Subject to Change

These are some of my favorite things -- at the moment.

2011-11-17T22:50:00.000-06:00

Try Louise Penny for characters you can't believe aren't walking through your own streets. What a combination, reading Louise Penny and watching Paul McCartney and Billy Joel on PBS. Thank God, I'm so far from being single-minded! "Let It Be" sung by the Master, played by the Piano Man. Heaven.

I just bought: 'Still Life: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (Three Pines Mysteries)' by Louise Penny. And all six of the next novels. They leave me breathless with wonder.

As we move closer to the finals of our semester of physics, being filled with wonder during NaNoWriMo is worth every moment of lost sleep. I love this writer and her characters and her plots which are woven like double -layered crocheted afghans. I almost feel as if I could turn the book over and read more of the same story from other points of view or find myself embroiled in one of the twists.

And then there's the occasion of the music in the background. Divine.

You should be so lucky!

Leaves across the road

2011-01-16T15:41:00.001-06:00

Wind

shepherds

leaves

across

road.

I found this little poem, little string of thoughts, on the blog of my friend, Jo Lightfoot, the Everyday Poet. And instantly, I was reminded of an incident that I experience every year.

Nothing can halt its coming. No one can change the sadness it brings. Sadness that begins with a down-turned lip and prickly tears that are quickly blinked away. Time and repetition does not lessen its impact.

I live with leaves, with brown and black, with rosy, yellow, and white. Occasionally I am pleased to find a red one in the bunch, but they are quiet and sometimes hidden by their subtle coloring. All year long, I search among the leaves to find the secrets they possess. The golden essence of life and knowledge, of love and ambition. By early spring, I am recognizing the layers on layers of their beings.

As I write, my characters are like leaves. Their colors and shapes are waiting for me find the painting to which they belong. I suspect it’s going to be one I’ve loved for a lifetime, perhaps, something like Autumn Leaves by Georgia O’Keeffe. But my characters, like ordinary leaves, begin to take on individual personalities, and by midnight, I am typing as fast as I can, like running down hill and you can’t stop.

My daily leaves are my science students with all their disguises, fears, and desires. By this time each year, they are blooming, pulling out of the mass of fallen colors and beginning to march the halls with their own pace and style. They are the finest characters who ever tripped across a page of anything we’ve written.

Then it happens. Like throbbing colors of leaves fade from red and orange and yellow and rust to grey, my carefully trained students begin crumbling. They aren’t actually going to follow every rule, nor are they planning to go in the directions I aim them. Suddenly the day will come and my roomful of leaves, my handful of autumn, will rush through the door, carried by a strong gust of wind, and school will be out for summer. They’ll be gone and the building will fall silent and hollow. With my heart aching, I’ll let the covers of my laptop fall silently together. Being finished, even with a draft in need of more loving care, is a blessing.

The Best Engineers Play with Toys

2010-10-10T11:20:00.000-05:00

Electric hugs to Patricia Wiles and the participants at the MidSouth SCBWI conference who contributed hundreds of books for schools in need. The responses were celebrations of reading.
     "I delivered 147 board and picture books, donated by the conference attendees, to the special ed classes at West Broadway Elementary on Friday Oct. 1," wrote Patricia to the MidSouth group. "The teachers were so excited! One wrote this to me in an e-mail: It's Christmas on Broadway!! "
     "It gets better ... after receiving two more boxes of books in the mail, on Wednesday, Oct. 6, I delivered 400 books from our conference attendees and other SCBWI friends to Alternate Day Treatment, AKA the school without a library. Well, it has one now -- thanks to you!!!!! The kids SWARMED the boxes! They picked up books and asked me about them. Some asked me if there were books by specific authors, which authors signed their books, or if there were books in particular genres. One saw books by a certain author in the stack and spoke of how he'd read several in the series, and did we have any more of his books? This was all so sweet ... especially as I thought of the people (none of you, of course) who had said to me, "Those kids probably don't know how to read anyway," and "Those kids have computers. They don't need books."
        Nashville readers will learn about the donations from MidSouth and friends in the newspaper this weekend. Could there be any more delightful celebration for us who love reading to hear?

But sometimes the connecting of child to book hits a snag. Also within the blogging of writers came this week a note concerning parents who push their children to read only at a challenging or "age appropriate" level and are anxious about children who want to go back to picture books. Teachers also fall in this category of reading coach, pushing reading to learn as the goal of class time reading. Many writers sent in tales of their own reading habits as well as those of the children who now occupy the households. Words are words, characters are warm-blooded role models, no matter how they are drawn, and situations that thrill or delight, that invoke giggles or trembles are just life in a teaspoon.

It's like jokes about space travel: objects may be farther away than they seem to be.

Don't we all remember "Don't judge a book by its cover."

As readers and writers, I suspect we all agree, "What you see isn't necessarily what the child is getting."

