A Fresh New Look

I just realized that this month marks the 10th anniversary of my professional writing life. In October of 2000, I got the news that a story I had written about the art of quilting in colonial America would be published by Cobblestone, a history magazine for ages 9-14. That first sale led to others, and eventually I built up a list of credits that basically served as a resume.

Since so much of the business of freelance writing takes place online—market research, interviews, submissions, collaboration with editors and other writers—I knew that eventually my resume would need to go online, too. Having a professional site allows you not only to list credits, but to show editors and other potential employers your level of commitment.
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I decided to hire a fledgling designer to create a website for me—my son, David. He actually built the whole thing from scratch, using HTML and a lot of other hocus pocus I know nothing about. The result was a unique site completely customized to my specifications. In February of 2009, CarolAGrund.com was officially launched, just in time for my first public appearance at a women’s expo. 

Not long afterward, I was contacted by an editor about writing a full-length middle grade novel. I was glad I could refer her to my website, where she could see my credits, learn a little about me, and get a sense of my writing style from the blog entries linked to the site. I can’t say that having a website got me the job, but I do know it was an important step in my transition from hobbyist to professional.

After serving me well for a year and a half, I decided that the site needed a facelift. So I went back to my favorite designer, who by this time was attending a digital media & arts school in Chicago. Once again David waved his magic wand, producing a clean, fresh design to showcase my work. Of course, what seems like magic to me actually represents a lot of instruction, hard-won experience, and many, many hours of his time. The finished product showcases his hard work and talent as well.

So without further ado, it’s my pleasure to direct you to the new and improved CarolAGrund.com. (If you already have this site in your cache, you may need to refresh to see the new version.) I hope you’ll take a few minutes to check it out, including some new features like a press page and a dedicated Anna Mei section. All feedback is appreciated, so please don’t hesitate to let me know if you have any suggestions. You can also scroll down to the bottom of any page and click on David’s name to see the site for his gaming development company. One of his projects recently won an award from an online design community. Next time I need him to design a website, I will probably have to get in a very long line!

Days of Endless Summer

The older I get, the more my summers seem to go like this: Memorial Day—> whoosh! —> Labor Day. I’m not exactly sure when this started to happen. All I know is that summer once seemed very different than it does now.

There used to be an eternity—give or take a millennium—between the last school bell in June and the first one in September. I remember zooming out the door of my elementary school and into glorious, sunshiny freedom. Summer stretched out ahead of me like an endless green lawn, dotted here and there with yellow butterflies, while the faint jingle of an ice cream truck sounded somewhere off in the distance.

Back then almost every house in our suburban neighborhood was bursting at the seams with kids. There were the baby boomers, already in their teens and sporting the long hair and tattered jeans that made them seem somehow exotic and unapproachable. The youngest kids in these families, the ones I ended up babysitting for, were the first of the Gen-Xers.

But the ones in between—the tail-end boomers born in the late 50s and early 60s—those are the ones who ruled summers when I was a kid. Nobody was in daycare. We just woke up, slipped on a striped or plaid shirt and a pair of shorts, poured ourselves a bowl of Cap’n Crunch, and headed outside. Calling each other first to make plans? Unheard of. We just knocked on the doors and asked the moms if our friends could come out and play.

Me (far right) and the backyard
Kool-Aid stand I won in a contest

And boy, did we play. Climbing trees, catching butterflies, building forts, jumping rope, challenging each other to squirt gun fights and bike races. Eeny-meeny-miney-mo! Red Rover, Red Rover, and Mother May I? Endless games of kickball and dodgeball and baseball in someone’s backyard. The yards were small so we were always calling interference! and do over! whenever the ball hit a clothesline or a swingset.

Sometimes a mom would bring out Dixie cups full of Kool-Aid, or slices of watermelon, or a boxful of popsicles, which we gulped down gratefully. Moving from yard to yard, you could manage to have sticky fingers practically from breakfast until bathtime. And if you got thirsty, every yard had a hose, hooked up to a handy spigot.

