Other People's Children

I was doing my usual blog rounds today, when I got a wonderful reminder about the reality of our artistic passion and our place in the world as writers. Thank you, Rachelle Gardner, for putting things in perspective so succinctly and so clearly.  Seriously, folks, how often do you hear yourself saying, "How did that piece of crap get published while my darling masterpiece languishes in a dark drawer along with a flood of rejection letters?"  As Rachelle reminds us, art is subjective.  And even crap has an audience.  Don't you occasional watch crappy TV just for some guilty, mindless pleasure?  I totally do...just ask my husband.

I've heard people bash best-sellers (and I'll name no names), but obviously someone is reading them.  Yes, we may see it as the last sign of cultural armageddon when what we call junk makes it to the NYT Bestseller list, but as writers we have to face the facts.  Not everyone will love our work.  To put a finer point on it, we may love our children to depths that we never could have imagined before we had them, but that doesn't mean that everyone wants to be their friend.   

How many times have you rolled your eyes when some kid acts up at a restaurant or says something outrageously rude and his parents just laugh and think he's cute?  Now think about some of the things your kids do that you find endlessly endearing.  Maybe she likes to hug everyone she meets.  Great, right?  Sweet, affectionate child, right?  Who wouldn't love some instant affirmation?  Well, Mr. Jones might think she's an annoying, presumptuous child who should keep her hands to herself.  Is he a jerk?  Maybe.  But then again, perhaps he was raised with different standards and different preferences.  I happen to like an open, cuddly kid, but not everyone does.  

It may be a cliché, but our books are our "rambling brats" as Anne Bradstreet would say.  Like our human children, they are born out of love, raised with discipline, and invested with bits of our soul that will bind us to them forever.  And doesn't every parent think their kid is brilliant?So when we see something "less worthy" than our own beloved offspring getting all the goods, we take it personally and we cry, "not fair!"  But honestly, doesn't that make you love your child (or your book) just a little bit more fiercely? 

For that matter, we spend a lot of time teaching our kids that life isn't always fair, but if we give it our best shot, we build character and confidence and ultimately we'll be happier.  Stop worrying about other people's children and other writers' books.  If we dwell on all those things that we deem "crap" and sit around and whine about how so-and-so didn't deserve to be published, we only poison our mood and waste time that we could be writing.  

We nurture our children and make sacrifices without even thinking about it so we can raise bright, secure, amazing people.  We should do the same for our writing.  Nurture the craft, never stop searching and learning and exploring.  Keep looking for opportunities and get to know your audience.  And when that masterpiece finally hits the shelves with its beautiful, shiny dust jacket and a host of glowing blurbs on the back, celebrate its birthday and all the accolades that may come along.

BUT, remember that even in all its published glory, your book will not please everyone.  So just don't read the negative reviews!

 

A Member of the Field

As I watch the amazing play and the wide cast of characters in the PGA Championships, I can't help but consider what it means for those stalwart players who make up the field of virtually faceless names that stalk the leader board.  Sure we all know who Tiger Woods is.  And Tom Watson.  And Jack Nicklaus.  And Vijay Singh.  We all have our eye on Padraig Harrington who seems almost unflappable playing alongside Tiger.    But what about Zach Johnson or Steve Flesch or Camillo Villegas?  Okay, Villegas (aka Spiderman) is a hottie and an up-and-comer, but for now he is a member of the field.

I wonder about these guys who love golf and are thrilled to get to play, even if they never win the PGA or the Masters or the British Open.  They get to play golf for a living, something they love.  They get to keep coming to the golf course every week, continue to hone their skills, and perhaps even snag an occasional win or challenge the greats in the last round of a major.  They aren't as famous as the big names, but they are always there.  They make fabulous contributions to the game in their own quiet way, without the glare of the spotlight or the excessive pressures of sponsorship that the big names face.  Are they happy?  They have gotta be.

