
And scratch my eyes incessantly.

I loathe the way you turn
My car, a most disgusting yellow
And float around on wind and air
And settle on the ground
And make me sneeze and sneeze and sneeze
And sneeze and sneeze some more.

Oh pollen, oh pollen
How do I loathe thee?
‘Tis every spring I dread your
Very presence and wish, oh wish
I were a fish
And lived down in the ocean.
Where no pollen can attack
And no degree of wind
Can carry you upon it’s back
And make me swell with hives.

Oh Pollen, Oh pollen
How do I loathe thee?
I loathe thee more than
Mayonnaise and ants upon my feet.

Calling All Reviewers

2011-04-19T21:56:00.003-04:00

Here’s the thing, I’ve decided to ask for help. Well not help exactly just some plugs, reviews, endorsements, happy statements, a few positive sentences from all of you guys who have read Griselda Takes Flight. Apparently it’s really important to get reviews on Amazon so I am asking any of you who have read Griselda to please, pretty please post an honest review on Amazon for me. If you do, I will send you not only a Bright’s Pond map but also this month’s feature recipe from the upcoming Bright’s Pond Pie Book. It’s a delicious strawberry/rhubarb and comes with a recipe for the best crust recipe in the entire world. And everyone knows, crust can be tough to make. Sooooo, please, post a review. Give Griselda a few stars and let’s watch Griselda’s rating zoom. And then after you post your review, go have a slice of pie. Oh, and all the reviewers who post reviews in the next week or so will be entered in a drawing to win a free, autographed copy of the next Bright’s Pond novel releasing September 1—Blame It On The Mistletoe. It’s a Christmas story, which will also needs some reviews. So, yes, as Joni Mitchell said, "And the carousel goes round and round and the painted ponies go up and down," but please, review me. Ok, no more groveling. Thank you.

A Most Gracious Letter

2011-04-05T15:10:00.001-04:00

This came today. I loved it so much I asked the writer if I could post it on my blog and she graciously agreed.

Dear Joyce,
First, I want to tell you that I do not read novels usually and especially "Christian novels" even though I am a Christian. They have always seemed too "pat" for real life and way too sweet!

I picked up Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise because of the cover!!! We used to live in a trailer of that color 45 years ago..and I liked the smooth feel of the book in my hand...so much for e-books for me or judging a book by its cover!

Anyway, I loved the story...but especially I loved the statue in Rose's yard...the concrete hand of God...it made me cry and laugh and I want one in my yard! I shared this wonderful concept of sitting in a huge concrete hand of God statue to my 9 year old granddaughter and she made me a picture that is on my fridge, of her and me sitting together in the hand of God and all of the names of both sides of her family written on it. It is BEAUTIFUL!

(And this morning as I was pondering God and His Grace, I looked over and saw my "hand of God" on the fridge and remembered an old hymn that I used to sing as a child called "Safe Am I" and it goes on to say in the hollow of His Hand)

I did not want the story to end so soon. I will now read your other books.

Thank you!

Kathy Corn

IN JUST ~ A Favorite Poem for Spring

2011-03-29T06:57:00.000-04:00

BY E. E. CUMMINGS

in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and

the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee

I'll Fall Asleep Counting My Blessings

2011-03-01T06:56:00.002-05:00

Here’s the thing, February was quite a month for me. To begin with I learned that my middle grade novel, Carrying Mason is going to be published in hardback. Hardback! I dreamed of having a book with a dust jacket ever since I was nine years old. Yikes.
I took an extended leave of absence (I might not go back) from my school job so I can concentrate on my writing career. Pretty scary but it had to be done. Sometimes you just have to believe in yourself, your talent and abilities and of course God who is charge of it all anyway. I am getting ready for my sister, Barbara to come next week for an extended visit as she undergoes some pretty significant surgery. Again, I just have to thank Jesus that I am able to be here for her.
Thirdly, I am also waiting for my dear friend and cohort Nancy Rue (awesome writer btw) to arrive on Thursday and then we’re traveling to a writer’s retreat in Maryland with the world's best writing support group.
Fourthly, I had this great meeting with some great friends to discuss a new and exciting plan, direction for my work and teaching. Stay tuned. Good things on the horizon.
Fifth, I put together a neat new dresser I bought at Ikea. It’s reddish. I love it. My friend Leslee gave me some really cool socks and a pair of Chucks. Man, I have some of the best friends on the planet. My dear daughter, Rebekah sent me a terrific recipe for bread. Yayyy. I reached the next level in Angry Birds. My bff Pammy continues to encourage and remind me that I'm worth hanging around. I got a new pub photo. My daughter Emily and I finished her Fafsa. I found a dear sweet funny amazing friend from high school on Facebook and we got together last week. What a great time we had. My son Adam and I went out for lunch and it was very sweet. I learned that my blood sugar is a teensy bit elevated but my cholesterol is terrific.
Reviews of the new Bright’s Pond Book, Griselda Takes Flight are coming in and they’re pretty good.
Publisher's weekly did a Profile of me and my writing in their Feb. 28th edition. I lost another five pounds. All in all it was a pretty good month. Sometimes it really works wonders to look at the blessings along the way.

Brain Numbing Noodle Pain

2011-02-25T09:10:00.004-05:00

Here's the thing, I was innocently preparing pasta for supper last night when suddenly and with provocation a noodle leaped from the boiling water and slapped me on the wrist and burned me. (As you can clearly see in exhibit A.) I stood there, stunned for a second or two. Pain seared my arm as my alleged noodle assailant clung to my wrist, burning the skin and quite possibly attempting to inflict disfiguring third degree noodle burns. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to dash to the kitchen sink, run the cold water and cool my wrist. Now this may not seem like such a big deal but this morning I discovered a secondary problem with this burn on the wrist. It is in exactly the place I rest my arm on my laptop as I type, directly on the edge of my Mac. What are the odds? I mean really, who get's noodle burns? Criminy!

Come Gee! Come Haw!

2011-02-08T09:43:00.002-05:00

Here’s the thing, writing a novel is like mushing in the Iditarod—a 1,150 mile race through some of the harshest and most beautiful terrain known to man. There’s lots of up hill climbs, down hill slides, frozen tundra, dense forests, river crossings, warm check points and frankly, unless you’re the lead dog, the view never changes. Uhm. Well, okay maybe writing is not that bad. But yeah, striving to be the lead dog is not a bad goal. Scripture tells us to be the best, to do everything as though it were expressly for Jesus. Do I do that? I try. But sometimes I admit that hanging back in the pack is okay also. It’s comfy—less threatening, less responsibility. But then again, I really want my novels to be the best. Maybe not the best according to the masses or according to The New York Times Bestseller Lists or any other list but the best that I can do. Doing my best, running hard, responding to my master’s call to Come Gee or Come Haw! I keep mushing. And if I get noticed and if I make the bestseller list then that’s okay also.

Occasionally I have a dog in basket—no not an IHop breakfast—it’s an injured pooch on the trail. Except for me it’s a manuscript in the basket. I hate that the most. It’s hard to put a story or a scene or even a character out of its misery or out of the race but it’s necessary if I am going to finish the race. It’s kind of crazy to keep a malfunctioning appendix in your body, right? It’s necessary to be brutally honest with my words if I am going to do my best, to have something that I truly believe I could set at Jesus’s feet. Well, a book and my heart. I mean really what else is there?

PUblisher's Weekly

2011-01-27T06:58:00.002-05:00

Here's the thing. I was at school yesterday working with the kindergartners on their show. It's called Calendar Kids--pretty cute, y when I heard the gentle ping of my phone informing me of an email. During a lull (there's a few) in the production I checked and discovered it was from my publicist, the wonderful Maegan Roper at Abingdon Press. Turns out that one of the editor's at Publisher's Weekly wants to do a profile of me for their next issue. Wow. This is exciting. Maegan told me that the editor, Jackie, loved Griselda Takes Flight. Yayy. Jackie and I are scheduled to talk Monday evening and she is now my new BFF. I'm a little nervous. I will let you know how it goes. Now I have to figure out how to get my hands on an actual copy of the magazine. Uhm.
Oh and BTW, FYI, Griselda Takes Flight releases April 1--There's a joke in there somewhere--but you can of course pre-order it now. I hear it's pretty good. What's with all the pumpkins on the cover? You'll see.

DREAM ON

2011-01-21T07:29:00.003-05:00

Here’s the thing, I like American Idol. There, I said it. I like to watch American Idol and I got to say that this week’s episodes were pretty good, maybe even the best in three years. Not so much because of the, uhm, “talent” but because of the judges. I was a little disturbed at first when I heard that Steven Tyler was going to be a judge. I thought oh criminy, another rocker sold out to the man, to the masses. All of a sudden this unabashed, big-lipped, pulsating, gyrating, screaming, singing, amazing Aerosmith rocker was up there or perhaps down there, with Ozzy Osborne and Gene Simmons—old, worn-out rockers with nothing better to do than act like idiots on national television. But, I got to say, Steve did not suck. Thank you for not sucking and looking stupid, Steve. In fact I thought he was funny, a bit over the top at times, gracious, even caring. I thought Jennifer Lopez was fantastic and I always liked Randy. So here’s to what I am hoping will be a great season of American Idol. Hope does indeed spring eternal, because I will say I was prepared to stop watching this year and oh, I don’t know, read a book instead.

Now, what is it that I like about the show? I think it’s because I see so many parallels between the show and writing. Newbie, wannabe writers are so eager to put there stuff out there, before the judges (read: editors, agents) only to so often have their dreams destroyed, ripped to shreds, manhandled and dashed like waves against a craggy shore. But there is something indomitable about the human spirit that wants to create joy and goodness, beauty and art that even folks with no skills, no musical ability step out and give it there all in the hopes that they might have, “IT”. That elusive mixture of talent, skill, ability, knowledge, guts, ego, and self-loathing that mixes together in some other-worldly alchemy and produces art.

Secondly, I enjoy watching the judges handle the critique portion of the audition. I have learned a lot over the years. As someone who is often asked to read and critique a new author’s work I actually took lessons from the Idol judges. I learned with their help to be a little more gutsy in what I had to say. Sometimes you have to take the band-aid approach to a critique and just tell it like it is. Rip it off, let it sting for a bit and then hopefully the crtitiquee will move on with her life, or go back to the drawing board, or keep practicing. Over the years, in the judging, I have seen compassion and frustration and joy delivered to the hopefuls. I have also seen times when the talent was so terrible that the judges couldn’t contain their derision. Yeah, that happens in the writing world also. I know, I know those fifteen minutes of appointment angst can feel like your heart is being ripped out of your chest through your ear. It’s tough. But, hey, like Flossie always told me, when you tiptoe through the rose garden of life, be sure to wear long sleeves—thorns hurt.

But every so often a manuscript crosses my desk that shines, that shows potential and true talent. This brings me great joy. I love discovering real talent just as I believe the American Idol judges do. After all, talent should never be hidden under a bushel and as Steve sang:
“Dream On Dream On Dream On
Dream until your dreams come true
Dream On Dream On Dream On
Dream until your dream comes through
Dream On Dream On Dream On
Dream On Dream On
Dream On Dream On”

Hey, it worked for me.

Write Well and Carry a Big Machete

2011-01-12T11:33:00.004-05:00

Here’s the thing, my mother told me that God never promised us a rose garden so I better bring a machete. She also said that if I stood too close to the edge of the platform the EL train would suck me under. But, and this might or might not be a good thing, she never told me what I should do with my life. No, she pretty much left all the tough decisions up to me. So the idea of becoming a writer was never up for discussion. I simply decided that this would be my goal in life—at least a goal—career-wise. I always loved books and stories. My most favorite school day was when the Scholastic book orders came in. Remember that? It seemed we could get seventy-five books for a buck ninety-five back then. I raced home with my treasures and wouldn’t come up for air for days. I was reading at the age of three and so I pretty much devoured anything with words on it—including cereal boxes and shampoo bottles. So words and reading and stories were always a part of my life. It was like instead of white and red blood cells my heart pumped the alphabet. So I suppose it was a given that I would become a writer. But why? Why write?

I love what Flannery O’Connor said when asked that very question. She answered: “Because I’m good at it.” Yeah, that works but there’s more to it suppose. I’ve said that I write because it’s the only thing I do that when I’m doing it, I don’t feel like I should be doing something else. How’s that for a convoluted sentence. But it’s true. I also write to escape the world. I know, it’s backwards I suppose. People often say they read to escape. Well, I write to escape because I basically am not so jazzed about the real world and prefer to sit in a universe of my own design. Is that egotistical? I don’t know. Writing and words are my machete. They help me cut through the nasty parts of the garden and find the beauty, to make sense of things and maybe in some way help someone else to make sense of things. Artists use a paintbrush, surgeons a scalpel, ministers the pulpit, musicians use their instruments. We all have something that helps us make sense of our little corner of the universe. So, what’s your machete? The weeds don’t hack themselves.

By the way, the picture has nothing to do with writing or machetes. It's just Mango feeling humiliated again.

Snow Days!

2011-01-11T13:48:00.003-05:00

Here's the thing, we are expecting a moderate snow storm to roll through tonight that should dump at least five maybe more inches of snow. Woo Hoo. SNOW DAY. I work in a school so I will have the day off--WITH PAY. It doesn't get much better than that. The possibility was the main topic of conversation at school today. Teachers walking down the halls crossing their fingers and saying things like, "I hope it's a snow day," or "Please. if there is a God in heaven let it be a day off." It could turn out to be a two-hour delay. Which I hate. It just makes my day longer and I have to deal with thirty sopping wet kids who can't get their snow boots off. So, yeah I'm hoping for a snow day. But here's the thing. It's not the same anymore. I remember when I was a kid in school waking up, seeing all the glorious, wonderful white stuff outside and my sister and I racing to the radio to see if the announcer called our school number. I still remember it--452. It was so exciting to hear your number called. The only thing more exciting was waking up on Christmas morning. Kids don't have the excitement anymore. Now I get a global connect phone call at five AM, an email, the announcement scrolls across the TV and it's on the school web site. It's not the same. It made me wonder what other little joys our kids are missing out on because of technology.