Make-believe was part of summer, too. Spy shows and westerns were popular then, so we assigned parts and acted out episodes from The Man from U.N.C.L.E. or Roy Rogers. Sometimes we cobbled together costumes and put on plays out in the garage, charging the moms and younger kids 10¢ for popcorn.

My husband Jim (center) 
and neighborhood pals

We were expected home for supper, of course, but after that the porch lights went on. Then it was Kick the Can at dusk, catching fireflies in jars, and playing Sardines until you were the last one left and your own yard suddenly seemed like a scary, alien planet. When the dads came outside to call us in, that meant a cool bath, maybe a little TV, and then falling asleep to the sound of chirping crickets and whirring fans.

Back then, summer seemed to spin out with endless days like this. As soon as one was over, another would begin, with no end in sight. So by Labor Day, I felt ready to leave the long, hot days behind and get back to school where a whole different set of friends awaited me. I don’t remember pausing to look back.

Now I wonder why I didn’t appreciate those childhood summers more. I guess I thought it would always be that way, that there would always be more of everything waiting just around the corner—more sunshine, more running through the fresh-mown grass, more eating cherry popsicles, more laughing so hard your sides ached, until you literally had to fall down on the ground and make yourself stop.

Ferry Boat ride to Mackinac Island

Having kids of my own and seeing summer through their eyes brought some of the old feelings back to me, and I’m grateful for that. It was fun to take them to the beach, run with them down the big hill at the park, go camping together. They rammed around our neighborhood with friends, caught butterflies in the garden, put on carnivals in the backyard, slept out on our screened porch.

In fact, I would say that their childhood summers were some of their happiest days, too. I hope so. I also hope they get to relive them with their kids someday. My wish for them, now and forever, is a life where the sunshine and popsicles and laughter are always right there in reach, as sweet and delicious as an endless summer day.

Coming Up for Air

Today I feel like a swimmer who has traveled a long way underwater and then, upon surfacing, looks around in confusion at her surroundings. My thoughts go something like this: How could I have ended up here, near the end of July, when I dove into this project way back there, in February?

The weeks in between are a blur, which explains why I've neglected this blog for so long. I had hoped to use it as a sort of journal, chronicling my experiences as a working writer. But I’ve been so busy with the “working” part that I’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone do any “journaling.” And although I regret the missed opportunity, I can at least look back at the past few amazing months and summarize the experience as best I can.

In February I began writing the sequel to Anna Mei, Cartoon Girl. The basics of the storyline had been approved by the editorial staff at Pauline Books & Media, but Diane, the wonderful editor who had guided me through rewrites on the original book, had left for another job. While I continued to churn out pages, I definitely felt the lack of guidance. And I worried whether the new editor they eventually hired would want massive changes.

In the middle of all this, Anna Mei, Cartoon Girl was released on April 1st! What a thrill to open a carton of books and hold them in my hands. Suddenly my efforts turned from working on the new book to promoting this one.

I started by creating a special Anna Mei website, so that readers could easily find reviews, a list of booksellers, resources and some book-related projects and information for kids. I visited local bookstores with ordering information, so they could stock the book. I also created teacher packets and delivered them to local schools, hoping that teachers might read the book over the summer and consider using it in their classrooms this fall. The packets included an article I wrote about Anna Mei, which appeared in the spring issue of PBM's
quarterly magazine.

My most exciting event during this time was throwing a book launch party in May, so friends and family could come and celebrate this milestone with me. I signed a lot of books that day and really enjoyed chatting with everyone who stopped by.

Then in June, I was invited to make my very first school presentations. I traveled to my nieces' school in upstate New York to meet with kids in grades K-6 about being a children’s writer, and to talk with them about Anna Mei and Friend 2 Friend. I was really nervous but the kids were enthusiastic and asked amazing questions (“Was it hard having an editor who wanted you to change your words?” This from a third grader!) The school had even arranged to have newspaper coverage of my visit, and a nice article appeared in the local paper the very next day. My first press clipping! The reporter did a good job of transcribing my remarks, but I'm not too happy with the picture of me with my eyes closed...