So what does this have to do with writing?  As I launch my career as a writer, I see many of my colleagues making their way through the field.  Some of my Blue Boarding buddies are catapulting to the top and finding visible success like Maggie Stiefvater, who not only got a starred review but also just hit the NYT Bestsellers list with Shiver,  or Fran Cannon Slayton who is getting rave reviews and touring the country with her debut novel When the Whistle Blows, while others are quietly publishing their amazing books, getting fan mail and glowing reviews, and writing—happily writing—almost every day.  They may not win the Newbery or the Printz or a National Book Award.  But they are crafting stories and building a life doing something they love.  

Do they all want fame and fortune?  I doubt it.  If they are like me, they want to tell their stories, they want to bring something to kids that has meaning.  They want to make reading personal.  They want to create.  There are so many reasons that writers do what they do and to try to quantify them would not only be impossible, but it would be utterly foolish.  

Do I daydream about great reviews and sometime writing something award-worthy.  Absolutely!  But that's not why I write.  That is a goal, but not a reason.  Afterall, in many ways, the striving is the true reward.  For all you jaded folks out there in blogland, I apologize if that seems too idealistic.  But writing in itself is a process, not a product.  It's my daily workout, my passion, my teacher, my inspiration.  I can look out with genuine admiration and hopeful emulation at people like Neil Gaiman, Libba Bray, Jennifer Donnelly, and Jerry Spinelli and think Wow!  I would love to get to that place. Will I be a failure if I never get there?  Absolutely NOT.   If I am one of the field of writers who gets to do what she loves (and maybe even get paid for it), that is the dream.  That is my job.

Book Wisdom from an 8-year-old

If you are looking for recommendations for young readers, the Book Princess has just started a new blog.  Yes, she is 8 years old and she loves to read.  When she asked me to help her start her own web site for book reviews, how could I resist?

Check out Time to Read a Book!

A Fabulous New Illustrator!

Check out Kristen Billingsley's site.  Any editors out there looking for some art with character, she has plenty of it.  

Murder in the YA Stacks

With my revisions on BTDV wrapped up (I hope), I am looking to my next project with unstoppable enthusiasm. This next project is even more ambitious than the last, and directed at a slightly older, more sophisticated YA reader. So I'm wondering, how much can you do with murder in a YA book?

I know death is no stranger to YA fiction, but how graphic, how specific, how much? Maybe I should start with looking back at some of my favorite books. Who could forget when Cedric died in HARRY POTTER AND THE GOBLET OF FIRE? I've read every single HP book aloud to my son, and when we got to that moment when Wormtail curses poor Cedric, I could hardly speak it. The words barely made it over my lips. Then, of course, there is Sirius in THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX and Dumbledore in THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE. And even more in THE DEATHLY HALLOWS. I must admit, however, these scenes are fairly "clean" in terms of details.

Another series that offered a bit of murder is Jonathan Stroud's Bartimaeus trilogy. Like the Harry Potter series, death is often accomplished by magic. But this is where my question becomes even more complex. How is murder portrayed in different genres, ie. murder mystery, historical fiction, fantasy, sci-fi, contemporary fiction?

I'm a huge fan of adult murder mysteries. Deborah Crombie's Duncan Kincaid/Gemma James series is wonderful, and the equestrian in me adores Rita Mae Brown's books. But even in adult murder mysteries, the original crime is often fairly detached. You might not even know the victim until after the murder has taken place. But then the characters you really care about are the ones doing the sleuthing.

Historical fiction could offer a more realistic portrait of murder. Jennifer Donnelly's award-winning A NORTHERN LIGHT is a lovely YA historical that takes a hard look at life in turn-of-the-century America. You do learn about the victim and face death in other ways through the main character. Contemporary fiction offers a look at many of life's harder edges (rape, suicide, death, drug addiction), though I must admit, I don't read a lot of "edgy" modern YA novels.

And my own work dances on the borders of fantasy and historical fiction, incorporating paranormal elements among the historical realism. I have dealt with death, and I suppose you could loosely say murder. But this book is quite different, and I'm not sure how far I should take it. Or for that matter, how far I want to take it. How graphic can I be? Perhaps that is just another vein of research I must conduct, but I would be curious to hear how others feel about the subject and by all means, if you have a suggestion for my reading list, please leave it in a comment.

