Because I Say So

2011-09-22T08:47:00.000-07:00

Writers and artists can spend a lot of time alone. Alone with their thoughts, their dreams, their creativity, their boredom, depression and outright terror. A creative brain should have a big sign hanging on it saying something like "Here there be spiders" or "Abandon hope all ye who enter here".

It's not a place for the squeamish.

The little dogs that dance and wiggle around my studio and occasionally defy the strict housebreaking policy do provide company, but they're not really available for in-depth conversations about the meaning of art, life or Dancing with the Stars. All of that pretty much flies below their caring radar.

They do like music though, especially if I'm doing the singing. My favorite song to sing to them as they gaze at me with their adoring, slightly buggy eyes?

"Anything you can do,

I can do better.

I can do anything

better than you."

The second verse where there's supposed to be a back and forth of "No you can't!" and "Yes I can!" doesn't really work though. It's just me singing, "Yes I can!" and then waiting for a response that never comes. The buggy eyes blink at me and the old man wiener dog sighs and passes gas.

"See?" I tell them. "I CAN do anything better than you." That is of course if "anything" doesn't include using my foot to scratch behind my ear or eating disgusting things off the ground while on a walk.

My hat's off to there, you my furry friends.

Lately my hat's been off to many artists and writers - even more than it usually is. I'm a book hound and love to escape into a good story, whether is true, not true or probably more accurately - a combination of the two. But the last several months I've been studying a writing genre - one that I've never tried before - mostly because I'd wondered whether I was up to it.

Now that last statement is a total lie. I didn't "wonder". I was sure I'd suck at it - suck, suck, suck.

Reading these books (in the genre I'm purposefully not telling you about because it doesn't matter to my point here) has been a reverse of my routine of singing "I can do anything you can do better". As I look at these books, STUDY these books, pore over as many of the ins and outs of these books, I know that it's these writers and artists that are singing that song to ME.

But you know, that's not depressing one bit. It makes me WANT to try more than anything to create something so great. The hard work ahead feels like a wild journey where I'll visit wondrous places and occasionally lose my luggage. It means I'm still learning .

The little dogs can relate to that I think. They're still learning all the time - how to shred socks, beg at the table and find even more disgusting things on the ground to eat. I wish continued learning for everyone else out there too. Learning brings dreams, creativity, and entertains the brain spiders.

Here's my new favorite quote:

Listen to everyone.

Follow no one.

Look for patterns.

Work like Hell.

-Scott McCloud

2011-06-22T13:38:00.000-07:00

I've had a bit of a break from classroom teaching the last few weeks and it's given me time to look back on the last year and reflect - not about what I taught the thousand or so children I had the pleasure of spending time with, but what I learned.

Boogers are funny.

Farts are funny.

Food that looks like boogers is funny.

Making fart sounds is funny.

I also learned that kids like mad skills and I brushed up on a couple of mine. I can now draw a fire breathing smoke belching very fierce dragon in under 15 seconds. I can now turn my feet backwards even further than before.

Mad skills I was introduced to and haven't mastered: popping elbows or shoulders or wrists or any other joint out of their sockets and right back in. Making realistic fart noises.

I also learned that kids have fears.

Farting in public.

Some cafeteria food.

Looking dumb.

The list goes on. They're also afraid of:

Being told they're dumb.

Being told they're too fat or ugly or not cool in the least.

Being told they're worthless.

But the best thing I learned from kids is how brave they are. I've seen them get hit square in the soul with some these very scary fears. And then I've seen them get right back in the game - amazing.

As an artist and a writer it can be hard to venture out into a new medium. Rejection looms and when it does hit us squarely in the soul we can feel dumb, not cool in the least - completely worthless.

But so what? We can change the way we feel. We're adults. We have CONTROL over the way we feel. Get back in the game. Work on your mad skills. Some things are scary, like zombies or leeches - or loss. Seriously, rejection just doesn't stack up against those heavy hitters. It's merely annoying.

Remember.

Boogers are funny.

2011-06-06T13:24:00.000-07:00

This weekend, two things happened. One was I turned 50. How did THAT happen? But here's the deal - I'm grateful. I'm grateful that I'm still alive and kicking. I'm grateful I do pretty much what I love. And I'm grateful that I'm surrounded by the best people in the world.

I'm also grateful for hair dye and that the old man wiener dog remembers to go potty outside -

most of the time.

The other thing that happened?

I had my first New York Times Book review!!!! Yee-haw!

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/05/books/review/childrens-books-bookshelf-growing-up.html?_r=1

For this I'm grateful to illustrator-fabotastic, Scott Nash.

I'm grateful to editor supreme, Emily Lawrence.

And I'm grateful to my agent, the amazing Edward Necarsulmer IV.

See? I'm surrounded by the best people in the world.

2011-05-09T14:32:00.000-07:00

It has been a long time since I've posted. I would love to say that the reason for that is that I've been on a world-wide book tour promoting my blockbuster, New York Times Bestseller, Great American Novel, all around nifty new book.

Nope.

Instead I've been dealing with - bugs. (see above illustration)

No, I haven't been spending my time drawing that art either. That's a 2009 - a very good year for bug art I must say.

My bugs have been of a different ilk. Bug #1: Computer. Black screen of death? I has it. Or had it. But after struggling along with my handy-dandy netbook for a couple of weeks and knowing all my data was backed up online, I wasn't balled up into a knot of despair while waiting for my computer to be brought back to life by the computer fairies. So this was a couple of hundred dollars kind of bug instead of a LIFE CHANGING EVENT. So, if you haven't figured out a convenient and reliable way to back up your stuff - do it. Seriously.

Bug #2: Viruses. And I don't mean computer viruses. I mean icky, icky, working in 6 different schools and being touched by hundreds of children kind of viruses. I'm not going to go into disgusting detail here but I'm definitely going to will my body to science. After all these years teaching I bet I have, to paraphrase Carl Sagan, billions and billions of different immunities swimming around inside me.

Bug #3: Creepy crawly bugs. Each year there's this weird kind of waving antennae beetle that invades my house. I'll look over and see one lurking above the printer, or peering at me from the bathroom sink, or worse, have one dive bomb me from behind, RIGHT NEXT to my ear. And here's the thing, screams do not scare this bug. But Twig, the terrible min-pin puppy does scare them and when she does they let loose with some foul citronella type smell. Twig gleefully pounces, chomps and then spits the bug out while I run to open the windows. Good times.

Other kinds of bugs abound, and this time they come from people. There are the social networking reminder bugs. I guess these days, the worst thing you can do not have a strong internet presence. What happened to the good old days when the worst thing you can do is wear white shoes after Labor Day? Then there are the well-meaning questioner bugs. "So how's that book coming along?"

But I think the most wretched bugs of all are the self-doubt bugs. These vile vermin exist only to make you lose confidence in yourself. They not only want you to stop you from keeping with your craft - practicing ALL THE TIME in order to try to get better, they want to keep you from ever starting in the first place.

Sometimes these bugs wear old, familiar faces. Maybe it's a teacher from way back that told you you couldn't draw, or corrected your poem to the point it was nothing but a mess of red ink. Maybe it's a neighborhood bully that called you names because you won that writing or coloring contest. Bad, bad bugs.

But here's the good news. Unlike computer catastrophes, runny noses and invading stink beetles, you actually have control of the self-doubt bad, bad bugs. You can quash them, squash them, dance around their little imaginary bug resting places by just continuing to practice - to write everyday, to finally open that set of acrylic paints, to finally dare to possibly fail. Because failing really IS the worst thing that can happen. And if you do, you brush yourself off and you get right back in there and try again, and again, and again. Once those nasties get that then they'll leave you alone.

And then there's always Twig. She's all about killing bugs and available by the hour.

2011-03-22T17:22:00.000-07:00

I live in Portland, Oregon. That means I live in the rain. A lot of rain. This winter it's felt like most of the time I've woken up in the dark, walked the little dogs in a slightly less dark and by lunchtime, the dark has morphed to gray - still technically dark in my book.

But there's a change in the air. There's a shiny thing in the sky that people tell me is the sun. The crocuses (croci?) are clustered under the elm and robins are all about gossiping at full volume at an unspeakably early morning hour.

It's all kinds of awesome.

But the dark has been useful - creative wise. It causes you to turn inward, to think, ponder, muse. And a lot of creativity comes from that dark place inside - fears, worries, those tiny ants of nail-biting anxiety that work their way into dreams and make 3 o'clock in the morning cold sweat central. I don't care if you're writing a zombie apocalypse manifesto or creating a masterpiece of smiling rubber duckies. It all comes from that place.

Truth that.

But you can't stay in that dark forever. That's what makes spring so, I don't know - springy. That's when you kick up your heels like a spring lamb and gambol - seriously, you can gambol. Try it. That's when you get thee to your drawing table, easel, writing journal or keyboard. And you're ready for it.

I had the good fortune a few days ago to speak to a class of adults taking a picturebook course. The drive to the school was a dark one - gray, dripping skies. And I started my talk pretty much saying the writing and illustrating market is hard, hard, hard. Dark, man, dark. But then a student asked me what I'd be doing with my life if money were no object.

I didn't even have to think about it. I'd do the exact same thing I'm doing now.

I actually attended the school I was teaching at about 28 years ago. I wanted to be a working artist so bad I'd cry in class. I feel the same way now even though I've added writer and teacher to those wants. Suddenly I felt like the luckiest duck in the world.

When I left that talented class, I stepped out not into a gray Oregon day but into one that sparkled. The sun was out, the birds singing, and the grocery store down the street was having a big sale on cereal.

Does it get any better?

2011-02-18T15:51:00.000-08:00

The title of this piece is "Balancing Act" and that's exactly the way I've been feeling lately. Switching back and forth on a daily (and usually hourly) basis between writing, illustrating and teaching has me feeling like this kitty - trying very hard not to spill my wine.

In my most recent residency with 4th through 6th graders we're working on "I am" poems, which is perfect, because what kid doesn't want to talk about themselves, right? But these I Am poems are more than just talking about themselves. It's a poem in three parts.

The first part is all about how they see themselves and metaphor plays a big part in how they're to express that.

The second part is a bit of a shift. Metaphor is still involved but this section of their poem is how these students think OTHER people see them. So, labels are probably going to come up. Kids hear them all the time.

The third part of their poem is what they wish to be. And you know, this is the section I'm most looking forward to. Getting a front row seat hearing the dreams, hopes and wishes of a pack of children is just what the doctor ordered.

Before I subjected these kids to my mad scientist writing experiment, I practiced it on another subject - the main character in my latest novel I'm revising. Now THAT was a revelation. By asking that 17 year old teenage girl character the questions in these three parts of that I Am poem, I learned so much about not only what she does - but who she IS.

Hmm. This crazy balancing act is totally worth it.

2011-01-21T12:39:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, I used to play at a tennis club that had regular hit groups on Saturday mornings. You'd go in for a couple of hours and just hit ball after ball - no games - just hitting. I always thought of it as a good opportunity to burn off some maple bar lbs. and at the same time get some good practice time in without the pressure of having to win in a match. And most people that came to these groups seemed to have the same attitude - except one.

She'd hit at the ball as hard as she could every single time it came to her. And a lot of the time, because she wasn't adjusting her reaction to the ball that was approaching, her balls would either go wide, long or in the net. And then she'd yell - loudly - every time that happened.

I liked to refer to her (in my own head of course because she was bigger than me and had a racket in her hand) as "Old Yeller".

It was actually pretty overwhelming to watch this happen over and over again throughout the course of two hours. WHACK! Super loud yell. WHACK! Super loud yell, and so on and so on and so on. But would she ever try to vary her shots - try to take the pace off, slice, anything? Nope.

I thought about Old Yeller the other day when I heard a writer complain about feeling discouraged about their work. They'd been submitting a story for about a year and received rejection after rejection. And this writer was getting ready to pay to have it published themselves. Okay, I know there are a lot of fans of self-publishing out there and I think it's a fine idea to go that route if your book fits a niche market. But this story and this writer didn't fit that category. And in addition, after all the rejections, had done ZERO revision work. They kept trying that same story over and over again, even when it was clear it wasn't working.

That writer was pretty much the literary equivalent of Old Yeller. And by going the self-publishing route they were doing the literary equivalent of taking the net down and getting rid of the base and side lines. Things that are there for a reason.

When I asked why they hadn't even considered revisions, they'd said. "But it's MY story." Okay, fine, and Old Yeller's saying that each time she lets out a holler when her ball hits the net.

This economy has made it harder than ever to make a living in the creative arts. I know I've had to vary up my creative skills (along with my tennis shots) to stay in the game. I started out as a fine artist, then learned illustration, then picture book writing and then how to write a novel. And along the way, I learned how to teach, because baby still needs a pair of shoes even if art isn't selling that particular month or a book proposal didn't fly.

There's a saying that goes something like "Perseverance doesn't mean knocking on a door until someone let's you in. It means getting out there and knocking on a ton of doors and finding the ones that let you in. "

Don't be Old Yeller.

Vary your game.

Happy tennis - I mean writing.

Or tennis....

2011-01-02T16:02:00.000-08:00

I am so behind in my becoming a billionaire schedule.

Even so, this past year I have felt pretty good about keeping to a writing schedule. I revised a novel, wrote and revised three picture books and finished another novel. That all felt pretty good. But this year I feel a little more pressure to do, well - something.

I'm hitting one of those "decade birthdays" this year. And I'm not so much concerned with the actual number of this particular birthday but with the fact that 10 years have actually gone by since the last decade birthday. It seems like the tritest thing to say, but it DID feel like yesterday. I came home from a birthday lunch to find a pigeon flopping around in my front yard. After spying the perfect pigeon imprint on the picture window it wasn't hard to figure out what happened. And it wasn't hard for my family to figure out that I would take the flying rat to the vet where they taped her injured wing and splinted her injured foot. I had to prop her in a box to keep her upright, earning her the name "I-lean".

In the past ten years, number one son has graduated from high school and college and is out on his own. We've moved from the house we raised him in and the neighborhood where everyone knows your name. Family dogs (and cats) have died. New ones (not cats) have been welcomed. We've mourned lost friends and made some wonderful new connections. The tree across the street is now taller than the power lines and is a reminder every day that time IS happening - whether we notice it or not.

I am NOT a New Year's resolution person. I put enough pressure on myself as it is. But I have been thinking about what I'd like to do before the next big old decade birthday rolls around.

I'd like to chill out a little bit more. Not a LOT - no way. "Nancy speed" works for me pretty well. But I'd like to be more patient while waiting for the world to catch up sometimes.

I want to remember to pay attention. I'm a visual person. I get distracted by all kinds of shiny things. But developing a filter as to what is IMPORTANT to pay attention to is probably a good thing.

I want to develop a consistent slice shot. And if there's anyone reading this that thinks this is a trivial pursuit (sorry, couldn't help myself there) then we have nothin' to talk about.

I want to continue to remember I'm lucky. Yes, I am behind on my billionaire schedule but I have spent my adult life pursuing a career that I oh so love. I draw pictures. I color. I make stuff up. And I get to share all the joy and wonder of that when I teach. Any of my students that are reading this - please note: writing and or coloring may not be the most lucrative vocation in the world, but I'm laughing all the way while strolling in the opposite direction of the bank.

Continue to love craft. Appreciate that in others' work, strive for it in my own.

Laugh. Laugh a lot. In the last ten years I've come a long way in appreciating the five minutes of happy that come along on a regular basis. Wanting more than that is a recipe for the opposite of laughter.

Thank you, everyone that's been there these past ten years and more. And I'm ready for the next decade. Rolling up the sleeves and putting on the big girl pants...

I have a schedule to meet.

2010-11-30T19:31:00.000-08:00

So here's the best reason to have a kid -

tech support.

I like to think that I'm a fairly capable person. I can find my way out of a paper bag. I can draw a straight line. I CAN walk and chew gum. I well be able to do all these things at once, but computer stuff can stymie me - big time.

I'm way better about it than I used to be when I'd stab at a key with a shaky index finger and then touch the side of my mouth, waiting anxiously to see if I've somehow caused the end of life as we know it.

But the kid never had these reservations. He dove right into the first computer we had and never looked back. And like the language of books (that he loved) and the language of music (that he also loved) he became fluent in computer-ese.

I am definitely not fluent in that language at all. For instance, I haven't been able to access my dashboard of my blog for a few weeks. But after only about 30 seconds the kid's got me squared away. Arrgh.

When I started out as a fine artist and a writer, I'd never touched a computer other than Pong, Simon, Asteroids and Galaga. Oh, yeah - and Centipede. Yeah. Centipede.

But now, even though I still draw with an actual pencil and still make writing notes with an actual pen, the magical box that is my computer takes up most of my working time. And some of that working time is supposed to be keeping up on my blog. But since I've already established my serious lacking in computer-ese, I dropped that particular ball.

Part of me thinks it might be nice to go back to those times before the computer ruled my work day. But that's before I remember there were days when you couldn't Google Gilligan's Island to find out which episode had the Professor making a radio out of coconuts, or you couldn't send a jpeg of a sketch for immediate approval or you had to keep white-out at all times near your typewriter. Seriously, I'm never going back to the land before cut and paste.

So that leaves me a stranger (kinda) in a strange (most definitely) land. I'll pick up a few more phrases here and there in computer-ese, pretty much the equivalent of being able to ask in another language where the bathrooms are (most handy). But I doubt I'll ever really be fluent.

It doesn't matter though. A couple of decades ago I was smart enough to have a kid.

And now I think I'll Google where I can play a good game of Centipede in this town.

2010-11-04T17:50:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid I wasn't crazy about kids. Okay, I admit it - I really couldn't stand them. They seemed so, well -

immature.

But hahha! Now that I'm old, they're so much more fun. Here's the greatest part about getting older - you don't give one rat's hiney what other people think. You can be the biggest dork you want, run around screaming and yelling at the top of your lungs, having the time of your life acting like, wait for it - a kid.

I am not only so very lucky I get to write for kids but I teach them too. Or, rather, they sometimes teach me.

Here's one explanation why that's so fantabulous: http://therightbraininitiative.wordpress.com/2010/11/04/you-wrote-this-bringing-writers-to-the-classroom/

Happy VERY creative dorkdom!

2010-11-01T15:42:00.000-07:00

When I was a little kid I was all about the Saturday morning cartoons. I mean what's better than an overflowing bowl of Rice Crispies on your lap while you sit cross-legged on the shag carpeting, nose almost touching the convex screen of the console TV?

Actually, now that I'm NOT a little kid anymore I can think of a lot of things I'd rather do on a Saturday morning - namely sleeping or hoping someone who's not me feels like going out to the bakery and fetchin' mama some maple bars...

Mmmm.... maple bars.

But back then one of my favorite shows was a Hanna-Barbera masterpiece called "Wacky Racers". The premise was simple - 11 race cars ranging from Penelope Pitstop's Compact Pussycat 5 to Dick Dastardly and Muttley in the Mean Machine 00 vied to win a different race each week to be crowned the Wackiest Racer. Of course, action, intrigue and hilarity ensued as each villain racer tried to thwart the good guy racers and knock them out of the competition. Go, bad guys!

But who would have thought that 30 years later I'd feel like I had jumped right into that cartoon and become a Wacky Racer myself driving my very own vehicle, The Work in Progress 2010?

Not me brother. Not me.

But writing my latest novel definitely has its similarities to being in those races. Bang! The starting gun sounds and you're off, revving that creative engine, feeling all clever and stuff as you wind your way through your plot twists and turns. But suddenly you're forced to hit the brakes. Wait a minute, another one of the racers, cleverly disguised as a plot element in your book has switched the road signs "Go this way" and "Bridge Out".

No worries, you think, backtracking and rewriting your way back on the road and off you go again, keyboard sizzling as your word count soars like a pegged tach. But what is this? Another plot element has laid a mudslick down and yet another a stretched rubberband between two trees and you're catapulted backward again to fix yet more troublesome spots. Aaargh.

And then, just as you think you're ready to go, to get back out there, something really super bad happens. Your vehicle, the one you patched back together over and over, not only stops running - it falls apart into about 65000 words - all over the place. Double Aargh.

Surprise! Your vehicle was only as good as the patches.

But here's the good news. You still have all the parts of that vehicle. They haven't gone poof and when you've pulled yourself together enough to decide that all is not lost, you can get down the hard work of real revising. Because this time, baby, your Work in Progress 2010 is going to be rock solid from the ground up. And then you'll be ready to roll.

And be ready to be the Wackiest Racer.

2010-10-22T07:59:00.000-07:00

See Nancy.
See Nancy sit.
See the red chair.
It's burnified.
See Nancy deny any knowledge of how that possibly could have happened.

Actually, this chair stood in the lobby outside Portland's fantastic literary festival, Wordstock. For days, everyone bookish could attend author readings, publisher discussions, writer workshops or just peruse the many, many booths hosted by everyone from small university presses to Powell's City of Books. I succumbed right away at a sweet spot selling t-shirts and messenger bags, walking away with an army green canvas bag big enough to hold a couple of books as well as my netbook. Best part? The stenciled "Intellectual Freedom Fighter" on the front flap.

It's all kinds of awesome.

And then it was time for my reading and Q&A. I shared the stage with the lovely and talented April Henry, author of (among many other books) Girl Stolen. Here's the link to get this fabulous read.