I fear those parents and teachers who restrict reading to "appropriate age" only have forgotten the delight in conquering. When a hummer has conquered the lyrics, she sings. When a reader has conquered a story, he makes up his own dialogue with the characters. When an older reader returns to picture books, or from "real age appropriate" books to chapter books, it's like re-tasting the icing on the cupcake; all comfortable, reassuring, familiar, and yes, a sweet memory of the other many times the book has shared its magic.

Knowing the outcome means rewriting it in the imagination, perhaps dreaming of different illustrations, even adding or deleting characters. Heaven knows, we see picture books, myths, and fairy tales retold over and over in movies. Of course that goes on in the colorful minds of children "reading down." Where would we be without artists like Disney and all his cartooning loonies who went back to picture books and made us the dreamers we are?

Perhaps parents and others who would restrict book choices don't realize that the best engineers play with toys. Simple things make clear to us the structure, the flow of energy, the dependency of parts, and the grace of design versus function. Reading is just another way to engineer our minds, to be creative, to be emotionally safe or challenged by choice, to control our universe for awhile--before all the rest comes crashing in. How curious I am to see if anyone has ever asked the child to rewrite the ending, to tell what the story means to him, or to pick up crayons or brushes and paint a scene in the story that the illustrator left out. Now wouldn't these activities 'tell a story.'

I hope children whose parents are worried about 'age appropriate' reading keep right on exploring the old and the new. The fact that they are making choices and building their own mental libraries tells me they're growing at a phenomenal rate. For teachers and parents, it's time to reassess the restrictions and remember reading is an adventure that takes us all far far away.

You've got blood on your hands once you kill somebody!

2010-09-18T08:36:00.001-05:00

The moment was tense; my peace of mind in a dangerous condition. A Seer would have to be present to detect the evidence. But I knew. I knew I was guilty--a character I really really really wanted to keep was killed off with one tap of my index finger. The highlighted area of the page blinked out, into the ethernet forever. Never to be seen again.

I stand by my decision...with luck the mystery will be stronger and the plot tighter, but the character was driving the story. My MC was struggling to keep up; his sweet nature, his old-fashioned manners falling to the side of the road whenever this guy came into a scene. He HAD to go. And he was so wicked, so evil, that most of my readers refused to go farther than the first full scene. He frightened adults.........how could I send him out to middle graders? So I done it. He's gone. finis.

Now comes the weird part. . .

I went hunting, like a good blogger, for a picture, an image of a typist with bloody fingers. All in good fun.

And Lordy, Lordy! There is a whole genre of sick minds posting bloody hands and fingers on the Images files. They even have t-shirts! There's a dozen re-tellings of the Bloody Fingers camping out in a tent story. There's also an APP for the Iphone with spinning knives and your fingers dodging them in tighter and tighter circles. And amazing enough, a recipe for Bloody Fingers to eat. Who knew?

Bloody Fingers for Kids

1 pack blanched white whole almonds

red food coloring

egg - beaten with a fork

As many as you need: Frozen fully cooked breaded chicken strips

Pre-heat the oven.

Dye the almonds. Glue them to the chicken strips with egg.

Arrange them on a cooking sheet and toast until ready.

Serve with drizzles of very red (Prego) basic pizza sauce, it's thicker than spaghetti sauce.

And last, but not least (as they say)...........you can send your friends and loved ones a Bloody Finger email. Like that's something they'll cherish for a long long time to come?

I'm closing the door on this revelation and getting back to work.

Dorrie and the Magic Elixir

2010-09-04T20:43:00.000-05:00

What would I do without Chuck Sambuchino and Nathan Bransford and their digests? Or Deborah Halverson and Darcy Pattison for a tidbit a day? Or wonderful challenges from writers like Ms. Snark whom I adore. They are my writing buddies in absentia. My back-up crew unpaid save by admiration. They cheer us on and redirect us when we ramble,
just like Dorrie kept an eye on her Mother as the battle continued against the machinations of Wink, the rotten lizardly Wizard.

We all begin as little witches with an adoloescent knowledge of writing skills garnered from the books we've read and oh Lordy, we do read. We read everything from memoirs of people we've never heard of to junk mail to dreams of worlds beyound the Van Allen belts to steamy close encounters to blogs. And we leap, schemes and plots in hand, into the writing world like daughters and sons of Calliope, aware of all the baby spells we've learned and intrigued by the adult spells we hunger to perfect.

I look upon the advice so freely offered online from writers, editors, and agents as secrets to the Power. And I am studying the Big Book of Magic Spells as hard as I can.

A Bird's Eye View of your WIP, just what your editor ordered!

2010-06-20T09:27:00.006-05:00

One of the latest hints we've heard about analyzing your WIP involves copying your whole book on tiny pages so you could color code where the plot turns occur, the character shifts begin and end, the surprise of complications, and how far along in the manuscript certain facts are revealed, etc.

