The Magic of Reading

One reason I decided to write for children was my lifelong love affair with children’s books. There’s a line in the movie You’ve Got Mail (yes, I have it on DVD—doesn't everyone?) that really rings true for me. Children's bookstore owner Kathleen Kelly describes how she felt as a little girl, watching her mother at work: “It wasn't just that she was selling books, it was that she was helping people become whoever they were going to turn out to be. Because when you read a book as a child, it becomes part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your life does.”

I grew up loving books. For me, there was no feeling more satisfying than coming home from the library with a big stack of books and all the time in the world to read them. Although I also liked to run around outside playing baseball and Kick the Can and Red Rover, Red Rover with the neighborhood kids, there was a side of me that was drawn to the more private thrills of watching a story unfold on a page, moment by moment, scene by scene.

My earliest reading memories involve fairy tales, both the happy kind (Cinderella—how I coveted her floaty blue ballgown!) and the scary kind (The Brothers Grimm—best read on a bright summer afternoon rather than under the covers at night). I was fascinated by these temporary visits to magical worlds, so different from life in peaceful, middle-class suburbia. And if things ever got too dicey, I could always close the book and go back outside for a while.

Like many kids, I was drawn to series books. I think it’s because, once I got to know a character, I liked to stick with him or her through each subsequent adventure. I’m still pretty much like that. When I’m reading I like to feel that I truly know these people, at least for a while. I guess that explains my fondess for seres like The Wizard of Oz, Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, The Bobbsey Twins and Little House on the Prarie.

This kind of reading had its pitfalls, though, for a reader as sentimental as I was. After all, once Dorothy returns to Kansas, she never reunites with the old gang from Oz again. In These Happy Golden Years, Laura Ingalls moves away from her little house, breaking up the family that had been through so much together. I could get pretty emotional going through these kinds of changes with my beloved characters.

In retrospect, maybe my childhood reading experiences were early lessons in the art of understanding that change is inevitable, and that no matter how tightly you hold on to things, they are already changing. It's a lesson I still struggle with.

More about kids’ books next time…

A Moment in the Spotlight

The date had been circled on my calendar for months. On
Feb. 7, 2009, I was scheduled to appear onstage in a large exhibit hall, talking about my story in the newly-published Chicken Soup for the Soul: Empty Nesters. While I appreciated the opportunity to particiate in the expo, I was struggling with how to approach the topic. How could I make my personal story interesting to strangers? And more importantly, how was I going to manage getting up in front of a big crowd to talk about… well, me?

I mulled over these questions for weeks, which is a fancy way of saying I procrastinated. I kept myself busy with much more important projects, like cleaning my closet and choosing a new paint color for the master bathroom. I've always found that my house is never cleaner than when I'm trying to avoid a deadline! Finally, just a few days before the show, I sat down to organize my thoughts into a 15-minute presentation. It covered the process from reading a submission call for stories, to finding inspiration in an old family photo, to learning my story had been selected. I also scanned in some photos for a simple PowerPoint slideshow, hoping I might find courage in having some familiar mementos with me.

On Saturday morning my husband helped me pack up my stuff, including a stack of books, some bookmarks with my website address on them, and—because I figured I needed all the help I could get generating traffic—a supply of wrapped chocolates. We set up at the assigned booth and watched the crowd start to build. My friend Donna joined us; she had come to lend moral support and to man the booth while I was onstage. And my friend Mark brought his camcorder so that my out-of-state parents and sons wouldn't have to miss it.

When it was my turn on stage I took a deep breath and started. I used my script for reference but tried to keep my eyes mostly on the audience. Two women in the front row smiled every time I glanced their way. I'm sure they have no idea how much that helped me—thanks, ladies! Scanning the crowd I saw friends and coworkers who all knew my story but had come out to support me. The psychological boost I got just from seeing their faces was incredible. And when I heard people laugh—in all the right places—I knew I would get through it.

Fifteen minutes later I was back at the booth, where a few people were actually waiting to buy books and get them signed (a one-minute clip appears below). Over the next hour I heard a lot of other women’s personal stories of being—or anticipating being—empty nesters. I could whole-heartedly recommend the book to them, which I had found to be funny and sad, touching and inspiring. I knew they would, too.

Later when people asked me how it went, I replied honestly that it all seemed to pass in a blur. Mostly I remember feeling grateful that my story seemed to resonate with people, and that for a little while, it created a connection between us. In fact, "grateful" pretty sums up my feelings about the whole experience: I'm grateful to my friends, who took the time to come and encourage me; to my boss, who set up the presentation and encouraged me to do it; to my parents and sons, who all called to wish me luck; and especially to my husband, who has been on the journey with me from the beginning. Having them here to share this experience is like not only enjoying the ice cream, but having a big (chocolate-covered) cherry on top.

Book signing at the Women's Expo, Feb. 7, 2009

"I Got You, Babe"

Tomorrow is Groundhog Day, one of those “holidays” that gets a special red square on the calendar but isn’t celebrated much—at least, outside of Puxatawny, PA, where it’s a nice boost for the local economy. Still, it comes at a time when people who live in wintry states are ready to grasp at any flimsy straw that has the word “spring” somehow attached to it.

Of course, here in Michigan, an “early spring” would mean no snow on the ground when Easter arrives in mid-April. We would do cartwheels of joy if the groundhog could promise us spring in only six more weeks. By that point we would eagerly trade a few hundred gallons of our Great Lakes just to see a daffodil poking up through the snow. And this winter has seemed particularly long and harsh, starting before Thanksgiving and keeping us firmly in its icy grip ever since.

But the best thing about Groundhog Day for me is the excuse to watch the movie. You know the one—it stars Bill Murray as a weatherman trapped inside a time loop, waking up to Sonny and Cher on the radio day after day. Although I’m generally neutral on the subject of Bill Murray movies (I think Scrooged is the only other one I would make it a point to watch), I find him completely sympathetic and charming in this movie. The screenplay is very clever, with its repetition of phrases and scenes that are just different enough from each other to make them seem fresh all the way through. There's a lot of comedy but some poignancy, too, as Murray's character struggles to escape his time prison, sinking into depression until he finally hits bottom (literally!). Watching him evolve from shallow, selfish dude to sincere, sensitive guy-who-gets-the-girl is a real February treat.

So here’s what I recommend for what is bound to be a cold, dark, snowy night on Feb. 2: slip into your flannel PJs, heat up some hot chocolate with marshmallows (use real milk and chocolate, not that powdery instant stuff), and curl up to watch Groundhog Day. It will warm your heart to see that even a curmudgeonly weatherman can find true love. It will give you hope that one day, spring will come. It will be a movie you can watch (here comes the inevitable Groundhog Day joke…ready?) over and over and over again…