But something interesting happened during our Q&A session.

We had a heckler.

As April, who writes YA thrillers was explaining what she was working on now, which involved a couple of murders, a man cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "Hey! There are kids here!"

Actually, because both April and I were presenting YA novels, there weren't any "kids" in the audience - mostly adults and a couple of teens. There were some kids farther away that were happily visiting with the reading dogs. I seriously doubt we took their attention away from those fuzzy pups, but it got me thinking. Why did they have YA authors presenting on the kid's stage?

And here's a bigger question - why are YA books considered children's literature?

YA books often contain grittier stuff than adult books do. In fact a lot of the time the reason they're considered for teens is because of the age of the main character. If they're a teen, then it's usually a YA.

But teens are worlds' apart from the middle grade readers, let alone the chapter books and the picture books crowd. And the content of some of these YA books may not only be uninteresting to an early reader (a school dance? Yuck!) but may also be inappropriate. I've read passages in YAs that had me a little uncomfortable and I'm older than dirt. At least some dirt.

Maybe the reason that YA is still labeled as kid's lit is because that's the way it's always been done. I think that's lazy thinking. Since the advent of modern YA (think The Outsiders) the game has changed. These modern books for teens are fast paced, often hard hitting reads that aren't meant for children at all. And more and more adults are reading these books all the time.

So, new category?

What would it be?

2010-10-07T18:18:00.000-07:00

Just so you know, this is going to be a short post.

Just so you know, I began teaching kids again today after a few weeks off.

Just so you know, there's a lot of kids in need out there - in need of resources, family and support.

Just so you know, there are many ways to get involved. Here's one.

http://www.getsmartoregon.org/

2010-10-03T18:03:00.000-07:00

The long, not so hot days of a Portland summer are gone. This fall day seems to be a repeat of those summer days - cool, damp and gloomy.

Perfect writing weather.

And since City League tennis season has arrived in all its indoor court glory, it's perfect tennis weather too.

It's a bit of a dance figuring out the team line ups and just where you fit as a player. And then there's the whole figuring out your opponents. What are their strengths, their weakness? How can you minimize your weaknesses and maximize your strengths as a team? And the million dollar question?

How can your own weaknesses actually play out to be strengths?

Funny - that's exactly the issue I'm dealing with in my novel draft. My main character is gloriously flawed - hopefully, likable, but flawed just the same.

My tennis coach is extremely fond of pointing out how I tend to change the direction of the ball, whether it's warranted or not. And it's true, I totally do that. It's not always the best course of action, but you know - it DOES work sometimes.

My writing seems to to go the same way and my main characters follow my zig-zagging path. As in tennis, sometimes things work in my writing (BAM! A passing shot down the line) and sometimes it doesn't (BAM! I catch a ball straight in the solar plexus).

But that's how life works. You give something a shot and it works or it doesn't. You might evolve to stick with the sure things or just wait for those extraordinary winner moments, because they feel oh, so good.

It's all about choices.

I'm going with the long shots. I may not win the lottery, but I may end up with a couple of points for my team and a more interesting main character for my writing project.

Here's to daring to fail.

2010-09-22T11:40:00.000-07:00

The last couple of posts I've been talking about voice, whether it's in writing or in art. It's a subject that's been in front of me big time as the novel I'm working on contains artwork by two different characters - and neither one of them are me. And that means, I have to imagine myself as them when I'm creating those pieces of art.

You know, it's kind of nice to be someone else for a change.

I'm written different characters before, of course, but this feels different, as if the wall separating the writer and the character, that wall that enables that writer to observe that character objectively, has dissolved.

I can't decide whether this is a good thing or not. When my adult writing students want to write a story based on something that happened to them, I caution them that this can be difficult. Stories that are very close to a real occurrence can sometimes have that "you had to be there" feeling. If the theme of that story doesn't transcend the original event, then it might not be all that relate-able to a reader.

But what happens if as a writer, you have to imagine that you completely ARE that character in order not just to talk or think like them, but to create like them? Does that still risk that "you had to be there" pitfall? I guess that's where theme becomes the go-to point.

My subconscious is a busy bee and I'm grateful for that. It provides me with sudden insight at the times I think all might be lost with a story, when I've lost my way as far as theme. But with this project, I feel I need to help out my subconscious a bit.

I've made a list.

My studio is a rat's nest. Even on its neatest day, empty coffee cups loiter amid rubber bands, paper clips, cds that I have no idea what's on them - there are books, more books, mountains of oil pastels and a death maze of dog toys covering the floor. But the mess that also includes a myriad of scraps of paper, makes for handy scrawling places. Hmm. I like that. Scrawl space. I'm staking claim to it.

Scrawls include: love, loss, despair, elation, libido, terror, excitement (see libido), enthusiasm, denial, anger, rage, disappointment, want, need, atonement, acceptance, transformation.

These are just some of the words on my theme list - of what we all share in common as human beings. By staying connected to that connection I feel like I can become those characters enough to draw as them and still make them enough of "not me" to still be relate-able to someone else. And that givs me enough confidence to keep on keeping on.

But here's the funny thing...

I've also been illustrating a new picture book. My many prior books all shared a certain look - they contained my art voice. But suddenly -

that voice seems to have changed.

More on that later.

2010-09-16T09:30:00.000-07:00

Still drawing and writing in two voices - a very time consuming activity.

Back to work.

2010-09-08T07:34:00.001-07:00

While working on novels it's common to write in many characters' "voices". I mean, your MC has to interact with someone(s), right? And those other characters can range from a trolley car operator to (these days) a hybrid vampire/zombie/werewolf to a 2nd grade bully on the school playground. Even though you as the writer still maintains your own writing style, your own voice, these new ones you're channeling need to go over the top of it like icing on a cake.

Oooh, cake...

All these characters are not YOU, but because you're the one making them up, then they ARE you. Oh, my head. It can feel a little confusing at times.

I am a born eavesdropper. And that got me into trouble when I was a kid. I often heard the phrase "Little pitchers have big ears" before all that interesting adult conversation went silent and I was sent to my room - again. But now that I'm all grown up and stuff, that eavesdropping super power is a big help when creating voices in my writing.

It's amazing how differently different people speak. And I'm not even talking about the use of different languages or even strong accents in the English language. Some people speak in clear, full sentences. Some people jump around in their speech, using lots of sentence fragments. Some people are "hesitators", using an "uh" or "um" here and there. And that's just the style of their speaking, not the content which can range from dated to wildly profane. People, you gotta love 'em.

But lately I'm dealing with a different way of portraying different voices. For the project I'm working on now I'm DRAWING in two voices. And this has been a challenge. Way back in the olden days when I started out as a fine artist I was recognized pretty quickly because I had such a distinctive style (or drawing voice). My work, whether I was using my signature oil pastels, or pen and ink, or paint all still looked like I did it. But now, I have to coat my artistic voice with a big old shovel full of icing.

And eavesdropping in the real world doesn't really help me here. I can't skulk around the mall or the post office or the grocery store or downtown spying on what different people are drawing.
So I'm left with eavesdropping on the characters I've created for this particular story. I have use what I imagine I know about these people to try to draw like they would. And it doesn't help that they're from different decades or that they're different genders either. Oh, my head...

I've posted a few of my first sketches at the top of the page. They're still in my voice. But hopefully they're NOT too.

Happy eavesdropping!

2010-09-02T11:30:00.000-07:00

I was feeling pretty good about myself. The color proofs for my new picture book coming out next year (illustrated by the wildly talented Scott Nash) arrived and look fabulous, I got my sketches in for the next picture book (that I'm illustrating) in a week under deadline, and my novel in progress is flowing - I mean REALLY flowing. So that means I'm doing absolutely everything right, right?

Nope.

These days that's just a part of a writer's and artist's job. Take a gander at Facebook, Twitter, Linkedin, the whole world of social media out there that's not only used for keeping in touch and spouting banal updates - it's also being used for promoting work - big time.

Have I been promoting my work big time?

Letmethinkaboutthatno.

I'm on Facebook - Linkedin too, but mostly I go there to feel bad about myself. I see authors and artists talking up new books and projects and OMG, that just isn't in my DNA. It looks good when they do it, though and the better they are at it the more I wallow in that - a good old adolescent style wallow. I figure it's better than eating a ton of ice cream.

Like every other cool person on the face of the Earth, I'm a fan of Mad Men. I do NOT watch that show to wallow at all. I'm there to drool. And in the first episode of this season a couple of quotes stood out for me because they spoke to my lurking about watching these promotion tools. Don Draper (drool) had been interviewed by a magazine and he completely dropped the ball. He said nothing about himself which clearly frustrated the interviewer. Mr. Draper saw very little sense (and if you watch the show you'll know that he also saw very little wisdom) in divulging much personal info.

Mistake.

When called on the carpet by his firm's partners after the not so flattering article came out, Don Draper looked astounded - and then a little whiny. "My work speaks for itself!" he cries in protest.

And here's where he gets the big smack-down by Bert Cooper. "Turning creative success into business IS your work! And you failed!"

This day and age, that's true for us writers and artists. And lucky us we have the tools to do it. Those sites, blogs, book trailers, virtual launch parties...

But it seems so exhausting. I think I'd rather live in that Don Draper land where all that matters is that you work hard, do good work - and look pretty. But since I don't, I guess I'm off to visit Facebook and try to leave a non-banal update.

Happy promoting.

2010-08-24T07:42:00.001-07:00

I actually dragged myself out of my troll-hole, aka my studio this weekend to do of all things - socialize. I can get a little hermit-y (yes, that is a word because I just wrote it down) after months of teaching in the classroom. Don't get me wrong, kids are great - they're creative and funny and all that. But too much of a good thing is rarely a good thing.

I'm looking at you, giant bag of M&Ms.

Last year I attended my 30th high school reunion. It was a ton of fun and I saw people that when I was a teenager, I couldn't imagine NOT seeing every day. But 30 years later, after only a few minutes of catching up, it felt like I HAD seen them every day. Time does fly, but it also ebbs, flows and eddies.

This weekend, a few of those friends and I attended a party hosted by another classmate. He has a beautiful home on the river and we all wondered how the goof-ball we'd hung out with had carved such a sweet life for himself. He's also a drummer and had a stage set up. Then, in the pastel gorgeousness of a perfect Oregon sunset, time definitely flew - backward. And what was the magical time machine that made that happen?

3 words.

Journey cover band.

All of a sudden, my friends and I were 17 again. We remembered hanging out down by the river, or cruisin' in someone's boyfriend's car, music blasting from the cassette tape deck, or tripping on the frayed hems of our too-long bell-bottom jeans.

But even better, I remembered what it FELT like to be that age - all the excitement and worry and insecurity and a powerful sense of invincibility all rolled into a teen package of heady angst. Thank you, Journey cover band!

And then I realized that I get glimpses of that feeling when I write. When creating picture books, I get to be a little kid with their hilarious sensibilities of what's funny. The first graders in my workshop classes are also persistent reminders that burping, boogers, and any mention of a rear end are a gut-buster.

When I'm working on YA novels, I get to be that teenage main character - travel that road, experience all the highs and lows the story arc provides. Of course when I look in a mirror, that illusion comes to a screeching halt, which is a very good reason NOT to look in a mirror. I'm all for the State Of Denial to be our nation's 51st.

So, I wondered, what would happen if I played some of the music I rocked to as a teenager WHILE working on my YA manuscript?

It was pretty cool.

It was very cool.

The human brain is an incredible thing. Smells can unlock memories you never knew you had. And music, that long ago music, can unlock that teenager you never knew you still were. I'm going to keep playing that music while finishing up my first draft of my WIP. It's been nice to have the company of the 17 year old me.

Just a small town girl, livin` in a lonely world
She took the midnight train goin` anywhere
Just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit
He took the midnight train goin` anywhere

Don't stop believin', baby.

2010-08-11T07:30:00.000-07:00

I used to love that saying "When my ship comes in". Those 5 words contained all the promises of fame and fortune - and that loot is waiting there, just over the horizon. But here's the deal. That ship seems to simply exist ONLY to wait there - just over the horizon. You squint your eyes, stand up on tip-toe to be taller, certain that if you could simply spy it, it'll come roaring into port.

Remember when you were a little kid and you and a bunch of other little kids decided after a rainstorm to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow arcing above your neighborhood? Even when you roamed to the very edges of the parental established boundaries of your territory, that rainbow never looked closer. It's kind of the same thing as the ship, stories meant to tantalize, but ultimately disappoint. Life has one wicked sense of humor.

So, after years of at first, waiting, and then pondering the usefulness of waiting, and then thinking maybe I should be looking for a bunch of smaller boats that would add up to one giant ship, I had an idea.

Why couldn't I build my own boat?

And you know what? After I came to that conclusion, I was a LOT happier. Now I felt like I at least I had a smidgen of control. And as my friends and family will gleefully tell you - I'm all about the control. So here are some of the things I've done to build my raft, that someday I hope will reach ship status:

1. Exercise my brain. That can mean reading fantastic books, looking at art that makes you think, listening to people that have opinions, entertaining new ideas, and even just curling up with a crossword puzzle.

2. Exercise my bod. In case no one's noticed I do love me some tennis, but even when my schedule doesn't permit it, it's still important to move. It's been scientifically proven that the number one cause of idea constipation is lack of exercise. It's true. Okay, it's probably not true but it LOOKS true so that's what's important. On non tennis days I still try to move somehow. I play with the old man wiener dog and the horrible min pin puppy. I play with my hula hoop. Yep, I have a hula hoop. I'm a dork and proud of it.

3. Work daily. 2 very important words. Only with consistently making your craft a part of daily life will you BE that writer or artist rather than TRYING to be that writer or artist. But even though the "daily" part of that statement is clear, The "work" part isn't. Work can consist of sitting down and hammering out a couple thousand words. Work can be shopping for art materials. Work can be jotting down ideas, researching marketing opportunities, reading artist, writer, editor, agent blogs, or laying in the grass staring at cloud shapes. It can be hard work deciding whether that cumolo nimbus looks more like the Taj Mahal or a bunny rabbit.

4. Give while you're waiting to get. This can mean networking, sharing your ideas. This can mean offering what you've learned to someone starting out. This can also mean that you get out there in the world and find something that needs to be done. These days, there's a LOT that needs to be done.

And if you can't think of a way to give, here's one suggestion: http://memorywalk.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=336374&supid=298822955

Happy sailing.

2010-07-23T15:01:00.000-07:00

The title of this piece is "4 and Twenty Blackbirds". And even though I don't have a studio full of penguins, I do have a head full of distractions. I'm working hard at working hard on my WIP today. My week wrangling the 2nd and 3rd graders is over and so there should be no excuses not to be oh, so very productive, right?

Yeah, right.

Here are my 4 and twenty distractions making writing very difficult today:

1. It's sunny. Here in Portland we have two kinds of weather - raining and NOT raining. The word "sunny" is considered foreign and used about as often the the word "thence".

2. There's chocolate ice cream in the freezer. It calls to me and I have to say "Lalala, I can't hear you"- a LOT.

3. Email. When was this ever considered a time saver?

4. Telemarketers. The thesaurus suggests lice, vermin, foot fungus, bad clams and ecoli as synonyms for the word "telemarketer". At least my thesaurus does.

5. Dutch, the old man wiener dog who won't stop barking at the sky.

6. Twig, the terrible min pin puppy who keeps pulling paper out of my recycling and playing shredder.

7. Email. New messages! Ooops, nope. Can't read Chinese. At least I think it's Chinese.

8. Twilight Zone marathon on SyFy - awesome...

9. Suddenly wondering where my purse is. Must find and pat to reassure self that all is well.

10. More sky-barking.

11. Realizing that min pin paper shredding has morphed to rubber band chewing.

12. Crawling around studio floor looking for any more stray rubber bands.

13. Deciding keyboard is filthy and mostly likely rife with telemarketers, I mean vermin. Must clean.

14. Facebook!

15. Another email. Whoever told these people that I possess that particular body part and its in desperate need of enhancement is misinformed.

16. Min pins give sweet kisses.

17. Old man wiener dogs have gas.

18. Search for air freshener, see the vacuum. There's no time like the present.

19. Nancy.... I'm waiting in the freezer, basking in my chocolate dreaminess....

20. Lalala.

21. Check editor and agent blogs for latest market news.

22. Check other places for latest lol cats and cake wrecks news.

23. Convince self it's research.

24. Did I mention it's sunny today?

2010-07-19T12:21:00.000-07:00

Falling in love is a wonderful thing. You feel all flibberty-gibberty, think more things are funny, are convinced food tastes better, and all of a sudden the throngs of people out in the world, the ones you normally see as freeway lane hogging, latte line crashing, cell phone yelling boors are suddenly beautiful human beings - BECAUSE YOU'RE IN LOVE.

As writers we get to feel that way a lot. There's that oh so special moment when a spotlight shines down from the heavens onto your monitor and angel choirs sing your very favorite song as you read over your work in progress. This might be good you think, hardly daring to breathe. And then everything goes into soft focus. It IS good. It's fantastic.

And this is what you want to shout from the rooftops: I'm totally in love with Chapter seven!

Or Chapter 3 or 33 or whatever.

But here's the deal with love. You need to put your heart out there to feel it. Sometimes that works out, I know it does - I've seen all the Meg Ryan movies.

But sometimes all putting your heart out there does is place it directly in the path of an oncoming steamroller. Ouch.

That glorious chapter you brought to writers' group or submitted to an editor? What happens if they're not feeling the love at all? What if their response is to dump it, dump it right now and run away as fast as the wind?

A normal reaction to such a scenario is to feel your heart breaking into teeny tiny pieces as you reread your beloved. They just have to be wrong, you think wildly. Can't they see how wonderful this is, how much I desperately adore it?

But then you sleep on it. And the next morning, in the harsh light of day, maybe you have a "Maggie May" moment. Maybe then you do see the warts and the halitosis and the bad toupee of that formally oh, so glamorous piece of writing.

You piece your heart back together with chewing gum and old 32 cent stamps and then dump it, dump it right then and run away as fast as the wind, all the while thankful that you received the feedback.

And then you start writing again, this time seeing your work for what it is, not for what you delude yourself into thinking that it is. That is until the next time...

you fall in love.

2010-07-12T06:59:00.000-07:00

It's been HOT, HOT, HOT in Portland. Yeah, yeah, I know it was even hotter around the country this last couple of weeks but we're just not used to it. Most people, and I count myself among those "most people", don't have air conditioning and I realized (on a 98 degree day) that I didn't own a single pair of shorts. Consequently, I ended up wearing a tennis skirt on an early morning trail run with my sister.

Look at me everybody! I'm running! In a dress.

It was in at least the high 80's this weekend when I had a garage sale along with a couple of old friends. I got rid of most of my clutter (see preceding post) and now I can see the floor of my studio again. That's good. My friends sold just about everything and that's good too - because they're leaving the Portland area and moving to a smallish town in the mountains of Mexico.

Mexico is far from Portland.

Before this weekend, this exhausting weekend, selling stuff and helping them pack up the stuff they're not selling, it hit me just how far away they're going. And not just them but Knock Knock, their old man wiener dog that is a doppelganger to my old man wiener dog, Dutch. They've been on play dates together their entire lives. Suddenly, the event of this move stopped becoming the thought of the event and became the feeling of the event.

That made this weekend even harder because I felt sad. Sure, there were lots of happy moments and crabby moments and some outright hilarious moments, but all were tinged with that hint of sad. We were all experiencing loss.

Afterward, in my clutter free studio I opened my work in progress and read through the almost finished first draft yet again. But this time I was looking for something specific. Was I telling exclusively about the thoughts around the events that unfold in my story or was I having my characters feel those events as well? And more importantly, was I giving a reader the opportunity to experience those feelings?

And glory be, I did find some spots where a character would have naturally had some pretty strong feelings about something. So this time instead of speeding through these scenes I hung with them a little longer, and kind of validated their feelings by letting my characters experience the emotions more fully. Hopefully, that'll also translate to the reader's experience too.

This morning, the weather's turned back to more normal Portland - cloudy, cool and marine air sending little freshets of breeze through the brittle leaves of the dying tree in my back yard. Yep, another loss...

I'm so very excited that my friends are living their dream by embarking on their Mexican adventure.

I'm very sad that I won't be seeing them like I've been used to the last 20 something years.

Today, I'll write in my much more comfortable studio, thinking about feeling - also knowing that a change in the weather is always just around the corner.

2010-07-06T10:10:00.000-07:00

Clutter.

I like to think of myself as a fairly neat person. I rarely have more than one scary item that gets shoved far to the back of the refrigerator. I make the bed, hang up my coat and put away my shoes. So if I can manage to keep the living area of my house squared away, why doesn't that happen in my studio?

My studio, otherwise known as the Troll Hole or on bad days, the Pain Cave, serves a few purposes. My drawing table takes up a fair amount of room as does my flat file for storing artwork. I also do most of my writing there, so my computer and desk hog up another wall. Then there's my teaching and my file cabinets for files and course materials. And I also pay my bills at the other desk at the other wall. Add to this a TV, a stereo, overloaded bookshelves and you got yourself a clutter magnet. No, not merely a magnet - a black hole sucking in the randomness of my, well, I guess it's the randomness of my own personal creative process.