Pushing Through the Fear

Today, I was reminded of a very basic fact of life—we all have fears. It began last Thursday when my sweet 8-year-old daughter faced one of her greatest fears, and I actually had to stand behind her and throw her smack into the thick of it. Literally. Our goal for this summer: to learn how to swim, face in the water and all. Living in a northern clime (until recently), our access to a pool has been limited by a number of factors, so we never really had the opportunity to follow through on those early lessons we took 2 years ago. Until we met Duster.

On our way to Duster's house, I kept hearing, "I don't think I'm ready yet, Mama. I'm just not ready. What if I'm not ready?" And when the time came to confront the little demon, Ghost Daughter drew on her gift of imagination to concoct a host of excuses why she couldn't stick her face in the water. "I'm too tire. No, really! See the bags under my eyes, Mama? Look at the bags!" Of course she had tried others, like "I'm too hungry" or "My eyes hurt" or "I have to go pee!" But Duster knew that wall intimately, having taught most of the population of Albany under the age of 50 how to swim over the years.

And yes, I stood there dumbly as this wizened kid-whisperer dunked my screaming child under the water over and over. I said nothing when my darling daughter cried out, "I'm afraid!" and Duster calmly told her that she was going to help her break through that wall of fear. Yes, I actually threw my own child into the deep end of the pool despite her collapsing in a soggy pile on the concrete and pleading with me not to. And yes, I held my wee little one as she vomited after a several triumphant treks across the pool with her head under water, only to beam up at me with her little, pale face full of pride.

There is no coaxing here. No polite chat or tender conversation about how she must learn to swim for her own safety and fun. It's one of those moments, those come-to-Jesus, life-changing moments. And that girl kicked butt! She couldn't sleep that night, she was so excited that she actually did it. She really swam under water! She knocked that wall down!

Well...maybe she knocked a few bricks out, but it's a start.

So, our next lesson was today, and we have two dear friends visiting from Pennsylvania to witness another triumph. And Ghost Daughter was thrilled to show off, at least she thought she was. Last night she woke up in the middle of the night with a terrible headache. After a dose of motrin, she tried to go back to sleep, but the two of us ended up parked on the couch from 3:30 on, watching the final round of the LPGA Evian Masters. Nothing could shake that headache.

The telling question came at breakfast, "Will we have to cancel my swim lesson?" And again at lunch, "Mama, I feel like throwing up...will we have to cancel my lesson?" No matter how great that first triumph, fear is a rascal that will lay a few more bricks in that wall if you let him.

I was a sensitive, loving mama who comforted her child, gave her some Sprite and some kind words...and then drove her to her lesson. When we arrived, she ran into bushes, screaming, "I have to throw up!" Again, I dragged my poor child to the side of the pool. She went in, however grudgingly, but in one turn of the pool, that glow of success was all over her again. And this time it stuck. She had kicked down the wall, pushed through the fear, and found her inner mermaid.

It's easy to get jaded as we grow older and forget the significance of early battles such as these. As adults, no one is going to throw us into the pool. It is entirely up to us, and we may even choose to walk away from some challenges...simply because we are too tired, or too hungry, or we have to pee. Or so we tell ourselves.

But I have that beautiful moment that just leapt up before me today. And so many more to come. And I will push through my own fear...just like that skinny little 8-year-old in the green polka dot bikini.

Writer's Guilt

When I was a kid, I didn't dare get caught sitting—or heaven forbid, lying—on the couch anytime the sun was up or there would be hell to pay. I cringed and broke into a cold sweat every time the back door squeaked open. Always afraid it would be my father walking in, ready to ask that all-too-incriminating question, "What are you doing?"

Eventually I learned how to jump up without a sound and scramble to look busy. Maybe I'd move some stuff around on the shelf or re-fold the blanket or rearrange some pillows. Or, even better, slip out of sight before he made it into the family room. I spent a lot of time in the barn or in the woods or down by the river, but inevitably the sun would get too hot or the winds to chilly and I would seek the peace of the family room couch. Always laden with guilt.