Anyone Else Ever Inherit an Onion

2011-01-03T10:24:00.004-05:00

Here’s the thing, most people inherit money, jewelry, real estate, not me, no I inherited an onion. Oh, yes I did. Now, it’s not normal to have a fear of houseplants. Or is it? Houseplants make me nervous. I mean they’re beautiful and alive and help put oxygen in the air and all that but . . . and here’s the problem—I routinely kill them. I don’t mean too. I really try to nurture them, water them, talk to them, give them sunlight and yet, they still turn brown and die. My green thumb is black and cloaked in despair. Up until now I’ve managed quite nicely with zero plants in my home. But that’s changed and I’m quite frantic.

Right now I have three plants that are making me very, very nervous. These plants I inherited after my mom, Flossie died in November. Now I know what you are thinking, so what, they’re just plants. Give them away if you can’t keep them alive—it’s not like they’re toddlers or . . . dogs. But, here’s the thing, these plants come with a legacy. That’s right a botanical legacy that reaches back into my childhood.

The first of these plants is the ONION. That’s right, the ONION. This onion has been in the family for over sixty years! My mother said she received it from a woman who told it was old then—over sixty years ago. So you see, this onion, this pregnant onion as y other called it, has been part of my life—forever. And it’s pregnant! It’s always pregnant. You see it develops these little bulges that burst and send forth another teeny, tiny onion that then drops into the soil below and hopefully takes root, grows, matures and carries on the process. To date I have no idea how many generations of onion have come from this one, original onion. But now it is in my possession and I’m scared to death it’s going to die. I promised Flossie I’d care for it. But it’s not looking too good. I look at it and worry. I water it and worry. I pull brown dead stuff off it and worry. I give it light and worry. I shield it from the light and worry. It’s extremely nerve-wracking to own an eighty year-old onion. I was wondering if some botanical museum would like it.

Along with the onion I became the proud mother of this giant Crown of Thorns plant, tree cactus thing. Now it’s not as old as the onion. But it’s just as famous. My mother ahs one several blue ribbons in plant competitions for it. And now, alas, it’s in my care. It’s making me very nervous. I’m trying to do right by it. I’ve rearranged my living room to accommodate it, so that it would receive optimal sunlight. I’ve read about it. How can you tell if a succulent is dormant? I can’t. I water it, I don’t water it. I spritz its leaves. I’ve considered installing a plant light. I know the thing enjoys distress. It is a cactus after all. A succulent. Everyday I watch another leaf turn yellow, wither and fall to the ground. It makes me said. I put my mother’s picture near it, hoping it would help. Not so much.

So there you have it. My saga of the houseplant inheritance. A couple of bucks would have been better—that I can deal with. I could really use some advice.

The Truth About the Elf Head

2010-12-07T15:04:00.004-05:00

Here’s the thing, I guess you all know that my mom passed away the Monday before Thanksgiving. Yeah, it was tough. Still is. She died in the nursing home she had called home for almost ten years. My sister and I were at her side and watched her take her final breath. I believe she had slipped into Jesus’ arms several hours before the electrical and chemical stuff going on in her body finally seized.
It’s hard. I find myself thinking I need to go to the nursing home and visit her, to stop by for a minute or two just to say hello, bring her a cup of coffee. Mom loved coffee and in the last few years it was all she really needed and wanted—besides a kiss on the cheek. But then I remember. She is no longer part of my routine. It is a strange thing to walk the earth without a mother.

I’ve mentioned before that my mother was one of the funniest women I ever knew. She was quick to laugh and smile and also quick with a joke or a silly expression. Sometimes she knew she was funny and other times it seemed to pour out of her without her permission or knowledge. And for that I will always have fond and also strange memories.

This is what brings us to the elf head in the picture. Mom liked to make things and one year she had a bag of these elf heads. There must have been fifty of them in a plastic bag. Yeah, strange sight indeed. But nonetheless they existed. She had planned on fashioning bodies for them but never quite got around to it. Eventually the elf heads went back into the basement. Or so we thought. For years an elf head would show up in the oddest places. We called it “getting elfed”. If you traveled anywhere you would most likely discover an elf had made the trip with you when you opened your suitcase. Once I found an elf head in the glove box of my car. One turned up in my father’s toolbox. Another arrived somehow at my nieces’ wedding. It was discovered in the shoebox that held her wedding shoes. Another traveled clear to Israel with my Dad. He found it in his camera bag. Occasionally an elf would be seen in the freezer or medicine cabinet. You just never knew when or where. The funny thing is that an elf head would often appear at times when a smile was most needed. The elf head in the picture was discovered the day my sister and I cleaned out Mom’s room in the nursing home. I opened a bag that I thought contained some old greeting cards and there it was looking up at me. I had been elfed.

So there you go, the story of the elf head. Just a simple thing, a quiet memory of a woman who somehow managed to make you smile when she wasn’t even in the room, who somehow knew you needed a laugh.

An Adventure and You're all Invited.

2010-11-08T09:39:00.003-05:00

Here’s the thing, I am writing a new book—brand new. Abingdon does have six more Bright’s Pond Books in the pipeline (this does of course = Woo Hoo!) but I am also getting ready to sign a deal with Zondervan to write Harriet Beamer Takes the Bus. (Again, this = Woo Hoo!) This is a story about a middle-aged woman taking a rather unconventional road trip across the country. Yep, another post-menopausal woman making a break, trying life out in all its glory, finally finding herself after years of marriage and children and periods and church rummage sales. Harriet is going to California to live with her son and daughter-in-law. Harriet calls her Miss Fancy Pants. So that gives you a clue. But there’s a twist and this is where all of you come in, if you’re up for it. I have a deal to make. In the next day or so I am going to publish a list of cities and towns where Harriet will be making stops and since I am not rich and can’t possibly travel to all these places between Havertown, PA and Grass Valley, California I need some help. If you happen to live in or near one of these cities and would like to be part of the journey here’s the thing—please send me postcards and bus schedules, yeah, bus schedules. I’ll explain later. Postcards of pretty much anything will do, landmarks, gardens, buildings, cityscapes etc. And if you’re willing any other info, brochures etc. would be most welcome. And in return I will send you a signed copy of Harriet Beamer Takes the Bus—fresh off the presses. And maybe a couple of other as yet to be decided goodies I’m dreaming about. Oh, you could even send pix of yourself, your dog or cat or kids, your neighborhood, pretty much anything that will help me soak up the local color. Remember the I Love Lucy episode when she visited the winery and stomped grapes. Hysterical. Well, I can’t visit the farms and small towns and festivals Harriet will. So, email me, let me know what you think and if you’re game, I will send you my physical addy, unless of course you know a way to send me stuff in digital format. I’m open. I will be adding to this list and making changes as necessary. Thanks for your help. Oh, one more thing, there's a dog--HUmphrey the Basset Hound who will be telling his side of things in future blog posts entitled Letters From Humphrey. He misses Harriet. She had to send him ahead to live with Henry and Miss Fancy Pants. He's not happy.
Be in touch!

For now here is a partial list of cities and towns:

Lancaster, PA
York, PA

Perryville, Maryland
Elkton, Maryland
Aberdeen, Maryland
Baltimore, MD

Charlottesville, VA
Monticello, VA (Thomas Jefferson house)
Roanoke, VA

Knoxville, TN
Nashville, TN
Gatlinburg, TN
Pigeon Fork, TN

The states Harriet will be adventuring through are:
Pennsylvania
Maryland
Virginia
Tennessee
Mississippi
Arkansas
Oklahoma
Texas
New Mexico
Arizona

Top Ten Rants Right Now

2010-10-17T19:21:00.002-04:00

Here’s the thing, I’ve never done a rant list but here goes. Ten things that infuriate me. Or at least bug me.

People in a crowded grocery store who think they’re the only one shopping. Come on! Just pick a can or move to the side already.

Drivers who make a right hand turn just as you’re approaching the intersection in the left lane, scare the bejeebers out of you because it looks like they might just turn into your lane and then they try and creep over. Yikes. Give it another two seconds you’ll get there.

This odd penchant Americans have of combining names of dating couples and words forming such undesirables as Frenemy. What the heck is that?

The cost of a banana at Starbucks. A dollar? Are you kidding me? They should be giving them away.

Drivers who want to go fast in a school lane. Really?

Why do some people think if they splash on enough harsh cologne to mask whatever other smell they are hiding is all right to do in a doctor’s waiting room.

The misuse of the words, literally and ignorant.

Election years. Political advertising and well, politicians in general.

The very mean lady at the dollar store the other day. I mean really, lady, why did you even come to this country if all you want to do is gripe about Americans. Sheesh.

And the fact that I still have a week to wait before the release of Fable III. You have to play RPGs to understand.

So what’s bugging you?

Here's Mango Cervantes Don Quixote

2010-10-04T14:05:00.003-04:00

Here’s the thing, I adopted a kitty cat this weekend. His name is Mango Cervantes Don Quixote. He’s very sweet and cuddly and wears a bandana. He’s fat and jolly most of the time but can also be deadly serious. At first I thought I wanted a kitten and a female. But when I got to the shelter I met Mango. They were calling him Tommy Boy. But I changed his name. I mean sometimes you just have to make a cat your own. No one wanted him and he had been at the shelter for a long time. He was basically on death row. But that was only because Mango has Feline AIDS. Yeah, too bad and kind of scary. He’s not sick or anything, at least not yet and I figure whatever time he ahs left will be happier spent with me.
When I first decided to get a kitty I quickly learned that adopting a cat is not easy. I mean you’d think mango was a human toddler with all the rigmarole they put me through. I promise I am not telling a lie when I say it took nearly two hours to get the paper work done. Sheesh. I had to promise all sorts of things, sign a loyalty statement, swear that I would never let him outside or send him to Mars in an unmanned spaceship. I had to show seven forms of idea, prove I was a voter and an American and not recruiting cats for some secret spy agency. I mean really folks, it’s a cat.
My friend Rebecca went with me. She knew right away that Mango and I were meant to be together. And she was right. I picked him up and he cuddled with me and then he looked me square in the eyes and well, I said yes.
I think all writers should have a pet. Someday I’ll have a dog. But for now, Mango is just right. He likes to sit at my feet while I work although right now he is lying on my bed, on my laundry sleeping.
Now I have to be honest, I really like him but the whole litter box thing has me a little concerned. Not a big fan of the littler box. But what can I do. I’ve been checking into them. They have some pretty nifty gadgets out there that control odor, clean themselves etc. I can’t afford the self-cleaning one but I’m seriously considering getting a more sophisticated little control system when I can. Something with a lid because as much as I love Mango—he stinks when he poops.
But look, it was worth filling out the paperwork and I really do appreciate the concern the shelter took in checking me out, frisking me for explosives etc. I swear it’s easier to get on an airplane than adopt a cat, but at least they’re trying .At least they care about animals. Except of course for the injured wild fox that was brought in by a concerned citizen while I was filling out paper work. She didn’t appreciate the good people at the shelter. Not sure what happened there but, it’s the SPCA not the zoo.
So, yes, I am the proud Mamma to a fat cat who wears a bandanna and meows when I come home, snuggles at my feet and likes to play with fake mice and chase shadows.
Mango, I think I’ll keep him.

My Strange Fantasy

2010-09-07T10:38:00.005-04:00

Here’s the thing, I never told anyone this but I have a fantasy, a strange notebook fantasy. Most people know how much I love notebooks—particularly Moleskine, pronounce it Mole-SKEEN notebooks. These are the legendary notebooks used by Hemingway, Van Gogh, Bruce Chatwin and many, many other authors and artists. These trusty notebooks are the perfect reservoir for sketches and stories, snippets of thought and ideas. They tuck easily into a handbag or backpack or smaller ones slip in pockets. They’re soft and hearty and take inks well. My pen of choice these days is the Zebra Gel pens. Love the colors! They glide easily over the paper with a little bleed through but not as much as some other pens. I also paste images of things that interest me whether it’s a cross stitch pattern I want to stitch or sometimes even a new stitch I want to learn. I add scripture, sermon notes, quotes, bits of dialog, ideas for novels or characters. My notebooks hold my world. This year I bought six fresh Moleskines—three lined and three unlined. I pasted a picture of my mother in one, I’m not sure why, but I felt like I wanted to carry her with me this year. She’s getting older and has seemed a little shaky to me recently. So, I’ll carry her, just as I carried my children from time to time. Occasionally I feel inspired to write a poem—these go into the notebook.

I recently added a bit of an Emily Dickinson poem:

Faith – is the Pierless Bridge
Supporting what we see
Unto the scene that We do not—
Too slender for the eye.

My fantasy is that one day long after I’m gone someone will find my notebooks and read them trying to figure out who I was, why I wrote what I wrote, or gain new understanding into a novel or character. I have this whole storyline worked out that someone finds my notebooks and it somehow makes the news or the literary rounds that the notebooks of author Joyce Magnin were discovered. I don’t know. It sounds silly, I mean I’m not famous and don’t plan to be but still, the fantasy exists. I imagine the plumbed from the depth of my scattery notebooks will come a gem that will sparkle for years and years and years. I’m not an egomaniac by any stretch of the imagination but maybe, just maybe after all I’ve been through in life and all I will go through I might just have something to say that matters.

How about you? What’s in your notebook?

Charlotte Figg is Now Available

2010-08-28T08:16:00.002-04:00

Here's the thing, the second Bright's Pond novel, Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise is now available. So if you've pre-ordered a copy it should be arriving any minute now. If not, then please be sure to get your copy while they last. Charlotte is doing really, getting some great reviews and endorsements.