Following the school presentations, I was the guest of honor at a reception hosted by my brother and sister-in-law, whose two daughters helped inspire the story of Anna Mei (that's eight-year-old Ana in the picture). I met a lot of friendly and interesting people, including quite
a few kids who confided that they liked to write stories, too. I loved signing their books and encouraging them to keep at it—and to save those stories and poems! I wanted them to know that even unfinished ones can serve as a springboard to a new project.

Only a few days after arriving home from that trip, I drove to Grand Rapids to do a book sale and signing at an annual event for families with adopted children from China, Eastern Europe, Korea and Latin America. My niece Kristina, who is from Russia, has been attending the camp for several years. I met quite a few of the girls adopted from China—several were actually named Anna! Some of their parents told me that it’s very difficult to find books for this age group that include—let alone feature—an adopted character. Although anyone who has ever worried about fitting in will be able to relate to Anna Mei, I hope the story resonates in a special way with these girls.

Meanwhile, with all of this going on, there was one more little thing I was supposed to be doing, something about writing another book...? At some point along the way a new children’s editor was hired, and with Jaymie’s expert guidance, I was able to keep the project from going off course and off schedule. After months of hard work we ironed out the last few details last week. Which means I’m delighted to report that the book is now finished! It’s scheduled to be released in February 2011 and features an expanded role for Anna Mei’s friend Zandra, as well as much more about Danny Gallagher, a character who has received quite a lot of fan mail. In fact, if Anna Mei is not careful, he’s liable to steal these stories right out from under her nose!

I have much more to talk about—both writing-related and life-related—but the rest will have to wait a little while. Now that I've resurfaced I need some time to feel the sun on my face and solid ground under my feel. I need to reflect on the journey I've just taken. And most of all, I need a nice, long nap.

Painting: The Swimmer by Lina Golan

To All My "Moms," with Love

My mother is a neverending song in my heart—of comfort, happiness and being.

I may sometimes forget the words but I always remember the tune.

~Graycie Harmon

I couldn’t let Mother’s Day go by without acknowledging this gentlest of holidays. I love the sweetness of it, like the way it’s marked with little fistfuls of handpicked flowers instead of skies full of fireworks, with slices of burnt toast instead of platters heaped with turkey dinners. I wanted to write something that would honor the women who showed me what motherhood could be, long before I had children of my own.

When I was a kid, most Mother's Days included visits with my two grandmothers. They lived about a half hour’s drive apart—one on a busy city street and the other on a dirt road in the country. They were different in other ways, too, but both were wonderful cooks who loved having “company” come to visit. (Does anyone use that word anymore to describe their guests? We kids were often told that certain treats were for "company,” not for us!)

I still remember how it felt to watch these women as they went about their lives—so gracious, so competent, so filled with housewifely knowledge and easy expertise. They made me want to be a member of that club someday. And they had a gift for making me feel like I was someone special, someone cherished. The fact that I was only one of dozens of grandkids made no difference to them at all.

My grandmothers may have set high standards, but my mother seemed to have no trouble living up to them. Married in the fifties, she had four children in six years. How she managed to get us all clean, fed and off to school on time—even after my youngest sister came along a few years later—is a mystery I’ll never solve. If you asked her now she would shrug and answer with genuine humility, “Things had to be done—I just did them.” It may qualify as the understatement of the century.

For all the years of my childhood, my mother routinely performed the magic trick of pulling items like these out of her hat: freshly-pressed white uniform blouses (for the girls) and blue dress shirts (for the boys); brown bag lunches customized to the particular taste of each child (baloney with mustard for me, PB & J for my brothers, and for my older sister—liverwurst! yuck!); endless milk money, school supplies and permission slips; homecooked dinners on the table at 5:30 sharp; costumes for trick-or-treating and school plays; wardrobes that included everything from the most basic “play clothes” to the lace-trimmed anklets, black patent leather shoes and clip-on ties we wore for dress up occasions.

Where did all this bounty come from, day after day? It was as if she whipped it up out of nothing but thin air and a spatula. Only later did I start to comprehend the incredible amount of skill, patience and stamina it takes to be a mother like this. But what I did know, even then, was that we kids were safe and happy in a world where someone loved us and encouraged us to do our best. And the someone wasn’t a distant, shadowy figure or a housewife too busy with chores to notice us—she was right there, hugging us and making paper dolls for us and washing our hair in the kitchen sink and rocking us to sleep whenever we felt sick or had a bad dream.