Perhaps that's why I have a hard time letting myself be a writer. I mean hours can go by and I get only a few words on the page. I get a cup of tea. Bounce my magic glitter ball a few times. Clean out my fountain pen. And think...

Then I sit in my rocking chair for a while, with the laptop on my knee. And think...

Then I watch a little tennis or golf or show jumping. Or maybe I'll surf the net a while. And think...

I can hear my father's voice so clearly, "When are you going to get a real job?" Of course teaching high school was never a real job to him, either, but I did that for almost 10 years. Still, I can't help but feel guilty that there isn't more to show for all this thinking and tea drinking and web-surfing and magic glitter ball bouncing. My head gets it, but old habits definitely die hard. I have to keep reminding myself that all this nothing is what allows me to create something. And for that matter, writing is not a finite process. There is no true beginning and end. It is with you always—creating, composing, revising. Just because the words are not pounding across my computer screen a mile a minute does not mean I'm not writing. Hell, I'm writing in my sleep!

So I guess when I really need to feel more "active" and ease that writer's guilt, I should take my writing self and keep it going while my other self mucks out the horse barn (when I finally have one again). And if I want to sit in the rocking chair or take a nap or watch a bad movie in the middle of the afternoon...

Well, it's all part of the job.

Distractions

As you can gather from some of my recent blogs, I've been in serious need of distractions lately. I've considered blogging about the complexities of grief and the insanity of dysfunctional families, but I think I (and anyone who might stumble upon this blog) would be better off saving those musings for my next YA novel. Of course as a writer, just about any life experience, no matter how big or small, is fodder for some masterpiece in the making.

Consider my latest MOD (mode of distraction)—backyard birding. Yes, I could sit for hours watching the intricate ecosystem that is our backyard, if it weren't for the 105º heat. However, even with the scorching summer sun, I spend a lot of time in the lawn chair with Ghost Hunk's 2-ton camera in my lap while I meditate on life's crap and watch the birds. It's amazing the personality you can find out there. These are just a few interesting fellows who gather in the yard regularly:









There is so much chatter in my yard that I have to wonder what they talk about. Are they griping about their passive/aggressive maniacal sisters who seem bound to make life absolute hell? Are they gossiping about the neighbors and who's cheating on whom? Or is the greatest concern on their little minds how fast the bird seed seems to be disappearing from the plastic tube this crazy woman with the funky machine in her lap has hung on the wrought iron hook next to the tree?

And then I wonder...

Do they know how rich and welcome their songs are at the first light of day? Do they realize how much I love to watch them go through their day, chattering away in the trees about who-knows-what? Do they ever see themselves as little saviors who guard my sanity?

Hm...

They should.

What Characters Live With You?

Yes, I have finally re-entered the blog-o-sphere, although my perspective may be a little shaky.  Please forgive me if I ramble a bit too much. 

With my own revision finally done, I actually had a chance to finish the fabulous book I had started before everything went pear-shaped.

If you haven't read THE GRAVEYARD BOOK yet, please run straight away to the nearest bookstore or library and grab this jewel. How could a boy named Nobody be so strong a character that he takes up permanent residence in my brain? Because Neil Gaiman crafted an amazing character in a brilliant setting with such a sublime mission. Yes, I gush. But this is one of those books.  And Nobody is one of those characters. 

Neil Gaiman makes it look so easy, but how does a character manage to transcend the page and haunt your thoughts for who-knows-how-long?  And who has done that for you?

First, what better mechanism for drawing on the reader's sympathy than opening your book with a prodigiously courageous infant in peril?  From the first meeting, we are drawn to Nobody in the most primal way.  Especially if you are a parent.  If you are kid, you can't help but admire this kid's tenacity and guts.  His loneliness haunts us, his hunger for knowledge tempts us, his evolution inspires us.  I think dear Bod will be with me for quite a while—most likely forever.