Check out Tim Koch's personal discovery.
A bit of trivia for you: a 90000-word story fits on 15 11x17 pages at 6 point and 6 columns. LOL

He's using LEGER size paper. It's worth having around if you have kids because it's 'poster' size to a 4-5 year old. One ream lasts forever. Tim Koch is the author of two fierce YA novels about young adults running from mind/body control in a futuristic inner/outer space in the universe and the voodoo that teens hoodoo so well. This is a great way to see the energy flow of a whole book.....and it takes only 15 pages. And a place to hang it on the wall or a bulletin board so you can really see it with a bird's eye view.

Don't try to read the fine print, SEE the transitions and hum the rhythm.
Kate

Catching Up with writers caught in action

2010-06-15T20:07:00.001-05:00

I sat tonight for quite awhile and read. Read the blogs I want to follow more closely. Read the 'next' and 'previous' blogs. Read about new contests. Read about personal successes and woes. I took the time to enter lives of other writers to do the pick-me-up injection of perseverance I've been needing.

Try it yourself. When you're down and lonely and it's too hot to go out and there's not enough inspiration to stay in.....try reading 50 blogs of other writers. Blogs of poetry. Blogs of rhyme. Blogs meant to let off steam. Blogs begging for followers and someone to relate to. Blogs of youngsters who write. Blogs of seasoned writers who have had so much success they seem to be untouchables. Just read.

From webpage to webpage, I found desire and desparation. Joy and anticipation. Urgency and patience. All possible antagonists among emotions common to writers, to those who keep trying even when the strokes are few.

Give yourself a pat on the back. Read for an hour uninterrupted. Don't stop to answer, make a note now and then for later. Absorb the fire. Be the fire. Be the change in your own tomorrow.

"In order to be open to creativity, one must have the capacity for contructive use of solitude. One must overcome the fear of being alone." ~Rollo May

POETS ROUNDTABLE of ARKANSAS Annual Contests

2010-06-06T15:51:00.000-05:00

http://www.poetsroundtable.com/brochure_new.html

Thirty some-odd contests for poets from far and wide.
Take the plunge, win some cash, and enjoy writing
in another style. It's a summer challenge!!

All poems due September 1st and they take the deadline seriously.

KL

REBLOGGING is alive and well

2010-06-06T15:28:00.000-05:00

Now, as any ordinary person might admit if pressed, I find TWITTER a pain in the neck! All those urgent announcements, all that egocentric hoopla, is hard to make sense of. BUT retweeting is a fine way to pass on great successes, good contests, congratulations and so forth. I am in favoring of spreading the best of the best whenever possible. Go forth all ye writers and REBLOG! It's bound to create a whole new audience.

REBLOGGING Kristin Gray's "Another Gray Day"
TOP 10 Topics of novels for children
Note the last line MAKE YOURS REALLY DIFFERENT!!!
http://kristinlgray.blogspot.com/2010/06/top-10-topics-for-novels.html

Always yours,

Kate Lacy
Editor for Hire
Reading and critiquing for writers of MG and YA
contact: voicedancer2002 at yahoo dot com.

If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance. ~Bern Williams

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Editing as a Way of Life.

2010-05-30T11:25:00.003-05:00

Elie Wiesel once said, "There is a difference between a book of two hundred pages from the very beginning, and a book of two hundred pages which is the result of an original eight hundred pages. The six hundred are there. Only you don't see them."
When I was looking for something to recommend my style of editing for writers in my critique groups and those I meet at conferences, I wandered through quips and wisecracks until this popped up. The "only you don't see them" is the gemstone. When all that is unsaid is apparent in the here and now of the novel, it has not been lost. It has not been forgotten or swept away under a thick black line. The life of the character and the enchantment of the setting are richer for things experienced by the bye.

If you are in need of editing, I am now, as of this very moment, a "professional" in that I have secured my first for-payment client, a talented writer named Beverly. Five books and going strong. If I've made her life a little more exciting by handing her a list of challenges after reading one of the books, then I'm happy.

And while I love the slow pace and great Ozark weather, summer is a huge chunk of wasted time for me. I need deadlines. I need to have someone else's welfare resting on my keeping promises.

So I am launching a CALL for MANUSCRIPTS. I am willing to edit for writers under these conditions:
$20/ hour for general structural comments on plot, character, and writing technicalities.
$35/hour for specific line by line, scene by scene critique.

Contact me with a comment to this message or at VOICEDANCER2002@yahoo.com
Or call me at 479-442-8028.

Who said summers can't be just as busy as the school year? Go out in the sunshine and WRITE!

Kate Lacy

What Price Freedom?