When I was pregnant with my oldest son, my mom was the first person I told. When I brought him home from the hospital (honestly, what were they thinking—sending that tiny, helpless infant home with me?), my mom came and stayed with us, doing laundry, cooking meals and getting up with me for 2:00 AM feedings. More importantly, she was my personal cheerleader, assuring me that I really

could do this mothering thing. Even though I eventually got better at it, she still came and stayed with me when my other two children were born. And I cried buckets when she had to go home—all three times!

I credit these incredible women for showing me what strength and hard work and a loving heart look like. Obviously they knew times of heartache and struggle, but these women coped. In fact, they did more than cope—they overcame. With grace and quiet dignity, they persevered.

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As an adult, I have been lucky to have one other woman in my life who shared many of those same qualities—my mother-in-law. Florence welcomed me into her family when I was barely out of my teens. A talented seamstress, she bought me my first sewing machine, then helped me make a quilt as a wedding present. She loved to bake and was always delighted to share her recipes with me.

Over the years I learned more about her as a person—how she had grown up in Chicago, had a career as a working girl, taken care of her aging mother for many years. Eventually, her generous spirit led her to marry a widower with three young children to raise. She took that on, and within a few years had added two more children to the family. To supplement their income, she sold Avon products, working so hard at it that she quickly became one of the company’s top sellers. That was typical—Florence never did anything halfway. She threw her heart and soul and boundless energy into everything she did.

The two greatest treasures in her life were her family and her faith. She was a perfect example of someone who "walked the talk," working tirelessly for her church community and many charities. People said she had a “servant’s heart,” but that shouldn’t be misinterpreted as meaning mild-mannered or weak-willed. She had strong opinions, all right, but she didn’t let them override her willingness to look after the needs of others. Even as she aged and grew physically weaker, that generous spirit never changed.

Florence passed away last Sunday, just one week shy of what would have been her 54th Mother’s Day. I was privileged to be among the family and friends who gathered for a beautiful funeral service celebrating her faith, her love, her courage and her spirit. Through our tears, my husband and I thought about Florence today, wishing her a Happy Mother's Day and thanking her for the many gifts she left behind.

The sweetest sounds to mortals given

Are heard in “Mother,” “Home” and “Heaven.”

~William Goldsmith Brown

Harbingers

"You know it’s spring when the sandhill cranes come back!"

A couple of years ago, when we first toured this house with a realtor, I was reading the spec sheet to learn the details of the property. In a section describing the wetlands beyond the hayfield, the owner had written the sentence above.

It seemed like an unusual thing to include in a real estate description, and at the time I paid little attention to it. I was infinitely more interested in details like square footage and whether the tanks in the drain field were working properly.

The first summer we moved in, though, I really enjoyed having those cranes around. They had a very distinctive call and were quite beautiful in flight. There were always three of them, never just one or two. One was noticeably smaller than the others, so we surmised that this must be a family, sharing a nest together in our wetlands.

They stayed through the fall but were gone when the cold weather came. It was a particularly harsh winter in Michigan, that first year. It seemed to snow nearly every day, and our power got knocked out twice by high winds (no generator yet—it’s still on our wish list). Then just when it seemed as if winter would never end, and the world outside my window would stay frozen forever, the cranes came back.

And that was it—the last of the cold weather. The air began to smell musty, like dirt and rain and roots. Tiny shoots started poking out of the ground. The frozen wetlands grew mushy again. We hung up our winter coats and hats and gloves. It was spring.

Last year, only two of the cranes came back. Jim and I told ourselves that the third one had finally grown up and left home, and the remaining two were now empty nesters, like us. We hoped that’s what happened, anyway. We like to think that Crane, Jr. is out there somewhere, with a family of his own.