Second, what other characters stay with me?  Of course Harry Potter grabbed me from the start.  Again, I think the fact that I am a parent engendered a connection beyond what the intended audience would understand.  I wanted to protect him, to love him, to give him hope.  But of course, if I could, he wouldn't be Harry. 

Kit Tyler from THE WITCH OF BLACKBIRD POND was one of my favorites from my childhood.  I read that book...32 years ago (Yikes!)...and I still think of her.  She has spunk.  She has righteous indignation...and the courage to do something about it.  

Others that stay with me:  Ramona Quimby, Gooneybird Green, Gemma Doyle, Edward Tulane, Ann Fay Honeycutt,... just to name a few.

It's not just their strength or their boundless courage.  Quite the contrary.  It's their fallibility.  Their humanness.  

I am thinking about all this as I begin work on my next YA novel.  Already I'm living with my characters and learning about them, watching them grow into interesting and flawed young people.  I just hope I can right them as clearly as I feel them.  

What characters haunt you?

A Sad Week

Some of you may already know that my mother passed away last week. I was with her when her time came, and there is a lot to take in. I'll post again in a couple of days, but I just needed to take a little break while I process it all. You can read her obituary at D.O. McComb and Sons.

I Break for Birds

One benefit to our recent relocation is I have a better bird-watching perch. I find that when I need to think, I tend look out the window, often at nothing at all. I'm not sure why, but it just feels good. But I must say, it's definitely better to have a little natural drama to zone out to. At the old house, we had a bird feeder to watch, but it was in a flower bid in our front yard, outside the living room—not particularly conducive to taking pictures or journaling. Too much traffic to make the little tweeters comfortable enough to stay awhile. What I really need is a sanctuary so I can let my brain relax and wander through my character sketches and plots with a little bit of nature to inspire me.

So now, I have a chair on the back patio always waiting for me. I settle down into my cheap Walmart camp chair with Ghost Hunk's Nikon with the extra cool lenses...and wait...and think...and prewrite. Eventually, I'll have a little birding journal, but for now I guess I'll just play the voyeur. To the birds, only! My little oasis helps me clear my head and focus my thoughts so I can write. I don't know how it works, but it does. Love those birds!

The Incredible Disappearing Woman.

How did this happen? What about that strong, independent chick who bought her first house at 24 and ruled her world as a single woman? She is still in here somewhere, but the DMV ain't gonna find her!

Yes, today I had to relinquish my PA driver's license so I could officially join the ranks of the South. I thought I had it all dialed in:

• PA driver's license — check
• birth certificate — check
• marriage license (yes, I actually thought to bring that!) — check
• the power bill with our new address on it — check...sort of.
  

The problem is that the name on our power bill is Ghost Hunk's, not mine.  In fact, none of the bills have my name on them — not the phone bill or the trash bill or the cell bill.  My name is not even on the lease! (At least my credit won't get hit if Ghost Hunk misses a payment!) So I'm looking at the DMV clerk behind the counter and trying to figure out what the hell happened to Ghost Girl?  

I do have my own bank account (as every woman should), and a statement would suffice, but I get my statements online (Go Green!).  I don't even have that in print!  Well, I'll chance it.  Yes, I drive all the way home (in the next county), scramble to find my power cord and USB cable for the stupid printer which hasn't been set up yet because my desk still hasn't arrived...

Sigh.

I print out my first statement (at this point, it's all I have), grab every piece of correspondence I have from the bank, and head back down to the DMV.  Totally sugar-deprived, mind you.  I haven't had lunch yet, and my blood sugar is taking a nose dive.  I pity the person who crosses me now!

I get to the DMV, where a handful of people has grown into a full-fledged throng in the hour it took me to get my crap together. I finally get up to the clerk and...the computers are down!  But somewhere in cyberspace, the binary gods take pity on me and the computers come up about 10 minutes later.  

After a few furrowed brows and a final "ok," my documents are deemed acceptable, and I get my friggin' GA license!