2010-05-08T11:18:00.000-05:00

School is almost out. Four wonderful and cruel weeks. Friendships forged and melted as students begin clearing lockers and backpacks and neglecting to study for Finals that loom ahead. Lab plans and good intentions thrown out with the recycling cardboard of old copy paper boxes. Every plan for vacation fun bumped lower in the To Do list by niggling tasks that should have been completed in the dark days of February or during the enforced stay home during the ice storms of March.

It's Summer around the corner calling, calling. Answer to 1-800-GetBusy.

And I'm ready and willing--but not able to dial that number. I am, sigh, a concrete random list maker.

Every i must be dotted and every t crossed, so I can go outside and play. Unless I think of something else that needs to be done first. This is the curse (and blessing) of too many fiction writers. Right?

The Rosicrucian Order has just asked me to be their friend on FaceBook. Can a wayward Presbyterian refuse a religious invitation? Will it hurt my chances at impressing an agent?
An old sweetheart sent a picture of himself at the top of a tree cutting away wind damaged limbs---complete with belt, hard hat and boots. Can you love a man who calls himself an 'old coot' and teeters in the tops of trees?
My daughter sent me a lovely pink house rose for Mother's Day. Lovely. Simple. But now I'm worried it won't survive June's rainy season in the Ozarks.
I've started inviting carpenters to bid on finishing the bathroom ~~remodel~~ fiasco from 2006. It's got to be done; I might want to sell the house and move in the next decade. Stop laughing, I'm serious.
I've glanced up and realized I listed "belt, hard hat and books" above. Went back and righted it.
It wasn't sexy/sexual, but can't that count as a Freudian slip anyway? After all, don't I live and breathe writing and books more days than not? Aren't Freudian slips an interesting literary device? Wouldn't it be fun to write a short scanky romance about a woman who says them all the time and isn't aware of it? I'd name her, oh, something formal like Cecily or something suggestive like Chastity or Patience or Obedience.

Can you see the stress I'm under? Even in an effort of putting order into my life, I am besieged by wayward dangers, fears for the future, a streaming consciousness of stories that need to be told and the inability to type without producing a foreign language on the screen.

Maybe I'll win a Pulitzer for Creativity under Fire. aftenl;all whein youre manuspd'[tjpt looks alike tthis....at least before you've spent an equal amount of time fixing it all, need I say more?

If I'm ever to enjoy summer, the list must be cleared. Starting now. Today. Before Lunch. Right after I put the clothers into the dryer and hang the sheets on the line. Just as soon as I scan Poets and Writers list of upcoming writing contest deadlines again and mark them on the calendar. OMG, I've forgotten to check my bid placing on the items I want to win at Do the Write Thing for Nashville at http://dothewritethingfornashville.blogspot.com/
.....and that's been on my mind all morning!

This is really important. Writers, never fear the creative and impulsive muse. When she works on you long enough, you always know where you're going. I am going to win one of those critiques on DWRTN!!

List making is essential so you have a trail of breadcrumbs to follow back--when the time is right, when the BID is made, when the clothes are forgotten, and when you're no longer afraid of failure.

Fear is the mind-killer. Right? I'm off to take care of the business of embracing my fears.

Write ON!

Resolve for a New Day

2010-04-25T09:59:00.001-05:00

A weekend in SCBWI land with Heather Alexander from Dial Books for Young Readers and Elana Roth of the Caren Johnson Literary Agency has left me with a notepad of reminders, comments and do-lists for myself. Bottom line right up front: If I'm going to be a better writer, I have to take the advice given by those who know the business. The Arkansas SCBWI shows signs of declining. Numbers were low, enthusiam and questionning were muted and hesitant, but Heather and Elana pulled no punches. Getting published means giving lots of time and attention to the written product before you query or submit.

They both handed us paperwork that mimicked various stages of reviewing queries, making choices, categorizing, describing, and selling the manuscript to an editorial board. Good Grief! What an eye-opening experience. Twenty query letter in 15 minutes? You'd better believe it! Find one sentence pitches for stories and novels that run thousands of words? Oh, yeah. I loved this set of challenges. Thank you to both ladies for never letting up, for making us think outside the keyboard and our own rose-colored assumptions.

Making resolutions, they say in January, is meaningless. I say making resolutions is essential for charging the little grey cells. And so do others with more grace than I.

Mary Anne Radmacher, writer, artist. Woman with a 'fascination with words' and a 'commitment to intentional living.' She has a knack for touching my core of determination.

Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, "I will try again tomorrow.”

Begin each day as if it were on purpose. (Oh dear, all those days I've wasted living on auto-pilot!)

Discover the tools to build your own vision.

The jump is so frightening between where I am and where I want to be...because of all I may become, I will close my eyes and leap!

My resolutions are always the same: Keep revising until each sentence is sharp. Until each thought is clear. Until the child who reads my story will save it for another read later in life.

Thanks again to Heather and Elana for giving me new tools.