I've tried to be organized around my workspace - really. And I am so totally jealous of people that can do that. But at the moment, my paper recycling's overflowing (the old man wiener dog was taking a nap in it earlier this morning), I still have a pile of printer cartridges to take back to Office Depot, files waiting to be filed are piled on my computer tower and I see that Twig, the terrible Min-pin has added 3 of my socks to her collection of dog toys littering the floor. Added to all of that, for some reason, I decided my studio was the perfect staging area to get ready for a garage sale this weekend. Genius, pure genius.

But here's the deal. Even though clutter drives me bat crazy insane in the kitchen, living room, bathroom or bedroom. It doesn't seem to distract me from my work. In fact, I've been more productive this past year than in any other. And because I've been so busy, I haven't had time to muck out the studio. And so on and so on. So which comes first? Creativity or Clutter?

Take that, "chicken or the egg" riddle maker-upper.

I recommend to my writing students that they keep a journal. And I practice what I preach - sort of. In the midst of my clutter are my "journals" which are completed crossword puzzle books - piles and piles of crossword puzzle books. For some reason, when I'm puzzling over an entry, that's when I get inspired, solve a creative problem, or figure out just what a pirate pig would look like. The margins of these books are filled with doodles, poems, snippets and idea gobbets.
They're clutter-tastic.

I have no idea if the way I work is different or weird than other people's methods. I actually don't really want to know because my clutter problem's most likely here to stay - the creative part at least. The other stuff? Garage sale! So if you're in the market for a tea pot collection, a Pez collection, collected pottery, art, Russian nesting dolls, collectible toys, I'm dumping it all this weekend.

Did I mention I married a former art gallery owning collector to beat all collectors?

Clutter, the gift that keeps on giving.

2010-06-30T18:37:00.000-07:00

See Nancy.

See Nancy teach.

Nancy is big.

Nancy is way, way bigger than her students.

Nancy's students are kids.

Kids- not so big.

Nancy then remembers to think small.

So, you'd think I'd be the boss this week, teaching 2nd through 8th graders. Well, you'd be thinking wrong. Nope, I'm being schooled right and left. They chirp, squeal, complain, tattle, text, observe, cry and guffaw. Guffaw - what an awesome word.

I've guffawed many times this week - good for the abs - much more fun than crunches.

So I wander through the classroom, oh so ever thankful that I can demonstrate how to draw monkeys, pandas, flying princess unicorns, and UPS guys. Think about it - are UPS guys fairly represented in children's literature? I think not.

And here's the deal. Each day, I feel smaller. But not in some shrinking way. I feel smaller in that let's see the world not from a middle aged, adult way but from, I don't know - maybe a kid way?

These kids are producing incredible work. It's fresh, inventive and full of that somethin', somethin'. I'm totally jealous - and inspired.

The explorer, Ponce De Leon set out to find the fountain of youth a gazillion something years ago. What a waste of time. He just should have hung out with a bunch of small writing and drawing geniuses. That would have been a lot shorter and much cheaper trip.

Hey, Ponce! Got a tip for you. Want to stay young , and in your on way - small? Chirp, squeal, complain, tattle, text, observe, cry and guffaw. You'll be amazed at what you create.

2010-06-21T12:37:00.000-07:00

Today started out pretty good. The terrible little dogs let me sleep past stupid o'clock and it actually wasn't raining this morning. No blue sky, but with the wettest May and June I can remember, I'll take light gray. Anyway, here in Portland we don't really expect sunny days. Our weather here is divided into two categories - raining, and not raining.

It was also the first day of summer tennis where sixteen of us invade the local courts and battle it out. It's way more relaxed than season play and there's nothing like a bunch of middle-aged gals out there goofing off like a bunch of middle schoolers. Good times.

So I'd already set a high bar for the rest of my day. Nothing could get better, right? But my most excellent agent, Edward Necarsulmer galloped into the picture with most marvelous news. Sorry ladies, sorry, not-raining day - Edward comes in for the win. I promised myself way back at the beginning of my career that I would always be as thrilled with selling a book project as I was that very first time. I've kept that promise.

And that means I'm doing my very best happy dance.

And I'll spill as far as the news soon...

2010-06-17T20:59:00.000-07:00

The title of this piece is Don't Fence Me In. I've been successfully unemployed since 1984 so this slogan is pretty much my battle cry.

But since 1984, I've been a fraud. I HAVE fenced myself into a career mindset.

I hate feeling trapped. I don't like small spaces and I'm a reluctant hugger.

So why fence myself in? Because it helps me stay successfully unemployed, or more accurately, self employed. And how have I done that?

1. I've studied the market.
Even if I haven't exactly liked where the market's heading, I still try to understand WHY it's heading that way.

2. I've looked beyond my own expertise. I've researched what other artists are working on. I read books outside the genres I'm working on.

3. I've adapted. I've tried mediums I never thought I could tackle. I used to think I was shy and dove into public speaking, and even scarier - teaching middle school.

4. I haven't quit. I'll never quit unless forced to.

5. I love what I do. I'm the luckiest person in the world to be able to work hard enough to make myself see double a good amount of the time.

I don't mind at all being fenced in. You might not mind it either. Just remember, if you make sure you're fenced in area is big enough - the universe is the limit, baby.

Moo.

2010-06-11T11:26:00.003-07:00

And they're all for sale! Just contact me for prices.

Come on. You know you want to.

2010-06-03T06:53:00.000-07:00

It's been a looooong rainy May here. And June looks like it's shaping up to be just as dreary. Rain, rain in the extended forecast as far as the eye can see.

But not today. Today we get a break.

Today there was this unfamiliar thing rising in the east. Instead of the thick muffling of gray lightening a tad, the morning sky turned more pinks and purples than I'd seen since I went to that one bar that serves all those wild cocktails. Yay, cocktails! Er, I mean yay, sunrise!

Suddenly, everything looks new and shiny. The birds sound not so much like annoying, nit ridden alarm clocks determined to get you out of bed which you don't really want to do (because then you have to take the ungrateful little dogs out for their morning downpour walk), the birds sound like nit ridden harbingers of all things wonderful.

Sunshine is a good source of vitamin D and vitamin D is one of those things you want. One of it's benefits is to help your brain process information. It can even increase its capacity to learn. So maybe then my brain can spend less time trying to figure out where I left my car keys and more time on thinking up stories to write and pictures to paint.

The ungrateful little dogs and I went out for a morning sunny walk rather than a puddle stomp and now they're crashed out in a sun-patch on the rug. The light steams through my studio window along with the robins' and the towees' conversations. You'd think I'd be resentful at needing to stay inside and work in the midst of such weather, but I'm not. My fingers are jumping over the keyboard faster than they have in weeks. The artwork on my drawing table now looks more like an invitation to come and play rather than a chore to complete.

Here comes the sun.

Here comes a fresh blast of creativity.

2010-05-25T07:08:00.000-07:00

Everything is Wonderful.

I've been hearing from a lot of artist and writer friends that everything is terrible. And oh, boy - there's been plenty of good reasons to come to that conclusion. Galleries have closed, designers seem to have fled to their stylish hills - the art market in general dried up drier than a raisinet left under a sofa cushion for a couple of years.

And the writing world has had its own share of difficulties. Publishing house tightened their belts until their faces turned blue. Editors were fired in heartbreaking droves. Writers that had had nice little careers with successful books to their name now found themselves on the outside looking in.

It's enough to make you want to lay on the floor like a dead thing.

Worse, it's enough to make you wonder if your creative services are no longer needed. It can even be enough to have you question whether maybe, perhaps - you may have even wasted your life.

STOP THINKING THAT.

We are creative people. We get ideas all the time about what to draw and what to write about. At various points in our lives we need to come up with ideas how to not only weather a lull in business but how to make it work for you in the long run.

You are not just good at only one thing. Have you stuck to one medium for a very long time? Have you written for mostly one market all these years? Maybe it's time to shake things up a bit. And here's the deal - first attempts at these new endeavors may not be successful. They might even suck. That's because you're learning, right? Dare to suck.

Take a class or a workshop. A learning brain is a younger brain. Play with words, eat paste.

Don't wait for things to come to you. Explore. Research. Travel outside the swirling little worried world inside your head. Don't just go around with your eyes and ears open, develop gigantic huge froggie eyes. Grow Dumbo ears - attractive!

Stop trying to win - for awhile. I asked my tennis coach yesterday for advice on how to pick up my game for next season. I had a rough spring, losing most of my matches - some by a hair - some by all out annihilation. He recommended some lessons to strengthen existing skills and to develop new ones. He suggested hit groups to go out and simply whack the ball a few thousand times. Pick up games were fine, as long as - I didn't try to win. Once you go into competitive mode, you naturally fall back on what you know rather than using what you're learning. That'll put you right back to square one as far as improvement.

I love how tennis is exactly like art and writing.

This week I received a commission for a piece of art similar to the one at the top of the post which was also a commission. The title is "Everything is Wonderful". If it were up to me I'd change it up a little bit, like where's the chocolate cake? Where's the wine? But a sunny day, dogs happily jumping around, flying kites? Not too shabby.

I guess if you focus on the "wonderful" than everything IS wonderful even if it's just for a few minutes. It's out there - really.

Now go eat paste.

2010-05-19T15:42:00.000-07:00

I read my horoscope just about every day and I believe those daily forecasts - as long as they're good ones. The downer ones? Don't you know that's just all hooey, mumbo-jumbo? But the positive ones? I'm right there, baby.

But the one that I saw this morning had me scratching my head:

"That brain of yours is good for lots of things today - so make the most of it! You should be able to figure out a few new answers to tough questions. You might even drift over into philosophy.

Let's break this down a bit. "That brain of yours is good for lots of things today." Okay, great, here's a short list of things I'd like my brain to be good for:

Becoming an ATM machine with unlimited cash reserves.
Becoming a Star Trek replicator so I can just materialize a loaf of bread and dishwasher detergent instead of going all the way back to the hated grocery store because I forgot two stupid items.
Performing liposuction.

It's still pretty early in the day. Could happen. I'm going to wait on the grocery store trip.

So, let's move on to that second sentence for Gemini's horoscope, May 19th, 2010. "You should be able to figure out a few new answers to tough questions." Okay, brain. Go for it.

Why are there no helium zebras? (see above illustration)
Why did I rescue a dog with a bladder the size of a toasted almond?
Why is gravity no one's friend after the age of 40?

Processing, processing... Nope. I got nothing. I'm starting to lose faith in the science of the stars here.

"You might even drift over into philosophy."

Fine, I guess I could do that. How about, I think, therefore I want a diet Dr. Pepper? How about wondering the reason the universe decides that the child that sidles up you to in the classroom and pets your cheek, saying, "Your wrinkles are REALLY soft" is always the same kid you watched sneeze into their hands a couple of minutes before? How ruminating about the awfulness of the blank sheet of paper or monitor screen - what is the philosophy of that dread, despair, that outright hopelessness?

Aw, I'm just yanking your chain there. My brain, no matter what my horoscope said is pretty much good for nothing today - a useful spacer to separate my ears is about it's accomplished so far. So here's what I'm doing. I'm going to print out that horoscope, change the date to tomorrow and see what the morning brings. I have stuff to write and pictures to draw...

Helium zebras would be pretty cool too.

2010-05-12T15:06:00.000-07:00

It's important to have skills. Since I've been teaching school the last several weeks one personal skill I've found to be the most useful is my ability to make really loud and sharp dolphin "ah - ah - ah" noises. They're ear rippers, I tell you. Want to stop rampaging 3rd graders in their tracks?

Dolphin noises.

But the skill I've found the most useful in my writing work is doodling. Doodling is totally underrated. If I were a world famous brain surgeon I could tell you definitively that doodling frees up neural pathways in your gray matter allowing creativity to flow with abandon. A bran muffin for your idea machine if you will.

Wow, that was not the image I wanted to present. Sorry.

But since I'm not a world famous brain surgeon, I can only conjure up awful digestive analogies and guess that doodling does open up your mind as far as creative thinking.

Case in point - these little guys in the doodle above were in the margins of a manuscript I've been working on with an editor. I was stymied at one area of the story - an important one that set up the ending. My ideas were definitely NOT flowing with abandon. But that's when the 3 bunnies rode in to the rescue. 3 bunnies, 1 kitty, 1 hummingbird and 1 flower later, I came up with something - something that I actually liked.

The power of bunnies? Perhaps. But I think it's more the power of doodling. I don't care if your doodles are stick people or a fair rendition of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It's the process of the doodling that counts, not the product, so no "I can't draw" whining allowed.

So next time you're stuck in your writing, or stuck in a boring meeting, try doodling. You may just get a brilliant idea for your story or maybe even a brilliant idea of how to get out of that boring meeting...

Happy doodling.

2010-05-07T08:17:00.000-07:00

Busy teaching, busy writing, busy coloring, busy chasing after Dutch, the old man wiener dog and Twig, the terrible min-pin puppy...

Life is good.

In my teaching, lately I've gotten a lot of questions around active vs. passive verbs. Maybe this example will help:

Passive

We all were running from the gigantic, fire-breathing death dog.

Active

We all ran from the gigantic, fire-breathing death dog.

And to SHOW this info rather than TELL it?

"Hey! It's a gigantic, fire-breathing death dog! Run!"

I now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

2010-04-28T07:39:00.000-07:00

It can be hard to be a legend in one's own mind. In that perfect world that exists in my gray matter, I'm a force of nature on the tennis courts, all cannon ball driving shots, sharp angled volleys, and gettin' Medieval all over my opponents with my overheads. I know exactly what to do and when.

I love that world...

My coach, though, has a slightly different view of my athletic abilities. And I invest a fair amount of time and money to hear his opinions.

"Nice shot!" This is an example of one of opinions I like.

"Good moving to the net." Another jumping up and down and clapping my hands real fast moment for me.

And then there's this: "Why did you do that?"

Cue the car shreeching to a halt sound effect. I look around, hoping the answer is 3-D hovering somewhere on the court. And the freakiest part of it all is that not only don't I know the why of what I'd just done but I also have no idea what what was I'd just done.

And then he explains and as he does I nod my head, thinking, "Now why didn't I see that?"

Because in the perfect world in my mind everything makes sense. I know all the whys and the whats without having to explain one single thing to myself. And that's why I need a tennis coach. He makes me see that I DO have be able to explain my actions. They have to make sense to more than just ME in order to grow as a player.

And this irritating little truth is also true for writing. But instead of tennis coaches, we have editors. The first time I received an editorial letter, all 5 pages of it talking about my under 300 word picture book, I just about had a heart attack. It was chock full of asking me to explain the whys and the whats. And "because" as an answer to any of her questions was definitely not going to fly. It was pretty much a picture book boot-camp kind of experience.

But now, 21 years (gasp!) and many, many editorial letters later, I've come to love them. Like my tennis coach, my editors have taken the time to really look at what I'm doing, encourage the good parts of said doing and help me figure out how to exorcise (or in tennis "exercise") the bad, the ugly or just the unclear of what's holding my work back. They've shown me I have to make sense to more than just ME in order to grow as a writer.

So here's a big thank you to my tennis coaches.
Here's a big thank you to my editors.

Growing pains are GOOD pains.

2010-04-21T18:35:00.000-07:00

"You mean I just have to shove it away in a drawer to DIE?" I heard this heartfelt wail from a student recently (actually, they didn't say exactly that. I've changed things up so no confidentiality has been breached, so unwad yer panties, powers that be). But the sentiment remains - hanging there like a writer's worst nightmare.

And here's the truth - yep, maybe it does. It DOES have to die.

But here's the deal - zombies exist.

Unless you've been living under a rock the last, I don't know, FEW DECADES, we've had zombies running all rough shod over our collective zeitgeist. It's pretty much been all zombies all the time. I know, it's been all vampires all the time too, but I'm ignoring them for now. Lalalalalala, I can't see you vampires! Go look in a mirror! Ha ha! You can't see yourself then, either. Vampire snap joke!

Note to self: wear garlic necklace to bed to ward away peeved vampires.

Actually, the zombies I'm talking about are what you can bring back to life from those apparently deceased projects.

I've shelved many, many projects, picture book manuscripts mostly but there are some novels, begun, in the middle of and completed that are also entombed in my hard drive. I've shed a little teary-tear over a few but no full out tearing my hair out histrionics over any of 'em. That's because, I have the power, just like any writer does, to bring a bit of any of them I choose, just a little bit back to life.

How cool is that? Move over Gene Wilder, there's a NEW Dr. Fraunkenfurter in town.

I've found those so-called discards to be a goldmine of material. Sure, the original material didn't work so well the first time around, but the second time - maybe.

My files of discards are now opened tombs and that's not creepy, it's really all unicorns and rainbows. And by unicorns and rainbows I mean I've gleaned from those discards enough material for more than a few sold book projects.

So where does that leave a writer? Are we writing for finished projects - or are we writing for idea farms?

Only the zombies know...

Oh, and the cute little dog and mouse in the illustration above?

Zombies in waiting, my friend. Zombies in waiting.

2010-04-14T06:59:00.000-07:00

I have not attended a Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators conference for a very long time. There. I said it.

For years have I urged writers near the beginning of their process to get involved with SCBWI? Yep.

For years have I nagged my adult writing students to do the same?
Yep.

I'm not entirely sure why I haven't gone to a conference before last weekend but am I ever glad I left my hidey-hole and took the train up to Seattle. It was a great reminder of just WHY I urge and nag people to get thee to a conference. They get you to write. Here are just some of the things that helped kick my butt into a newly enthusiastic high gear.

1. Stewing in creative juices. I know - ew. But there definitely is something to be said for being immersed in a large group of people who are living and breathing ideas. Some of that just has to get on you.

2. Diet Dr. Pepper in the lobby. My writing beverage of choice - at least before 5:00.

3. No free internet. Wow. Huge withdrawal for the first day, but after that I was cruising along with my writing free from cake wrecks and lol cats.

4. Hearing that editors are still excited about getting well-written books - BIG emphasis on the well-written part.

5. Seeing an editor get excited about cowbells. Elizabeth Law, you know I'm talking about you.

6. Getting to watch my agent rock the room during his presentation. I know there are writers out there that see all agents as cold, imperious, jerks on toast. I'm sure there are agents out there that are exactly that. But here's the good news. Some agents are like Edward Necarsulmer from MacIntosh and Otis. He doesn't refer to submissions as the "slush pile". Instead, he calls it the "discovery pile". That's one of the things that make him such a joy to work with - he has a lovely level of respect - for writers and their work. Yay!

7. Having my train break down on the way home. Once I stopped freaking out about the fact that I was having ten people over for dinner, I took my netbook out and wrote, and wrote, and wrote.
Thank you, train gods for forcing that issue. Sorry people, that dinner was a little delayed...

I'm back in my hidey-hole again until I have to run off to teach, run errands, pretty much get distracted from my writing all over again.

Maybe I should go out and buy another train ticket.

2010-04-05T13:11:00.000-07:00

I'm teaching the next couple of months - can you tell? Seriously, though, I like hanging out with kids. It's the best place to get the latest booger jokes. And it's also one of the best places to observe a primordial creative pool of ooze.

Some of my favorite drawings from today:

A wild hare - I kid you not
A turtle with hearts for feet and he only has 2 feet
Robot hamster
Gorilla with arms growing out of its sides

See? Genius.

I'm too busy writing to write much ABOUT writing. Luckily, I have the technology to point you elsewhere for fine, fine info: http://editorialanonymous.blogspot.com/2010/04/definitions-for-perplexed-royalties.html

Oh, and if any of you are attending the Western Washington Regional SCBWI Conference, I'll see you this weekend!

2010-03-28T11:32:00.000-07:00

I'm a word freak. I'm actually a lot of kinds of things freak - color freak, tennis freak, all things dachshund and min pin freak. So I picked the right line of work, I guess. But words are so much more complicated than the inner workings of a yappy little dog's brain. In my (ask my friends) never humble opinion, I believe they're more complicated than color, even. And that's saying a lot. If you could see the sea of oil pastels spread across my drawing table, you'd be convinced that indeed, that IS saying a lot.

Words are just so versatile. They can be combined to create the time honored works of Steinbeck and Jackie Collins. They can make up the screenplays of such classic movies as Citizen Kane and Plan 9 from Outer Space. Think about it. All these creations probably share more words than not. Right?

And it has been words - scads of them -that have taken over my life just about full time for months now. Some of them have been barfed onto the page in the first draft process of a new novel. Barfing words is fun. You're just ralphing it all out there to see the final sloppy big picture. Wow, I just grossed myself out. Ick.

And then, I've been revising another novel as well. That's where the versatility of language really starts to come in. This is where the clean-up crew (you) disinfects all the ick you produced in that first draft. Every single word has to be the right one for that space. Every single word has to be there for a reason. If there is any barf left, it better be absolutely necessary to your story. Okay, I'll stop with the up-chuck analogies.

I've also been working on a couple of picture books. Here's where the spotlight of scrutiny hits your writing hard. In a work usually under 500 words, there ain't no hiding of no clunkers. Every word has to compete to chosen as the ONLY word in the universe that deserves to be in that particular sentence. I like to think of them in little arenas, fighting to the death, bloodthirsty crowd egging them on... Whoa, maybe I should go back to thinking about barf or what my dad used to call "laughing at the ground".