But who is that wide-eyed chick staring up from the drab blue square, looking half baked?  A married mother of 2 who somewhere along the way sacrificed perhaps a bit too much of herself for her own comfort.  20 years ago, my name was on a mortgage, a credit card, a bank account, a car loan, a payroll...  Now, I just feel a bit pathetic.  I guess next time I have to prove myself, I'll just have to take in my latest best seller with my stunning jacketflap photo and say, "There you go.  100% guaranteed legitimate woman.  That's me!"

Another great contest from some Awesome KidLit writers!

Click on the title of this post to see the list of fabulous prizes from Rick Riordan, Julianne Moore, Sarah Quigley, Cheryl Renee Herbsman, and C. Lee McKenzie.

Check out Caren Johnson Literary Agency's New Web Site!

If you haven't stopped in for a visit, yet, head on over the CJLA and check out the new digs! Just click on the title of this post and go!

A Little Death, Anyone?

I am currently putting one more revision on my favorite book (so far), and it occurred to me that among all these ghosts and even a small pile of dead bodies, there is no actual funeral anywhere. Yes, I kill off the poor sots and leave them rotting somewhere outside the pages. That doesn't really seem fair, does it?

Yes, I'm in the "kill your darlings" stage (how ironic), so I don't want to load up my manuscript with another mountain of words. But there are some things missing. So it's time to weed out the blah and add a little more "gotcha!" Perhaps some up close and personal time with a corpse is the ticket. There are some good questions in this quest, though. Do I stay true to a regional 19th century funeral rite or branch out into something more experimental to suit the avant-garde community I've created? Or something to suit the ill-fated character in particular? How specific should I be? These are the things that make writing so fun!

Love is an Action

As a writer, you hear it all the time: "Show don't tell." Think about that when you consider what love is, in your book or in your life. Last weekend, I was away at a fabulous writers' retreat. Of course the only date we could get this time around happened to fall on my 16th wedding anniversary. I thought about Ghost Hunk a lot and missed having our "date night," but he knows I love him. And I know he loves me.

Sure, he tells me a lot and I tell him, but that's not what really convinces me. It's the way he never complained about the fact that the retreat was scheduled on that day. It's how he went ahead and moved us into the new house while I was gone, kids in tow and all. It's the little bits of dark chocolate he snags for me just because he happened to be at Walmart. It's the 4 oz. of my favorite tea from my favorite cafe that he bought as he headed out of East Petersburg for the last time.

But it is so much more, this love thing. 15 months ago, he told me he would have to look for a new job (please don't ask me to explain why). That we would almost definitely have to leave our home in Central PA. That he might even have to leave academia, for which we sacrificed more than a little. Did I cry? Of course. But in that moment, it was less about my loss and everything about what that meant to him. What would he be losing? It broke my heart to think of it.

Was I angry? Absolutely. At him, at his boss, at the whole situation. But that wasn't going to make things right. Somehow, I knew what I had to do. There was a certain unexpected grace that kept me from crumbling, that spared us from feelings of resentment and bitterness (and believe me, I was no stranger to those dark friends). When a job finally came, it meant six months as a single mom, dealing with the kids' separation issues, mourning, and immeasurable sense of loss all by myself while he tried to concentrate on his work and continued to hunt for a decent place for us to live 600 miles away.

Through it all, there was a sense of us. No matter how desperate it got, there was no question. It surprised even me—a little. This grace, this larger than life drive that carried us through some of the scariest moments of our married life. Forget the fluttery feelings, the wild sexual tension, the stumbling around for the right words because you're so afraid of the wrong ones. None of that means squat. Love is an action. It's when you can do things you never thought you could do, without question, without resentment. You DO them. Show, don't tell.

After my grandfather died, my grandma used to wear his watch all the time. And when it got chilly, she would fold herself into his sweater. There was no maudlin display. She never thought about what she was doing or even why. She just did it. She just loved him...all day long.

How Hairy Was Your Move?

Well, almost everything that could go wrong did, but not everything.  Let's start with the movers.  They said they would arrive either Wednesday or Thursday, assuring us that they almost always get there on the first of the two days they promise.  They arrived at 9:15 pm Thursday night!  Thank heavens for my awesome neighbor who gave us a couple of beds so the kids could sleep while we packed the truck all night.  Ghost Hunk stayed at the house all night and I caught a few winks at the neighbors as well.  