Spring writing and Key Lime Pie Cupcakes for Karen

2010-04-03T09:28:00.009-05:00

When news strikes, it seems to come in dribbles or deluges. We--the inhabitants of Kidstuff-Kate, Kim, Karen, Kristin, and Mandy-have taken on a new partner in pen. Tim Koch. Yes, he of sterner stuff, of abatoirs and incendiaries, of ghouls and etherzombies, has joined mind and time in the ever-enticing race toward publication. He's tim@timkochwrites.com or Whirled News at http://timswhirlednews.blogspot.com/

He may not know it, but picture books and middle grade novels are harder than Horror. Wait until he tries one!

Another of our writing colleagues is locked in her dungeon, facing withdrawl symptoms from Henry-the-most-beautiful-son-in-the-world and our own encouraging Rah-Rah-Rah-Siss Boom Bah! messages, to complete her new MG novel. What a role model!

So we are mostly offline today, working our fingers to the bone and ignoring the 68 degree, brilliantly sunny, gently wafting, greenly smiling spring day! All of NW Arkansas is singing, but we are typing. Mandy in a crowded and noisy space to blur the universe, Karen in her basement (mentally if not physically), Kristin in a mind-meld with the five munchkins, Kim in the forest of Missouri outside her cabin, and Kate with her feet on a cat and a cat in the lap, right here at home. Hmmmmm, smells like Key Lime Pie Cupcakes today.

Key Lime Pie Cupcakes (ala Southern Living w/ help from moi)
12 jumbo aluminum foil baking cups or a bunch of little mini-bite-sized cups)
Pam or imposter
1 fudge brownie mix (or chocolate wafers)
1/2 C butter melted
Mix the sticky brownie goop without any egg or
pulse the cookies until powdered and add the butter.
Press into cupcake cups

3-8 oz softened cream cheese
1 1/2 C sugar
***w/ elec mixer, beat cream cheese and sugar until blended
2 tsp lime zest
1/3 C fresh lime juice
***add zest and lime juice until blended
3 large eggs (fork-whipped)
***
Add the eggs little by little just until last yellow bit disappears
Fill the cups completely full.

BAKE 350 degrees for 20 minutes or until set.
Cool on wire racks 15 minutes.
Cool competely before topping with garnishes of
your choice.
Whipped cream (Cool whip in my house) and fresh berries
suggested by SL folks, and they know their stuff! Actually I'm
thinking Cool Whip, more zest for tang, and crushed butterscotch lifesavers.

These are to celebrate Karen's other new novel all about CUPCAKES.

What a glorious group of people I spend my Thursday evenings and occasional Saturdays with!

Now it's my turn to get busy!

Tell me, writers: What treats would you like to have warm from the oven after you've slaved over the keyboard for a whole beautiful day? Kidstuff wants to know!

And just for fun, how's this for an opening chapter? Standing for Something

Escape
Out of darkness, a sudden blast of light slammed into a dogwood tree down the road. Flames filled the hollow around the old diner with a burnt char and died in sheets of rain. The boy woke, frightened by the light and its thunder that shook the car where he’d slept. Fog blocked his view through the backseat windows. The Man must have left him here.

He was hungry. Cold and hungry. He needed to pee. Under the quilt again, afraid to move, he muttered the rules for being ‘good.’ There were rules especially against leaving the car, and he knew better than to break the rules. But. . . on the back of the driver’s seat, a shadow flickered. A red light blinked through the rain, on and off, on and off. What was it? He rolled up and searched the parking lot. A sign. S-k-i-l-l-e-t?

Skillet. Pancakes? Chicken? If he hurried, he could be out, find food, and be back before the Man was finished eating. He pulled up the hood of his jacket, scrunched up the quilt and pillow to make a boy-shape in the back seat just in case, slipped out of the car, and ran around the building to the back. That’s where he’d find garbage cans. He was a good scavenger.

With one arm digging into a tall aluminum can, Michael gobbled bits of bread, chicken, and finger scoops of mashed potatoes and gravy. The Man would be proud of him for feeding himself, as long as he washed clean, and came back to the car quickly, and didn’t whine about being wet. He knew how to be quiet. He knew the rules.

“Grrrrrrrrrruff!” A monster jumped up, hairy paws on the edge of the garbage can, teeth bared. The boy leaped back away from the garbage and cowered against the ground. Covered his head with his arms. Played dead. It worked before. After awhile, dogs always left him alone. Rain trickled into his jacket, along the exposed skin on his neck, down behind his ears. Cold. He shivered and waited. A hot raspy tongue licked his left hand. He jerked it into his sleeve. The tongue licked his right hand smeared with gravy. When Michael tilted his head up, the tongue slapped against the mess on one cheek.