A few days ago, Jim was out in the backyard with the dog when he suddenly came and knocked on the kitchen window. “Can you see them?” he asked, pointing through the trees. “Right there.” At first I couldn’t see anything,

but then one of them moved. And then the other. Then they both took off over the house, long necks and graceful wings outstretched. Jim and I smiled at each other, because we’re believers now.

No matter what the calendar or the weatherman or the Farmer’s Almanac might say, we know the true harbinger of spring: it’s when the sandhill cranes come back.

Manuscript Update
One of the consequences to letting people know about a work in progress is that they tend to ask things like, “So, how’s the book coming along?” On different days I have different answers—the process of creating something from nothing has been both exhilarating and exhausting.

To give you some idea of what it's like, I’ll close with a couple of quotes (I know, I just can’t help myself!). The first is an often-told story about James Joyce. When asked by a friend about his manuscript in progress, he said with some exasperation, “I’ve written seven words today.” The friend replied, “Well, James, for you, actually, that’s not bad.” Joyce considered this, then said, “I suppose that’s true, but now I’ve got to figure out what order to put them in.”

And finally, here is Oscar Wilde on the subject of the writing process: “I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again."

A Work in Progress

“Every first draft is perfect, because

all it has to do is exist. The only

way it could be imperfect would be not to exist.” --Jane Smiley

I have this quote tacked to the bulletin board above my desk, to help me stay on course when I get stuck working on a new manuscript.

For me, first drafts can be excruciating. Even with an outline, there are so many decisions to make at every turn. Is that the exact word I want? Should this line of dialog go here? Does that setting need more detail? It’s so easy to get bogged down at this point, so easy to feel overwhelmed by the thought of all those blank pages lurking out there, needing to be filled. I wish I could just pull the thoughts out of my head and sprinkle them on the paper, like magic fairy dust.

I’ve found this stage to be especially challenging for the project I’m working on now—the first sequel to Anna Mei, Cartoon Girl. Since the characters and setting are already established, and the publisher has already approved the storyline, I expected it to be easier this time. But as I kept struggling with the first few chapters, it dawned on me that I had never written a sequel before, and I honestly had no idea how to do it.

It turns out that sequels are tricky little things, with their own unique set of decisions. Should the story stand alone, or is it considered merely the middle of a trilogy? Could I assume the reader had read the first book, or did I need to repeat some of the original story? And how would I find that nearly invisible line between filling in the new reader while not boring the returning reader to tears? It felt paralyzing at first.

It took a while to figure out an approach that weaves elements of the first book into the opening chapters of the new one, while also introducing new conflict and hinting at events to come. Since those chapters set the tone for the rest of the book, I really wanted them to be right. It was a relief to be able to share my work in progress with my editor—a huge advantage to being under contract versus being an aspiring author out there all alone! She assured me that I was on the right path and helped me feel confident in the decisions I’ve made so far.

While I'm busy working on this book, marketing efforts have begun for Anna Mei, Cartoon Girl. I was thrilled to see it listed in the “New Books for Spring” section of Publisher’s Weekly, the industry "bible" sent to thousands of publishers, libraries, bookstores and writers. I was asked to write a feature page about the book for my publisher’s quarterly magazine, Life & Soul. That comes out in March. They are working on a promotional video for the book, as well as a video interview with me, to post on their site and on youtube. And they are arranging for some radio and podcast interviews as well.

I’m sure I’d be nervous if I had time to think about all this, but right now it’s taking all the concentration I can

muster to produce a sequel I’m proud of. I’m pushing through, scene by scene, chapter by chapter, resisting the urge to make every word perfect before I can move on. I know that my strength as a writer is in the revision process. I’m much better at polishing than at producing from scratch. So all this first draft has to do is exist—I can come back later to sprinkle on a little magic fairy dust.

Still Sipping Soup

It’s been over a year since “Pedal Power” appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Empty Nesters, but the story continues to impact my life in a positive way. Last year I made a presentation and signed books at our local Woman's Expo, and now I’ve been invited to sign some for a local bookseller at a similar event in March. Recently a support group called “Empty Nest Moms” published the blog post I wrote as a follow-up to "Pedal Power" in their online magazine. I’m really thrilled that my musings on a topic so close to my heart continues to resonate with people!