From the back cover copy:
"Charlotte Figg makes me want to move to Bright's Pond and bake pies and embrace the freedom to be who God made me to be. Once you've laughed and cried and eaten with the Paradise Angels, you'll want to do the same. Kudos to Joyce Magnin, the Queen of Quirk." ~ Nancy Rue, bestselling fiction author.

A snippet of a review from Storybook Reviews
http://storeybookreviews.com/2010/08/charlotte-figg-takes-over-paradise-joyce-magnin-moccero/
"This story is about people banding together to right wrongs and to support each other in good times and in bad. It is also about Charlotte finding her independence, becoming her own woman and not staying in the shadows.
I really enjoyed this book. I will say that I wasn’t sure with the first chapter or two but am glad that I continued reading because I was inspired by Charlotte for leaving what she was comfortable with and starting over in a small town. She even resists giving in to her overbearing mother who would love nothing more than for Charlotte to move to Florida with her. It would have been very easy to give in, but that isn’t where God wanted Charlotte to be at that time in life. He wanted her in Paradise to bring together this community.
Charlotte isn’t the only one that blossoms with the new friendships that are created. Others become stronger with the various situations that they are faced with at the time.
I give this book 4 stars."

If you've were one of the five winners of a free autographed book and a signed map of Paradise. Hang in there. They're coming.

And speaking of winners. I will send the same deal to the first three people to leave a comment this weekend. Even if you've pre-ordered the book, it will make a great Christmas gift.

Yayyy, Charlotte Figg--the hero of Paradise!

A Difficult Subject

2010-08-23T11:05:00.002-04:00

Here’s the thing, I am eagerly awaiting the release of the second Bright’s Pond novel—Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise. It is set to hit the shelves both virtual and physical September first. I’m really excited about this one because it deals with a subject that doesn’t always get the attention it needs and deserves—domestic abuse. I know, I know, what a depressing subject to start the week on but naturally Charlotte takes a look at this subject with both humor and pathos. The sad truth is that millions of women (I am pretty much going to refer to women throughout although many men are abused also in marriages) are abused in one form or another each year. Domestic abuse is not just physical violence—it can be verbal, emotional, spiritual and financial. But, an emotional attack can be just as or even more damaging than a punch in the eye. The hurt, the pain, the scars of verbal attacks linger long after the arguing is over. Verbal abuse strikes at a woman’s core, her self-esteem, her very sense of who she is. These attacks can come in sneaky, underhanded ways with small jabs of passive aggression or they can come loud and full on as a husband shouts obscenities and insults at the woman he promised to love and cherish. There is nothing cherishing about name-calling and demeaning insults. Emotional abuse is insidious and crazy-making, causing women to doubt their own beliefs and feelings and sanity. Emotional abuse is frightening because most women don’t see it early on as she questions the attack. “Maybe it is me. I guess I am stupid or ugly or crazy. He’s my husband, he would never say anything like that if it wasn’t true.” Most women want to love their husbands and please them and will do anything to stop the hollering, the shouting, the name-calling.” But here’s the thing, it doesn’t matter what the woman does, her husband will still find fault, find ways to blame her for everything that goes wrong in their marriage and even in his life.

“Emotional abuse chips away at your feelings of self-worth and independence. Victims of emotional abuse, feel that there is no way out of the relationship or that without your abusive partner you have nothing.
Emotional abuse includes verbal abuse such as yelling, name-calling, blaming, and shaming. Isolation, intimidation, and controlling behavior also fall under emotional abuse. Additionally, abusers who use emotional or psychological abuse often throw in threats of physical violence or other repercussions if you don’t do what they want.
You may think that physical abuse is far worse than emotional abuse, since physical violence can send you to the hospital and leave you with scars. But, the scars of emotional abuse are very real, and they run deep. In fact, emotional abuse can be just as damaging as physical abuse—sometimes even more so.” Helpguide.org
If you or someone you know is frightened about something in your relationship, please call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1−800−799−SAFE (7233) or TTY 1−800−787−3224.

The Wednesday Night JOY-ce Ride (and Thursday)

2010-08-17T08:46:00.003-04:00

Here’s the thing, I just got back from the Greater Philadelphia Christian Writers Conference. It was as always a great, fun time of learning and fellowship and praising God for all the year’s writerly blessings. I love to teach and get very attached to my clinic people (more on that later). It is also an opportunity to catch-up with other authors who I only get to see once or twice a year and to meet some for the very first time. We chat via email and FB but have never actually met, or we share an agent but have never met face-to-face. So, writer’s conferences do so much more than teach aspiring writers the craft. They really are a small world unto themselves that writer’s get to enter a few times each year.
And every year a couple of things stand out that will remain with me forever and possibly become book fodder down the road. This year’s most memorable event was of course, the Wednesday Night JOY-ce Ride. I realized I had left my blood pressure meds at home and that I had forgotten to feed Cosmo—my son’s Russian Tortoise. So, I decided I had no choice but drive home. I asked my friend Phoebe to tag a long and Pammy and Lauren and we were getting ready to go when I caught up with a new friend, Marti Pieper—she was one of the folks I was excited to meet thinking that I would make an awesome first impression since authors have reputations to consider. But, well, little did she know. I invited Marti to ride along with us.
We piled into my little car and off we went on a ride that ordinarily takes about forty minutes. Long story short, it took well over an hour because we hit traffic that gave new meaning to the word slow, although I did see the splendid irony in the fact that I was stuck in sloooooowwww moving traffic on my way to feed a tortoise. Other highlights of the trip down the Boulevard was the sinister looking white SUV with the vanity plate of RMD RBBRY. We figured him to be an armed robber with a serious ego, not to mention a lot of Hutzpah. Then there was the strange low-rider vehicle that cruised next to us for a good bit with three women inside, one that was overly engaged with a stuffed monkey. She and the monkey looked very happy together. And of course the stop at Rita's for water ice. My friend Marti, being from Florida had never met Rita before but I know she's glad she did now. Rita Rocks! We got to my place and we all shlepped up the fire escape. Bet you didn't expect that girls.
I felt so bad for the people I had invited. It was quite late by the time we got there, but hey, not everyone gets to see where the Bright's Pond magic happens. I fed Cosmo, snagged my meds then off we went back to PBU. The ride back was not nearly as long. But and here’s the kicker, the next morning I went to take my medication and couldn’t find it. I went into this freaky reality/dream thing, thinking that maybe I never drove back to the apartment, maybe the night never happened. I looked everywhere and couldn’t find my drugs. So, that morning I was scheduled to spend some time with my editor and guess what we did? Well, we didn’t drive back home, no we spent nearly the same amount of time however trying to find a CVS so I could get a few pills to get me through the weekend. Geeze, double JOY-ce rides in one week. That doesn’t happen much—oh, well, then again, this is me we’re talking about.

It's the Ikea Store not the Idea store

2010-08-09T07:49:00.002-04:00

Here’s the thing, I’m a writer not a carpenter or an engineer but I built a piece of furniture this weekend. That’s it in the picture—an entertainment center. Pretty sweet. My sisterfriend, Rebecca helped. She went to Ikea with me, helped me choose it and then helped me lug it home. Which let me tell you was hard. It was quite heavy but we are women, hear us roar. Then we unboxed all the pieces and started to build. Fortunately Ikea packs their stuff in ways that are amazing feats of engineering unto themselves and the directions are pretty easy to follow—for the most part.
We assembled and screwed screws and tightened bolts—don’t you love those little round, grommit, do-hickey things they come with? Geeze if only everything in life is that easy. Insert part A into B, turn a quarter turn to tighten and voila—you built an entertainment center. But alas nothing is perfect. I did end up with two pieces on backwards, not that you can tell, but I know it and someday I might take the thing apart and fix it but not now. Imperfection has its own rewards.
But the experience got me thinking, if only writing a novel was so easy. Wouldn’t it be cool to go to the Idea store (notice I said Idea, not Ikea—ha! I crack myself up) choose your story package from among millions, bring it home, open the box and all the parts are neatly nestled inside. You get seven characters, three subplots, one main storyline, two needs—one hidden, one obvious, a small packet of metaphors, five hundred scenes, one beginning, one ending, a few panels of laughter, a romance for support, and a tiny little self-editing tool that helps you tighten it all together.
Would you buy one? The thing is that novel writing is like Ikea furniture in a way. It takes having all the parts of the whole and then fitting them together in a way that makes it entertaining, functional, attractive, sturdy and just like my new entertainment center, a little quirky. But also, like Ikea furniture, you can’t leave any of the pieces out—it just won’t work. It will fall down. Sometimes writing a novel really is about technique, the system and not so much about talent.
So, are you writing a novel? Do you have all your pieces in place or are you still shopping? I will admit that I assemble my novels piecemeal, I keep running back to the store to snag a plot twist or find a new character, or dig up a new scene. But the system stays in tact and all the pieces must fit together to form one beautiful whole.
How about it? Are you stumbling over the directions?

Arthur and Me

2010-08-02T07:19:00.003-04:00

Here’s the thing. I made an observation this weekend. Did you ever notice how quickly we go from being a driver to being a pedestrian? One minute you’re safely tucked away in your vehicle. The next minute you park, step out of the car and whamo! You are a pedestrian and all the rules, the mindset changes. It’s instantaneous. Just moments ago you were the one annoyed by slow walking pedestrians and now you are the very annoyance you were annoyed ( if you were annoyed) at moments before. Weird.
But that’s not really what I wanted to talk about today. Today I am officially going under. I have a book to finish in a couple of months—the fourth Bright’s Pond book. That just amazes me. Four novels. This one is called Blame it on the Mistletoe and that’s right—it’s a Christmas story. Without giving too much away—a Christmas love story of Bright’s Pond. It’s sweet and quirky and fun and sentimental and all that good stuff that readers like.
The other day I was watching a tv show about tv pioneers—all the truly amazing people who made television what it is today—Red Skelton, Milton Berle, Imogene Coca, Sid Ceaser and Arthur Godfrey among others.
As I watched the segment of Godfrey it occurred to me that the same qualities people related to in Arthur they relate to in the Bright’s Pond novels—quirky, gentle, smart, folksy. Even back then when life was slower and less technological people needed and enjoyed a relaxed tone, a quiet humor. I guess you could say that Bright’s Pond is the Arthur Godfrey of today. Like him I want to capture Americana at its best--warts and all.
But, I say all that to say that my posts might become less than daily for a little bit because I really need to go under the writing spell and get my work done. But please check in. I might find something to talk about—probably, I’m almost certain.
IN the mean time, talk among yourselves and keep in touch, eat pie, pet a dog and do a random act of kindness today.

Take it with a Grain of Salt

2010-07-23T07:42:00.006-04:00

Here’s the thing, I’ve been doing some research for a current WIP that involves salt and pepper shakers. That’s right. I won’t tell you too much right now, except that it’s funny. I thought it would be fun to share some of my findings with you. First a little history:
Before the 1940s when someone figured out how to make salt free-flowing, salt came to the table in a chunk and you had to scrape it onto your food. Pepper, not so much in a chunk but still not in a shaker or a cellar until then. This was when ceramics came into play and for one reason or another manufactures began manufacturing salt and pepper shakers in a variety of colors, shapes and sizes. I mean wouldn’t you love to have heard that conversation. “Hey Harley, let’s make a salt shaker shaped like a goose—ha, ha.” Who decided this? And human nature being what it is, folks started to collect them. It is actually a pretty popular hobby all over the world with millions of shakers out there to collect. Think I’m kidding? Did you know there is a Salt and Pepper Shaker museum in Gatlinburg, TN. That’s right. A whole museum with a website and everything. The owner says she has over 20,000 shakers and boasts that she owns the world’s smallest and the world’s largest salt shaker. Clubs have even sprung up across the country where collectors can do whatever it is salt and pepper shaker enthusiasts do. “Oh, look at that one, Norma, it’s shaped like a unicorn, the salt flaws from its horn like fairy dust.” Or, “I’ll trade you my Popeye shakers for your Pumpkins.” I’m told you need to be on the look-out for hidden repairs. Apparently, even the salt and pepper collecting world is not without its charlatans. I for one am glad we have shakers. It’s so much easier to control the condiments and who isn’t thankful for well-controlled condiments. Did you know that almost 50 million tons of salt are produced each year in the United States. That’s a lot of salt. But anyhoo, here’s some pictures you might enjoy. But please, just take it all with a grain of salt.

The cat's meow. Quite a catlection in the catelog on the cat category.

Elvis is in the house. Thank you very much.

These are called Longboys. As long as you're shaking, why not. Kind of cute actually.

And of course, what collection would be complete without salt and pepper earrings with salt and pepper inside. Now that's just aching for a MAcGyver episode. "With just the right amount of seasoning we can melt through these bars and escape." "Oh, MacGyver, I'm so glad I wore my salt and pepper earrings."

To Chuck or Not to Chuck. You Decide

2010-07-22T08:02:00.001-04:00

Here’s the thing, I haven’t blogged about it yet because it took a few days to settle into my brain. And I reckon most of you already know, but The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow has been named a finalist for the prestigious ACFW Carol Award in the contemporary long division. I’m thrilled and maybe a bit stunned. I was never very good at accepting compliments and this, my loyal listeners is a huge one. I cried. Okay, there I said it. I cried when I saw my name. Well, actually I stared at the screen for a bout five minutes without blinking. Then I called my editor. She was in the car and couldn’t double check for me. But she did later and confirmed what I thought I was seeing was what I really saw. I am so honored. I am in such amazing, talented company. Congratulations to all the finalists. Bravo!!!
And I am going to the ACFW conference this September where I will attend the awards banquet. And this my friends, brings up an important questions and your chance to vote. Yes or no. Do I wear my trademark Chuck Taylor All Stars to the awards banquet?
Yes or No?
Oh, and someone out there offered to Bedazzle my Chuck Taylors All Stars. Whoever you are? Is the offer still good?