No monster. A big shaggy dog who liked potatoes and gravy. Reaching deep into the garbage again, the boy grabbed chicken and steak bones, a hunk of what looked like chocolate cake, and a plastic cup to scoop more potatoes, gravy, and a biscuit. He followed the dog to a wooden shelter and spread the feast out. Even wet, the dog was warm and they huddled together to share. When the rain slowed to a light strumming against the metal roof of the dog house, they were best friends and sound asleep.

~~~~~

The Man slung himself into the car, revved the engine to warm his feet, and pulled into the night. Hillbillies might be ignorant, but damn, they sure could fry chicken. God bless them every one. The heater began to take some of dampness out of the freaky Ozark summer storm. Rolling his shoulders, he lit a cigarette and shook his head. He had a long way to go before morning. The lump in the back seat didn’t move. Fine. A little something in the root beer worked every time. The brat was still out cold. After few miles, he opened the take-out box. You snooze, you lose. Smacking his lips, he ate the cold drumstick and fries. Shouldn’t let food go to waste, and a kid who didn’t wake up and ask for it, didn’t deserve it. Let him sleep.

Jasper, Arkansas Nine Years Later

Get out! Run! His lungs begged for air. He jabbed his fists left and right against the creature in his nightmare. Talons ripped into his arms, chest. He kicked with both feet. The lolling head, feathered and huge, faded into shadows with an ear-splitting screech. Mick screamed too, rolled, slammed against a wall, and the cabin door flew open. In a brief swirl of air, leaves and dust spread over his feet like high tide.

Groaning, Mick crawled over the doorsill, fell out into the warm August morning, and lay face up on the ground. Breathe, Stupid. You’ve had nightmares all summer, get over it.

The world stopped spinning. He coughed, breathed a little slower. Grabbed an edge of the door to pull himself up. Blinked his eyes. Jiggled his shoulders and looked around. Julie’s birdfeeder hung on its limb. Wild muscadine vines snarled where he had trained them. His little cabin was still relying on the red oak trunk to hold it upright. Nothing changed.

Fourteen was too old for nightmares. He’d moved out of the house into the camping shed, so his screams wouldn’t wake his grandparents. So he’d stop being afraid of dreaming. If Grandpa Buck and Granny Irene knew he was reliving his kidnapping in nightmares after nearly nine years, they’d have him in for counseling as quick as they could make the appointment. The dreams hadn’t been so bad last summer. He’d just about forgotten about them, but they’d found him this year—the eagle, the ghost, and the storm.

Pulling a tee-shirt over his head, Mick sucked up his fears and stored them deep inside. He was good at keeping secrets. Couldn’t give up, let the monsters win. He had a new life to live and the past better stay in the past. He scrunched his bedroll into a box with jeans, tee-shirts, and underwear. A couple of half-charred 2 x 4s and a few broken panels of sheetrock tossed over it all gave the impression of neglected junk. He pulled down vines from the cabin roof to hide the door. Grandpa said it’d been some old hunter’s shack or a squatter’s hidey hole. Now Mick owned it. He had a real Certificate of Ownership, his twelfth birthday present. A deed to a place of his very own.

His secret place—to think or not think. To consider who he might have been in his other life and wonder why no record of his kidnapping could be located. His own cabin. Where his two-legged enemy would never find him. The Man. The Man whose name he couldn’t remember, who’d kept him locked up as a child. Who left him asleep with the dog in the night and never came back. The man called “Sir.”

On the Way Back Home

Mick decided to follow Scenic Highway 7 to the Diner rather than hike through the woods. Breakfast was a busy time at the Sizzling Skillet, and he was running late. Greasy, syrupy dishes would pile up fast. Granny Irene would be fussing about her sleepy headed dish washer and how the world would stop turning if he didn’t come to brighten her day. Ha! And feed the goldfish in the pond out back and anything else she could think of.

He grinned. Buck and Irene might not be his real grandparents, but they’d taken him in, argued with the county for custody, and somehow got a full set of papers for him, social security ID and all. He couldn’t imagine any other couple loving him as much as they did. When the nights were rough, he knew being with them in the morning would make it all sane again.

He whistled to a hawk gliding slow and high, riding the currents of heat that could carry him clear to the river side of the valley. Faraway dogs yipped like the clicking of telegraph keys through the hills. A vintage pick-up truck rattled its way out of a dusty side road and turned toward Harrison. The driver raised a finger for ‘hello’ as he passed.

Mick's boots crunched a steady cadence on the gravel verge of the road, and he began to sing. John Phillip Sousa. Great marching music. He raised his arms and strutted like a drum major at the high school. Another year and he’d be trying out for the position. Band was one of the best parts of being alive.

“Ba da da boom dada, da da da boom di boom, bum de bum de bum de bum.”

He sucked in a deep breath for the finale. “Da da da, doo di doo di dooooooo!” At that moment, the searchlight of a full August sun rose over the next ridge and made him squint. It was a great day, a beautiful morning. He began to jog.

