As an artist and a writer I've seen my income not just bobble but wildly swing over the years. I've had booms like having a major retailer use my images on their art sets and a major coffee seller, okay, Starbucks, use some of my art on their to-go tumblers. I've enjoyed traveling to my gallery openings, especially the ones in Hawaii, sigh... I had my first picture books come out, bang, bang, bang - 4 years in a row.

And I've had my busts - losing my major gallery, poster publisher and my book publisher all in a couple of months. I went 7 years before I had another picture book come out. When the economy began to slow in 2007, my art market tanked and I went from selling a several pieces a month to maybe a half dozen a year. I've been rejected, neglected and outright dumped.

It was that last setback that knocked me on my can. Who was that sad, sad figure huddled in the corner, all snivel-y swollen eyed with her thumb her mouth? Why, that would be me. But then, finally, I got bored with myself and decided to do something.

In our family we call that "putting on the big-girl pants".

I started working harder - harder on my art, harder on my writing, harder on my market research, harder on reaching out as far as I could imagine on just how I might apply my passion for what I do to actually get an income back.

And you know what, it's actually kind of working. I'm busier than I've ever been. I'm in my studio every day and even though the long days can be exhausting and I've even had to sacrifice some of my beloved tennis time, I love it. To be wanted for what you want to do is the hands down, greatest , most awesomenest feeling in the world.

But there have been some consequences. The title of my piece at the top of this post is "Ship in the Night". And unfortunately, that's what the relationships in my life have become these last many months. For that, I am truly sorry. You guys! You know who you are! I'm sorry, okay?

I am chronologically in (gasp!) middle age, but the little imp that is my brain is still sliding down slides and swinging on swingsets. And when that imp hits the teeter totter it's launching that board up and down until my fillings get jarred out. I just need to get that little bugger to learn to balance that teeter totter.

I've gotten better lately at my craft. I guess it's time for me to practice balance as well. Okay, guys? I'll call you - promise.

When Life Hands You Underpants

Off and on the last couple of years I have conducted a little experiment. Whenever someone asked, "May I help you?", "Did you need anything else?" or even "Do you have any questions?" I respond with the same answer:

"Why, yes. I'd like a Mini Cooper, please."

So far this tactic has NOT brought me a car but it has brought about some interesting interactions. Most of them have been pretty funny, really and even though I'm not zipping around town in a sporty convertible, I still consider the experiment a success. It brings to the forefront the shining truth that in creativity, process trumps product.

The only time I read any of my books is when I'm presenting at schools. I run into my artwork in hospitals, people's homes and even see it in the background of shows sometimes. But other than the rush of seeing my poster on Scrubs or Wayne's World 2, I don't feel much else. The product was the ending point - time for me to walk away. It was the experience of creating the books and artwork that was the compelling part - the process.

This little boy in the illustrations above is all about process. The dog has stolen Nonny's underpants off the laundry line. But does he see them as the over-sized frilly bloomers that they really are? Nope. He's turned them into a parachute. Later on they become a sail for his pirate ship. After that, a super hero cape.

As artists and writers we can totally get hung up on product, and that's a shame. That way we're robbing ourselves of the chance to feel free to experiment, make glorious mistakes, to actually play.

Okay. Any questions?

I have one.

Will you give me a Mini Cooper?

I like to make stuff up. I'm not a liar, though. I'm a writer. But even though I've written and illustrated many picture books and in the last few years branched out into novels, there's still a fair chunk of every single book that's gleaned directly from my real-life. And that includes the Dogs in Space book that Dutch, the old man wiener dog is guarding with his life - grrr.

And my absolutely favorite titles are inspired by my creature friends. I owe them - big time. They greet and entertain and comfort. I can't imagine life without that. Even when they're annoying, they're still inspiring. Take the above book for example. I once had a dog, a BIG dog named Ernie. Ernie was a Briard, a shepherd dog, hence we, his family was a flock of sheep and the rest of the world outside the picture windows were nothing but wolves. BARK! BARK! "Can't you see them?" Ernie would holler. "They're all over the place! Look, there's a wolf delivering our mail RIGHT NOW!"