The Top Five Reasons to Attend a Writing Intensive

2010-07-20T08:25:00.003-04:00

Here's the thing, this is such an incredible opportunity for anyone who wants to write a novel. A couple of years ago I would have driven three hours or more t attend. It's not often that a new writer or even a seasoned author gets to spend the entire day with an actively acquiring editor. And believe me, it doesn't get better than Barbara Scott. So here is a re-post of her post about why you should attend this workshop. If you live anywhere near the Philadelphia area you need to come--Lancaster, Baltimore even, Bucks County, Montgomery County, Susquehanna, etc. This opportunity will not come to the area for a while. Don't miss it. Barbara really has a heart for new writers and finding fresh voices. She found mine and it's been a great ride, great friendship.
Her Post:

A sign used to hang in my mother-in-law Betty's kitchen that read, "Life is short. Eat dessert first." The older I grow, the more I understand this axiom. Rather than worrying about things that might never happen and wasting our lives cleaning the refrigerator more than once a year, we should spend more of our time living our lives for God.

Has God called you to be a writer? What are you doing about it? Do you attend a conference once a year, get fired up, and then put writing at the bottom of your "to do" list when you arrive back home? If writing is God's calling, shouldn't it be near the top of your list of priorities? To help you in your quest, here are my top 5 reasons to attend a day-long writing intensive workshop with me:

1) You deserve to spend time working on your craft with people who share your passion and can help you grow as a writer.

2) As an editor, I can rend the veil between writing as a hobby and succeeding in the Christian publishing business. It's a chance to ask me every question that's ever plagued you about how to break in.

3) We'll spend time working on your individual project so that you have a solid writing plan when you leave.

4) I'll teach you what kills an editor's interest in the first paragraph of your sample chapters, and how to write a proposal that sparks my interest.

5) I'll help you discover your unique voice, refresh your knowledge of the basics of fiction writing, teach you how to self-edit your work, and hopefully, make writing fun again for you.

Sound like a plan? Then join me at my first day-long writing intensive workshop from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. Saturday, August 21, at the Springton Lake Presbyterian Church in Newtown Square, PA (near Philadelphia). Award-winning Abingdon debut author Joyce Magnin will be in attendance to tell how she caught my attention, and how her book The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow was named as one of the top 5 Christian books of 2009 by Library Journal. Cost is $159 for the intensive workshop and includes a light lunch. Dress is casual. To register, please contact Joyce at jmagnin56@gmail.com.

SPECIAL OFFER: Because I want every writer in the greater Philadelphia area to have a chance to attend, I'm giving away one free registration to the writing intensive workshop. Just tell me in 100 words or less why you want to attend this event and how the free registration would make that possible. Send your entries to nashvillescotts@comcast.net by midnight CST Sunday, August 1. (Abingdon authors may attend my workshops free of charge at any time, so they are not eligible to win the free registration.)

If you are interested in setting up one of my day-long workshops in your area, please contact me at the email address above.

It Doesn't Get Better Than This

2010-07-16T16:12:00.002-04:00

Here's the thing, my fabulous editor Barbara Scott and I will be conducting a one-day writing intensive on August 21 at my church in New town Square, Pennsylvania. Seriously folks, if you want to write a novel--adult or youth, then don't pass up this opportunity to workshop with one of the most respected editors in the biz. Barbara is acquiring novels for Abingdon Press. She is looking for fresh, new voices! This doesn't come along too often. So, think about and then get in touch with me and we'll let you in on the details. The cost: Just $159 for the entire day. Like I said, it doesn't get better than this.

Doing Good Pie

2010-07-15T14:15:00.002-04:00

Here's the thing, if you've read the bright's Pond Books you know that pie plays a significant role in the stories. Pie to me is the ultimate comfort treat. It comes in so many varieties and can be eaten so many ways--with ice cream, cheese, whipped cream, goodness Pie rocks. My favorite is apple, deep dish with the apples baked exactly correctly with just the right amount of sweet and tart. Nothing like it. Although I would never turn away a good berry pie. Flossie, my mother was the ultimate pie baker. We still talk about the cherry pie of 1982. It was perfect in every way,
But right now, I am looking for three or four pie recipes to include in my next newsletter or to offer as prizes to folks who order Charlotte FiggTakes Over Paradise. Charlotte is the ultimate pie baker in the book.
So, if you have a recipe or two, please send it to me. If I try it and like it, I will send you a copy of Charlotte when it releases and your recipe will be featured on my website and my newsletter. Pretty sweet. You'll be famous!
So send me those recipes. Please. Oh, they should be pretty much original.

A Short History of the Comma

2010-07-14T08:53:00.003-04:00

Here’s the thing, I’ve been thinking about commas this morning. I know, weird, but there you go. Anyhoo, did you ever wonder who was the very first person to actually insert a comma into a portion of text? I have. I often wonder about strange things like, who was the first person to eat a lobster? Or who said the words, “back in the day” the first time. But I digress, today’s topic is of course the comma and the history there of. An amazing little invention the comma, merely a squiggle but one that can wreck havoc in the minds of authors everywhere and spur hours of debate among editors. (See my editor’s blog The Roving Editor for proof).
Seems to me I remember being told at one point that I should insert a comma wherever I take a breath or a natural pause. Sounds simple enough but woefully inaccurate as breathing can be something of a subjective, personal preference.
Although that being said the comma did have its origins in breathing—so to speak. You see, back in the day, stories and such were not written down or bound into books because most people could not read. So story was an oral tradition and readers or actors would naturally insert a comma or breath or pause as they recited reams of memorized text. Hence the birth of the comma. According to my research the actual mark, the squiggle or half a squiggle, you can’t really say that a comma is a full squiggle can you, was invented by Aristophanes of Bysantium in 200 B.C. That’s Before Christ not Before Commas. It seems Aristophanes devised a three-part system of dramatic notation that told actors when and where to breathe as they said their lines.
Here’s a nifty quote: Some dude named Richard Mulcaster (obviously an anal retentive) said the comma is a “small crooked point, which in writing followeth some small branch of sentence, and in reading, warneth us to rest there and help our breath a little.”
Uhm, seems to me that could be where the whole put a comma in where you breathe thing got started. He said that way back in 1582.
But further research uncovered that the comma also has its beginnings in Christianity. Of course, we love rules. But apparently St. Augustine was miffed and totally chagrined at the thought that Bible passages could be read incorrectly, and insisted that the placement of commas in Bible text must be in accordance with church doctrine so things would not be misinterpreted.
So there you have it, a short history of the comma. I don’t know about you but I still have trouble with them. I tend to insert commas wherever the heck I please and that my friends in not a good thing. Ask my editor.

Magnin Family Encyclopedia of Quirkdom

2010-07-08T07:36:00.004-04:00

Here's the thing,
• My mother was present at the birth of the world’s most incredible toy—The Slinky. (thanks loree lough for the memory)
• My mother once acted in a radio soap opera.
• My mother sang a duet with Frank Sinatra.
• My mother was fired from a job for giving away sensitive war secrets during WWII. Something about Shrimp Boats.
• My mother paid to have a baby robin’s leg amputated and then the bird lived with us.
• We owned a Flying Squirrel named Johnny Rocket
• My father once fished a trout out of a toilet.
• My father once accidentally walled-up a kitty cat behind a customer’s bathtub and had to rescue it at 2:00 in the morning.
• My brother stepped on our pet parakeet—yuck!
• One of my favorite toys was a pheasant foot.
• My sister was a singing waitress at a summer Bible Conference camp.
• I once worked as a dog-groomer—for one day! It wasn’t pretty.
• My father once flew to Paris, France after an argument with my mother because he needed some fresh air.
• My sister’s dog-in-law once appeared on Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show as Napoleon The Talking Dog.
• My father saved the Upper Darby bus terminal from certain disaster by using his body to block sewage from flowing into a bunch of electrical thingamabobs.
• My mother made me show my impressive appendix scar to some of the church ladies during a Church Potluck. I was 16—it doesn’t get any more mortifying than that as church memories go.
• A tree surgeon died in my front yard (I was 12 years old) after cutting through high voltage wires. Which is weird considering my life now.
• I won a Chicken Man costume contest when I was 14. My mother made a head and beak from a Clorox bottle. Odd but painfully true.
• My dog, Polly rode the mail truck with our letter carrier and helped deliver the mail. They were good friends.

How about you--what's in your family closet?

Exciting Announcement

2010-07-07T08:52:00.006-04:00

Here's the thing, I love my blog but it occurred to me that you folks are only getting part of the story. There's so much more going on that I decided to start an E-Newsletter and E-Promotion thingamabob. I sent my first E-Newsletter, I call it Joyce to the World, out yesterday and it was pretty cool. Truthfully I didn't put everything I wanted into it because I am still exploring those details. But if you would like to start receiving these thingamabobs then please, sign-up using the nifty little form on the right and I'll start sending you stuff. Newsletter, contest alerts, pertinent information concerning my novels, information of some issues I'm passionate about. All the good stuff. And if you're lucky, some pictures of my son and grandsons. They are so cute.

Now, here's the exciting part, not that the above stuff isn't wonderful, but I am going to be giving some of you aspiring and even already aspired-to writers out there an opportunity to get published in my newsletter. Hey, it's a great way to get read and start some landings, you know. I will be accepting short (very short--600 words) stories--fiction or non, poetry, recipes, good clean jokes--like this one. How come cannibals never eat clowns? Because they taste funny!. HA. Listen a lot of people read my blog so dust off those jokes, come up with a funny or sweet or charming anecdotal story, a recipe, maybe a book review and send it to me. Of course there will be no payment, just glory, fame, your kids will be so proud and that's payment enuf.

Also, here's some other news. The Greater Philadelphia Christian Writers Conference is less than a month away. have you signed-up. NO? Then go and do that. I will be leading my popular novel writer's clinic again. So if you want to spend a weekend honing your draft and your craft, yakking about writing and meeting my secret guest star, then you better sign-up. Space is limited so if you're even part way through your novel, this clinic is for you. And listen, if you sign-up as a result of my blog and you bring me a hot mocha from Starbucks or a regular Dunkin Donuts coffee with just cream to the first clinic--you get a free copy of my second Bright's Pond novel. Pretty sweet, the deal, not the coffee. And hey, the coffee is just a suggestion. But go now to the conference website and sign-up. Even if you're not ready for my clinic, sign-up for the other fabulous workshops, for heaven's sake, Susan Meisner, Wanda Dyson, among others. Go Now!

Fractures, Mean Girls, and Squiggly Straws

2010-07-06T07:53:00.004-04:00

Here’s the thing, when I was five years old I fell from the Monkey Bars, crashed to the ground and broke both my arms. That’s right, I busted both arms at the same time. I always was an over-achiever. Anyhoo, the most I remember of the incident is that I was conscious long enough to tell my sister to go get Mommy. She did. That’s all I know until I woke up surrounded by bright lights. Yep, thought I died. But then I heard my mother’s voice in the distance like it was coming from someplace far far away, another universe perhaps, which if you knew Flossie, would make sense. But no, she was in the room calling me, “Joycie, Joycie, wake-up.” I did, only to discover I couldn’t move. My arms were encased in ten pounds of plaster. Yikes.
But I did come around—eventually. Later that day I awoke in a room with four other children who for some reason I took an immediate dislike too. Especially this one, snooty girl in the bed next to me. I have no idea what her problem was, but she was one mean child. I was in the hospital or Alcatraz, lying in a bed with bars—a huge prison crib with bars! I hated it and wanted out. But my mother said I had to stay there because they were afraid I might fall out. Geeze, fall from one Monkey bar and you’re branded for life.
Mom stayed with me for as long as she could. She helped me eat my dinner because, well, my arms were broken! This was back in the days when Moms and Dad were not encouraged to stay with their ailing children. Yeah, what sense would that make. “Um, o sorry, Mom, you daughter is in deep distress but you have to leave.” Guess it made us stronger.
Except when she left the mean girl started to poke fun at me. She laughed that I had both arms in huge casts, I mean it, they were the size of gun turrets. Maybe not, but that’s how I remember it. But then the night grew even more bizarre. A child came in wearing a nurses uniform. It was white. She wore a white cap. She was three feet tall with little tiny arms. I felt frightened but I figured they had kid nurses for kid patients. Nah, she was a Little Person. Geeze, they could warn a patient. She made me drink Milk of Magnesia so I would . . . you know. Apparently they didn’t want me straining anything inside. Mean girl laughed. I wouldn’t doubt it if she grew up to be some terrible prison guard.
The next day Mean Girl went home. She actually stood there with her hands on her hips and said, “Neener neener I get to go home and you don’t.” If I could have, I would have thrown a bed pan at her.
Finally, I was released. I went home where I was relegated to the living room couch. I got to control the television. Holy Smokes that was neat. I watched the TV show Combat. Loved that show.
That evening my Pop came home from work with a special “For Achievement in Broken Bones” prize. A sack of straws. Don’t laugh. It was sweet. My arms were useless. It was hard to eat. I had to be fed. But Pop brought me several fun straws. There were short ones, long ones, striped ones, and squiggly ones with curly cues.
But no good deed goes unpunished as they say. Pop brought me a tall glass of chocolate milk. He unwrapped straw number one, the curly cue and dropped it into my frosty milk. At which point my mother came running into the living room waving a dish towel. “What are you doing. She’s not supposed to suck.”
Um, never figured that one out, but a few days later I got the straws back and Pop and I watched a ball game together while Flossie baked pie. And this my friends is why I write quirk.

Block Party!