As he topped a rise in the road, a smooth engine noise came surging up behind him. Fast car. Steep curves. Bad combination for a hiker. He leaped into tall grass closer to the tree line. The car’s roof glinted. His stomach tightened. Swinging behind a lightning-seared tree trunk, he ducked his head.

The car roared as it passed by. Like that monster in his nightmare. A rumble, a purr that became a panther’s hunting growl. The new model Buick zipped past, captured him, froze his image in its shiny black finish, and swung around the curve toward . . . where? The Diner? Jasper? Parthenon? North central Arkansas was pretty empty.

A dark-bearded man drove the car, taking his half out of the middle of the road. Not a nature lover. Not interested in the dew-damp trees, mist hanging low in the deep ravines, or the family of red-winged hawks circling, hunting together. No trailer hitch for a boat. No canoe lashed on top. Just one person driving too fast with purpose. One dark-bearded man. Mick stood still, barely breathing.

For the umpteenth time this summer, he’d dreamed of a monster swooping in to slash him open, to rip his heart out, and this car had just sucked something out of him. What if? No. Can’t be the Man. Just can’t be. Too long ago. He shook his head and laughed a little. Don’t be stupid. If he wanted you, he’d have come back before now. Stop freaking out every time a black beard drives by.

I appreciate any and all comments!! Every bit of information from readers makes me a better writer.

Let it Snow, let it snow, let it snow.

2010-03-23T09:15:00.000-05:00

Once again, the variable weather of Arkansas has given us a Spring Break to remember. Nearly 14 inches of snow in March! Probably not at all odd for Michigan, but a once-in-awhile surprise in Arkansas. Then within 24 hours, 60 degree weather and the snow's gone, except for Constable winks of crystals under bushes and tucked into crevices betweens stones. Today it's lovely. Brilliant sunshine and the smells of spring, even if the damp is chilly rather than warm.

Lingering Winter
Footsteps clattering like magpies,
hungry sparrows, giant robins

Secret breezy whispers fluttering
like pigeons and mourning doves

Holiday scents gilding by
on lingering drifts of cold, dry air

Fleeting giggles in quick windy swirls
of crunchy brown leaves

Forgotten blossoms of summer sighing
like tiny fishes weaving between wands of seagrass

Suddenly,

Tears of spring
swirling warm mist
showers of sharp knives

Inhale slowly
breathe in pale sunlite dreams
possibly fog.

To Read or to Love, that is the question

2010-02-16T07:12:00.001-06:00

For everyone who's read To Kill a Mockingbird, as opposed to loved To Kill a Mockingbird, here's my take on the question.

We, even those of us who are baby birds in the writing nest, write our stories from the heart ...or they die.
We, even those of us who stumble over and over again, pick up the pen and try another story...or give up.
We, even those of us who may not be Sunday faithful, dream, wish and pray for inspiration...or we feel abandoned......and I am telling you, feeling abandoned is a state of our own creation.

This morning, instead of writing or even dreaming up something worth writing, I searched the ether for an abridged version of TKM for our SPED classes. Why? You might ask. Surely if we 'encourage' kids who can't read above 3rd or 4th grade level to slog through TKM, we have a good reason. Could it be that the story is arresting, full of action, dynamic, thrilling? To a kid, not so much.

Ah, but I and possibly you, grew up on the film. The FILM first. The action, the drama, the pathos. The FILM first. Then, after a little time and a little emotional scarring, I read the book.

And oh, while I love the story, the writing, the characters, the conflict, and the reveals....to me, To Kill a Mockingbird was meant to be real life, visceral, angry and sweaty, frustrated and frustrating. To be Scout, to be caught up in an adult world that doesn't make any sense at all, to have so many questions about decent behavior and compassionate understanding of other people...and to be unable to make a difference, what more could the main character want in a story? What better way to electrify the heart of a child who believes at that moment, 'I would never shut up and let this happen.'

What better way to empower one of tomorrow's heros?

So, now I ask you: Is it better that a slow reader have read through the full version with adult vocabulary and dictionary by the side, or is it better that these same teens read the story in simplified language and then view the film?

Authors: What's your response? If you were a 9th grade teacher, how would you teach it and why?

I'm listening.

While the pot boils

2010-02-11T07:18:00.001-06:00

We all know the old adage: Water never boils if you're watching the pot. That eight minutes for spaghetti seems to take twenty; waiting to dash in the asparagus (yes, I own no microwave oven) is the time it takes for one madly crazed cat to rip the NT Times Sunday newspaper into shreds. Time marches on all summer; time munches on all winter. We who gain and lose almost by osmosis are too fully aware of winter. An apple here, 1 point. A couple of chocolate covered pretzels there, minus 5. Two broiled chicken thighs and a poached pear with cinammon, 10 points and the signal to STOP! But then one turns around to look out the window and OMG, it's only 9:35 in the morning. Without the sound of traffic and the ringing of the school bells (buzzers), there is no distinction. We might absent-mindedly eat allllllllll daaaaaaaay looooooong.