For example, this week I had to come up with several words that could tastefully stand in for "derriere". Okay, maybe not tasteful, but the ONLY possible words that could add the something needed for that particular story. A thesaurus is great, fabulous, fantastic, splendid, but it can only take you so far. You're still the one that has to figure out the order and placement of every single one of those words. But if you're a word freak, then you're in Heaven. Yay! Word Heaven!

Being a tennis freak, though, is another matter. There, the word "freak" takes on a slightly different meaning than what I've been talking about. Whiffed overheads, balls hit long or wide, inventive oaths on the court, wardrobe malfunctions... But I'm sure my coach and team would agree. The word "freak" is still the ONLY one in the universe that fits.

2010-03-24T19:50:00.000-07:00

I've been teaching elementary age all week and the ick factor? Well, ick has gone wild.

And in my work too. For some reason I've been plumbing the depths of grossness - why? It's a beautiful spring day. Happy is everywhere. Cute lambs. Cute chicks, cute whatever. They're all running rampant.

Long ago and far away I heard the best thing ever from my then three year old. We were out in in the yard and he gleefully skipped out in front of me singing, "The sun is out, the birds are out, the bugs are out and I can make them dead!" And then instead of stomping he drew the saga of all he saw and all he imagined he laid to waste.

Priceless. And now that now 23 year MAN is one of the most creative people I know.

At that moment 20 years ago, I saw cute and horrible whirl together in a perfect storm. It's been a hard act to follow, I tell you.

The birds have been singing up a storm today and Twig, the terrible min pin puppy has been gleefully intent on trying to make as many small things dead as canine-ally possible - namely slugs. She arranges them artfully on the dining room rug.

Destruction = creative?

The title of the illustration above is "Are Those Peas or Did You Sneeze?" A gross concept, yes? Totally ick.

I have heard a lot of the hilarious destructive this week from my students. A lot of it has been way grosser than sneezing peas.

But from that disgusting creative beginning is the Phoenix that also rises if not to greatness, then to amusing and maybe outright laugh out loud ?

Time will tell...

2010-03-19T07:58:00.000-07:00

It's wrong to steal, right? No nicking candy bars at the corner market, no slipping fives out of your spouse's wallet, no picking up just ONE newspaper out of the piles left on your vacationing neighbors driveway. Stealing is BAD. But what am I supposed to do when I'm teaching a 2nd and 3rd grade TAG class and I hear ideas like these?

A dragon that ravages the grocery store to gobble up all the celery it can find and then redeems itself by vanquishing the evil witch by entombing her in a pile of its poop.

A hedgehog named Bob who talks so much the authorities are summoned on a regular basis.

A sea turtle named Appetite that must save the ocean from a volcano that spews garbage.

Two amiable antiheroes named Hippy Pig and Bobby McKiddo Jr. the LXXII who accidentally end up in the army - hilarity ensues.

I remember being in 3rd grade and having adults ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Funny - I guess the answer turned out to be -

I want to be a 3rd grader.

2010-03-12T07:58:00.000-08:00

I've been dreaming about flying lately. That's not exactly true. My dreams aren't the whimsical floating these beach cats are engaged in. The flying in my dreams has been a sort of free fall that doesn't end in a splat, but a kind of "oof" as if I landed on top of a gigantic down pillow.

What's up with that?

I don't consider myself a "woo-woo" type of person. Well, there was that UFO my sister and I saw in Hawaii. Meteors do NOT stop and reverse direction, okay? And I did live in a haunted house for 18 years. Ask anyone that visited. Haunted. Totally haunted. But other than that, I consider myself pretty pragmatic.

But the flying/falling dreams kept coming. Was it some other-worldly message? No, my pragmatic brain says. They mean that you've got to do some serious toning of those triceps pretty soon. Otherwise you'll be facing some "bat-wing" issues.

Bat-wings. Flying. Get it? And I thought "muffin-top" was a horrible term. Must get weights out now.

But of course I didn't get the weights out. Instead I obsessed on the dreams some more. And then I stopped thinking about the THING - the flying/falling and began remembering all the other little bits and details of the experience. I remembered the gleam off the side of a porcelain sink. I remembered a huff of air from an exhaust pipe. I remembered the feeling I had while in the dream. It wasn't just fear or excitement but a mixture of the two with maybe a tinge of regret thrown in for good measure.

And then I realized what those dreams were doing. They were helping. I'm revising a novel right now and that process has been fun and exhilarating (flying) and it's also been kind of scary (falling). The scary part is when you lose faith in yourself. That's when you try as hard as you can to convince yourself you can't possibly do it. You tell yourself things you wouldn't allow anyone else in the world to say to you.

So I stopped dwelling about the THING - the issue I was stuck on in my revision and began paying more attention to all the other bits and details of my scenes. And I made sure I paid attention to the feeling - not only of the characters, but of the places and the action as well. I think that process helped both my novel and my dreams. Last night I dreamt I was out buying up environmentally friendly houses.

What's up with that?

2010-03-06T15:47:00.000-08:00

The name of this piece is "Gonna be a Bright, Bright Sun-shiny Day" and it was a bright, sun-shiny day today - an elusive miracle in otherwise winter gloomy Portland, Oregon. And that was one of the reasons it made taking my six 12 to 14 year old painting students there on a field trip this afternoon the worst and the best day ever.

Worst #1: People - and I'm not talking crowds of people, I'm talking invading hordes of people. As soon as I arrived and saw the teeming masses I figured we'd be drawing more pictures of people's backsides than animals. Curse that wretched sun!

Worst #2: People - I think huge swarms of people have a lot in common with hippos. They don't move. Why should they when they're successfully blocking everyone's view? I swear I saw Bubbles, the zoo hippo lift her sweet mouth in a smirk when the other hippo tried to move her out of the way. It looked like she was telling all the people, "Watch and learn." Newsflash, Bubbles. They already know how to just stand there, the only thing moving their flapping jaw as they jabber into cell phones. Did I mention I was at the zoo and it was crowded? Grr.

Worst #3: People - 40 minutes in line to buy ice cream cones. Enough said.

But that wasn't our whole trip, far from it.

Best #1: Animals - namely the lioness that settled herself regally on the jutting boulder just as we arrived at the predator exhibit. Said lioness then basked in a perfect lioness pose, the golden afternoon light making her look other worldly. Our pencils flew over our sketchbook pages. Thank you, lioness! Thank you, sun!

Best #2: My students - yes, technically they're people, but my students totally rock. They laughed and joked and found so many things to be interesting. Even though everything was absolutely jam-packed, they seemed so happy just to be alive on a rare, winter sunny day. That happy totally got on me - it really did.

Best #3: Ice cream cones - sitting in the sun, eating them up before they melt. Enough said.

As an artist and writer I teach a lot. I teach at assemblies where there can be hundreds of students. I teach classrooms of kids, small groups and even one on one with adults. In the last 18 years I've experienced many, many moments that have been funny, inspiring and poignant. But there was just that certain, something, something that made today so very special.

Thank you, sun.

Thank you, lioness,

Thank you, ice cream.

And thank you, students. You remind me why I teach.

2010-03-01T06:58:00.000-08:00

If you've spent enough time as a writer or an artist you'll know this scenario:

Why am I doing this? Who am I kidding? I'm just wasting my time, aren't I? Really. Seriously. You're not saying anything, but I can tell by the look on your face that I am one big, fat loser.

I think that caller i.d. is an excellent invention. That way our friends can spare themselves our - well, what do you call 10 steps above a pity party - a pity tirade? Nope, I think it's still bigger than that.

But sometimes good things happen - yay! You land an illustration job, you sign a book contract, someone tells you you're pretty.

Or sometimes this happens.

Jerry Fenter is an amazing artist, writer and teacher. And even though she sometimes wears flannel in public, she totally deserves having her work featured on the NPR website.

Wait a minute. Is MY story featured on the NPR website?

No. No it is not. I'm calling Jerry right now.

And she better not even GLANCE at the caller i.d.

2010-02-19T08:41:00.000-08:00

One element I really like to include in my art is action. For me it makes a piece more fun to draw and hopefully that action makes it more fun to look at too. I not only like to tell A story with a piece. I like to tell MANY stories. Partly that's because I'm constantly doing more than one thing at a time. For example, as I'm typing this I'm listening to "This American Life" online, I'm keeping an eye on my email and every few seconds I'm stopping to throw the squeaky ball for Twig, the terrible min min puppy.

But that's the way life really is, isn't it? Outside my window, I can hear at least a couple of different kinds of birds, the rumble of a delivery truck going past the house and siren wails in the distance. If I actually got up off my rear and looked outside the window, I'm sure I could add a lot more description of the activity on my street. But, I don't feel like getting up right now. That just seems hard.

I started thinking about all this after I was asked by a writing student how they might make the action scenes in their stories more exciting - less, and this is their word not mine - less lame.

That was a great question and I got kind of excited about it. What does make a good action scene? Well, a strong point of view can help. That can get your reader more invested in what's happening with and to your main character. Of course, showing and not telling is not just an old standby - it can breathe much needed life into a scene. And sensory writing can also be the pretty pink frosting on top of it all.

So, to help make my point clearer for this student, I decided to compose an example.

Sally’s biceps shuddered as she hefted her uncle’s sword above her head. A twinge of regret fluttered through her brain. I knew I should have kept up with my weightlifting regime.

The Gorgon made a snickering sound as it whipped its snake hair at her. Sally wrinkled her nose at the stench of its breath. “You lookin’ at me?” it jeered. “Are you lookin’ at me?”

Sally heaved a sigh of relief as she allowed gravity to pull the weight of the sword down in a slash. But she didn’t even get close to the monster.

“Missed me, missed me! Now you gotta kiss me!” The Gorgon laughed and spun out of the way, the snakes joining in the giggles.

“Okay, that’s it.” Sally gritted her teeth and felt beads of sweat break out on her forehead as she raised the sword again. She pivoted on her left foot, a move she’d perfected in her baton twirling class, and then immediately shifted right before driving the sword square into the Gorgon’s belly.

Sally gazed with satisfaction at the sight of the snakes now looking as wilted as last week’s daisies. A few seconds later the dead Gorgon crumbled to dust.

“Here’s the deal,” Sally said, scattering the Gorgon dust with a push of the toe of her sneaker. “I’m not kissing no snakes.” And with that, she turned to walk away into the sunset, thinking her uncle had a lot of explaining to do.

Like the oil pastel drawing at the top of this post this scene was a lot of fun to write. And it reminded me just why I like teaching so much. It gives me a chance to keep thinking about writing in a fresh way. It reminds me that keeping things fun is important. It reminds me that even though I'm tired and too lazy to get out of my chair, I can still stay in the action.

Here you go, Twig! Get the squeaky ball!

For some additional and way more awesome writing types, you just can't do better than this.

2010-02-16T20:24:00.000-08:00

Even though this artwork is mine, all mine, most people that know my work wouldn't guess that. For one, it's in black and white, and two, there are no cats in bikinis or poodles swilling pinot. Oh well.

But it IS my artwork and the reason it does look different is because this stone lithograph print was done in response to a creative prompt.

I LOVE creative prompts and you should too. They're the limbering up before the big game exercise. They're the writing out 5 drafts of a dear John letter before you actually send the thing. They're the working out the life kinks of your creativity.

And I was so totally thrilled to hear of National Public Radio's ultimate writing prompt which you'll find here.

I entered, shocked at what it evoked - laughing at the final result. I don't expect to win. That wasn't why I entered. I entered because as a writer I wanted to play - to zip, dive, weave - exercise my muscles - yay!

The title of the above art is "Breakfast of Champions". As creative people, we ARE the champions, no?

Ans as far as breakfast?

I vote maple bar.

2010-02-11T09:47:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I had the distinct pleasure of being a guest at a book club. Now, I've been a member of various book clubs over the years but this meeting was oh, so very different from any that I've ever attended. I was a guest because the wonderful Middle Sisters Book Club (so named because most are present or former middle school teachers) read my book, Listen and wanted to talk about it.

I was thrilled to be invited but as the day drew closer I began to get more and more nervous. And by the time I was supposed to be getting in my car to go, I wasn't just nervous - I was SUPER nervous. All the trite fears that most artist and writers I know have spun my brain all sideways. What am going to say? What if they ask me a question and I freeze? I'll look all stupid and then I'll have to make a run for it because they'll find out I'm a fraud, fraud, fraud. So, when I pulled up to the house, I positioned my truck to facilitate a quick getaway if need be.

But none of these things happened. The ladies were gracious and welcoming. The questions they posed were thoughtful and insightful. One woman had flagged a spot in my book and said she was afraid I was going to go down a certain road. She was sure of it and it kind of stressed her out. When she found out I'd turned the story in a different direction she'd felt relieved and she wanted to know more about why I'd made that choice.

Wow! I'd succeeded in making someone seriously uncomfortable! I never knew that was one of my life goals until that very moment. But man, it sure felt great to have achieved it anyway.

The rest of time was spent fielding questions around plot, pacing, writing authentic dialogue for animals (you'll just have to read the book to know exactly what I mean here), and even the meaning of a character's name. I didn't freeze. I actually had a blast - I mean who doesn't like to talk about their ideas in front of a captive audience?

But what I didn't expect from the meeting is that by talking about my motivations for writing that book and hearing their astute feedback, it got me really considering my motivations for the project I'm working on now. I drove home all fired up to get back to the keyboard.

So thank you, Middle Sisters Book Club. Thank you for your hospitality, the lively discussion and oh, yes - thank you for the spread of food including a glorious tower of luscious, velvety - wait for it - cupcakes.

Next time someone asks me why I write, I have a new answer.

It's because then maybe - somebody will give me cupcakes.

2010-02-05T15:02:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I was at my tennis team practice the other day. We were running drills that mostly consisted of getting a ball cannon-balled at you just short of the speed of sound. You won't find any wimps on our team. And after returning some, missing some and getting hit in RIGHT IN THE SOFT PART OF THE INNER THIGH, thanks for that really, I ran wide for a backhand and caught it weird. That ball shot out an an angle and hit the plastic scorekeeper between the courts. That happens sometimes. But this time it hit and lodged in the home-side #4.

If you're not sitting back, awestruck, amazed at such an occurrence, then you don't understand the one in a million aspect of the event. This was a hole in one, a lightning strike, a bonified shark attack.

But after I had made the rounds of high fives, it was back to business, returning balls, missing balls and dodging a certain teammate's death overheads. And I was enjoying the heck out of all of it. What was I going to do, be all sad and depressed because every single ball I hit for the next hour and a half wasn't a hole in one?

And as always, I was reminded of my art and writing life. Surprise! I love making a sale of one of my books - love, it, love it, love it. It makes me make rodent squeals and I then jump around like a velociraptor after chugging a case of Red Bull. But news flash, I don't make a sale every day. So does that mean I'm never happy in my creative life when I'm head-down practicing my craft? What a bummer that would be.

In Spinal Tap there's that great scene where Nigel patiently explains that their amp goes to 11. When pressed as to why they just couldn't have an amp where 10 is simply louder, Nigel reiterates that they have one that goes to 11, because clearly that's one better, isn't it?

Those days we get an agent or make a sale are definitely an 11 moment. But if that's all we lived for we wouldn't last long, because those 11 moments can be few and far between. And you know, in my old age, I've decided that I'm going to be happy at all the other numbers too.

When I get good feedback at my critique group I glow because that's probably a 4, if I figure out a character problem I smile and get a cookie thinking I just cleared a 5, If I make myself sit in that chair for one more extra hour to finish a chapter then I tell myself that I've been a very good dog and consider that a 6. No 11s but still totally happy.

So go for those 11 moments - sweat, endeavor, strive.

But don't forget to be happy along the way.

Remember - it's all a grand, glorious game - emphasis on game.

2010-01-31T07:29:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-24T07:36:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-01-19T05:13:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-14T15:22:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-08T20:04:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-01-03T13:54:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-30T16:50:00.000-08:00

Why is this cow so happy? She's happy for me! And why is she happy for me? Because I spent a whole day writing and not once did I:

a) Want to throw myself off a really tall bridge
b) Feed myself to rabid piranhas
c) Go running to Mommy
d) Actually go out and apply for a "real job"

How often does this happen? Once in a blue moon, baby.

This New Year's Eve we'll all get to experience a real blue moon, that's what you call the uncommon occurrence of a second full moon falling within a calender month. The last one happened in 2007. The next one will be in August of (gasp!) 2012.

It's pretty obvious why actual blue moons are so rare. The magical space gods that make everything work up there have a secret schedule and they're sticking to it.

But why is a good, happy feeling writing day so elusive? Well, if you have to ask that question, then I'd have to rely on the immortal words of "The Dude" in The Big Leboski, "Obviously, you're not a golfer."

And by "golfer" I don't mean "golfer".

Writers are weird. They're strange folk, all dark-circled eyes, howling their angst at the cosmos and... wait, sorry, that was my sixth grade teacher.

30 twelve year olds in one room. Really, can you blame her?

Seriously, writers have issues. Otherwise, why is it so important that they need to write stuff down and not only write it down but try as hard as they can to get people to read what they've written down?

And on a bad day, that process can be ugly, only saved from the absolutest dark-mostiest depths of despair by the sweet, sweet mercy of maple bars. Apple fritters will do in a pinch, but I'm warning you, I wouldn't push my luck if I were you. Baked goods are powerful mojo, dude.

But then, just like a Monty Python parting of the clouds where a voice booms down from heaven, it can all turn around and you're able to put sentences together. And those sentences become paragraphs, and so on, and so on. And when you dare to go back and read your day's work and it doesn't make you want to go back to my list at the top of my post and add yet another option which is: e) All of the above, then you my friend have had a blue moon day.

This dancing cow knows that feeling well, it seems. "Go, blue moooooooooooon!" she says. "It's udderly marvelous!"

I know, puns are the lowest form of humor. So sue me. I'm off doing my happy dance.

2009-12-28T09:34:00.000-08:00

My world - and welcome to it.

And yes, I do know that dachshunds can't spell solitaire to save their lives.

2009-12-24T07:28:00.000-08:00

May all your holiday heart's desires come true!

Best,

Nancy and her resident trunk monkeys, Dutch and Twig

2009-12-15T08:21:00.000-08:00

I talk a lot about creativity here and I consider it pretty much a food group, like, uh, sushi. But sometimes creativity can seem to disappear into outer space like our zebra friends here.

But if you find yourself suddenly without your creative spark or if you just feel that you need help in channeling it down a more effective path then help is here.

Actually it's here: www.jerryfenter.com

Not only is Jerry a good friend and a fantastic painter and writer, she's also a creative counselor. She lives and breathes all things creative and knows exactly how to spread the wealth.

She also know how to give a quick boot to the rear to get you skipping merrily down your own creative path.

So if you're ready to be wild, crazy, and creatively fearless, I can't think of a better companion for that journey than Jerry.

She rocks.

2009-12-09T06:59:00.000-08:00

Oh, baby it's a-cold outside. Both the old man wiener dog and the terrible min-pin puppy, usually pretty happy little creatures are fidgety, irritable and there have been mighty turf battles over the heater register. I think next time I'll get dogs with actual hair.

But I know how they feel. I'm a temperate clime girl. In my perfect Nancy World it wouldn't get below 45 degrees in the winter and not above 78 in the summer. Oh, and would only rain at night.

I wouldn't miss seeing snow fall so prettily across the hills. That's what the Weather Channel's for - or those glittery winter scene Christmas cards. Then I could gaze upon that wintery beauty at a time of my own choosing and then go out to play a nice game of tennis. Oh, I so love Nancy World...

I know it may be hard to believe, but I've been accused on a few (okay, lots of) occasions of having a few (okay, lots of) control issues. And I really have spent some good, quality introspective time thinking about this. Usually, I end up trying to figure out how to get people to see things my way-and then problem would be solved, right?

Wait, bear with me here. This tactic works beautifully in one regard - when I'm working on a first draft of a manuscript. I'm the ruler of my story. It's Nancy World come to life! I create only the characters I want to hang out with and they have no choice but to do my bidding. I can put said characters into any setting I want and then make them do anything I want them to do. Bwaa-hahaha! I am the puppet master!

See, control issues can come in mighty handy.

But then a shadow falls across the land. What is this looming darkness, threatening to do away with my puppet mastery status? What nemesis could it be?

Actually, there's more than one of them. And they're not evil villains, but super heroes, swooping in to save my story from the ultimately going nowhere'sville of Nancy World.

There's my first readers. They can cock an eyebrow even in an email. "What's this mean?" they ask.

"You know," I answer.

"Actually, we don't, " they insist. And then they meanly send me back to clear points up. In Nancy World, I have ESP and can mind meld them my thoughts. No revisions necessary.

Then, there's my writers' groups. "You're doing a lot of telling in this spot," they say, devil horns sprouting on their writers' heads. "I'd like you to show more." Back I slink to my keyboard.

Agent Superman can be just as stern. "Are you being oblique just for the fun of it?" he asks.

"But that's what it's like in my, this world," I protest.

He stands there, mighty arms folded across his chest. He heroically scans the horizon, cape waving in the wind. "Wow," he says. "Seriously?"

Slinking back to my keyboard is now a very familiar feeling. My control issues sit there silently, lips set in grim lines as they watch me make my story something more than it was. And when I finish, they shriek, "Who are these characters? What is this place? It's cold, for heaven's sake!" They fly around my head like angry bees. "This is NOT Nancy World!"