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Heard a Good Book Lately?

There was a magic in words
greater than the conjurer's art.
- Jack London

Although I've discovered many pleasures in country living, commuting is not one of them. On a good day it takes 30 minutes to drive to my office downtown—longer when school buses, freight trains, crummy weather and construction zones get in the way.

I know that by some standards that isn’t bad, but for me it’s an hour a day of frustration and monotony. I can’t relax or daydream or work on a manuscript in my head, because I’m supposed to be, you know, paying attention to driving (something I wish my fellow commuters would do a little more of). I tried distracting myself with morning radio but couldn't take the incessant chatter or commercials. Besides, it can be pretty depressing starting the day with what passes for “news” sometimes.

Since I'm still iPod-less (and yes, I'm aware that it's the 21st century, thank you) I've had to rely on my CD collection. That was fine for a while, but there’s a limit to how many times even I can sing along to Carole King’s Tapestry album.

Then one day I asked a coworker and fellow commuter how she coped with her long drive every day. “Actually, I look forward to it,” she told me. “It’s the only chance I get all day to read.” If those cartoon lightbulbs over people’s heads were real, mine would have clicked on instantly, lighting up the whole city block.

Books! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it. When the kids were young, we owned a few book/audiotape sets. I would pop a tape into the car’s cassette player, hand them the book, and they would “read” along, the little ding on the soundtrack telling them when it was time to turn the page. I remember that Arnold Lobel’s Frog and Toad series and Disney books based on movies like The Fox and the Hound were particular favorites.

When we’d go on an occasional long trip (Michigan —> Florida = 24 hours in the car, bleh) I always stopped by the library first to check out a few more audiobooks for the kids. I even tried it myself once or twice, since I’m one of those unfortunate people who gets queasy reading in the car. But back then, a full-length novel came in a giant plastic box with some 25 cassettes. Kind of clunky, to say the least, and a lot to keep track of when you were on vacation with three little kids.

In the years since then, I’ve driven roughly 3.26 million miles, but they were mostly with kids in tow—my kids, the kids in the carpool, the kids on the soccer team, the kids in the school play. I listened to whatever they were listening to, which evolved from Disney movie soundtracks to Hootie and the Blowfish, The Smashing Pumpkins, No Doubt, Matchbox 20. When I did happen to find myself alone in the car, I would usually just enjoy the peace and quiet.

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But now, out of the chauffeur business and alone in the car for an hour a day, I’ve discovered that audiobooks are the perfect way to fill the empty spaces. Some of the first ones I tried were in the Harry Potter series, read by the brilliant Jim Dale. He must be some kind of wizard himself, because he sprinkled those books with magic, capturing the nuances of every character with just his amazing voice. I found out later that he won two Grammy Awards for his work on those books—I’m surprised it wasn’t more.

Sometimes audiobooks are enhanced because the author actually narrates them. This is especially true for nonfiction. Steve Martin’s autobiography, Born Standing Up, is a great example. Hearing him read the comedy bits sprinkled through the book is like performance art. And the serious parts seem even more poignant when you hear them in his own voice. Tom Brokaw also did a great job with Boom!, his collection of opinions and anecdotes about the 1960s.

Hearing stories told in authentic accents is another bonus of audiobooks. The Irish readers who narrate Maeve Binchy’s books have made me love them even more. Her words sound so much richer, sweeter and funnier than the way I hear them in my American head. Another example is the popular novel The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. Set during World War II, the story is comprised entirely of letters the characters send to each other. Hearing them read in different voices and accents adds to the authenticity, bringing a cast of dozens to believable life.

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Not all books are well-suited for audio, of course. I remember my dad struggling with The DaVinci Code because the audio version couldn't show him the puzzles and anagrams he was supposed to be figuring out. Highly illustrated books like those in Jeff Kinney's wonderful Diary of a Wimpy Kid series would never work, either. And certainly I've run across books that would have benefitted from a more talented voice actor.

But now I’m addicted. I sometimes arrive at work right in the middle of an exciting scene, only to have to wait in suspense all day until it’s time to drive home. And it makes me crazy when I get in the car and realize I don’t have a book to listen to. Then it's time to jump online and browse the library’s catalog to see what's available on CD (much more compact—heh—and user friendly than the old cassettes).