The walk-through took place as scheduled at 9:00 am Friday.  We still weren't done loading the truck.  And the buyers' real estate agent pitched a fit and refused to turn over the funds until we were completely out.  I was raised in real estate, and I've never seen an agent act like that!

The Moving truck that arrived was not the one we expected.  It was half the size!  So...We had to leave stuff behind.  Again, friends and neighbors came to the rescue.  However, what got left behind?  1.  My writing desk.  2.  My chair.  3.  My work table.  4. My elliptical trainer.  

Did we have gorgeous weather for travel?  Well, we left in sunshine, but halfway through Virginia, the rain came...and came...and came...all the way to Georgia.  Two days of it.  And of course, all the stuff in our car-top carriers got soaked.  So much for the waterproof claims!

One of the best things that happened with the move, however, was absolutely perfect.  Ghost Daughter and I spent Friday night with a dear writing friend.  Joyce Moyer Hostetter put us up for the night, and it was great to catch up and share our latest WIP info and life stories.  Even the dogs felt at home at the Hostetter house.  It was lovely!

And now, we are in GA with Ghost Hunk (ah...at last!) and getting ready for another wild weekend.  Yep, we have to move again.  This time into are "real" house, which will be wonderful.  The kids have held up so well and I am in awe of their strength.  

And my family is all together.  At least until Thursday when I board a plane back to PA for the SCBWI Eastern PA Pocono Mountain Retreat!  

Ah...life!

On the Move...

I don't know how I actually thought I would be blogging this month, but with the house finally sold, I've been useless the last 2 weeks. The truck is coming tomorrow and I will lose all contact with my beloved cyberworld for a few days...maybe even a week.  shudder   So hang on, dear friends.  I'll be back online ASAP.  In the meantime...it's good to be with Ghost Hunk once again. 

When Did I Quit My Day Job?

There is a literal answer to that:  When I had my daughter.  However...somewhere in the back of my brain, I've always held on to the notion that I am a teacher.  I love teaching, and it is one thing that I was destined to do.  But is it truly the only thing?  I'm also a writer and in the last few years, I have begun to evolve and find my identity as a YA writer.  Does that mean that I am no longer a teacher?

I was forced to answer that question the other day as Ghost Hunk and I were cleaning out the attic in preparation for the big move.  Like all gifted teachers (that's a joke), I am a maniacal pack-rat.  I have boxes and boxes of curriculum that I designed for gifted kids, AP classes, and academic courses.  I've held on to it all since I quit teaching high school in 2000.  Why?  Because it's me, part of who I am.  It's like all of my writing...I gave birth to it.  I nurtured it, raised it, and sent it to work when the time came.  Now it sits enshrined in its pristine file boxes from OfficeMax in the corners of my attic.  Will I ever have a use for it?  Do I really need to drag it all the way to Georgia?

So here I am again at that nagging question, "Am I a teacher anymore?" Perhaps the more appropriate question is, "Is that mountain of old curriculum necessary to validate one career or even me as a person?"  Of course the answer is "no." I will always be a teacher, even if I never set foot in the classroom again.  But even before I dragged that first yowling sophomore through the pages of LORD OF THE FLIES, I was a writer.  A writer and a passionate reader.  And that is what I remain.    

I guess I walked away from my day job back in 2000, but I quit it yesterday.  Yes, I'm letting it all go.  I really should construct a funeral pyre and send off those piles of brilliance (again, I'm joking) to their just rewards with pomp and ceremony.  But a dumpster will have to do the job for now.  (Don't want the fire marshall throwing me in jail just before the big move!)  

But I will also celebrate.  Waking the dead and celebrating life as a writer.  I am a writer.

A Quick Note and an Amen

While I'm in the midst of furious packing (and I chose that adjective carefully), I'll take a minute to direct you to Nathan Bransford's latest blog and say a hearty "AMEN".  And my next post will address some of his oh so à propos points about the writer's life.  

But for now, carry on...