And yep, they're right. It's now a hopefully relate-able world - one that more than just some people (okay, probably just me) can um, relate to.

The editor now comes in with her magic sword. Slash! Chop! Slice and dice! And then with her magic highlighter. Expand! Clarify! Are you being oblique just for the fun of it? More slinking for me.

And then it's done. And you know what? Nancy World is not dead. It's there, right at the heart of my story. That part of it never goes away. But the new world that envelopes it is richer, more fully realized.

Thanks to all the wonderful marvelous people I get to work with -

it may even have snow in it.

2009-11-30T06:39:00.000-08:00

I remember the olden days when you snuck off to do something it was usually bad like breaking into the last of your little sister's Halloween candy or rummaging around the top shelves of your parent's closet to see if they'd bought your Christmas present already but hadn't wrapped it yet. I can't believe how very much time changes all things.

Well, the 4 day weekend is finally over and I can stop my adult type sneaking. And I haven't been sneaking candy or present peeks, no, I've been sneaking into my studio.

I've been self employed, or as I like to put it, professionally unemployed since 1984. But the reality is that I usually have 10 jobs to make up for the fact that I don't have a job. And that usually means NO DAYS OFF. Now I'm not saying I'm working every single minute of every day, but most of the time I'm working at least some of every single day. But when something like a 4 day weekend rolls around, there's a disruption in the force, young Skywalker.

When my family has all this time off, they want to, you know, have me spend some of that time with them. What's up with that? So I was forced to do all these terrible awful things like eating a delicious turkey dinner and a heaping portion of one those whipped desert fruit salad dealies that otherwise I wouldn't touch on a bet, but in the right setting tastes oh, so scrumptious. I was waylaid into making our annual tree farm excursion to find the perfect Dr. Seuess Christmas tree. And then I had to sit in front of a crackling fire to admire it. Torture, I tell you.

In between these forced interactions I'd creep up the stairs, carefully avoiding the creaky third step, and slip into my studio. Then I'd wake up my trusty little netbook and run away to my WIP. A few minutes of bliss later, I'd hear through my door,

"The dog needs out!"

"Have you seen my hat?"

"Who ate the last of the pie?"

"Do you wanna play tennis?"

Uh-oh, the "t" word. Of all the words they could utter to really get my attention other than "zombie attack" it's "tennis". I carefully put my netbook back to sleep.

I know my last post was all about the thankful, and sorry for the repeat but that's what this post's about too. But this time, do you want to know what I'm thankful for?

The end of the 4 day weekend.

2009-11-25T11:16:00.000-08:00

I guess it's good that we set aside a day to concentrate on being thankful. But don't you think it's a little sad that thankfulness only gets a single day and the business of simply going about our business gets most of the other 364 days in the year? Maybe we could at least add another day in the week - Thanksday, yeah, that's the ticket. It could fall right after Monday and that way it could have another meaning. One would be that it's a time of thoughtful reflection on the wonders of life's bounty and it could also be a celebratory day that you made it through yet another start to the week. Bonus!

I'm a very lucky person. And I have a ton to be thankful for - including wine. Now before you go on thinking I'm all drowning in a glass of Chardonnay, let me clarify. Sure, I like my little glass of somethin', somethin', but thinking about wine also gets me thinking about the important people in my life.

Some wines are aged. They're smooth, mellow - pretty much wisdom on your palate. You can taste the years of work that went into developing their character. I'm lucky to have people like that in my life. And it's their steady guidance that have steered me through some rough patches over the years.

Some wines are just plain fun. They're lively, full of bright notes. They're a smile in a glass and make the day all that much better for spending time with them. I'm so fortunate to have these people in my life as well. They've taught me how to let loose, play, and laugh so hard that wine goes shooting out my nose. Attractive!

And then there are the wines that are complex - dare I say challenging. They're the wines that need to be poured and then you get to know gradually. At first sip, they may taste a little overwhelming, but with time you fall in love with the many layers of their personalities. I'm so thankful I get to hang with these sorts of people too.

So, this blog is a Thanksgiving toast to all of you - my readers, my dear, wise, fun, maddening friends and my family.

Cheers.

2009-11-21T07:48:00.000-08:00

Christmas day 1960 or 70-something. I've just unwrapped the present of my dreams. It was a Stella guitar and because I was in grade school and all about being creative, I named the guitar - wait for it - "Stella". And then I immediately got down to the business of soulful communication.

Funky fringed crocheted vest? Check.
Mop-top Ringo Starr haircut? Check.

Hey, wait... I still have that haircut. Hmmm.

Memorized all three chords to "Michael Row Your Boat Ashore"? Check, check and check.

As the photo above so clearly demonstrates (other than the appalling furniture tastes of my parents) I was destined to be a world famous guitar, well - hero.

Flash forward to the end of 2009. I have the same hair (and color), thanks to the mojo of David, the magical hairdresser. I haven't seen that vest in years so hopefully it has gone to the great yarn playground in the sky. But do I still play guitar?

Nope.

I thought about that guitar yesterday. I've been teaching a sixth grade class and I've been helping them write short plays. And yesterday we moved on to creating the masks they'd wear during their performances. One girl was completely flummoxed as to how to draw a squirrel.

"Would you like me to help you?" I asked.

She happily accepts said help and by the time I'm done whipping out a big-eyed squirrel clutching an acorn, there's a crowd around the table.

"That's awesome," one kid says.

"Yeah," said another. "You should be an artist."

Wait, what? I look at the kid. It's like he said, "You should be alive."

"I am an artist," I reply, but in the past couple of years I've been writing and teaching more than I've been drawing. Part of that's been the economy. I've been successfully unemployed since 1984 and that can sometimes mean that agility is required to respond to the whims of the market. But I'm still an artist - right?

Am I still a guitar player? No. So how, if I'm not devoting the majority of my time hunched over my drawing table, can I be an artist?

It took a couple of phone conversations with friends and a healthy glass of wine that evening for me to come to a conclusion.

I'm a communicator. And the reason this word is such a, to quote my sixth grader, "awesome" choice for a label is because it allows for so much slop room.

I draw, therefore I'm a communicator.

I write, therefore I'm a communicator.

I teach, therefore, well, you get the drift.

I can even fall back on that title when yelling at husband for the millionth time to pick up the pile of wet towels off the bathroom floor. Yelling = communication. See? Brilliant.

And I bet, if I really tried, I could probably remember those three chords. Watch out, Ringo.

I still got it.

2009-11-13T17:59:00.000-08:00

Like most of you, I wear many hats. And I don't know if this is true for anyone else, but often, I'm not sure if I'm wearing any of them as well as I'm supposed to because I keeping switching between all those chapeaus.

Life is so exciting. There are so many interestingly shiny bits out there vying for attention. There's writing. There's art. There's teaching. There's tennis for heaven's sake. "Look at me! Look at me!" the shiny bits call. And off I run, arms outstretched - yes! I do want some of that!

But here's the big fat bummer of the whole deal. There are only seven days in a week and only 24 hours in a day, and to add insult to injury, humans actually have to sleep for part of that time.

Rats.

So how does one fit in all these so very interesting shiny bits? This week I've finally come to the conclusion that maybe one can't.

Double rats.

The dark circles under my eyes underscore that simple truth. But what to do when I'm so totally in love with my many "jobs". They, well, to sort of quote the film "Jerry Mcguire", they complete me. Okay, I couldn't stand that movie, but just like so many songs I can't stand either, somehow I have perfect recall of them.

Triple rats.

But here's the thing. I'm not giving up nothin'. I'm going to try harder. My hats may tip off all bag lady wacky but they're still perched on my head. Concealer's for dark circles and a pot of tea's for getting revved up in the morning.

We love, therefore we work, right?

And by work I mean all those fantastic shiny bits sparkling like diamonds on water.

2009-11-06T08:35:00.000-08:00

More new work.

I must be hungry...

2009-11-05T07:36:00.000-08:00

New work for sale.

I like tennis.

That is all.

2009-11-01T09:05:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid I pretty much lived and breathed books. In real life I may have lived in a Brady Bunch style suburban neighborhood complete with stay at home moms wearing aprons and station wagons in the driveways, but in my book life I lived anywhere I wanted.

And now I live in another neighborhood, closer to the city, I don't own an apron, and do they still even make station wagons? But one thing hasn't changed. I still live and breathe books. Our bookshelves sag, the side tables are piled high with them. And when I open those books up, I still get to live anywhere I want.

But esacpism isn't the only reason that surface area is in short supply in our house. I need those books.

They're my best teachers.

I'm a self taught artist and writer. Yes, that means I didn't have much formal training - but I did have informal training - lots and lot of it. The stacks of volumes full of Japanese woodblock art and painters in the Impressionist movement speak of the years I spent poring over those compositions, those relationships of color. Then as I widened my scope of influence, those books were joined by the works of Georgia O'Keeffe, Lichtenstein, catalogs full of American folk paintings, and then a collection of children's books, each a complete course of illustration in themselves.

I can see a bit of all those influences in what I create today.

The novels and nonfiction works that sit alongside my art books have been just as important to my writing education. Through them I've learned what a strong narrative reads like, how compelling characters are developed, what brisk pacing does for a story, and when it's time to slow down and let the reader simply savor the moment.

Have I mastered all of these points?

Heavens no. But here's one of the best things about being self-taught - you get to keep learning and practicing what you're learning for as long as you want. That can be the world you really live in - one where the next cool thing you add is only a page turn away.

I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want it any different.

So read books. Then read more books. And then if you want to learn even more, do what I do. Read the great blogs that talk about reading books. Here's a great link to the "10 Best", at least in young people's literature:

http://www.schoollibraryjournal.com/article/CA6703692.html

They're all terrific, but why don't you tie on your super hero cape and go discover some more?

You never know when you'll find your next, best teacher.

Happy reading.

2009-10-26T07:30:00.000-07:00

I (and 24 other children's book authors) just spent the last several days at the Humboldt County Author Festival. Located in historic Eureka, California, everyone - and I mean everyone - treated us like the The Big Kahuna. I mean when else do you get -

A driver to pick you up at the airport

A bag of presents waiting in your hotel room that includes a really cool flashlight and better yet - homemade cookies

Personal drivers that may not take you anywhere you want to go, but they do take you right to the doorsteps of the schools you are to visit. In my case, that meant 80 miles south and west (one way), deep into the Redwood Forest. One of the two schools I visited out there had a total of FOUR students. Oh yeah, and I saw a fawn AND a seal, but not at the same time.

FREE FOOD. Lots and lots of free food. The evening we arrived they had free food (and wine!) at the welcoming reception. The next night, they stuffed us to the gills at the potluck cooked by all the volunteers, as if they hadn't done enough for us already.

More FREE FOOD. The night before the final day which was the town library book sale, we were treated to a fancy banquet at the country club. And before the book sale - breakfast. Wow.

But there was even more there for us authors -much much more. I've written a lot in this blog about my own little observations and philosophies about writing and drawing. But I haven't written much about the biggest reward of all of that hard work.

Joy.

You get the experience of 30 kids spilling out of the 2nd through 5th grade classrooms of a country school screaming, "Nancy's here!"

You get the experience of an explosion of applause when you draw a cartoon of a raccoon stealing bags of money.

You get to see your name on a big,hand-lettered sign, complete with kid drawings of your illustrations at the entrance to the one-room schoolhouse.

You get to drive up to yet another school and get greeted by a group of be-ribboned little girls almost bouncing out of their shoes.

You get to experience a big-eyed first grader solemnly asking if they may give you a hug because "not everyone likes hugs" and when you agree are immediately dog-piled by the rest of the kids.

You get to see the teens clutching your VERY FIRST NOVEL and shyly asking you to autograph it and they have no idea you're doing the yippy-skippy dance inside your head.

I'm finally (after a trains, planes, and automobile travel return trip) back and I'm ready to get get back to work to hopefully create more books that will get me an invite back in two years. My computer's humming, my favorite teacup's by my side - there's only one thing missing....

Applause.

Rats.

Well, maybe you can have it all

but like seeing that fawn and that seal

you just can't have it all at the same time.

2009-10-16T15:29:00.000-07:00

Who says that zebras can't float over a blue moon in a magenta sky? I mean, really, if you had the choice, wouldn't you rather live in a world where that maybe wasn't so out of the ordinary? And by that I don't mean jumping on the Timothy Leary bandwagon, but just maybe loosening up a little. Maybe you just need to look at the world a tiny bit differently.

I've just spent two days at workshops learning all about the Right Brain Initiative. And for those who must need to know what that is at this very second, here's the address: http://www.therightbraininitiative.org/

Right now the site is pretty much a series of pdfs but I've been assured that there will be more content added soon. But here's some info that I can give you now. In this country, the very country that seems to be at times a gasping goldfish scraping feebly at the sides of the porcelain god with its tattered fins, there's some good things going on. And one of those good things is this organization and how it's going to help children learn better how to be mathematicians, scientists, teachers and inventors through the integration of the arts into curriculum. Notice I didn't mention painters, writers, dancers, actors, or composers. With this program that would be an obvious given. Yay!

One of my favorite things I learned was how the Right Brain Initiative was approaching these goals by teaching schools how to better use the artist providers in their community. That rates another "yay!" As an "art provider" I WANT schools to make the best use of my time there. And also, teachers are creative. Sometimes their ideas are a nice shot in the arm as far as my own lesson plans. Even artists and writers can get a little stale sometimes.

So, for anybody out there that doesn't feel that arts literacy is important to education (and I'm absolutely sure that doesn't include any of my readers out there) I have something for them to think about. Kids now are being taught to test well. That's not the teacher's fault either. And those tests judge what a child knows. It doesn't test what a child understands.

Hmmm... Imagine, a world of future scientists, mathematicians, teachers, painters, dancers, actors and composers who don't understand.

Makes you wish for the floating zebras, magenta skies and blue moons, doesn't it?

Looks like a once in a blue moon moment has arrived though. Here's the address again.

http://www.therightbraininitiative.org/

2009-10-08T12:27:00.000-07:00

I love getting email from people who like my art or my books. It feels good to know that you're not the only one laughing at your jokes. But several times a year I get an email from aspiring authors inquiring about me illustrating their stories.

These inquiries usually break down into 3 categories.

1. A writer that believes their story needs accompanying illustrations in order to submit said story to a publishing house.

2. A writer who wants to self publish their story and needs illustrations to complete their project.

3. A small start-up company inquiring about availability and rates.

Each of these different categories requires a different sort of response and I'll work my way backwards to demonstrate what my responses usually are.

To inquiry #3 I respond with my information and usually ask a couple questions about their contract terms. I have taken on some work from this category.

To inquiry #2 I ask even more questions, usually beginning with what their budget is. Usually, the people going down the self publishing road are shocked to hear that experienced illustrators get from a few thousand to a several thousand dollars advance against future royalties for a book.

Now, if you're among the shocked, consider this: Illustrators spend months, sometimes many, many months on those illustrations. Can you live for many, many months on a few thousand dollars? And since earning out that advance isn't guaranteed, then that might be ALL the income you'll ever see for that project.

My second response to them is to check with a local art school. They may be able to find a student willing to work for a lot less for the experience. But PLEASE - do NOT approach a professional illustrator with a very low offer and tell them that the exposure will be worth it. Exposure we have. And money for rent and groceries aren't paid with exposure. They're paid for by money.

Now, as far as question #1 - this one is easy. IF you want to write for children, and/or you have a story, or much more preferably stories that you've worked on, participated in a writers' group to get feedback on, maybe even attended classes, workshops and SCBWI conferences to get even more help with your writing - then congratulations! You've done a LOT of work. Writing a story is the easy part. Revising that story within an inch of its life? Not so much.

And here's the good news: YOU DON'T NEED TO FIND YOUR OWN ILLUSTRATOR. If you get an offer for your story, then the editor will choose an illustrator for you. The exception to this is if you are already an experienced artist and submit your writing and art together.

I've illustrated most of my books and have illustrated other authors' writings but sometimes an editor will still have someone else do the artwork for my stories. Maybe the editor has a different vision for the look of my book. Maybe my artwork just isn't their personal taste. Do I mind having someone else illustrate? Nope. I actually enjoy the thrill of seeing another person's creative take on my words.

So question #1 askers, relax. You don't need to rustle yourselves up some purty pictures from the likes of me.

But if any of you out there want some purty pictures to hang on your walls - then just click on the handy-dandy fine art button to the side. I have plenty of art for sale.

2009-09-27T10:28:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life hands you hot fudge sundaes. Sometimes life hands you a steaming pile of, er, beets like the tray-full my friend, the lizard man is toting.

I'm not a beet fan. Yes, I'll eat them roasted with yams and potatoes, drizzled with olive oil and flavored with rosemary. But steamed, or worse, canned?

Ick, ick and more ick.

But in writing, the beets life hands you can add more flavor to your WIP than you think. I just had one of those steaming piles land on my doorstep and at first all I could do was regard it with dismay. But here's the good news. I'm a Mad Men fan.

Now what does that gloriously wonderful show have to do with beets or writing? It's all about the riding lawnmower. Oh, and the unfortunate events misusing such a garden tool can cause to occur.

In the last episode of Mad Men, a drunken secretary races a John Deere madly through a celebratory office party. Of course there's a mishap. And one amputated foot later, the character Roger Sterling leans into the office past a blood-spattered window and remarks to the despondent employees inside, "Relax boys. Somewhere, sometime in this business, this has happened before."

God bless Roger Sterling.

Of course what happened to me has happened somewhere and sometime before. It's actually a pretty relatable experience. So, I integrated my beet pile into my WIP. And now my main character is sharing my misery. It also gave me a chance to put my particular misfortune, which thankfully wasn't of the riding lawnmower variety, into perspective. And you know, it added a nice dimension to my story.

Beets.

They may not be so bad after all.

Especially chased with a nice, relaxing glass of wine.

2009-09-21T13:19:00.000-07:00

I remember thinking when I was a little kid that teachers seemed both impossibly old and knew everything there was to know in the universe. There was no way, I thought back then, that I'd ever be even half as smart as they were.

Now I spend a fair amount of my time teaching art and writing to little kids. And funny, now the tables have turned. They all seem impossibly young and there's no way, I'm thinking, that I can ever be even half as creative as they are.

Will I ever get a break?

Magic 8-Ball says: Don't hold your breath.

Here's the problem-we live so much of our lives wanting to be something that we're not. When I was a little kid, I wanted to have the power and the smarts of my older teachers. Now that I spend a nice chunk of my time at the hairdresser's getting the gray erased from my head, I yearn for the freedom and the creativity of the little kids I'm teaching.

But the wisdom of the Magic 8-Ball aside, I don't think it has to stay that way. We can go from wanting to getting. And to do that, the first thing we need to do as artists and writers is to remember how to play. Not the adult, competing with teeth bared, leaving no one standing kind of play, but the twirling around in the grass until you fall down or barf sort of play. Or the play where you walk along a curb, pretending that instead of the street just below, it's red hot lava, and if you slip, you'll be burnt to a crisp or eaten by the lava sharks.

Kids do this all the time, no matter all the fuss about them spending too many hours in front of electronic devices. Kids still do play. I see it all the time.

And one thing that is sure to make my day as a teacher is watching them play with their art or writing. Last week, I began a session with a new group of students. The first thing we worked on was dialogue. So I brought lists of animal riddles and the kids were to add tags and punctuation, morphing the riddles to actual dialogue.

The jokes were pretty standard stuff, riddles I remember thinking were funny when I was young-but not so much anymore. But the more elephant riddles or dog riddles or duck riddles I read out loud, the more the kids laughed. And before long, I was laughing too, remembering just why, long ago, I'd thought they were funny. I'd dropped my adult shield for awhile and played.

Then came the time for the kids to read some of their new sentences out loud. There were the bunch of standard 8 year old fare like:

"What's gray and goes up very slowly, but comes down quickly?" burped Burp Man.
"An elephant in an elevator!" barfed Barf Man.

But it was the next boy who read who made me realize how just how important it is to truly play when writing. He stands to read, looking very pleased with himself and giggling a bit before he begins.

"What do you call a cat that eats lemons?" demanded David Hasselhoff.
"A sourpuss!" roared the ghost of Abraham Lincoln.

My mouth fell open and then I laughed. I laughed until my eyes streamed and my nose ran. And then I vowed that I would never forget to play like a kid ever again.

Will I break that promise? Of course. I already have countless times in the last few days. But will I remember to try? You betcha.

The drawing at the top of this page is a sketch for an illustration for a book called, "I Want to be Big Too". It was only published in Korea so I've never seen the final project. But now I think I may have done those kids so far away a disservice. They can get as big as they'd like but I want them to hold onto the magic they haven't outgrown yet.

I want everyone to remember to play.

2009-09-14T16:05:00.000-07:00

I spent a fair amount of time this last week picking grapes at the farm of chidren's book author and Rotten Ralph illustrator Nicole Rubel (http://www.nicolerubel.com/). And then we hauled all those buckets of grapes to my house where we spent another full day cooking all those grapes down to juice in a medieval-looking contraption that hissed and steamed and made my already flat hair go even flatter.

But the results are delicious. I may not know what kind of grapes they are and we didn't worry about the blends of each particular batch. Instead Nicole and I trusted that if we had good ingredients going in, then the end product had a good chance of turning out okay as well.