That dog barked so much that one day I said to my son, "What am I going to do with this dog?"

"Well, Mom," he answered. "If we sent him out into space, no one could hear him bark."

The genius of four year olds.

My buddy, Dutch has been my studio pal/muse/paper shredder for about 11 years now. His face and paws are graying by the day. And it seemed as though overnight he went from "Baby Dutch" to "The Old Man Wiener Dog". He's also been the inspiration for countless pieces of art as well my writing. Couldn't ask to know a sweeter guy.

He's also kind of a shaky guy. Dutch has lived most of his life with seizure disorder. We've been pretty successful in keeping them under control, but tonight he had a doozy, and the medicine that always brought him back wasn't working this time. So now he's at the vet hospital and I'm stuck at home waiting to hear how he is.

So now I wait. I have zero interest in writing a children's book about seizure disorders in old man wiener dogs.

The only story I'm interested in right now is knowing my little friend is going to be okay.

Update: Dachshunds are NOT cockroaches, but in the end, they may just be the last ones standing. After lots of $$$, Dutch is now home and Twig is pleased. We're all pleased.

If you'd read even a tenth of my posts you'd know that I live with dogs. No, I'm not counting my husband among that group. If he were an animal, I'm pretty sure he'd be a lizard. He likes to sun himself and then when he's all charged up he zips around really fast.

The dude can move.

I'm talking about Dutch, the old man wiener dog and Twig, the terrible min pin puppy. For the most part they're good as gold, all shiny eyes and waggy tailed, there to greet you with a happy face when you walk in the door - and all too happy to camp out on your lap as soon as you sit down. But some days it's a different story.

Those are the days you walk in the door and neither one of the rats, I mean dogs is there to meet you. Clues begin to emerge as to just why that might be the case. The endless ribbon of toilet paper winding through the hallway and up the stairs is testament to one of their canine projects.

Oh, look! they decided to figure out how to open the bathroom wastepaper basket too. And they succeeded, too. I know that from the toothpaste box, more tissue and the merry strings of used dental floss now in a pile on my couch.

And what's this? It's a shoe. At least it used to be a shoe. They left its mate alone so if I'm ever in need of just one loafer, then I'm golden. It's then I utter the words that leave them in the depths of despair.

YOU ARE BAD DOGS.

I'm actually lying, here. The don't care one bit what I think. They just sit back on their little haunches and devastate me with cute. I quickly forgive them. Of course I forgive them. They're not really bad dogs. They're just dogs.

I was thinking about this the other day when I was trying to figure out what to do with a character in my work in progress that had done something bad. They hadn't wiped out the world's population of kittens or anything but they had committed a big fat act of betrayal. I just didn't like them at all at that moment. All I could see was the bad in them.

It took Twig five full minutes of dancing around my feet, shredding one of my socks to help me remember that even though there are people that do bad things, other forces exist in the universe as well.

Compassion, Empathy, Redemption, Forgiveness, Love.

It helped me see my character not as a bad person, but as simply a person. And that allowed me to see my way out of their present state toward a pathway out of the dark. They're not in full sunlight yet, it's too early for that. But the hope is there.

The dogs appreciate my philosophy around this. It frees them up to be dogs - the good, the bad, the ugly and the awesome of dogs.

We all have a bit of a bad dog in us.

And that makes us human.

The Importance of Being Tired

One of my favorite things in the world other than slamming a tennis ball into a decisive win against a scrambling opponent or digging one of those very cool extra-long spoons into a double dip hot fudge sundae is crawling into bed at night.

The cool of the sheets, the give of the mattress - getting your pillow schmooshed just SO? Heaven in a hand-basket? This is it, baby. Never forget it.