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Now the CDs themselves are about to make way for the newest format—eAudiobooks. These electronic files are downloaded directly from an online store to a computer or MP3. The library has them, too—you download them and after the three-week “lending period,” they disappear from your computer. I don’t get how they do that, but it’s cool! In fact, it may just be the motivation that finally gets me to buy an iPod.

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New Year, New Words

For last year's words belong
to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make
a beginning.

~T.S. Eliot

I’ve been completely AWOL from this blog since Thanksgiving, and here we are already a week into 2010. Winter is firmly entrenched, keeping me mostly indoors but providing a beautiful landscape by way of apology. I took this picture from the pole barn, looking into the backyard. I love how the red house and berries stand out against the bright snow.

But before any more time slips away, I first want to send out best wishes to all of you for much happiness in the new year. It means so much to me that you are reading these posts and following my writing journey. The path I’m on is sure to take some unexpected turns, and I feel blessed to have such good company along the way.

Following a joyous (and extended) Christmas season, I’m happy to be back at work on my projects. The most exciting news I have to share is that the cover art for Anna Mei, Cartoon Girl has been completed. With my publisher's permission, I'm thrilled to be debuting it here.

The illustrations for both the front and back covers were created by artist Wayne Alfano. I expected them to be computer-generated, so was surprised to learn that they are actually full-size oil paintings. I’m just delighted with how he has captured the personalities of Anna Mei and her friends. He also included some specific details that are important in the story, such as a science experiment in the background and a sketchbook that helps illuminate the "cartoon girl" part of the title. The back cover includes a second illustration, plus a few more graphic elements pulled right from the story. What a thrill to see all of this brought to life on a piece of paper I can hold in my hands!

It's also been fascinating to learn details about the design process—how and why certain colors were chosen, how the design ties in with the Marketing Department’s promotional plans, how important it is that the art works both as a full-size book cover and as a thumbnail image. It’s very gratifying—and humbling—to know that so much care and attention is being taken with these details.

In anticipation of Anna Mei’s debut in a few months, I now have an official Author Page at Amazon.com. As soon as the book is available, the cover will be added to the ones already there. In March, I hope to add this one from Chicken Soup for the Soul. I should hear a final decision about that sometime next month. And in August, Celebrate the Season!, including my story called "O Holy Night," will be available from Pauline Books.

So much to look forward to! But in the meantime comes the hard work of facing down the blank screen, of breathing new life into the characters I created so that their story can continue in the next book. For inspiration, it would be hard to beat this picture of them staring down from the bulletin board above my computer, encouraging me to give it my best shot.

'Tis (Not Quite) the Season

Snowflakes in the air,
beauty everywhere,
Yuletide by the fireside
and joyful memories there…
—A Charlie Brown Christmas

The first snow has just fallen—this year it waited politely until December to make an appearance. Christmas, on the other hand, invaded the stores and airwaves at least a month ago. Here’s one of my favorite cartoons by Sandra Boynton, showing Thanksgiving symbols exiting the stage as Santa and his reindeer come dancing in. I guess these days you would have to replace her pilgrims and turkey with ghosts and jack-o-lanterns.

As I mentioned in my last post, I’ve always been staunchly against hauling out the holly before December. “To everything there is a season” after all, and I’ve always felt that you dilute and diminish Christmas by stretching it out past its time.

When our kids were young we started a tradition of waiting until after St. Nicholas Day (Dec. 6) to get our tree. We'd tramp through the snow at the tree farm until we found "the one" (usually too big for our space but who can tell when they’re all standing together in a field?). Then out came the Bing Crosby and Raffi Christmas tapes, along with the special mugs for eggnog (all three of the boys just loved that stuff!)

We’d spend the rest of the day decorating the tree with popcorn, candy canes and our beloved (sometimes bedraggled) collection of ornaments, accumulated through

the years and all reflecting the era in which they were made or purchased. Dinosaurs, pinecone carolers, Bert and Ernie, Cub Scout woodcarvings, Ninja Turtles—they’ve all had their moments basking in the glow of our Christmas tree lights. Here's our youngest son, David, with his very first tree. (Hey, don't mock the acid wash jeans—it was the 80s, after all.)