2010-07-05T09:54:00.004-04:00

Here’s the thing, we had a block party Saturday in my neighborhood. Interesting phenomenon the Block Party. For those of you who don’t know this concept, a block party is an event in which a street is barricaded from traffic and people take over. It’s like the animals at the zoo being set free to roam and party. Every child on the street comes out to play. I counted forty-five children—twelve from one family, nah, just kidding, Doreen only has five. But still. Barbecues are lined up along the curb, tables and tents assembled, lawn furniture comes off the lawns and decks and onto the street, music blares from speakers, and a lot of beer gets drunk, drank? drinked? Ours was terrific. Neighbors who otherwise only wave or say a few words throughout the year get an opportunity to sit and catch up, new neighbors come out and meet the old neighbors and get the lowdown on the community. I think the block party is a great invention. As near as I can research the block party has its origin in New York during WWI when streets were blocked from traffic and people assembled to play patriotic music and sing patriotic songs to honor members of the community going off to war. The block party has changed since then. Heck, we’ll throw a block party for any reason, graduations are big, milestone birthdays, even wedding receptions have taken the form of a block party. Why rent a hall when you can block off an entire street?
I had a great time, my son had a great time running around, chasing the other boys, shooting Nerf guns, water balloons were tossed. He won the Jello eating contest.

The new Bright's Pong book, Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise, has a huge block party at the Paradise Trailer Park. Of course things go a little awry but, well, you need to read the book. And please do. It's available for pre-sale.

So, it got me thinking. I was wondering if I could throw a Bright’s Pond Block Party. If I figure out how to do it, will you come?

In Pursuit of the Dreaded Synopsis

2010-07-01T12:20:00.003-04:00

Here’s the thing, writing a synopsis is like pulling you eye teeth out through your ears. Flannery O’Connor said that if you can condense your novel into such few words, then why write the whole thing. Although I tend to agree with this (perhaps it’s because I hate writing them) I do understand the need. So, that’s where I’m at right now with a certain project. It’s easier to do after the whole novel has been written but when you still have 90,000 words to go it get’s a little weird. But alas and alack, I am bending my brain in all directions trying to write the thing.

Well, it got me to thinking. What if I was asked to give a synopsis of my entire life (up until now, I am not dead yet). Where would I start, what highlights and lowlights would I spotlight? What if I only had ten minutes to tell my story or say, face some unspeakable torture. These are the game s I play. Write the synopsis or be subjected to seventeen hours of Neil Diamond. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. It’s not working.

Then of course I could try rewards. If you write this synopsis you can got to Ritas and get a gelato. Still not working. The best advise I ever got about the process came from my dear friend Lisa Samson who said I should imagine that I am sitting around a campfire with my friends and I have fifteen minutes to tell the story. How would I do it? That works, usually. But not today. I think this story has so many, shall we say, stops along the way that I’m finding it very difficult to sum it up.

But I procrastinate. Hence the blog on how hard it is. But as they say, most things in life that are worth doing come with a little pain. Like babies and root canal. So I will go now and make attempt number seventy-three at writing a synopsis for Harriet Beamer Takes the Bus. Intrigued?

The picture? Oh, that's Karen Kingsbury waving to me. Just for fun. I wonder how she writes a synopsis. She probably doesn't have to anymore. Oh, to be there.

Love Finds You in Messy Drawers (not that kind)

2010-06-29T08:30:00.004-04:00

Here’s the thing, everyone knows that I am not exactly the queen of organization. So be it. There is a two-foot high pile on my desk that at this moment is teetering and will probably fall to the floor if I don’t remedy the situation. I will, I promise. But first I wanted to relate a little story. It’s a true story about my sorry lack of organizational skills. This happened a few years ago. My daughter, Rebekah was maybe five years old. I passed her room one afternoon and peeked inside. She was there, at the foot of her bed working diligently with three piles of underwear. Two on the bed, one on the floor. Upon further investigation I noticed she had a pair of panties, flat out, smoothed down on the bed.

Amused, I chose to say nothing and watched. She chose one pair of panties from the pile on her left and the then carefully placed it on top of what was obviously the control pair. This brought new meaning to the phase, control-top panties. She would then smooth the second pair out and if it didn’t match with the control pair it was discarded to the growing pile on the floor. If it was a match she dropped it into the pile on her right. After several minutes I decided to ask her about this.

“It’s okay, Mommy, I’m just sorting out the ones that fit.”

Waves of guilt flushed my face. “Oh, honey. That should probably be my job.”

There you have it. I couldn’t even keep my daughter’s underwear under control. She had to sort through her own drawers. It was even more humiliating to see that she had underwear in there from when she was potty-training. Yikes.

“I am so sorry, Rebekah,” I said. “Let Mommy help you.”

“No, it’s okay. I like it.”

“Really? Well, I have some drawers in my room that need sorting.”

She wasn’t amused.

BTW--that's Beck up there, all grown up, eating for two and learning to sort for three, well almost four now. That's right, another grandchild is on the way. Due December.

To Jump or Not to Jump

2010-06-28T08:30:00.003-04:00

Here’s the thing, plunging into unknown depths is scary, very scary. But I suppose we’ve all had to do it at one time or other. Heck, remember taking your first steps? I don’t either, but still, there came a time in your little toddler brain when you connected some dots and realized it was possible to walk on two feet. So off you went. I remember watching my children do this. They usually started by pulling themselves up on something, a coffee table, a wall and then got up nerve and pushed off in whatever direction they faced. It took some tries but soon enough, my kids learned to walk. Not so bad. Then came other leaps and sometimes bounds. One after the other, kindergarten, shoe-lace tying, bike-riding, swimming, smoke-bomb building, etc. etc. They did it all, sometimes with their eyes closed, sometimes prematurely, and sometimes without permission but my children all found something they wanted to do and then did it—just did it. Took the plunge.

Seems to me that the older you get the harder it is to take that first dive, to jump in and start swimming. I’ve been thinking about this lately. The turning point, the decision factor, D-Day, the point of no return. What happens in the space between not-jumping and jumping? How do you know when it’s time to take the plunge?

Summer Time and the Living is Easy--Yeah, right

2010-06-23T07:38:00.003-04:00

Here's the thing, yesterday I ended the school year and said good-bye to my fifth graders who are moving up to middle school. I really will miss them. Alison, the reader. She always had a book, sometimes reading two and three at a time. Paige--so sweet, so smart. She will go far. Mike-the prankster. He made me laugh when I knew I shouldn't and Marcus the talented athlete. Good luck guys. You'll do great. Come back and check in with me sometime. And also yesterday I watched my own fifth grader, Adam graduate. On to middle school--ah, the Wonder Years. He did great this year and I am so proud of him. He's my engineer/herpetologist. Yep, that's right. Maybe he'll do something in bio engineering.
So now that I have a few more hours it's time to get on to some writing projects. I have a novel due October 1. Don't worry, Barbara. But first, I have got to clean and organize my office area place. Holy cow, it's a mess. That's my plan for today, especially since it is so stinking hot. Geeze, it's the wind chill of a volcano out there. So I think I'll hunker down and attempt to organize. Not my strong suit. Anybody out there into it. Anybody who can help me get organized and STAY organized. I'm good at putting things in order. It's keeping it there that gives me the problems. I need pile maintenance.
And since yesterday was the first full day of summer I thought I would leave you with a touch of Emily to celebrate. They call this one Summer Shower--although she never did.

A drop fell on the apple tree,
Another on the roof;
A half a dozen kissed the eaves,
And made the gables laugh.

A few went out to help the brook,
That went to help the sea.
Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,
What necklaces could be!

The dust replaced in hoisted roads,
The birds jocoser sung;
The sunshine threw his hat away,
The orchards spangles hung.

The breezes brought dejected lutes,
And bathed them in the glee;
The East put out a single flag,
And signed the fete away.

Take Me to Your Leader

2010-06-17T09:10:00.001-04:00

Here’s the thing. I upgraded my phone a couple of weeks ago. I went from a Blackberry to a Droid—for free, totally free, no money. What a hoot. A Droid. I actually own something called a Droid. It’s so . . . space-age. I mean I really thought, when I was ten, that by the year 2010 we’d all be driving hover-craft and moving sidewalks would have taken the place of cement. We’re not there yet, but I must say, I love my Droid. It has so many cool features and apps that I could spend all day looking through them. I’ve already downloaded the barcode reader, a task list thing, a couple of games, a note taker, the voice part of the GPS so it talks to me now and will keep me company on long trips to book signings or even for walks around the neighborhood. It just cracks me up.

The downside of course is that it has the potential to be a tremendous time-sucker distraction. So I have to limit my playtime. But that’s okay. I figure I’ll get kind of bored with it soon enough and it will be there for a purpose not for play. But right now, I am having fun, feeling very modern. My daughter said I was doing really well with technology for a woman my age—this after she helped me figure out the GPS. I could have done it myself. I just wanted to give Emily the opportunity to show-off (um cough).

But, I suppose in technology as in life no good thing can come without a down-side. The Droid’s battery is awful. Go figure—if they can build something this incredible why in the world can they not make a battery that lasts more than a few minutes—or so it seems. I mean really, why? Someone help me understand why the battery is so short-lived. I mean the battery in my MacBook Pro lasts forever! The battery in my old HP last ten minutes. What gives? Someone explain this to me. Aren’t batteries pretty much the same?

Narrative Destiny

2010-06-13T12:03:00.003-04:00

Here's the thing, today I am officially hanging out the old shingle. After years of writing, teaching, reading and studying I have decided to share what I know about writing with aspiring authors. I have started a little thing I like to call Narrative Destiny. If you want to be a novelist but keep getting turned down or if you simply don't know what to do next or even if you can't quite put your finger on the issues, then Narrative Destiny could hold the answers.

You can check out the details here.

I am also offering a special set of critiques and discussions dedicated to the difficult subject of VOICE. It's one of my favorite writing issues to study. Call me crazy, but I like to wrangle with this illusive and often confusing aspect of an author's craft.

You can learn more about my special Voice Lessons here.

Here's what one student has said:“Joyce helped me work out a plan (for my novel) that was doable, and felt more creative. I could also see some obvious problems with the manuscript that I did not see before and I think this was a result of learning to look from above the work instead of from the vortex. (or would that be better worded outside than inside?). No - vortex is a much stronger word and communicates the way I feel while I’m working.” Karen Deikun

Here's the thing:

2010-06-08T11:06:00.005-04:00

Sparrows are nesting in my window air conditioner. They are very cool birds.

Anadiplosis is not a Skin Disease

2010-06-07T09:23:00.003-04:00

Here’s the thing, the other day I was rifling through a closet looking for something—I never found what I was looking for but I excavated a list of literary devices I had made a long time ago for a workshop I was teaching. It was fascinating to read because it included some really interesting devices like Anadiplosis which sounds like a skin disease but really is the repetition of the last word of one phrase, clause, or sentence at or very near the beginning of the next such as, “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the Word was God.” John 1:1.

How about this one: Epanalepsis repeats the beginning word of a clause or sentence at the end. The beginning and the end are the two positions of strongest emphasis in a sentence, so by having the same word in both places, you call special attention to it like, “Her nose was huge, yes, people often remarked about the size of her nose.”

Scesis Onomaton is not the leader of a rogue robot empire but emphasizes an idea by expressing it in a string of generally synonymous phrases or statements.

Anaphora is the repetition of the same word or words at the beginning of successive phrases, clauses, or sentences as in She read the book. She read the book until she fell asleep. She read the book and dreamed about it.
Then there is the ever popular Zeugma which includes several similar rhetorical devices, all involving a grammatically correct linking of two or more parts of speech by another part of speech. The main benefit of the linking is that it shows relationships between ideas and actions more clearly.

But, of all the literary or rhetorical devices out there the one I like best is Hyperbole. Without it, I would be nothing. Gross hyperbole is pretty much what drives my work. I love to take simple, ordinary things and stretch them out, exaggerate the truth, the details just enough so that fiction becomes slightly more interesting than truth. Bright's Pond is pretty much a great big exercise in hyperbole. Not that ilife there isn't accurate, it's just exaggerated.

How about you? What’s your favorite literary device?

My New Website and other stuff

2010-06-01T09:19:00.006-04:00

Here's the thing, it's been in the works a long time but I just didn't have the time to get a round to it. But today I am happy to announce the birth of joycemagnin.com. I would love it if you all would go and take a look, let me know what you think and if you would like me to include anything. Be sure to take the virtual tour of Bright's Pond. I will be making a tour of the Paradise Trailer Park soon.I had fun building the site. I love my Macbook Pro. I think a person can do pretty much anything on a Mac, except maybe fry an egg.

And I am also excited to tell you that Book Three of the Bright's Pond novels is finished--well it's with my editor, and I am just about ready to begin Book Four--Blame it on the Mistletoe--that's right, it's a Christmasy one.

The other day I asked my son to get my car keys out of my bag. He was gone for a very long time. When he came back he said, "Geeze Mom, it's a dungeon in there. I barely got out with my hand still attached to my wrist." Um, sorry Kiddo. But he's right. My bag is a dungeon--deep,dark and scary, but there you go--it's a bag.

I moved Emily into a house this weekend. It's off-campus living. She'll be a junior at West Chester University this fall. She'll be living with three other young women--YIKES! Funny, when I moved her into the dorm it was one thing but a house! It feels a little different.

Don't forget to pre-order your copy of Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise.

In the mean time, be bold, be brave, but most of all behave and have a slice of pie.

The SOP Writer's Theme Hymn

2010-05-27T09:56:00.002-04:00

This came to me from my friend Priscilla Strapp, an excellent writer in search of a publisher.Here is the "Theme Hymn" for writers who don't want to plot every last detail before they begin: Lead Kindly Light by John Henry Newman to the tune of Lux Benigna:

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark and I am far from home; Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene--one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path; but now, lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still will lead me on;
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till the night is gone,
And with the morn, those angel faces smile;
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

This is a hymn about life with God--but if you look closely, you can see that everything in it can be made to fit the writing life as well, especially for those of us who write without a lot of plotting.