I'm well aware there's probably something very wrong with me. I go 100 miles per hour - ALL of the time. But at the end of the day, and for me that means around 9 o'clock, the brakes kick in and then - can anyone say ZOMBIE?

But that doesn't mean the work stops there.

I've gotten some of my best ideas right before I fall asleep or right when I wake up.

This creative plan has some problems. Right before I fall asleep, I want to - you guessed it - SLEEP. My interest in anything creative has retreated to the grayest of grayness as far as anything in that realm.

And as soon as I wake up? Forgetaboutit. The old man wiener dog knows when I'm going to open my eyes before I do and then he shakes his long ears loud enough to wake the dead. That, of course is an exaggeration, but he does make enough noise to wake the terrible min-pin puppy who then sets up a caterwaul that probably COULD wake the dead.

Note to self: Future book idea - min-pin puppy summons dead from the grave to wake up family to feed and walk her.

Here's the deal. I love crossword puzzle books. And before you think I've gone on yet another tangent, relax. They make excellent notepads. When I'm going to sleep, I make notes about what I've been mulling about when I'm stuck with all the stupid clues that no one could POSSIBLY get.

When I wake up, I mull over the same esoterica over my morning tea.

I've actually found that the times I've felt the most, well, uh, sleepy-stupid, is when I've actually come up with the some of my most, well, viable ideas.

Tired brain = creative brain?

Can I get a witness?

Twig, the terrible min-pin puppy has started school. I actually tried to start her in obedience classes when I first got her last spring but back then, at seven months old, she hadn't really been named, had never worn a collar and had no concrete grasp of what doing her business outside meant. Obviously, we had other more pressing issues to address, such as the whole "business" thing as well as this five pound red devil learning about living with us primates in our little house. It was clear from day one that she and I might as well come from different planets.

But after nine months of loving her up and lots of treats, I'd gotten her to the point where I thought school might just work this time. But I was in for a surprise. I had forked my hundred bucks over to the big box pet store so Twig could figure out how to understand me. What has happened instead is I've spent the last few lessons learning how to speak "Twig".

Hey, I've had dogs before. I've had many dogs before and I've trained every single one of them from the time they were little. But with Twig, there was a difference. I didn't get her when she was little. And she didn't come from a place that resembled our house at all. Instead of having free rein in the house and palling around with a good natured old man wiener dog like here, she resided with twenty two other dogs that were crated most of the time. Human contact was probably reserved for grabbing her and putting her in a crate or giving her shots. No wonder she wouldn't let me catch her for the first 3 months. Remember that movie, "Enemy Mine" with Dennis Quaid and Loius Gosset Jr. who was all decked out in an alien costume? And they crash landed on some planet and had to learn each other's language in order to communicate and thus survive? That's been pretty much Twig and me.

So that nice dog trainer lady at the big box pet store has given me the tools to begin to understand the min-pin language, and right away, Twig looked at me as if she was thinking, "Wow, what took you so long? Here I was convinced you were the biggest moron on two legs."

No one ever said that min-pins had tact. And after living over a decade with wiener dogs, I know all about the canine version of snotty.

But as wonderful as these classes have been for me and Twig, I think it has also helped me in revising my latest novel. I've gone back and found a number of places I now recognize as being in "Nancy" language. Sadly, I don't get to make the interior of my brain the rest of the world's default setting. So that means I need to make myself understood, which used to strike me as being a big, fat bummer but I now see as an opportunity for perhaps, maybe, a little personal growth. And it's stretching me as a writer, which is good.

And it's stretching me as a two-legged moron as well. Twig's been pleased with my progress so far. She'll let you know my final grade at the end of the last class...

Arf.

Found something to add...

This link comes from one of my favorite haunts. I wouldn't be surprised if you think it's a pretty cool place to hang too.


This is a perfect revision work laundry list. And by perfect, I actually DO mean perfect.