But near the end of the day, my mom showed up. "What is that thing?" she asked, pointing to the monster on the stovetop. Nicole and I shrugged.

"It's the grape cooker thingy," I answered.

"You've been doing this all day?" Mom then points to the rivulets of condensation rolling down the kitchen windowpane.

Nicole and I nod.

"Why don't you just get a juicer?"

"Because," I sputter like the grape cooker thingy, "we do it this way."

But after she left, Nicole and I wondered if all these years we had been taking the long way around unnecessarily, that we'd been wasting time, that we hadn't taken advantage of an obvious shortcut. But after asking around, I was relieved that we had been absolutely right to spend those many, many hours boiling grapes. It DOES taste better that way. Whew. I may not be a teenager anymore but I still haven't outgrown the need for my mom to be WRONG about something.

And now that my cupboards are full of jars of juice and I'm back to writing I'm seeing how wrangling with the grape cooker thingy is a lot like working on a book. You need to start off with the best ingredients you can. Is your idea sound? Are your characters interesting? If the answer is yes to both then you're not guaranteed a successful outcome, but it doesn't hurt.

Once you have your ingredients then it's cooking, I mean writing time. And that is a long, long time. My computer may not steam up the windows of my studio but it does steam up my brain and I wouldn't be surprised if that makes my hair go flat too. But bit by bit, I have more of the work behind me and the completed first draft chapters are as satisfying to look at as when a new line of jars of juice fills even more of the counter space.

The grape cooker thingy has been put away until next year. But the writing? That's something that never goes out of season.

Cheers!

2009-09-07T09:46:00.000-07:00

Love is a wonderful thing. Wait, that's not right. Love is a many splendored thing. It also makes the world go round, so they say. But then again there is that ditty - Love Stinks. But you know, this little piggy thinks that's just all fine and dandy too.

It's not even close to Valentine's Day and I'm thinking about love this morning. Not for people or even for the little dogs sitting at my feet gazing up at me with adoration. There's a good reason, I'm not equating love with their canine stares. I have a bowl of cereal on my desk and they know it.

"Give us the cereal bowl," their laser eyes beam into my brain, "and nobody gets hurt."

No, I'm thinking about how much I love what I do. I don't think I think about that point enough. In fact, when I get really busy, if I have deadlines or a tough consignment piece to complete or if my teaching schedule suddenly blossoms into something that looks like the man-eating plant in "The Little Shop of Horrors", then I can feel overwhelmed, put-upon - resentful - and that's a long, long way away from love.

And that's a shame. Because I'm wasting all that creative time feeling negative when I could be savoring every single micro-second of what it feels to be able to have a job like this.

I have been extremely busy this summer and I did fall into a kind of do or die funk. I was going to get things done even if it killed me. But this last weekend someone said to me, "You're so lucky. You must love what you do."

My first instinct was to launch into a litany of "poor me, I'm such a pathetic martyr, suffering for my craft". But then I realized the truer answer would be "poor me, I'm such a pathetic martyr, suffering for my crap". Because that's exactly what that type of thinking is.

I am lucky. Oh, it wasn't just luck that allowed me to make my living drawing, writing, or working with others that want to learn to draw or write. I put the time and energy in and there have been lots of dark nights of the soul when it was hard - but the love of it all kept me hanging in there.

And now that love has settled into an old-friend type of love. It's comforting. It's constant, but just like when something outrageous or hilarious flies from an old friend's mouth, that old love can surprise you, shock you, challenge you and make you fall in love all over again.

I am lucky. I write and draw-therefore

I love.

2009-08-31T16:14:00.000-07:00

You know those days when you wake up only to find out you're out of coffee AND toothpaste? When you wait for the bus in a fog of drizzle and a passing car sends a mud puddle up in the air and then down with a splash onto your head? Then at work everyone seems really mean and the vending machine eats your last dollar and the most interesting email of the day is a chain letter?

Well, at least in Nancyland it wasn't one of those days. I cleared my desk early, strapped on the hiking boots and hit the butt busting trails that scale the towering basalt cliffs rising high above the Columbia River. My mind cleared out, my legs are screaming and the endorphins make everything seem all rainbows and unicorns.

And then I came home to an email from my editor alerting me to a very excellent review of my new book, Big, Bigger, Biggest.

You can check it out here: http://wildaboutnaturewriters.blogspot.com/

Now everything's rainbows, unicorns AND chocolate cupcakes.

I love chocolate cupcakes....

2009-08-25T09:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I fled the confines of my troll hole (otherwise known as my office/studio to get out into the big, big world of nature. It was a beautiful day, and knowing that the famous Portland rains were already hulking off the coast just waiting to make sure we all remembered we aren't called webfoots for nothing, a friend and I laced up our hiking boots and headed out to the woods.

This particular trail starts out following a sparkling stream, bubbling over rocks and boulders, flowing past ferns, stands of Solomon's Seal and the shadows of massive Douglas firs. But before long, the trail heads up, up the hill. Goodbye, gentle stream grade - hello, lung bursting, butt busting battle against the law of gravity.

Thankfully, the uphill struggles were broken up by some brief downhills and the higher we climbed the more rolling the terrain. Yes, it was an effort, but it wasn't a back breaking, soul sucking one. We watched for hawks and eagles, dodged the pine cones hurled from the Doug firs by belligerent squirrels (NOW I know where monkeys learned to fling poo) and had ourselves a jolly good time overall.

And we looked forward to the hike back to the car. After all, we told ourselves, we'd walked UP to get to the top, so now we'd get to walk DOWN. But it didn't exactly turn out that way. Sure, we did lose elevation on our return trip, but remember the rolling terrain part? It was a LOT more rolling than I remembered. Suddenly, my tired legs were having a bit of difficulty heading UP. And I had to give them a combination of a stern talking-to and a pep talk to keep my pooped gams moving. But move they did and I was very happy to see the car at the end of it all.

I've hiked a lot of hikes. I've run a lot of runs. I've completed a marathon and ridden over a hundred miles in a day on my bike on more than a few occasions. It's ingrained in me that during any hike, run, bike ride or marathon there are uphills, downhills and a bunch of rolling terrain in between.

Today I hit a bit of an uphill - not in my exercise regime, but in my work. I thought I was on the easy downhill part of a project. But a call from my agent let me know that, like so many deals and contracts in these "uncertain economic times" my deal had gone poof. But I didn't freak, I didn't wail in despair, claw at my eyes or even remotely feel like doing so.

I was disappointed, sure. But that disappointment felt familiar. It felt like yesterday when after a pleasant ten minutes of downhill hiking, yet another incline loomed just ahead. I knew all I had to do was huff and puff and then there'd be another downhill coming along soon. It's just the way it is - in hiking or in a creative career.

But here's the other part that made that hike and that disappearing deal feel much more manageable. I wasn't alone in either situation. On the hike, my friend and I would chat it up during the uphills, encourage each other and talk about the downhills yet to come. On the phone today, my agent and I didn't dwell on the bad news but instead made plans about just how we'd not only get past this challenge (climb that hill) but also talked about all the wonderful rolling terrain that is the true reality of my career right now.

So I just can't make myself feel bad about this. Maybe all those athletic endeavors and 25 years of making my living as an artist and writer have allowed me a little perspective about these things.

And maybe it's also because I'm the luckiest person in the world to have not only good friends and hiking buddies, but also the best agent ever - one who always sticks with me on the uphills and never, ever lets me forget the triumphs of a journey successfully completed.

2009-08-17T18:12:00.000-07:00

I attended my 30 year high school reunion this weekend. I wasn't sure I really wanted to go. I mean, I wasn't exactly a happy teenager (do those creatures actually exist?) and I wasn't a particularly avid student so it seemed like a bit of a scary prospect. What if no one talked to me? What if no one remembered me? What if the banquet style dinner, the 89 DOLLAR banquet dinner was icky?

But I was happily surprised.

Sure, the food wasn't all that great, but the rest of it? It was all sorts of odd, unexpected, wonderful and more odd. And then more wonderful times ensued.

It didn't start out that way, though.

When I walked into the event hall, I was flummoxed. I didn't recognize a single face. Who were these people - and what had they done with my high school friends?

But, after a necessary visit to the no-host bar for my white wine security blanket, I began tentatively making the rounds. Slowly, ever so slowly, the faces of those long ago teenagers emerged from the middle-aged faces we now all wore.

The voices began to shine through as well and suddenly I could pick out the shrill, unmistakable shriek of a former cheerleader. I heard the huge laugh of the class clown. Before long, even though the old familiar was gone forever, a new familiar had taken its place.

We all laughed and drank and laughed some more and promised each other that it wouldn't be so long before the next time we got together.

How does this relate to writing, you ask? Fine - this is how.

I've had a frantically busy summer full of work, life and life's little catastrophes. I was about a third of a way through the first draft of my newest work in progress when, because the shinola hit the fan, had to put my new novel away.

And the longer I was away from it, the scarier it felt to have to face it again. What if it didn't talk to me? What if I didn't recognize it? What if I thought it was icky?

But attending the reunion gave me the confidence to reacquaint myself with my story. Sure, by now, the old familiar was long gone. But you know, I prefer the experience, crow's feet and the few gray hairs of the new familiarity I now had with my story.

I'm ready to rock on with my work in progress again.

And class of 1979 - you totally rock too.

2009-08-12T07:25:00.000-07:00

In my last post I wrote about writing for fun - forgetting about dreams of the fame and fortunes of published work glory (ha!) and just enjoy the thrill of making stuff up.

Last week while teaching 3rd through 6th graders the joys of making stuff I decided to jump right in and make something up myself. Amazing! For the first time in a long while writing didn't feel so much like rats gnawing at my toes and instead was, wait for it, fun. I thought I'd post the fruits of my efforts -

just for fun.

Frank

Frank awoke to lovely Antarctic evening. As the moon rose he stretched his wings and yawned. His tummy rumbled and he grinned. Frank's fangs glittered in the starlight as he leapt up from his ice floe and dove into the water as clean and silent as a knife blade. He had places to go and things to do.

Frank took pleasure in the teeming ranks of panicked little fish that darted all around him. As a penguin vampire, the only penguin vampire in the world, Frank knew that frightened fish blood was the tastiest.

One evening as Frank gleefully preyed upon the fish, he noticed something he'd never seen before. Way back, among the jumbled rocks in the dark of a sea cave, Frank spied an opening.

"What's this?" he asked. "A home of some sort?" Frank peered into the black of the hole. "A home for a tasty snack?"

Two eyes suddenly blinked open.

"Aha!" cried Frank as he lunged forward. But the space was too small for him to fit through. "Ouch!" said Frank as his beak crunched against the hard rock. Frank felt himself running out of air. He needed to get back to the surface.

"I'll be back," he promised the glowing eyes.

The next night Frank returned to the pile of rocks.

"Knock, knock!" he called.

The eyes appeared. "Who's there?"

"Come on out," answered Frank, "and you'll see."

"You're a vampire penguin," said the eyes. "You'll drink my blood."

"Oh, no," Frank lied, trying not to drool. "I wouldn't do a thing like that."

"I'm just a baby," said the eyes. "And I'm the last of my kind, so I have to be careful."

"A baby!" thought Frank. "And the last of its kind? That makes it all the more special. I won't touch another drop of ordinary fish blood until I have this delicacy!"

"Maybe if you brought me something to eat," suggested the eyes. "Then I might trust you a little."

Frank turned and flapped hard through the water. He gathered a bunch of seaweed together and got to work.

"Here," said Frank when he got back to the rocks. "I made you a kelp cake."

"Just toss it in," said the eyes.

Frank did and the kelp cake disappeared. "Now do you trust me?" he asked.

"Sort of," said the eyes. "But I'm still hungry."

Frank spent the whole evening fetching food for the baby. He brought sea urchin casserole, starfish surprise and even a jellyfish sandwich. One by one the treats vanished into the rocks.

"Are you ready to come out now?" asked Frank.

"I'll think about it," said the eyes. "Can you come back later?"

"You bet I'll be back later," grumbled Frank. He climbed up on his ice floe and sighed. His stomach ached with hunger and he felt weak. "I'll make that baby face me," vowed Frank, "if it's the last thing I do."

The next night, Frank stood in front of the opening. "Come on out," he called, "like you promised."

"I promised no such thing," said the eyes and for a moment Frank thought they took on a red glint. "I need one more thing from you to prove that we'll get along just fine."

"What final thing?" asked Frank impatiently, knowing he must eat soon. He could feel himself getting skinnier by the minute.

"I need a nightlight," said the eyes. "the deep sea Angler Fish make the best ones."

"But they're at the bottom of the deepest trench," protested Frank.

"Then you better get going," replied the eyes.

As Frank raced to the to the trench, he consoled himself with the thought that the baby was probably nice and fat from all the treats he'd been eating. "That'll make him extra tasty," he promised his growling stomach.

Suddenly he saw a glow and flitted fast toward the unsuspecting Angler Fish. The surprised fish sank its teeth into Frank's flipper.

"Ouch!" yelled Frank, but he tightened his grip on his prize. "This better be worth it!" Leaving a trickle of blood behind him, Frank swam back to the rocks.

"Soon I'll get what I deserve."

His stomach grumbled in reply.

When Frank arrived back at the opening, he held the Angler Fish before him. "Here's your nightlight!"

There was no answer.

"I said," Frank's voice shook with anger and determination, "I have your Angler Fish. Come out and get it, you selfish baby!"

There was still no answer.

"That's it!" shrieked Frank. "I'm coming in after you!"

Frank was so thin by now he easily slipped through the rocks. Once inside, he held the Angler Fish high and looked around. "Come out, come out wherever you are," said Frank. "Your blood will soon be mine."

The light from the fish illuminated his surroundings and Frank took in the interior of the baby's home. Huge stone walls loomed from all sides. Boulders hulked like whale backs on the sandy floor. But that wasn't what captured Frank's attention. Bones littered the gigantic cavern. Skeletons draped over the rocks, and skulls - fish, sea mammal, and bird stared blindly from their stony perches.

"What an odd place for a baby," thought Frank. "No wonder he had me running all over the place for him. He must be lonely."

"I'm sorry I scared you," said Frank, feeling sorry for the little guy. "I promise I won't drink your blood. You can come out now."

"Is that your blood I smell?"

Frank whirled around, holding the fish up, but it only cast shadows across the rocks and bones. "It's okay," he stammered. "The Angler Fish nipped me is all." Frank felt the feathers go up on the back of his neck. "Where are you?" he asked.

"Your blood smells nice, Frank." The baby's voice sounded almost oily now - smooth and slick.

"Uh, thanks," said Frank, suddenly wanting very badly to be back on his ice floe. "Why don't you come out and get your night light? I told you I wouldn't hurt you."

"That's nice to know, Frank."

Frank felt a tap on his shoulder. His empty stomach now in his throat, he slowly turned around.

The last thing Frank heard was a roared "TASTY!"

The last thing Frank saw was the small, familiar eyes of the baby - attached to the scaly, tentacled, clawed, razor jaws of the rest of its body.

Later, the baby napped. He was content. As a penguin vampire hunter, the only penguin vampire hunter in the world, he knew that frightened vampire penguin blood was the tastiest.

Author's note: I hear vampires are out, out, out in the publishing world. So instead of jumping the shark with my contribution to the ranks of bloodsucker stories out there - I thought I'd jump the penguin.

2009-08-06T08:34:00.000-07:00

My name is Nancy Coffelt and I'm a - writer. These words should be uttered in some church basement, seated in a metal folding chair along with all the other others, sipping watery coffee, directing our collective angst toward the center - the shimmering devil jewel - our creativity, that is at once horrible and fabulous.

I don't believe we chose this. We were born this way. Sitting alone and despairing in a room illuminated by nothing a monitor screen? Babbling endlessly about character, plot, and the pluperfect tense? Subsisting on nothing but frozen pizza, Twizzlers, and Diet Cherry-vanilla Dr. Pepper (sooo excellent, by the way) for weeks? Pasty skin, increasingly eroding social skills, a growing dread of but irresistable pull towards the qwerty god? Blame the writing, not the writer.

And that's just the fabulous part.

The horrible is when you can't suffer all of the above when you want to - when the dog needs walking, the laundry needs doing, an actual paycheck must be brought in - your spouse or children have the nerve to want to talk to you - that's the horrible part.

So what are we supposed to do about it?

Continue to suffer, that's a given. But maybe, just maybe there is a possibility of perhaps a smidgen, an iota, a microscopic bit of a chance of creating some sort of balance.

But even finding some other interest to distract you from your creativity then becomes an obession in itself. Come on, admit it. The same driving force holding your nose hard down on that writing grindstone has a circle of influence that extends well beyond the keyboard. For example, I play tennis. But am I able to just go out and peacefully lob a ball back and forth? If you guessed yes then you've never been on the opposite side of the net from me when I'm all wild eyes and bared teeth. I've had prettier moments, that's for sure - but pretty don't win, baby and that's what that distraction became - another mountain to conquer. Tennis = winning, so scratch that off the distraction list.

Running was no different, neither was cribbage, backgammon, and scrabble - triple word score using all my letters including a Z - eat that word, sucker!

Can you sense a pattern here? The distractions I chose were all of the competitive variety and that does make some sense. In writing, we are competing with others out in the marketplace to a degree, but mostly we're competing with - wait for it - ourselves. It's in our nature.

So is it the writing that has us by the short hairs or is it competitvness?

I decided to try a little experiment. I'd do my best to relax, have fun, NOT COMPETE with myself or anybody else with my writing.

What a concept. I'm teaching writing to a group of kids this week and while they had their heads bent over their papers, tongues sticking out sideways, writing about something that was silly and fun, I did the same. Wow. The angst shrieked and shriveled away to nothing. I felt my shoulders go down, I lost inches off my waist and thighs, my hair was full and shiny, my wrinkles disappered and my complexion glowed. Not really but a girl can dream. The angst shrivelling is true though - seriously.

And the best part was that I really liked what I wrote. It's not publishable - not by a long shot, but it's fun and more importantly it was fun to write. That writing became a distraction from my writing.

Funny how life work's isn't it?

So here's to all of you finding your distractions from your obsessions. If it's knitting socks, great. If it's baking pies, I'll be right over. But if it's simply pulling the competitive fangs off your creativity for even a little while - more power to you.

2009-08-02T16:32:00.000-07:00

In these challenging economic times... Don't you hate it when the icy-eyed talking heads on the TV mindlessly reading what passes for news these days say those words? Aaaaaaaah! Make them stop!

Well, as long as those words are still bringing in the donut money for them there's not much of a chance of that. And the truth is - it IS challenging out there and making a living as a writer or an artist is even harder than the extremely hard it was before everything exploded in our faces just like that one Brady Bunch episode where Peter's science project volcano blows mud lava all over Marcia and her snotty friends. Wow, that last sentence was a lot longer than the mini dresses Marcia and her snotty friends were wearing that day I tell you.

What's creative person to do?

We can continue to create. That's a given because it's not like we have a choice about that, right? We're always creating whether we want to or not. Don't tell me you've never looked up in a panic from a doodle-covered slip of paper only to come eye to eye with someone (usually spouse) asking in a not nice way, "Are you listening to a word I'm saying?)

So then what? We're still creating. But what if fewer and fewer are spending their hard-earned bucks on said creations. I guess that's when it's time to confront the dreaded "P" word -

promotion.

Nooooooooooooooo! Most creative people are introverts. We live in our heads and like it there so very, very much. Go out into the world? Actually face people? Talk about - gulp - myself?

Yep.

As someone who spent her adolesence hiding behind her hair, a book or her sketchpad, I'm vastly qualified to hate this prospect as much as you do. Getting out there, putting yourself forward can feel downright, well, icky.

But we're creative, right? Well that's where you can put your skills to use. How can you promote yourself without having to see, or worse, talk to anyone? That's the main reason I started a blog. It was a way to get new work seen and - AND THIS IS IMPORTANT - purchased. There is a pretty button on the right sidebar that says "fine art". The art there (fine) is mine. AND IT'S FOR SALE.

Facebook is supposed to be all that and then some as far as promotion. But honestly, if I see one more quiz like "What kind of egg dish are you?" I'll do more than scream, I'll sing. And no one wants to hear that.

Posting insightful and helpful comments on other blogs can also bring you some attention. But notice that I said "insightful" and "helpful". If your idea of that is an endless stream of "right on!" and "yeah, baby!" then perhaps that's not for you.

I belong to a fabulous group called Picture Book Artists Association (http://picturebookartists.org/ - check them out) and I always feel like such a slacker when I hear members say they've just sent out a huge mailing of postcards of their art to editors and art directors. I haven't done that in a couple of years - BUT - I am a member of that group, pay my dues, and get to be listed on that site. So even though I AM a slacker in the postcard department, I am not a slacker when it comes to joining professional organizations - whew. So maybe that's something you can do too.

Well, that's all I have for now. I the meantime, here's my last promotional plug for the day:

My book, Fred Stays With Me is being translated into French - tre classy.
My book, Big, Bigger, Biggest is going into its third printing since April - awesome.
And my debut novel, Listen is going to be out in less than 3 months - oh happy day!

Back to hiding behind something now.....