He was such a bad writer they . . .

2010-05-10T11:57:00.003-04:00

took away his poetic license. Ha! Milton Berel said that. Gotta love Uncle Milti.He also said, "Laughter is an instant vacation." Here are some other writerly quotes I like. How about you. Like to add any.

All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you; the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was. If you can get so that you can give that to people, then you are a writer.
- Ernest Hemingway

Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don't try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It's the one and only thing you have to offer.
- Barbara Kingsolver

This manuscript of yours that has just come back from another editor is a precious package. Don't consider it rejected. Consider that you've addressed it 'to the editor who can appreciate my work' and it has simply come back stamped 'Not at this address'. Just keep looking for the right address.
- Barbara Kingsolver

There is no satisfactory explanation of style, no infallible guide to good writing, no assurance that a person who thinks clearly will be able to write clearly, no key that unlocks the door, no inflexible rules by which the young writer may steer his course. He will often find himself steering by stars that are disturbingly in motion.
- E. B. White

Never throw up on an editor.
- Ellen Datlow

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just begins
to live that day.
- Emily Dickinson

Get it down. Take chances. It may be bad, but it's the only way you can do anything really good.
- William Faulkner

It begins with a character, usually, and once he stands up on his feet and begins to move, all I can do is trot along behind him with a paper and pencil trying to keep up long enough to put down what he says and does.
- William Faulkner

I'm writing a book. I've got the page numbers done.
- Stephen Wright

Me and My Chucks

2010-05-03T09:20:00.001-04:00

Here's the thing, Many people have been curious about why I wear Chucks, soley chucks (ha, pun) Let me explain. I have difficult feet. I always did. I have a heal of a time finding shoes that don't make me want to cry. My foot is wide, my arches high and I pretty much shattered my left ankle several years ago in a car accident. All three of these things make it difficult for me to find a shoe that fits and feels comfy enough to wear for longer than five minutes. No stilettos for this girl. But then again, at five feet eight and a half inches I am tall enough. That's not to say that in my younger days a sweet pair of pumps did not show off my sexy, sexy gams. But I digress.
A few years ago I was still wearing those clunky, horrible (for me), heavy, Nike-esque running shoe/sneaker things with the thick rubber soles. I pretty much hated them but like I said, my feet don't cooperate. Then one day I saw them, my first pair of Chuck Taylor All-Stars. You can doubt this if you like but it was a rainy, gray day. I was standing in the store, a DSW about to give up on ever finding a comfortable pair of shoes, thinking I had no choice but to move to Tahiti where I could go barefoot all the time when a ray of light, a yellow sunbeam of sneaker magic burst through the store front window and illuminated a pair of green Chucks, a rainbow had formed in the water droplets on the glass. I took a breath and tried them on. Ahhhh, relief, the feeling was delightful. They were wide enough and accommodated my arches just fine and for the first time since ankle-breakage, my dogs did not bark, I toe-tally loved my feet again. Now of course I was a little concerned about the fashion statement I was making so I asked six other women in the store their opinion and they all said the same thing—"you look so cute." Cute is usually what I go for. And so, on that day, you might say a Star, A Chuck Taylor All-Star was born.
It was shortly after that when I started to notice them everywhere, and not just in green or black but in wonderful bright, life-sustaining, Technicolor, my little artistic, free-spirited heart went pity-pat. Blue and purple, yellow and orange, pink and gray. Oh my. I was in a sneaker heaven. I loved the colors and whenever I could foot the bill, I purchased another hue.
But then something funny began to happen, people started to notice my Chucks and like them. They liked them. They really liked them. I wore Chucks exclusively, no matter the occasion. No matter the outfit. I wore Chucks. They've become my Trademark, my signature, my logo, my toe-go. As my friend and teenage student, Phoebe said, "nobody rocks Chucks like you." And I even had a couple of folks compare me to the red-Chucked Garrison Keillor and that's just mine by me.
And now that this whole Queen of Quirk moniker has taken charge of most things in my life, the Chucks are a nice fit. And I am happy to say that I can now wear my Chucks in all their glorious colorations wherever I go, with whatever I wear all year long. It's the toe-tal package now.
So what about you? Have you embraced your inner-Chuckness.? Let's talk. Send pix. Leave a foot-related, pun-filled comment and I'll send you a prize.

My Most Fabulous Day--so far

2010-04-19T09:05:00.004-04:00

Here's the thing, and it's a pretty great thing. I just returned from Nashville where I attended my publisher's sales conference, actually a launch party for their fall 2010 line. I had such a great day. Actually I was in Nashville for five days. I stayed with my dear friend and author extraordinaire, Nancy Rue. We talked writing and books and played with her two Lab pups. On Wednesday I met my editor, Barbara Scott and since I was tad early, we went, where else? To Starbucks and talked about writing and books and my career and silly stuff that just made us laugh. Then it was back to the publishing house, which by the way is not a house, it's a huge building in downtown Nashville. HUGE. Barbara took me on a tour and it just went on forever.
I met some pretty terrific people who are instrumental in making the fiction line a success. I will admit it was a tiny bit strange to see my picture on a poster. I mean really. I walked into the building and right there in the lobby was a big welcome sign with my picture on it. Well, mine and the other guy's (the other author invited to speak). It was pretty cool. That's it in the picture.
I visited Barbara's office and saw the infamous "slush pile" which frankly wasn't very big or very slushy. But I think that's because of Barbara's tremendous and wonderful organizational skills. I did see one of my proposals on her desk. It was nice to see it there. Comforting and encouraging. Next we moved through the building like two mountain lions prowling around for who we could snag and say hello to, including Tammy the vice president. Yep, that was awesome. I like Tammy a lot. She's smart and sophisticated and really cares about creating a first-class fiction line
for Abingdon Press. Then we found Maegan Roper my publicist who is just as cute as a button and sweet and bubbly. We ran into Susan Salley who has been a major cheerleader from the very beginning. Susan is getting a new puppy this week. Yay Susan.
From there we headed to the luncheon where I sat at the table with Barbara, Tammy, Susan, Maegan, Neil, Ed, Stacy and Amy. Great fun! They are all great folks truly committed to making good books. And then it was time for the big show. Wow.
Okay, here's the other thing. I was very concerned about what I was going to wear because as we all know I am not exactly a fashionista, I'm more of a whatever is lying on the flooranista. But I did get to wear my Chucks. Blue ones that went real well with my blue, flouncy shirt. What else would you expect the Queen of Quirk to wear? More about that later. I hear the shoes were a hit though, memorable. And this makes me happy because I like my Chucks in all their fabulous colors. So I'm just
saying if I get the Christy nomination I WILL wear Chucks to the event. So anyhoo, Susan introduced the nonfiction line and then brought out two folks who performed a skit introducing the fiction titles. Let me tell you my loyal subjects (I can say that now since I am the Queen of Quirk) it was a blast. I laughed and laughed. They did an awesome job discussing the titles. And it wasn't too shabby to see my new release about a mile high on the screen behind them. Well not too shabby and very humbling. Thank you guys. I hope Maegan sends me the tape soon. I want to use it in other places. Then Barbara introduced me. Applause, applause.
Then I got up on the stage and well, I will admit I was a little bit quivery and scared. But I did okay telling the folks about how I came to write quirk and become the Queen of Quirk and where Bright's Pond came from and I was so relieved when everyone laughed in all the right places. Phew!
Then the other guy talked. (I'm joking, he was good, he was non-fiction so there you go).
Then it was over and I signed a few books, spoke with a few people including some of the awesome Abingdon sales men and women. I met Curtis who is now the CBA president and he was so sweet. He told me he likes quirk. Go Curtis!
Then I was hungry. I couldn’t eat much the two or three days leading up to the event—nerves and all. I wanted pizza. So Barbara and I got a pizza and headed back to Nancy's hacienda where we hung out all evening laughing and enjoying some great conversation and pretty much kicking back.
All in all it was a most fabulous day. I love being a part of the Abingdon family.

We are not elves!

2010-04-12T08:18:00.001-04:00

Here's the thing, I'm supposed to be leaving for my publisher's sales conference this afternoon. When I told my daughter the first thing she said was, "what are you going to wear, Mom?" um, that was a good question because we writers pretty much get to work in our jammies or sweats and no one knows and no one cares. But occasionally we are lured out of our dens to attend some kind of public function. Which I enjoy. I love meeting people. I think it's the only way readers know that writers are real and not Elves living in a shoe, tapping out stories under the light of the mysterious Moonberry plant.
So I went shopping. I bought real clothes and even a pair of real shoes which I wore to church yesterday and I got to say, my feet were not happy. They like being inside my Chucks, of which I own several pair in many colors. Joseph had his coat, I have my Chucks. But in the interest of what is, apparently, proper I bought some new stuff, pretty stuff, casual but nice clothes to wear on my trip that will hopefully take me from my writerly frumpiness to fashionista—no not really. I don’t think I ever want to be called a fashionista. It makes me think of women in gray business suits goose-stepping in strappy sandals down the street. Not for me.
But doing this has raised a serious question for me. What's my style? I think as a writer I would like to have a style, something fun and quirky like my books yet not clownish. I'm thinking about a tattoo. Writers should have a style don't you think? I'll let you know as soon as I figure it out.

Easter 1966

2010-03-26T12:04:00.005-04:00

Here's the thing. That's me with my Mama and my dog Polly. If you look closely enough you'll see my sister, Elaine horsing around in the back. Please note the Princess Leia hair-do. Mom was so creative. George Lucas consulted her about Princess Leia's hair. Mom did it first. BTW, check the gams on my mother. I remember the day my father took the picture. I was only smiling becuase the sun was bright. Yet, as I think back I'm pretty sure I insisted on the yellow dress from JC Penney and matching yellow socks. Hey, it was Easter and we were on our way to church.I look like a daffodil.

Sprouting Crab Apples

2010-03-16T09:33:00.005-04:00

Here's the thing, I don't think I talked about this but the season of Lent was always kind of a mystery to me, something that both amused and mystified me as I
considered it one of the deeper aspects of faith. But it also came across to me as something trivial as I remember watching my playmates as a child claiming to give up sweets or meat on Friday or to stop punching their little sisters. It just seemed silly. But over the years I've come to see Lent as a deeply personal time and one in which I can devote a portion of my life directly to Jesus by sanctifying some aspect of myself. Well this year I decided to give up my negative thinking, something I am prone to fall into quite easily—usually it has nothing to do with anyone else, just myself. I am a worrier, a brooder. I tumble headlong into days of near despair over who I am and where I'm going and even where I have been. Well this is not what God wants for me. God wants me to be alive and vibrant and eager to face each day. So I have been working on the notion of taking every thought captive. That means to take the negative stuff that comes my way and shining the light of truth on it—God's truth. So when my heart condemns me I can say that in God's eyes I am his radiant daughter. So, how's this going for me, you might ask.
It's been up and down. I have had some real success with turning my thoughts over to God, setting them at the feet of Jesus and training, sometimes forcing myself to think in another direction. And it's been awesome. I tend not to wallow as long in the muck as I used too. Then there are the days when I can't seem to stop the downward spiral and I ponder all sorts of negative thoughts. I worry. I brood. I complain and am altogether totally unthankful for the goodness in my life and for that I need to confess and move on. It's as simple as that, my friends. Take it to Jesus and let him do the rest.
On the flip side is that taking every thought captive also reveals some ugly truths. One of the most hideous that God's light has uncovered these past few weeks is my tendency toward jealousy, coveting what other people have and not being satisfied or content with who I am and yes, what I posses. I have been jealous of what other people own and how many books they've sold. How silly is that? But I suppose that's the pruning that Jesus talked about. He needs to cut those branches of jealousy from me so I can grow better branches, healthier branches and hopefully bear fruit that is pleasing to him. Little green crabapples do not make Jesus glad.
So there you have it, my Lenten Special. Think good thoughts. It works.

Not Your Granny's School Lunch

2010-03-10T13:57:00.003-05:00

Here's the thing, every so often I have lunch duty at school. It's fun. No really it is. I enjoy spending time with the kids, opening their milk and Gogurt yogurt containers and having it spurt across the room or onto my shirt. I enjoy lifting the lids from small cups of fruit filled to the brim with juice that always, always, always spill all over the place. (Note to manufacturer: Please don’t fill the cups to the brim. It's messy.) I like cleaning up spills and vomit. Okay, not vomit—too often, but it does happen.

School lunches have changed over the years, although much has remained the same. Industrial tomato sauce is still industrial tomato sauce. And it smells exactly the same way it did when I was in elementary school. Peanut butter and Jelly is the number one bagged sandwich. Pizza is still on the menu and yes it does come with a side of veggies. In my day the vegetable of choice was a disgusting plop of spinach that didn't even look like spinach, the green was all wrong and the juice ran into my pizza crust and I just couldn’t eat it after that. Now, the kiddoes get a choice of carrots or apple slices conveniently served in a small plastic bag thus removing the threat of any cross food contamination. They get really swell French fries and salads with what I am told is the best dressing in the world. I'm not a salad dressing fan myself. Hotdogs, fruit cups and their choice of chocolate or white milk or bottled water even.(Yes, BOTTLED water) At least once a month the cafeteria serves breakfast for lunch. How fun is that? French toast sticks and I believe it's a sausage patty on the side. Bagels and Philly cream cheese. We never had that. Nope, it was pretty much mystery meat in slimy, gristle-filled gravy that tasted like wallpaer paste with brown food coloring. Nowadays kids are offered cheese steaks and hamburgers, Jello and I swear I saw cheese cake once or twice. Of course ice cream for dessert and not just a popsicle. Nope, they even get Snickers ice cream bars. Sheesh.
Today the main lunch offering was meatball subs. Rebecca, she's the other lunch aid, thought it looked and sounded so good she got the platter: a meatball sub in famous Philly bread, French fries, apple slices, milk and of course ice cream.
All for $3.50. Doesn’t that sound good? It tasted great too. That's the actual sub in the picture. So there you go, today's lunch –I think I'll continue the conversation tomorrow. Until then think about this. How important was school lunch when you were a kid? Oh, and just a note to parents: your kids tell the lunch aids EVERYTHING!