We managed to keep up this homespun tradition right through the teenage years and beyond. But with all three kids now living in other states, Jim and I expected this to be the year we finally had to face the end of it. I pictured the two of us wandering into Home Depot a few days before Christmas, listlessly choosing a crooked, dried-out tree someone else had cut down months ago and shipped here via semi-truck. I certainly wasn't in any hurry for that particular scenario.

But it seems we still have one Christmas ace in the hole. The only son close enough to come home for Thanksgiving, David rolled out of bed that Saturday morning, rummaged through the closet for some boots and gloves, and announced that it was time to go get our tree.
The good thing about your traditions is that they belong to you completely. You can turn, twist and tweak them any way you want. So out the window went “not until December” and off we went to the tree farm. Almost as sentimental as his mom, David wanted the whole experience, just as it had been every year since he was born (although Bing got passed over in favor of Sarah McLaughlin and the Charlie Brown soundtrack—sorry, Bing!). Because of him we have another happy "Tree Day" to add to our collection.

Now he’s back at school for a few more weeks, and the tree (just the right size for a change) stands sparkling in the window, loaded with twinkly lights and cherished memories. It’s a little early, but that's okay. For me the tree holds the promise and anticipation of all the family gatherings yet to come, and the sense of joy and wonder I feel at getting ready for Christmas, when we welcome the most treasured guest of all:

Make your house fair as you are able,

Trim the hearth and set the table.

People, look east and sing today:

Love, the guest, is on the way.

.

--French Christmas carol

Words and music by Eleanor Farjeon, 1928

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In Praise of November

Now that the “Christmas season” seems to begin the moment the last trick-or-treater toddles off into the sunset, it would be easy to glide right through November without pausing. But I will go down fighting to preserve November as being special in its own right. It's not a sparkly, showy month, but it has a quiet dignity all its own—an air of remembrance, reflection, and gratitude.

I was thinking about this recently after spending a day with my coworkers at the library’s annual all-staff inservice. I feel so lucky to be working with people like this—they are talented and smart, funny and kind. They love books and art and knowledge. They believe in the library’s mission with all their hearts, and they never stop working to make sure they are delivering the best possible service to our community.

It’s not just that I'm thankful to have a job during these hard times—it’s that I have this job. When I started working there I had just sold my first magazine story. Nine years and a lot of stories later, the library job and the writing continue to dovetail beautifully, adding up to a professional life I enjoy and am proud of. That I've made some wonderful friends at the same time has been the icing on the cake.

Also on my gratitude list—the experience of watching my book manuscript go through the publication process. I spent last week proofreading a PDF version of Anna Mei, helping make sure all the quotes were closed and the commas were in the right places. It’s all typeset and paginated, ready to go to press in December. I feel like Geppetto watching Pinnochio become a real boy—my little character is coming to life right before my eyes!

Then in the middle of all this bounty I got an email about the story I submitted to Chicken Soup for the Soul in August: “Your story has made it to the final selection round. Only about five percent of the submitted stories have made it this far. The vast majority of stories in this last round will appear in the book, which is scheduled for publication on March 23, 2010.”

Appropriately enough, the book is

called Thanks, Mom. And if you

think it’s probably a nostalgia piece about my childhood and about

raising my own kids… well then, you know me pretty well! Let’s just say that as both a mother and a daughter, I felt qualified to write about this topic. I hope the Chicken Soup editors decide that my story will resonate with all the other mothers and daughters out there (just in time for Mother's Day gift-giving ;).

In the meantime, I’ll keep the Christmas lights packed away long enough to celebrate November. I’ll raise a glass to family and friends, work and home—all the things that matter. And I’ll think of the traditional Irish blessing I used in Anna Mei, which sums all this up better than I can:

Walls for the wind,

A roof for the rain

And tea beside the fire.

Laughter to cheer you,

Those you love near you,

And all that your heart may desire.