2009-07-28T08:07:00.000-07:00

Because I've been successfully unemployed (i.e. making my living as an artist and writer) my entire adult life, that also means I teach quite a bit because, you know, making "a living" can sometimes mean buying those shoes I've been drooling over or eating baked potatoes for a week. So that why I've been busy teaching writing classes this summer to various groups of kind, patient children who would probably much rather be outside climbing trees, running through the sprinkler or throwing dirt clods at each other. But instead, we'll all inside together which I don't really mind, because at least there's air conditioning. And that's good because it's been HOT.

Record breaking hot - the kind of hot that'll send you to the movie theaters to watch some pile of garbage you wouldn't pay to see in a million years - unless, that is - it's hot.

The kids have been working on story maps the beginning of this week so I thought I'd give one a try myself.

Title: It's Really Hot

Setting: Portland, Oregon.

Characters: Me, husband, son, Dutch, wiener dog extraordinaire, and Twig, the terrible min pin puppy.

Problem/Conflict: It's really hot. The sun is an evil, burning eye in the sky that doesn't blink. Everyone is grouchy. Husband is as grouchy as an ogre - and not like a cute ogre as in Shrek. He's as grouchy as one of those ugly, horrible ogres covered in face-warts sprouting black hairs.

Events: Everyone tries to figure out how to stay cool. I try being grouchy, that doesn't work. Son tries being grouchy, that doesn't work. Ugly wart ogre tries being grouchy but only gets wartier.

Resolution, Solution, Conclusion: Dutch and Twig suggest a movie - perhaps the new Johnny Depp film, Public Enemies. The grouchy people agree and smuggle the clever canines into the cool theater in reusable grocery bags. Even though the dogs insist on ordering the mortgage payment sized popcorn, fun was had by all. The best part was when Jonny Depp came and sat in the seat next to me and told me my haircut looked cute.

Theme: It's really hot, but writing fiction is fun!

Here's to cooler days ahead.

Johnny Depp - rowrrr....

2009-07-19T09:03:00.000-07:00

Kraken.

Now that's a word you don't run into every day. It is a great word though, conjuring up the best sort of memories of huddling around a flickering black and white television watching the Creature Feature midnight movie. It's amazing how you can be terrified and half asleep all at the same time.

Those old monster movies all start out the same sort of way. You have your main characters all, "La, la, la. Look at us. We're all oblivious and everything."

Then the attention shifts to some dank swamp, or a bubbling vat in a laBORatory, or an odd light streaking across a totally fake looking sky. That's when you grip your blankie closer because something's about to go DOWN, man. Monster's going to be kickin' some oblivious butt and soon.

I wonder if that's how the good people of San Diego are feeling about now. Just like my artwork at the top of this post, they're used to going to the beach and spending their day all, "La, la, la. We're all oblivious as we frolick in the waves."

But, from the darkest black of the deepest waters, monsters are coming.

Kraken.

The Guardian reports, "The carnivorous cephalopods, which weigh up to 45kg (100lb), came up from the depths last week, with swarms of them roughing up unsuspecting divers. Some reported tentacles enveloping their masks and yanking at their cameras and gear."

Yep, those Humboldt Squid, otherwise known as "Jumbo Flying Squid" or "Red Devils" are here and ready to rumble. The Guardian article continues: "Roger Uzun, a veteran scuba diver and amateur underwater videographer, swam with a swarm of the creatures for about 20 minutes and said they appeared more curious than aggressive. The animals taste with their tentacles, he said, and seemed to be touching him and his wet suit to determine if he was edible."

I don't know about you, Roger, but when something's tasting me with its tentacles, I pretty much classify that as as more aggressive THAN curious. I've done pretty well structuring my life so I remain at the top of the food chain.

I've also tried very hard to keep this blog pretty much about art and writing, so what you may ask, do carnivorous cephalopods or old monster movies have to do with either? More than you'd think.

No, seriously.

Here you are at your drawing table or at your keyboard all, "La, la, la. I'm happily creating, all oblivious and everthing."

Cue the Jaws theme.

Here's the good thing. That creative energy keeps you from hearing that thumping warning of doom for awhile. Insulating you with its own version of "blankie", hopefully long enough for you to accomplish at least some of your task. But that blankie can only hold out for so long before the monster appears all slime dripping ferocious, tentacles waving and tasting.

And who is this monster? It goes by many names. Criticism. Ridicule. Rejection. Despair. And no matter what it's calling itself on that particular day, it's an ugly sucker and it's there to drag you back down to that darkest black or that deepest water.

Uh oh.

But here's another good thing. In all those old monster movies there's always a hero. He (it was always a "he" in those films which made me sort of mad) rushes in, slays the monster, saves the victim and the day. The trick is - you have to find yourself some monster-butt kicking heroes.

I'm lucky to have a few heroes that have wrenched me back from clutching tentacles. One is my painter/writer friend, Jerry. If I'm having a one of those days where I'm positive that I've been a fraud my whole entire life - that everything I've ever produced is worse than garbage - then she swoops in to save the day, reminding me to value my work and my creativity.

Judy excells at picking me back up off the floor. She waves her magic pom poms in the air, screaming cheers like "brilliant" and "marvelous" until the monster shrinks small enough to be disposed of in a proper receptacle.

My agent, Edward Necarsulmer also makes for an excellent hero. He looks the part, all movie handsome - and plays the part perfectly as well -all suave, calm, cool, and collected - and brave as anything. There was a time when I was surrounded by rejection monsters that were quickly morphing into the despair variety. I was sure I was a goner. But Edward, with his super agent super powers, schooled those babies - but good.

With heroes like these around, I don't live in fear of the monsters. Oh, I'm full aware they're there, but I'm not shaking in my boots about it.

Kraken.

As far as I'm concerned it can kiss my, uh - blankie.

2009-07-08T16:05:00.000-07:00

No, this is not me either before I've had my pot of tea in the morning or before I've had a glass of wine in the evening. But you know, the resemblance is pretty remarkable...

I've been teaching back to back classes this week which means my brain, now that it's Wednesday, has probably liquefied. I'm thinking my brain most likely is about the consistency of a Slurpee. Yummm... Slurpees. Do they still sell Slurpees? Now I want one. Do you think they make them wine flavored?

Anyway, my first class is called illustrated storybook and is populated by a passel of 3rd through 5th graders, all them geniuses. One is writing a fictional memoir based on the life of J.K. Rowling but mostly told through the experiences of a coffeehouse waiter. Another one's beagle character has just been catapulted through the air by a snide fox, and yet another student's characters are being deviled by flying piranhas at the train station.

Don't you hate it when that happens?

My second class is Wildlife Illustration. And by wildlife I don't mean my Great Aunt Marjorie tying one on and dancing down the boulevard with a lampshade on her head. No, this wildlife is of the tamer persuasion - actual animals.

Actually, I wish we were drawing from actual animals but I believe the liability involved in bringing a snarling fox or a disgruntled cougar into the classroom is fairly impressive. Sigh. So we draw from photographs thanks to Portland's main library's extensive image files. But that's not all. We've also been drawing from life - kind of.

I guess I should really say we've been drawing from death as we've spent a fair amount of time trying to get the shapes of cat, dog, coyote, raccoon, nutria, bear, and badger skulls just right. The kids have been very excited about the skulls - just ever so slightly grossed out but more enthusiastic than anything else. It's been the reactions of adults to these skulls that have been the most surprising.

Most adults it seems, think skulls are - icky.

Wow. Either I'm very immature or MORE mature than the squeamish grownups I've encountered the last few days. And if I was shocked at the skulls' reception I was even more taken aback by the reactions I've gotten from my dead bodies.

And by that I mean taxidermy. I was lucky to be able to rent a couple of beautiful vintage specimens. One, a fox, immediately dubbed, "Foxy-Loxy" by the class was decked out spendidly in his russet coat. The other formerly living beast, a couger was, alas, only a 3-D head attached to
a 2-D body with a felt backing but still sported an impressive set of choppers. The kids loved them, but I ran into adult reactions that ranged from "disgusting" to "super-disgusting".

I don't understand that sort of thinking at all. Yes, I agree it would be bad, bad, bad for me to take my Elmer Fudd wabbit gun and go out and massacre some animals and stuff'em real good for my class. But the fox, the cougar, and the skulls are all dead - long dead. And the manner of their death aside, they enjoyed quite a bit of respect from my students - respect that can carry over to regarding living animals as the wonders that they are.

Maybe I should teach another class - this time for adults. Maybe I'll call it, "Drawing Dead Wildlife - Hey, Your Kids Can Handle It, Why Can't You?"

2009-07-03T12:01:00.000-07:00

Way back when I first started writing as work it was hard to convince people when they’d call me that I was really working.

“Whatcha doing?” they’d ask when I’d pick up the phone.

“Working,” I’d answer, hoping they’d realize that was code for, “go away”.

“Oh, good,” they’d say. “You’re not busy.” And then launch into whatever it was they just had to tell me.

But over the years and especially since the invention of caller ID and the miracle that is email, I don’t deal with all of that so much anymore. But here’s my dirty little secret – when I say that I’m working, there are times when that doesn’t involve an incredible amount of actual writing.

In the last few days during my working time I’ve played approximately 87 games of Solitaire. In memory of Farrah Fawcett I watched 6 episodes of Charlie’s Angels on Hulu. And then remembering that Jack Lord was pretty cool, too, I watched a couple of episodes of Hawaii 5-0 as well.

Book ‘em, Dano.

I perused blogs absolutely necessary to my work – agent blogs, editor blogs, writer blogs, blogs featuring cake wrecks - blogs featuring dogs and cats speaking in lol.

I discovered that Chips Ahoy cookies taste awesome dunked in Dr. Pepper, the old man wiener dog will tolerate sitting on my lap while I pretend he’s a ventriloquist dummy, and again realized (for the millionth time) that writing is hard. But here’s why I don’t feel guilty about my little secret at all. All that stuff I described is still working.

Yes, I have a novel to finish before the end of summer, and yes I have lots of writing to do around my teaching gigs. But if I do nothing but write then I might, I don’t know, hurt myself.

Stick with me here, I do have a point and I finally intend to make it. I play tennis which in my opinion is a lot like writing. There’s no way I can go into a match or even a friendly pick-up game cold. First I need to warm up. Usually that means short shots, not a lot of running or stretching. That’s what the Solitaire games are all about. The second part of warming up involves moving back to the baseline and does require a little more effort. That there’s your blog reading.

Okay, now it’s time to write.

In writing, just like in tennis, you have to stop once in a while to check in with your creative self. Should you change up your shots? Should you try to salvage or completely scrap chapter seven? And if you don’t think experimenting with cookies and soft drinks or putting on a Charlie McCarthy show with an aged dachshund is creative then I don’t know what to say to you.

Once you’ve re-oiled those creative gears, it’s time to write again.

And then it’s time to rest. In tennis, that usually means it’s Miller time. In writing, at least in my writing, rest means it’s Hulu time.

I do still use my caller ID when the phone rings. But a lot of the time I don’t screen calls because I’m writing, I’m screening them because I’m working.

Cue Hawaii 5-0 music.

2009-06-29T06:53:00.000-07:00

Here's the best part about being an artist or a writer - acceptance. And by acceptance I don't always mean financial acceptance like a sale - even though that is my personal favorite. Acceptance can also come in the form of an email from someone telling you they like your work, saying something to the same effect (gasp!) to your face, or bringing you good news in a real-life old school letter like the one I got in the mail the other day.

Seeing an actual letter envelope in my mailbox outside of the holiday season is akin to spotting a kangaroo out in the front yard. You know what it is but you still can't quite figure out what it's doing there. And because of the almost total shift to email communication has transformed my mailbox to nothing more than a bill stuffed bearer of bad news has me conditioned to get cold sweats when I hear the postal truck, this exotic delivery had me anxious at first.

Did someone die? No they'd call me on the phone to let me know that, wouldn't they? And then I flip it over and see the New York City address on the back flap. It's from one of my publishers.

Now here's the bad part about being an artist or a writer - you get rejected - a lot. And rejection is a soul-sucking black hole of despair that seems to exist for no other reason than to try to convince you to quit - to never ever draw another pretty picture or write anything other than a check to the utility company. And if you've been working for awhile there's a good chance that expecting rejection is your default setting.

So my immediate reaction to seeing that address was enough to cause my anxiousness to bloom into a full scale crushing sense of impending doom. My heart beating wildly, tiny beads of cold sweat turning my mascara into little rivers of black, I carefully pick at the edges of the flap, thinking if my ego's demise is in there, then I want to meet that fate in the light of this gorgeous summer day.

But when I draw the letter out it isn't a letter saying you stink, we think your work is poo, so go away and never slink back - no. It's a letter letting me know my new book, Big, Bigger, Biggest has gone in for another reprint - yay!

And even though selling books is fabulous financial acceptance, there was even more than that contained in that brief, one paragraph letter. At the bottom of the page my editor had affixed a little sticker of a goldfish with a speech bubble coming out of its mouth saying, "Awesome."

That letter's now taped to the wall above my computer screen because I know that in this business there'll be plenty of days where the acceptance uttered in that one word by that adhesive backed goldfish will be what keeps me drawing and writing. We all need a cheerleader some days. Mine just happens to be a goldfish for the time being.

What's yours?

2009-06-24T07:57:00.000-07:00

Make Way for Ducklings

I attract strays. Example one: My sister and I are on the freeway, on our way to the coast to deliver some of my artwork to a gallery there. Suddenly all traffic stops. Through the jumble of cars I spy, no, please no, but yes, it's a dog. The big white dog cowers, slinks belly down on the asphalt toward me, terrified. I take its collar in my hand and lead it back to my sister's, oh yeah I forgot to mention, my sister's BRAND NEW car. After a trip to the beach and back where happy dog plays, then gets smelly sand all over sister's new car, we find the now not so white dog's rightful home.

Example two: Find one bag of bones dog, collar biting into neck wandering a park by my house - no ID. After a hefty vet bill and two weeks trying to find out where said dog actually belongs, found her a new home where someone ended up showing her what a good home is supposed to be.

Example three: Find injured pigeon in front yard with happy cats staring it down. Soon find perfect pigeon print pressed in the glass of my picture window. I took it to the vet. Yeah, I really did spend money on that flying rat. She was very sweet and because of her set broken leg and wing it was hard for her to stand up - hence her new name, Eileen (I - lean, get it?). Eileen ended up with a pigeon rescue organization. Who knew there was such a thing?

Example four: Every cat I've ever had.

Example five: The photo above says it all. Ducklings. Duckling are adorable but not so much when they're weaving in and out of traffic on a busy highway, no mom in sight only to make their way a quarter of a mile to the dog park near the tennis courts. Stupid ducklings. And who takes them? If you've gotten this far in my post you already know. My tennis friends gather them up and we dump them in a commandeered Styrofoam cooler. I lay a couple of tennis rackets across the top so they can't get out and make my way to the Audubon Wildlife Rescue Center. How do I know where it is? I guess I forgot to include the injured bluejay and the hypothermic baby chipmunk in my stray list.

The ducklings peep-peep from the cooler. They are adorable and so tiny. I wind my way through the hills toward the Rescue Center when something pops into my peripheral vision, and then another thing. Ahhh! Ducklings! They're all popping up in an Orville Redinbacker frenzy through the little space between the tennis rackets. I grab three at a time with my right hand while trying to keep the car on the road with my left. I toss them as gently as my panicked self allows back into the cooler, only to have 3 more right back out again. By the time I dropped those little boogers off, I was sweatier than I was playing tennis in the sun.

I'm going back to those courts today and I'm hoping for some great tennis. What I'm not hoping for is more ducklings. I'm done with strays for awhile. Unless of course I happen across a stray George Clooney or something. That would be fine, that would be just fine indeed.

2009-06-20T09:22:00.000-07:00

So there you are, cruising right along in your creative process. Your mind's zipping, ideas snapping like pop-its thrown down onto the sidewalk to terrorize your little sister. Oh wait, that's my memory - sorry, Mary...

Anyway, it's a good feeling, a powerful feeling because you know exactly where you're going.

And then you don't. You suddenly don't know where you're going at all. All engines stop.

I don't know about you but this is the most frustratingly, painful, wretched experience my work can throw at me. I can take impossible deadlines. I can stand up to first graders with pink eye or sixth graders with a major 'tude. Weathering this economy as a picture drawing, story making-upping, itinerant teacher? I'm still standing, baby.

But having your creative flow derailed - man, that's harsh.

So what's a body to do other than lie on the floor like a dead thing?

1. Step away from the keyboard or drawing table. If it's not working, it's not working. Taking a break, even if you've accomplished absolutely nothing so far is not being a bum, it's recognizing that your tanks are on E for empty. Take a walk, clean that bathroom (you know it needs it), watch daytime TV. Come on, I know you want to.

2. Find someone to wallow with. Complain to a friend, hopefully a friend that understands what you mean. That friend doesn't have to be an artist or a writer. If their frustration is that they haven't been able to find that perfect pair of shoes they just know is out there waiting for them if they could just figure out where they are, then they'll understand - believe me.

3. Read. Read. Read. Look. Look. Look. Read books by authors you love. Read books about authors you love. Read books about artists you love. Then go to galleries and the museum and stare at their work. Let all that creative goo get on you.

4. Find your network. Do you have a writer or artist critique/support group? If not, start looking for one. Chances are they've been in this same boat just as often as you have. And they'll be happy to remind you how non-special you are in your angst. Better yet, they may be able to point out the exact thing that's making you stuck in the first place. Don't know how to find such a group? That's what Google's for.

5. Relax. Have you ever tried to sneeze? It's a lot like trying to make the creative process happen. Once you get enough of these roadblocks under your belt, you'll know that this too shall pass just like Aunt Hildy's fruitcake. My apologies. If I wasn't stuck myself, I'd have come up with a much more appropriate analogy than that.

You will get back on the road again - eventually. Who knows? That road might even be a better one - one with lots of fastfood places and fiberglass dinosaur attractions to stop at. Gasp! Maybe even a corn maze.

2009-06-16T13:54:00.000-07:00

Dutch has declared a winner as far as pet horror stories. And he has the experience to be a wise and fair judge. He's outlived two cats, a couple of dogs, and is holding his own against Twig the Terrible minpin puppy.

He approved oh so much of the chewed up pillows. In fact he said he's penciled that activity into his calendar. Wiener dogs aren't just about naps and passing gas you know. He also liked the Samoyed's sly attempts at owner disgrace through intestinal talents. And fat cats are always easier to catch, so that warranted a thumbs up.

Oops. I've been informed that it was insensitive of me to point out the old man wiener dog's lack of opposable digits. Sorry Dutch!

And the duct taped refrigerator was a painful reminder of the time Dutch got his head stuck in the crisper drawer so he had to go hide under the couch for awhile after reading that.

Ultimately, it was the cat spray story that won him over. It reminded him of his old cat pal, Sapphire that loved nothing more than slinking up and down the street marking the tires of every car and also the shoes of sluggish pedestrians. So "shelter-cats" please email me with your address and Dutch will send you a book right away.

If he had opposable thumbs, that is! Hey! Dutch! I was kidding. Step away from the pillows.

Rats. I'll send your book as soon as I'm done cleaning up all the feathers...

2009-06-11T09:49:00.000-07:00

Oh, happy day! Check it out - I have galleys, lots of galleys! And getting the box of them dumped on my doorstep felt like Christmas, my birthday, and Arbor Day all wrapped up into one because that's when I could actually touch this book (even though it's a galley, it still looks and feels like the real deal).

I'm weird about that. None of my books feel real until I actually hold them in my hands. Maybe it's because they've lived in my head for so long. First, I mull over an idea for weeks, months, sometimes years. Then I have to glue my butt to my desk chair and write the thing - oh bother. Then come the revisions, more revisions, and then guess what? More revisions? Thank you, don't mind if I do.

But I think that long time spent thinking about, writing, and then the fixing serves an additional purpose other than creating and polishing a book. For me, it allows me to detach from the project. Believe me, after the umpteenth revision, it doesn't feel like my book anymore, it feels like a jumble of places I need to make not suck.

But when that magical box arrives, it feels like a book again - my book. And because I've had that separation, and because now it's been many months since I've spent any time looking at the text, and because in the meantime I've completed another novel and started another, I get to look at it with new eyes. Have I read it already? Does my puppy poop on the rug? You betcha.

I've set aside one of my galleys to give away here. If anyone wants to read a "haunting story of three people dramatically thrown together by fate, each struggling to come to terms with their harrowing past" just post your own bad puppy, or bad kitty story in the comments section. I'll decide if one of those trumps my puppy's misbehavior and then you win!

Okay, lurkers, this is your chance!

Oh, and just in case you missed my plug the first time, here's where you can see more of cover artist Michael Morgenstern's wonderful work: http://www.mmorgenstern.com/

2009-06-08T17:48:00.000-07:00

The Importance Of Being Geeky

I've been teaching art and writing to groups of 1st through 6th graders the last couple of weeks. You'd think the age spread would make working with them difficult because you'd need to shift gears all the time. But that's not the case, because all these kids are interesting. And what makes them interesting is their geekiness.

These kids are geeking out all over the place. One is all about mollusks. Another, video game cheat codes. Two others argue about the construction of ballet shoes - if, that is, they were worn by a hamster.

I tell you, this is good stuff.