What Does Emily Dickinson have to do with Final Fantasy?

2010-03-09T15:59:00.002-05:00

Here's the thing—it wasn't what I expected. I went to the midnight store opening Monday night/Tuesday morning to purchase my copy of final Fantasy XIII. I had hoped that there would a large turn-out of gamers and that some would be dressed as their favorite FF characters. But alas and alack I saw no Moogles, no Cloud, no Sephoroth, Fran or Tidus. Just folks, just plain folks out at midnight to get one of the most loved fantasy RPG's of all time. Okay, that's my opinion but I think it's pretty accurate. My daughter Emily went with me because she also was hoping that the freak population of Havertown would be there. There was a line and we stood in it for maybe six minutes until I got my hands on my sweet copy. Guess what. I haven't even installed it to my XBOX hard drive yet. I've glanced through the strategy guide but I still haven't played it and it's been mine for almost twenty-four hours now.
So, why? What is it? It's a little like what I mentioned in an earlier post how anticipation can be your enemy. How waiting for my oral surgery nearly drove me nuts. How it heightened my anxiety level. But now, now I am experiencing oral surgery anticipation's twin sister—the good side of anticipation, sweet agony. There is something very visceral and alluring about seeing the game sitting here untouched, un-played and yet knowing that soon, probably as soon as I finish this post I am going to pop it into my system. I like the wait right now because it fills me with wonder. Does that make any sense to anyone?

Emily Dickinson understood this when she wrote:

Before the ice is in the pools
Before the skaters go,
Or any cheek at nightfall
Is tarnished by the snow.
Before the fields have finished-
Before the Christmas tree
Wonder opon wonder –
Will arrive to me!

Anticipation--It's making me crazy

2010-03-03T14:35:00.004-05:00

Here's the thing, I am supposed to be editing Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise and/or writing Griselda Takes Flight but I wanted to talk about oral surgery, seeing how it is so fresh on my mind. My husband was supposed to take me Monday evening but he got stuck on a job. Now the old Joyce would have seized this opportunity and cancelled the appointment but, and you'll be so proud of me, I called my dear sweet friend Rebecca and without a moment's hesitation she said, "Sure, I'll be right there." What a pal! So she arrived a few minutes later and off we went. I was freaking out about the appointment and immediately instructed Rebecca on what to do in the event of my dental-induced death. She agreed to destroy my computer and journals and to take custody of my original Smurf art cell.
We arrived, on time and I entered the building—dead woman walking style. Luckily there was a very nice couple there waiting and they cheered me, the reception ladies were kind and happy and reassuring and yet I felt my heart beating like a big brass drum and my toes curled in my Chucks. A few minutes later, Maria, the surgical assistant came out and said, "I just need four minutes to get the room ready." Yikes. I still had time, the door was right there, I could scram! Run, Joyce! Run!
Fortunately, I think Rebecca would have tackled me if I tried to escape.
And so the march began. Maria came and got me and after a quick hug with her last patient I went down the hall and into a small room. For some reason my mind flashed on the Bugs Bunny episode when he floated into the Mad Scientist's lab and the Mad Scientist wanted to put Bug's brain into a big, orange hairy monster. That didn't happen. I took the chair and met the nicest, kindest most awesome oral surgeon on planet earth—Dr. Bianchi. He explained the procedure, patted my hand and smiled. "How long will this take?" I asked. "Eight minutes," he said. "Really?" I said. "Okay," Dr. Bianchi said, "seven minutes."
No kidding folks, I was numb and out of there in seven minutes. He was incredible. I'm a little sore today and I still haven't eaten any real food—couple of milkshakes and some mashed potatoes. But I'm on the mend. So, here's the thing, anticipation. That's the real enemy folks. Anticipation is what gets to you. It's no good, it just makes you expect the worst and get all that adrenaline coursing through your body for no good reason because most of the time the things we fear never come near.

Writers Anonymous--It's about time

2010-02-26T10:06:00.004-05:00

Here's the thing, I am not the first one to do this. In fact I am admitting I am stealing this idea from Betsy Learner. But it is so good I don't think she'll mind. So let's have some fun.

Hi, my name is Joyce and I am a writer. I tried to stop, many times. I tried but I kept going back to the keyboard, over and over again. It was like a siren song. I couldn't help it. And really, who was I hurting? Just myself. And I admit I
often,okay, okay most of the time wrote alone. I even went out a night and did it. Once I even used grocery money to pay my way to a writer's conference. There I said it. I am a writer! There were times when it was so bad I had to go to the library for a fix, to be near them--books! Books! and more books.

Okay, so you know you're addicted. Time to come clean. You'll feel so much better.!

American Idol--My Take

2010-02-25T12:39:00.003-05:00

Here's the thing, I watch American Idol. There I said it and I'm not ashamed. I know that I'm not making any earth shattering revelations here when I say one of the reasons I like it is because of how it parallels the publishing business. It's been done before. But I wanted to give my take on it, nonetheless. So What Has American Idol taught me? I believe I have become a better critiquer because of it. I have actually repeated some of the things the Idol judges say. Things like, "I'm just not feeling it." Or, "You've got to let your own voice shine." Yep, lots of parallels exist between aspiring to be an author or a singer. Writers do need to find their own unique voice but as is often pointed out of the show, not to go so far out of the box that the song (and the audience) suffers. There was a young fella on the show last night who was so afraid of being on stage, who had so little experience singing in front of an audience that it was almost painful to watch. He doesn't have a bad voice, I wouldn't call it a great voice but he has some natural ability and should keep trying. I find myself saying this very thing to new writers at conferences. So often I meet a young woman or man who wants desperately to write but he or she is so nervous she can hardly speak to me (Yeah, me, if they only knew how easy-going I am) and then the manuscript is just not ready, just not good enough—yet. Then there are the contestants who are so sure of themselves that I wince. Please, you have a gift, be thankful first, humble second, proud third. And yes, there are writers who come at the process so convinced of their own abilities that they are an immediate turn off.
But, I do think one of the most important things I've learned from AI is that honesty can sting but it is sometimes necessary, that art is a holistic experience and that the entire package matters. In writing that translates to having a good story, a good voice and strong skills—craftspersonship. It ALL equals excellence and isn’t that what we strive for. There's no shortcuts to being the best.
Now, as for AI this year? Oh boy am I disappointed so far. The top 24 started the actuall competition this week and I am not really gaga about any of them. The young women did poorly for the most part although I do like Crystal Bowersox and Michelle something or other. The boys? Nope, not so much. And I must say that I'm embarrassed and even upset by the display Kira is making toward one of the contestants, Casey James. The sexual innuendo has just gone too far. It's distracting and really not fair to this young man. Of all the young men, I like him. Leave him alone Kira and just let him sing.
As for Ellen being a judge. I'm not sure. I think I might be getting tired of her. The jokes aren't funny, and she's repeating herself. As Randy would say to one of contestants, "Step it up." You too Ellen, Step it up.
So there, finally the cat is out of the bag. I watch American Idol. And oh, I watch Survivor also. I love that show. It just cracks me up. This season I like Russell. He's smart.

Life Critters, Yikes!

2010-02-22T11:24:00.000-05:00

Here's the thing, we all know about critique groups. Most writers belong to one or have been in one at some time. Including me. I belong. Gee it's nice to belong isn't it? Writers can feel so outside the norm of human existence that having a place to belong is great. The critique group, it's what separates writers from, say Bole Weavels. But I got to thinking this morning about this subject and it made me wonder, what would it be like if we had crit groups for life? Ha! What a riot. Could you imagine getting together once a month with a group of people eager and willing to critique your progress thus far over scones and coffee. Uhm, I hate to say this Joyce but I didn't particularly care for your choice of words when you had that talk with your son. You used way too many adjectives. And that was a really crappy transition the other day when you just walked out of the room while your husband was talking to you. It left me feeling unfinished. But then again, the occasional, hey that was great line you got off the other day. I laughed until I peed my pants or I appreciated the way you managed to SHOW Adam the correct way to handle that situation and didn't just TELL him. Uhm, show verses tell works in real life also.
How about you? What would your life critters say?

Getting The Chair

2010-02-15T09:13:00.003-05:00

Here's the thing, I am distracted today because I need to visit the dentist tomorrow and I am here to admit that I am probably hands down the biggest most neurotic dental phobic on the planet. Please pray for me. Yikes. I have this rotten tooth that's been bothering me for a really, really long time and now I don't think I have
a choice. I MUST meet the inquisitor tomorrow and allow him to probe and pick and stick his gnarly dental fingers into my mouth. To whom do I owe this unholy nightmare you might ask? Well, sad to say—my mother! That's right, dear sweet Flossie who we've come to know and love as that funny, oddly wise woman who I love dearly. Yes, Flossie did this to me. You see, when I was a child, back in the dark ages of dentistry, Flossie forced me to go to the Temple School of Dentistry for any dental work that came along. That's right, I said SCHOOL where nineteen year-olds with red, shiny eyes, masochistic tendencies, needles the size of a broom stick and ancient drills made by Black and Decker asked me to sit still, open my mouth and then lied about how much "this won’t hurt!" I will never forget the summer I chipped a tooth when I tumbled off the sliding board onto asphalt. Yeah well, back then they didn’t think to put wood chips or something equally as cushy under the playground apparatus. No, we played on asphalt, grass was for baseball. But hey we played Lawn Darts, also. Anyhoo, what the students did to me is unspeakable. The fear only intensified when some shadowy figure lurking to the side who turned out to be an instructor (or so he claimed) would check the student's work and mutter three words that still strike terror in me, "do it over." I was so thoroughly traumatized by the time they finished that I vowed never, ever to allow another dentist to touch me again. Hence the trouble I'm in now. So I'm asking for your prayers and or kind thoughts as I go under the spotlight of the dentist tomorrow. And please pray that I am not harboring some rancid infection. I don’t do well with antibiotics either.

In the Belly of the Snowbeast

2010-02-11T07:30:00.002-05:00

Here’s the thing, I was lying in bed in the predawn hours listening to the blustery wind howling and blowing snow around and feeling for all the world like a pioneer woman out on the prairie with just her shotgun, a hound dog and a cooking pot when I realized I would have made a lousy pioneer woman after I prayed, "Please God, don't
let the power go out." Then I opened my eyes and basked in the comfort of the alien abduction ambience of the street light and my neighbor's bazillion watt security floodlight pouring through the windows. Ah, the 21st century.
I can handle seventy inches of snow and drifts of six feet as long as I have electricity, as long as that magical wonderful juice, the elixir of all things technological is coursing through the house doing whatever the heck it does to give me light, heat, make my laptop do its thing, allow me to play a video game and discover untold treasures hidden in the vast RPG world. My heart goes out to the thousands currently without power, stuck in the belly of the snowbeast unable to warm their tootsies on the radiator or get online! OMGoodness. What would I do without the power? Uhm. Yep, that's right, I'm stretching for some deep spiritual insight here as I wax philosophical about the biggest snowfall ever! Ever! They say in Philadelphia history. The weather dude said it again this morning. "This has been the snowiest winter ever!" I just know there will be guys on the street corners selling tee shirts that read, "I survived the blizzard of 2010."
Anyhoo, back to the power thing. I freely admit that I am an electricityaholic. I need the stuff like a crack addict needs a fix, like Aunt Jemima needs syrup, like Godiva needs chocolate. When the power goes out I feel anxious and lost. I scurry around like a rat looking for candles and flashlights that always, always have no batteries. (please no lecture on my lack of emergency planning, I know, I know.) I've got PECO (the electric company) on speed dial so I can keep checking with them about when the power will be restored. It's not good, folks.
And yes, it's the same with my spiritual life. When I go for a time without prayer, without warming my tootsies in God's light I become anxious and withdrawn. I have trouble finding my way. I need the power that can only be found in the power that is my relationship with Jesus. I have to stay plugged in to him. The trouble is that God's power never goes out. It's always me that unplugs the cord or lets a tree limb fall on my faith knocking out the power. And believe me, life is full of broken limbs just waiting to fall on your nice sunny day. But stay plugged in to the main power grid that is God and you'll always have a chainsaw to cut through the fallen trees and a warm place to go even if the heat goes out. God said it, He is light. Bask in it today.
(Just as an aside, how much you wanna bet that the power will go out today because I blogged about it? Yeah I'm neurotic like that. But really, I know I'm no that powerful. I'm just saying . . .)

Paths--the narrower the better

2010-02-10T09:11:00.007-05:00

Here's the thing, you cannot participate in an historic snowfall without noticing a few things. I think there is 60 inches of it out there and more is on its way. One of the things I've noticed as I've endured the white stuff is that everywhere I look
people are making paths. Paths from their houses to their cars. Paths from the parking lot to the store's front door. Paths from the back of the house to the front. People with snowblowers are everywhere, blowing it around. Snow plows scrape and push paths down major highways. Yep, paths. We all need paths it seems. What's funny is that these paths are usually much narrower than what would be there otherwise. You know what I mean. Suddenly we don't need twelve feet of asphalt to drive on, we get by with one lane, we manage just fine with only a few inches of path to walk on to get to our cars. It's fine that we've shoveled a thin path around our cars—just enough to get in and out. Paths. Seems we get all hepped up on having the biggest and best of everything but when it comes right down to it all we need is a path wide enough to walk on, wide enough to drive on, wide enough to get the trash from the back of the house to the front. Enough. It really is all we need. Everything else is just asphalt and cement. And when it comes right down to it, for me, all I really need is enough. Even Jesus said the path is narrow. Uhm. Maybe a narrow path is more secure, less chance of slipping off. So here's to you. May your path be narrow enough to get you through and as a friend recently wished for me, may you never find frogs in your underpants.

SNOW!

2010-02-07T11:05:00.001-05:00

Here's the thing, being an author is hard enough without life getting in the way. I find it hard to move from one end of the day to the other and appear normal. Look, writers are not normal, not like say, neurosurgeons or CPAs. No, writers have their own way of looking at life and cannot be held responsible to react in certain situations like everyone else. Take the recent blizzard for example. There is like fifty feet of snow out there and people are outside moving around, shoveling the stuff from one place to another. They call it digging out. And here's the really baffling part, they seem to be enjoying it! Sheesh. So here I am feeling guilty that my car is the only car on the street still invisible to the naked eye, still cocooned in snow. That's it in the picture up there. The truth of the matter is that I don’t like snow, no, I mean it's pretty and all that, but I could do without it. The snow that fell the other day was gorgeous. It was like being inside a Robert Frost poem. But this? Listen up my loyal subjects, there is like fifty feet of snow out there. It's cold. This is cruel and unusual. This snowfall is no longer pleasant.
But I choose to wax philosophical for a moment. Snow is wondrous and magical in many ways. It forces whole towns to stop and take a breath, to relax and watch TV, read a book, spend time with the family. Children, in particular seem to enjoy the snow the most. They build forts and snowpeople, the have snowball fights and bury each other in it. They go sledding.
When I think of snow I don’t think about the piles and piles of the stuff outside my house. I picture tiny bits and pieces, snowflakes, delicate and different, gentle and tiny floating down from the clouds. Snow this big is not so magical. And so with that in mind I leave you with this poem, Snow, by e.e cummings.
SNOW

cru
is
ingw Hi
sperf
ul
lydesc

BYS FLUTTERFULLY IF

(endbegi ndesignb ecend)tang
lesp
ang
le
s
ofC omego

CRINGE WITHS

lilt(
-ing-
lyful
of)!
(s
r

BIRDS BECAUSE AGAINS

emarkable
s)h?
y&a
(from n
o(into whe)re f
ind)
nd
ArE

GLIB SCARCELYEST AMONGS FLOWERING

Joyce to the World

2010-02-05T09:48:00.002-05:00

Here's the thing, names have always interested me. Funny how so many of us grow up to match our names. Sometimes I think the name a child is given at birth is a kind of prophecy. Hey, it was good enough for all those Bible people. Maybe that's where the fascination started. I remember hearing a preacher or teacher tell me what a biblical hero's name meant and it kind of wowed me. God is so cool like that. Which brings me to my parent's totally uncool naming of me. Joyce. Yikes. I hated the name growing up. There were NO other Joyce's in the neighborhood or in school, seriously, all twelve years I knew only one other Joyce. And she interestingly enough had my sister Elaine's name for a middle name. Uhm. My name apparently means Joyful. Uh, not so much. I mean I like joy but I would never say I was really a joyful person. It wasn't until I was an adult, maybe even married with a kid before I finally decided that I like my name. It fits me I suppose. Most people call me Joycie. It used to bother me. But now I like it. It's fine with me. I think it fits with my author-like style, you know. Kind of quirky. Yep, I have a quirky name. Did you know that Joyce was many years ago actually a man's name—Joyce Kilmer, the poet to name one. He's famous for saying, "Only God can make a tree." Yeah well. Anyhoo. There are other famous Joyce people, Like Joyce Randolph of the Honeymooners, Joyce Meyer, my favorite TV Preacher, Joyce Carol Oates. Let's see, who else? Do you know any famous Joyce's? What about other authors named Joyce, first name, not last name like James Joyce. Do you like your name?

Meet Sandie Bricker!

2010-02-04T11:11:00.002-05:00

Welcome to my blog, Sandie Bricker. First of all, congrats on the new release!
Thank you so much for having me, Joycie. I’m excited to be here!

Tell us a little about your latest release and maybe a smidge about the upcoming release.Sure! I’ll give you a couple of back cover blurbs.

The Big 5-OH! hit the shelves on February 1st: Olivia Wallace can’t remember a birthday that wasn’t marked by illness, tragedy or both. And now, as she emerges victorious over cancer and approaches The Big 5-Oh, she is determined to change her course. Better late than never, right? That’s what Liv believes when she leaves a snowy Ohio winter behind and runs away to Florida to regroup. Amidst a crazy cast of characters that include a dog with a lampshade collar, a rogue alligator and a flirtatious octogenarian, Liv finds the biggest birthday surprise of all … A second chance at love.
Next up, Always the Baker, Never the Bride, due out this fall: They say you can’t have your cake and eat it too. But who would want a cake they couldn’t eat? Just ask Emma Rae Travis about that. A baker of confections who is diabetic and can’t enjoy them? When Emma meets Jackson Drake, the escapee from Corporate America who is starting a wedding destination hotel to fulfill a dream that belonged to someone else, this twosome and their crazy family ties bring new meaning to the term Family Circus. The Atlanta social scene will never be the same!

You are no stranger to publishing but is there anything special about being part of two brand new fiction lines?Well, the MOST special thing is that I’ve wanted to write for the inspirational market for years, and I just couldn’t seem to find the right fit. Then my friends at Summerside Press pushed open the door to let me in, and Barbara Scott at Abingdon jammed her foot in there to keep it open! I’m so honored to be part of these two publishing families, both of whom have shown integrity and commitment to their lines and to their authors. I haven’t experienced anything else, but I know a lot of writers! And it seems I’ve stepped into something really unusual.

Share with us about your writing process. Seat of pants? Plotter? Combo pac?I am a complete seat-of-my-pants, pay-as-you-go kind of writer. I’m as surprised at my twists and turns as the readers are, which is why I like to do it that way. Ultimately, my goal is to please my reader. I want them to come away from my books saying there were some surprises, some unexpected emotions, maybe even a lesson learned … and the only way to do that (for me) is to stay fresh and experience the ride along with them.

Is there a character in one of your novels that you love the best?
That would be really hard to pinpoint. There’s a little piece of me in every one of the heroines. But I suppose my heart belongs to Olivia in 5-OH! because she was my voice for post-cancer life. She and I shared a battle against ovarian cancer and lived to tell about it. I remember that feeling when they told me I was cancer-free, and I sat there wondering, Hmph. What now?! Olivia takes that emotion and rides it all the way to her new life. It was very satisfying for me. Almost like therapy. 

What/Who inspires you?I assume you mean in my writing? Well … LIFE inspires me. Every person I meet, every snag in the day job, every movie I see, every book I read, every funny thing my dog does. If cancer teaches you anything, it is that life is precious, and laughter (especially in the tough times) is priceless. I take my humor very seriously, Joyce! I try to live by that scripture that says a merry heart is like medicine, and I want to be a sort of doctor with a prescription pad for each of my readers. I tend to see the funny in everything. Even at the most inappropriate times, I’m sorry to report.

Pizza topping?I like the works. Pepperoni. Mushroom. Black olives. Onions. If I’m going to indulge, I’m going all the way!

A favorite movie?Narrowing it down to one is like choosing one cookie from a whole bakery filled with them! I’m a sucker for a happy ending, and for just about anything Nora Ephron, Rob Reiner or Garry Marshall does. You’ve Got Mail … When Harry Met Sally … Pretty Woman … Sleepless in Seattle … American President … Classics!

Favorite pie?
Pumpkin! Hands down. There is no rival.

Classical? Rock? Jazz?
I love it all. I’m a big fan of Chopin and Vivaldi, love me some classic rock, pop, jazz, country … Michael Buble makes me absolutely swoon, and I play Van Morrison, The Doors, Sheryl Crow, Bon Jovi. I also love to sing along with some of the Christian artists, like Brandon Heath, Casting Crowns and Big Daddy Weave. You name it. Music is imperative in my life. For every book I write, there is a “soundtrack” that I play to inspire me as I go. And I’ve found that every important event in my life has a song or a CD attached to it as well.

Okay, so you’re stranded on an island. What would you miss most about civilization?
ICE. I can’t live without ice. And of course there’s a lot of benefit to central air and a good mattress. I know guys are drawn to women who like to camp and hike and gather. But I’d much rather spend my time in a 5-star hotel watching pay-per-view movies and munching on room service snacks. And you know they bring you as much ice as you could possibly want! You can’t ignore the beauty in that.

BIO: Sandra D. Bricker (link to http://sandradbricker.blogspot.com) has been publishing in both the Christian and general market for years with novels for women and teens, magazine articles and short stories. With 11 novels in print and 4 more slated for publication, Sandie has carved out a niche for herself as an author of laugh-out-loud comedy for the inspirational market. Sandie was an entertainment publicist in Hollywood for 15+ years for some of daytime television’s hottest stars. When her mother became ill in Florida, she left Los Angeles to provide care … and begin her writing career!
Web site: www.SandraDBricker.com

Meet Christa Allan

2010-01-31T18:56:00.004-05:00

Hre's the thing, my friend and fellow Abingdon Author, Christa Allan has just released her first novel. It's a good one folks. I invited her to stop by the blog today and share a bit about the journey. Enjoy. And then, please, go buy her book. You won't be dissappointed.

Tell us about your book, please.
My debut novel , Walking on Broken Glass, tells the story of Leah Thornton, a woman whose life looks pretty from the outside; she seems to “have it all.” But appearances can be deceiving because she’s a mess. She drinks to numb her pain and, until her friend confronts her with the truth, she thinks no one else has noticed. Leah admits herself to rehab, and the novel-told from Leah’s point of view-follows her through her recovery as she attempts to discover who she really is and what she’s willing to sacrifice to find out.

How does it feel to be on the other side of the publishing mountain?
Still surreal. I went to Barnes & Noble last night, and the book was on the shelf. So, there I was…me looking at me. WOW. Of course, I became verklempt thinking about the startling reality of it all.

What's the best part? What's the worst part about being published now?
Being brutally honest here, when I only thought /dreamed about being published, there was a bad girl part of me who envisioned “nanenane boo-booing” all those people who ever doubted me. By the time it did happen, God had made enough changes in my life, and I’d dragged myself through enough sludge to react with bottomless gratitude and humility. One of the best parts is still, of course, holding that baby and knowing part of the joy is surviving the excruciating pain of birthing it. The other is the realization that God can use my words and this character to bring others hope.
The worst part? Being published really is the good news and the bad news. Prior to WOBG, I wanted to punch authors who said that! But it’s true, but not in the way I imagined. For me, the worst part is knowing that the novel is out there, and I have absolutely little, if any, control over its success or reviews or anything. And, there’s that nagging anxiety of will I be a “one-book wonder,” assuming there’s a “wonder” at all!

Tell us a little about your writing process. Seat of the Pants, Plotter, Combo?
Is making order out of chaos a choice? I’m a plotter-wanna be. I’m totally seduced by the idea of it, but totally terrible at it. I have an idea of where the story is going, and I just go with it until I have absolute brain rot. Then, after I’ve consumed pounds of chocolate and a dozen Coke Zeros, I call on my writer friends whose opinions I value [hint], and whine for help. Usually this happens about five chapters in, then I rewind, pay attention to my synopsis, and forge ahead. Some times I’m surprised. For instance, a character showed up in WOBG that I did not plan on and still have no idea where he came from. I do, though, as I draw closer to the end, start sketching out chapters to make sure I’ve not dropped a thread somewhere.

Classical, Rock or Jazz
Jazz and Classic Rock.

Name a favorite movie.
In 1970, KELLY’S HEROES came out and starred Clint Eastwood, Donald Sutherland, Telly Savalas, and Don Rickles. A group of U.S. soldiers are sneaking behind enemy lines to steal gold. It cracks me up every time. One of my favorite quotes comes from Sutherland whose name is Oddball:
“…yeah, man, you see, like, all the tanks we come up against are bigger and better than ours, so all we can hope to do is, like, scare 'em away, y'know... We got our own ammunition, it's filled with paint. When we fire it, it makes... pretty pictures… We have a loudspeaker here, and when we go into battle we play music, very loud. It kind of... calms us down. “
There’s another part in the movie where Sutherland’s friend keeps worrying about bridges being bombed because they won’t be able to move forward. Sutherland tells him,
“Don't hit me with them negative waves so early in the morning. Think the bridge will be there and it will be there. It's a mother, beautiful bridge, and it's gonna be there. Ok?
Oddball: [Later: Oddball is looking through binoculars at the bridge] Still up!
Oddball: [planes fly and bomb the bridge] ... No it ain't. See what sending out them negative waves did, Moriarty?
Even now in my life, when I start thinking negative thoughts, this scene pops in my head, and I remember to stop the negative brain waves because the bridge [whatever I might need at the moment] will be there. [and I suppose all of this is more info than you needed!]

What scares you the most?
Death by drowning and the Alien movies.

Favorite Pie
Pecan.

So, if you were stranded on an island what would you miss most about civilization?
Microwaves.

Saints? Colts? (LOL)
I’m a Who Dat! from way back…Look, these guys committed themselves to this team after Katrina. When you’re willing to move to a city where you had to wait in line for two hours to get half of your prescription filled, you gotta love them! When 23-year-old Garrett Hartley nailed that field goal, I cried. Like getting the phone call from my agent Rachelle Gardner telling me WOBG had sold, that game signified decades of dreams coming true for a city that dragged itself out of devastation to rebuild itself. GEAUX SAINTS!