And it's no surprise that they're all producing some great work. I'm always amazed when I run across self-conscious people. It's a little sad, I think, to go through life worried about looking foolish, concerned with putting your most serious self forward so you won't look like - well - a geek.

Geeks are fantastic! They know all about the best stuff, like cool mollusks and how much you'd weigh on Neptune. They are perfectly suited to being artists - and writers - whether they know it or not. Artists, and writers need that geek streak whether they know it or not. They can walk around all arty and everything with their little berets and ascots, but deep down inside?

They're geeks.

They have to be. To be able to put all the information you need to into your work you have to first learn about all that information. It has to grab you, nab you, and shake you like a terrier dispatching a rat. If you're not passionately in love with your information then your product's going to read, or look like, a tepid second date - all talk - no fireworks.

So what do you do if you are a little geek-phobic? You need to fugetaboutit. Try walking your dog in your rubber ducky pajamas. I do this all the time and my neighbors don't even call the police anymore. Name your dog something ridiculous, like "Twig" and hold your head up proudly in the park even when other people turn to stare. Ask the wait person at the restaurant for tartar sauce for your french fries without turning red when she gives you the fish eye.

Then, when you're ready, indulge your geekiness with information you find fascinating. Here's the best part - you get to choose what it is without worrying about it anymore. The geek-cops have been banished and now you're free to create at will.

You're free to be a geek.

Welcome home.

2009-06-02T15:14:00.000-07:00

This may look like just a slightly washed out, grainy cell phone photo, but it's more than that - much, much more.

This is the first time I've seen a galley of my debut novel, Listen!

The official pub date is October but seeing this makes that down-the-road date feel oh, so much closer. Yahoo! Zowie, baby. It's real.

It's really, really, real. And when I get my own copy of a galley in my hot little hands, you better believe I'll be posting a clearer version. Artist extraordinaire, Michael Morgenstern, who also did the fabulous cover for Laurie Halse Anderson's Speak, deserves to have his work showcased in something other than a slightly washed out, grainy cell phone photo.

To see more of Michael Morgenstren's work in all its glory go - here: http://www.mmorgenstern.com/

But for right now, I'm going to sit with the cell phone photo and bask a little. I'm feeling a little Golem-y about it. It's my new "precious".

Wow, look how easy it is for me to be creepy! Now that's talent.

2009-05-29T08:17:00.000-07:00

Portrait of a Pirate as a Young Dog.

Twig is fetching even when she's not actually fetching, no? Who can resist those squinty eyes, that tiny head?

I've hit a tough place in my new novel, can you tell? The computer and all its time wasting wonders calls to me. "Novel?" it soothes. "The world don't need more steenking novels. I know a place where you can look at many, many beautiful pictures of miniature pinschers, like myself - er, I mean like Twig."

I look at the tiny headed dog. She squints at me, then reaches out a long stick arm to hassle the old man wiener dog.

So how did writers go nuts before the internet? Absinthe I guess. But at 8:30 in the morning I'm more interested in a pot of tea and raisin bran. So that leaves me avoiding the tough place in my novel stone cold sober.

"Aaargh!" Pirate noises. Twig has launched a full on attack on the old man wiener dog. The only thing missing are cutlasses and those three cornered pointy hats - oh, and puffy shirts.

I open my manuscript document, wondering if the answer to my tough place is a pirate dog in a puffy shirt.

It's not.

The dogs tumble across a sun patch on the carpet, snarling good naturedly. Maybe the answer to my tough place isn't a dog, pirate or no. Maybe the answer is how these two dogs are behaving. Neither one of their tiny heads is worrying about what they're not doing. They're just being - being dogs. Sometimes that means sleeping on the forbidden couch, sometimes that means stealing socks.

For a human, I have a tiny head. But even with my tiny head I can see their point. I'll try to relax about the whole thing and be a writer. Sometimes a writer writes, and sometimes a writer surfs the web for many, many beautiful pictures of miniature pinschers.

Arrgh.

2009-05-27T14:58:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading Thomas Nagel's excellent essay, "What is it Like to be a Bat?" In it he makes the argument that as humans we are unable to truly know what it's like to be a fluttering, echo locating, night rodent. We can imagine having webs between our limbs allowing us to swoop at will. We can imagine eating bugs. We can imagine what it's like to go nighty-night at the break of dawn and spend those sleeping hours upside down. I'm having fun right now imagining chasing after a few people I've come across in life. Hey, people! Look at me! I'm a bat and I'm going to fly right into your hair.

But in these imaginings we aren't knowing a bat's experience of what it's like to be a bat. We're stuck in our human-ness only knowing what it would be like for us to behave as a bat behaves.

I run into variations on this theme pretty often. Why do squirrels dart out in front of your car, making you have a heart attack as you slam on your brakes only to dart right back as soon as you start moving again?

I try very hard to imagine what it's like to be a squirrel, but the closest I get is pretty similar to a TV screen between stations.

Here's a species even closer to home. The little dog, Twig, joyfully runs over to proudly lead me to a new pile of poo on the stairs. I try very hard to imagine what it's like to be a 5 pound miniature pincher puppy. Hmm, aside from images of dog treats, chewed socks and the repeated word, "sucker", I got nothing.

Truthfully, I don't even know what it's like to be "that guy" talking too loud on his cell phone, the woman that cut me off on the freeway, or the baby in the seat next to me that screamed the entire flight.

So what does this mean for a writer? I always felt I knew exactly what it was like to be all my characters. I invented them after all. I believed I knew what it was like to be a three legged cat, a dead stuffed cat, men, little kids, women with actual waists. But did I?

Maybe the best I, we, can do is imagine what it is like to be them only as far as knowing what it is like to be us behaving as those other characters.

Hmm.

2009-05-21T12:14:00.000-07:00

How do royalties work? I've gotten this question so many times and mangled the answer to that question so many times. But if you really want to know the correct answer, Moonrat's got you covered.

She may not be Queen of the Dog Park, but she is Queen of Information on this tricky subject.

To bathe in the light of her wisdom, just go here -> http://editorialass.blogspot.com/2009/05/and-you-thought-royalty-involved-crown.html

2009-05-18T13:48:00.000-07:00

I just got back from a trip. It wasn't to be a vacation. It wasn't to be career related. It was to be life related. I just got back from Ohio where my son just graduated from college. First I have to say that I do not travel well. I am an unapologetic homebody control freak who not only hates to fly, but is absolutely terrified of being strapped in a seat at 35,000 feet up in the clear blue deadly air speeding along at, how fast do jets go? I'm guessing it's about a million miles an hour.

That's right - a million miles an hour. I'd have to be a moron not to be terrified, right?

But I was willing to risk several more gray hairs to see the man cub in his cap and gown get his very much deserved college diploma. As it turned out, my view was a little blurry - hard to see through tears, you know. Yes, I did fulfill my obligation as a mom. I blubbered throughout pretty much the whole ceremony.

But there was one section of the 3+ hour event that I didn't cry through. It was the address. The speaker was essayist, novelist, playwright, and distinguished professor of English at Stony Brook University, Roger Rosenblatt. Truth be told, I wasn't much interested in hearing him speak. I wasn't interested in hearing anyone speak. I was there to see my kid. And whatever or whomever didn't directly relate to my kid or my little personal universe, then it was all pretty much blah, blah, blah.

But Professor Rosenblatt changed my opinion right away and at the same time changed the overall view of what my trip turned out to be. The guy's hilarious. He speaks in a calm, deadpan fashion that urges you to lean forward in your seat. And just as you're tipped almost to ending up ass over tea kettle, he throws a line at you that sets you back in your chair, laughing said body part off with abandon.

A large part of what he talked about was, of course, now that you're done with college, what do you do with the rest of your life. But instead of telling them to roll up their shirt sleeves and get to work, the professor gave these hopeful young people some helpful tips on how to spend their lives avoiding work.

I wish I could remember the whole list of avoidance tips, but I do remember two of the. One was to become a Drug Czar. The other was to become a writer. Being a writer frees you from all sorts of responsibities, he advised. A CEO that has fallen from grace is a disappointment. A writer living in abject poverty is an acheivment.

This line of logic made the rows of robed and capped graduates laugh. This line of logic made me feel better. Suddenly, instead of feeling like a financial failure, I was right on target as a writer. Yes, I'm published. And yes, I'm buying nothing but store brands, baby. And work? Most people would think that spending most of the day in in your pajamas reading, staring at a heartless keyboard, or surfing the web is not work. Hey, Hulu is great reasearch. Seriously.

I have spent my adult life not working. I've had to work pretty much 24/7 in order to be able to do this, but it's been totally worth it. I think Professor Rosenblatt was right on. Work=bad. Passion for what you're working on = good. Plus, now I can greet the UPS guy in my rubber ducky pjs at 3:00 in the afternoon with my head held high. I'm a successful, store brand buying writer after all.

Hearing my son's name called and watching him walk down that aisle made this foray out into the world one of the highlights of my life. Hearing Professor Rosenblatt's speech was a bonus.

To quote BTO, "People see you having fun, just a lyin' in the sun. You tell them that you like it that way. It's the work that we avoid and we're all self employed. We love to work at nothin' all day."

Bring on the rubber ducky pjs. I've got some writin' to do.

2009-05-08T12:00:00.000-07:00

I used to be a tennis singles player. But then, mostly because it was easier to find other players, I switched to doubles. And I've spent a lot of time and some cash in order to learn this very different game.

Then, this week, my team's coach puts me in the singles slot for our last match of the season. And it's not only our last match, it's a match with the top team in our division. "So what did I do to piss you off?" I ask our coach. He just smiles and says, "You'll just have to adapt is all."

I did manage to do that - after losing 3-6 in the first set. What I had been trying that whole first set wasn't working. It took nine games and a lost set to figure out what I doing, what had worked so well for doubles, wasn't going to work for me right now, right here. So I changed my game plan and won the second set 6-3 and the third set tie-break.

It made me wonder how often that applies to art and writing as well. I've been doing more writing than art lately and have been switching back and forth between picture book manuscripts and young adult novels. Picture books are more like doubles. The points are usually shorter and you just don't have the time to take your time with a long rally to set up your shots.

The novels are definitely more akin to a singles game. There you can take some time to really set up the court the way you'd like. And if you do that well, you'll get a point. Sure, singles and novels have their furious, rapid fire moments, but those are often offset by the more methodical set ups.

I have found myself at times trying to force a picture book mentality onto a novel, and also the other way around. Sometimes that's because I'm going in about 37 directions at once, creative-wise, but sometimes it's because I'm simply slow to adapt. And for me, the best plan is to scrap what I've written and start over. That's not quitting - that's recognizing you need a new game plan for the project in front of you.

On game day this week, there wasn't any way I was going to win that first set with the tactics I was using. But by reevaluating my game plan I did see success. I know this can seem like a reach. Does tennis strategy really translate to writing? Well, my fabulous agent, Edward Necarsulmer IV has sold both a novel and picture book projects for me in the past year. He's a genius at game plans and not too shabby a tennis player either.

So here's where I'd like to say I played a tennis match against my agent and I watched his game and adapted to come through with a win. Nope, I played a tennis match against my agent and had my fanny handed to me on a silver platter.

Next time, Edward. Next time.

2009-05-03T09:46:00.000-07:00

Why it's hard to write (and draw) sometimes....

It seems like whenever you read about a writer (or an artist) not being able to create, it's usually an angst-ridden wail of despair and dread. It's a treatise on the most heinous condition known to writers and artists - THE BLOCK.

Having THE BLOCK is the equivalent of laying in bed, awake in the middle of the night. You want to sleep - you'd pretty much kill to sleep. But nope, sleep just laughs its sneaky little laugh at you and scurries to hide behind the glowing numbers of your alarm clock, forcing you to stare at the glacially slow-changing numbers as the minutes and hours pass.

Fun times!

Not being able to write (or draw) is always labeled bad, bad, bad. And sometimes it is. I've sat at the keyboard, not doing anything more than just sitting and looking at it more times than I want to think about. Yes, it is like laying awake at night or even worse, it's like sitting alone at the dinner table, faced with a plate of uneaten peas long after everyone else was allowed to leave. You'd like to be able to eat that cold, coagulated, green lump, but can you?

Stupid peas.

But not being able to write (or draw) isn't always a bad thing - or at least it doesn't have to be. Sometimes, it's simply life getting in the way. I've had a good dose of that in the last month with the arrival of the dreaded min-pin puppy, Twig. She is all about life, and finding things on the carpet to eat, and pooping, pooping, and pooping some more. It's been hard to write (or draw) because I've been busy.

Our old wiener dog, Dutch hasn't distracted me for a few years. He likes to sleep a lot, he hasn't eaten a shoe in a while, and, gentleman that he is, he poops outside on a consistent basis. But suddenly, he's become a distraction again. Now he and Twig dance and roll across the floor. Play growls fill the air until finally tired out, they find a sun patch to curl up together in. How am supposed to do anything but watch that?

Unlike THE BLOCK, this interruption doesn't fill me with paralyzing fear. Instead I'm thinking of it as a break, a refueling of sorts. And hopefully, when I do get back to full steam ahead art and writing-wise, I'll be the better for the time off.

So go out there and write (and draw) if you can. But if you can't, at least try to enjoy the reason that's so.

Twig (and Dutch) commands you.

2009-04-28T14:16:00.000-07:00

A day playing tennis is a GOOD day. You get to take out your frustrations by whacking the crap out of an innocent yellow ball. The exercise is great too, but it's the social element of the game that I like best.

As a working artist and a writer I spend most of my time alone - that is unless I'm teaching art and/or writing in order to be a working artist and writer. So that means a great deal of my days are spent having ONE face to face conversation with an actual human being before my husband gets home from work - and that conversation is usually with a checker at the grocery store or the person at the post office. Hence, I make a LOT of trips to the grocery store and to the post office.

And if I'm teaching, that means I can have hundreds of conversations a day, but since I'm usually teaching elementary school, that means I converse a lot about who fell down at recess, what disgusting thing someone's baby brother did with a booger, or television shows I've never even heard of. It's like visiting another planet sometimes - Planet Booger.

So, I treasure Tuesdays when I can get out on the court with my tennis teammates, whack some balls hopefully over the net, and have some real conversation. And today, as usual, I wasn't disappointed. At one point, my doubles partner Sue went wide to snag a forehand return, but whiffed it instead. She stopped, looked accusingly at her racket, shrugged her shoulders at me and said, "Sorry, I'm just discord-inated today."

I know what she meant. She meant to say, "I'm not coordinated today." But really, I thought her remark was pure genius.

When we're writing or working on a painting, sometimes we can get so concerned about what the final product's supposed to be we can lose sight of just getting into the groove that's found in the process of creating. We forget that we're actually supposed to be having, I don't know, fun.

Children know how to do this very well. How many times have you seen some little kid at the grocery store wearing a ballerina tutu, a cowboy hat, and a Batman cape? They don't care one bit whether it all matches. They're expressing themselves - they're embracing the heart and and soul of discord-ination.

Now I'm not saying you should go out on the town wearing plaid slacks and an Aloha shirt, but if that's your thing, then be my guest. But I am saying maybe you should try to shake things up a little. Throw a little creative discord into your life. That little edge of tension might be just the ticket to inject a little zip into your work. You never know what new ideas you'll be juggling.

Are there any books out there about baby brothers and boogers?

Maybe there should be.

2009-04-23T07:58:00.000-07:00

I drew this cartoon for a friend in response to her wondering if she was so depressed and she got a service dog for depression - then said service dog would end up needing a depression service dog itself.

Maybe - I mean the saying "misery loves company" didn't fly out of some monkey's - er- hat, it must be grounded in the saying's maker-up's personal experience. At my house, I've noticed Dutch, the wiener dog feeling pretty low, so to speak. It could be from my occasional angsty, artistic-tempermenty, "I'll never be rich and famous" snitty fits. Or it could be my constant bombardment of "Hey, Dutch. Why the long face?" jokes on the old guy.

Man, I never get tired of that one.

Now that Twig, the min-pin puppy's arrived, he doesn't have time to sulk. He's too busy. As far as Twig's concerned, life is just one big happy pill and she's nibbling away at it as fast as she can. Dutch tries to mope in the big green chair, Twig drops the squeaky ball on his head. Dutch tries to stare unhappily at the treat cupboard, Twig runs to poop on the stairs so everyone can be amused by my yelling. It's a perfect, symbiotic relationship.

As artists and writers we need a Twig too, I think. We all feel low, have a long face, or try to mope in our own version of the big green chair once in a while. Making a career in the creative field is hard. It can be demoralizing - and at times - well depressing. Now I'm not saying everyone should run out and get a min-pin puppy, that is unless I start a carpet cleaning business - then I think everyone should go out and get a min-pin puppy.

Just remember to get out of your head from time to time. Hang out with a friend. Watch a funny movie. Tell yourself jokes. Like this one - Hey, Dutch! Why the long.... Wait a minute, come back here! There he goes - back to the big green chair. Twig, you know what to do.

Good girl.

Getting the carpet cleaner now....

2009-04-18T09:59:00.000-07:00

It happens without warning. Two small brown dogs that live in my house will be peacefully sleeping, looking oh so adorable - when all of a sudden, they're frenzied balls of fur, barking their fury to the heavens.

I look around, certain there must be some sort of monster about intent on eating us all. But is there ever a monster lurking about?

None that I've ever seen.

I've actually tried to find the monster. I check all the doors, look out the window, peer under the bed. But, nope. No monsters anywhere. The two little dogs look at me like I'm as dumb as a post. They know exactly what they're talking about. I can just imagine what they're thinking. "Stupid human. She's obviously incapable of understanding what we mean."

Yes, they can be snotty dogs, but truth be told, I've been guilty of the same sort of behavior in my writing. There have been times when I've gotten feedback from my writing group or from an editor on my story that goes something like this: "I have no idea what you're talking about here."

Now my first reaction is to think, "Stupid human. You're obviously incapable of understanding what I mean." I know exactly what I'm talking about.

Just so you know, that first reaction is wrong.

It doesn't matter that I know what I mean if the only thing my reader's getting out of my work is frenzied barking. What makes sense in my own head doesn't necessarily make sense out in the real world. And a lot of the time all these unclear places need is some clarification. In other words, you just got some 'splaining to do. Then, when you present your material again, you'll hopefully all be on the same page - so to speak.

This why you need someone other than you to read your work. We all have our own private language that doesn't always translate all that well. It can often take another set of eyes and ears to catch those incomprehensible areas. Now you're on your way toward better communication which naturally leads to higher understanding among all people which ultimately leads to peace on Earth, right?

The little dogs are at it again, poking holes in my eardrums with their high-pitched yodels of alarm. I better go check. You never know, maybe I'll find that monster this time.

2009-04-13T16:27:00.000-07:00

It's spring! That means I should be breaking out the sandals and getting my winter-expanded fanny out there to stroll down blossom lined paths, right?

Nope. My rear will have to stay super-sized for a while yet. I saw the bank thermometer today through the wall of hail I was attempting to drive through. It read 44 degrees.

Is it too much to ask for 74? I'll even take 64. Okay - 54, but that's as low as I'll go. Is anyone listening to me here?????

This is why I write. I am, always have been, and will forever remain a control freak. If I want my characters to have nice weather I give it to them - 78 degrees, a slight breeze, and humidity? Fugetaboutit.

They can sip on lattes or martinis - my choice. They can down caviar by the wheelbarrow load and never worry about cost - or cholesterol, or expandomatic hineys.

And - if they ever happen to displease me - they'll be sorry. I'll wreck their martini and caviar picnic with the same hail I put up with today. And If that still doesn't feel like enough I'll throw in some fire ants and an endless loop of "Afternoon Delight" of the 1970s Starlight Vocal Band fame. And if you're familiar with that song at all you'll know that the fire ants are a mercy.

I guess I could be nicer. But really, who wants to read about a character who never has anything go wrong in their lives? We not so secretly want to feel better about ourselves by comparing our troubles with someone else's. Come on, admit it. You've done it. You've read about someone's dilemma and thought, "Poor sucker, at least I'm not them."

Is this bad? I don't know. I do think it's human though, and I happen to write books for humans. So don't expect my characters to live perfect lives.

If I can't.

They can't either.

The sun's shining outside my window - how long do you think it'll be before it starts hailing again?

Oops. Answered my own question. It's hailing now. Bring on the fire ants.

2009-04-09T19:50:00.000-07:00

Don't you wish things (and by "things" I mean palatable) would fall gently from the sky into your open maw? Or that things (and now I mean bills of substantial denomination) would fall gently into your good wallet?

But they most often don't.

What's up with that?

Most often we have to adapt, because, you know, the universe is one big old crap shoot - and the big guy that holds the dice? Well, just so you know, he's laughing at us right now.

I hear that laughing right now because no matter what I try, these stupid italics keep appearing. Should I laugh? I guess yes, because now I that thought it stopped, the whole italics nightmare is STILL HERE.

I'm surprised that I'm surprised at this.

My whole creative life has been based on what the worst can throw at me - like these italics.

Curse the italics! Wait... they're gone....

They're gone at least for now, but snafus will always be in my world.

I'm carrying on.

Font problems not withstanding.

This is driving me crazy, but revisions and rewrites have been worse - much, much worse.
Not to mention raising a new puppy - a puppy that happens to have major league gas.

Adapt, people.

Adapt.