Alas, so it is in many novels. Time has no anchors.
The reader is merrily skipping along, from dangerous dark staircases to wild winds of a storm, only to find that either six months has passed or thirty-five minutes. So many authors have taken to hitting us in the eye with a time frame sub-heading. May 23 7:52 PM. Four Days Later. On Board the Hummingbird in a Storm of Epic Proportions Twenty-eight Years, Six Months, a Lifetime Ago.

Enough. I fall back on Chekov. Anton, in case you were educated in the last few years when Russian short stories were no longer in the general curriculum. He charged writers to embed both time and place into the story itself, in order to expose the viscera of human relationsips. And his advice is undeniably sound.

Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.

If you cry 'forward', you must without fail make plain in what direction to go.

A writer is not a confectioner, a cosmetic dealer, or an entertainer. [I'm dying to know if he saw writers as mere photographers of life and human relationships.]

And of course, he had a comment about humans, too, that we could contemplate on a winter's day:

All of life and human relations have become so incomprehensibly complex that, when you think about it, it becomes terrifying and your heart stands still.

I want my characters to be "human" as Chekov knew boys and girls, men and women, to be human.
I want my readers to sigh (or howl or laugh or weep), to flip back and re-read a scene to seal it in better, to hand my stories to someone else and say, "Read this one."

I'm spending more time with Mick and Reverend Richter these days, looking for the moments when a sensitive kid can see the 'glint of light on broken glass' as he grapples with identifying the Man's identity.

If I'm careful, middle grade hearts will 'stand still.'

Caren Johnson Agency Pitch Fest

2010-01-28T07:10:00.000-06:00

It's been a long time while we survived Christmas, then a big milestone birthday, and some nasty weather at my house. But back to the saddle.....it's Pitch Fest Day. Hello Elana Roth!

Here's my pitch for the day.

In a small town where a boy's suspicions aren't taken seriously by the authorities, a predator could do a lot of damage before someone can stop him. Only a few days into the school year, Mick Hawthorn, curious eighth-grader and kidnapping survivor, begins to suspect the true intentions of a new charismatic pastor who's become part of the school faculty. If anyone is going to step up and expose the dangers of a possible pedophile and kidnapper, it's going to have to be Mick.

STANDING for SOMETHING is an upper middle-grades novel especially written to remind boys that being young doesn't mean you're powerless.

Entry for the No Kiss Scene

2010-01-02T08:33:00.001-06:00

Good Morning Writers! Please be sure to share your No Kiss scene link in any comments so I can enjoy your No Kiss scenes too! Thanks to Frankie for getting our fingers back into action after the holidays.

********************
Gillian glanced at the French doors when she heard the car door slam. At last! Time had nearly stood still all day while she waited. He’d be windblown and hot from the ride up from the desert in that little sports car. She knew exactly how his body would feel when he hugged her. Sand would have roughened his skin, leaving a faint dust that would transfer to her own fingers tips as she stroked his arm. Summer down in Phoenix would have tanned him to gold, not sun-yellow, but soft and inviting, like old, old jewelry. Despite his brown eyes, he never darkened to a true tan, but like the finest suede, kept the gleam of oiled leather. She mussed her curly hair with both hands, making sure it was a bit wild. He liked that way.

         She wanted to hug him, to stand shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, her chin to the curve of his neck. In the last few nights, anticipating his arrival, her restlessness had conjured up dreams of racing out to meet him, regardless of what the neighbors might see. The thrill of tasting his mouth, of nuzzling her nose and cheek against his kept her awake and anxious. It had been nearly a year since his last visit, and email wasn’t enough to sustain her need. She turned her chair slowly as the doors opened, and a large suitcase was heaved up the last step into the sunny day room. The case rolled across the smooth terrazzo floor, and she caught it before it bumped into her.

        “Gillian,” he said as he closed the doors. “Some men know when to throw in a hat. I toss in a suitcase. Shows how special I am and forces you to accept me, even if it’s been so long, you don’t remember who I am.” He shook his head and stretched every limb, ignoring the customary means of politely entering a house. It was his home too, after all.

        “I had forgotten how hot that drive up the west road would be this time of year.” Joints popped and she laughed.

       “You can’t be getting old,” she said.

       “Ha! Just watch me. Six hours in the tuna can on wheels and I’m as stiff as the Tin Man. Listen.” He jiggled a knee and ankle and they popped on cue. “Dying as we speak. Feed me quick and give me the coldest glass of tea in the place.”

        He seemed to leap across the room and knelt before her. “You are my darlin’ darling, and I’ve missed you every single moment. How have you been? Everything going all right?”

       As he stroked her hair and traced the edge of her chin with his warm fingers, a thrill of desire made her heart begin to race. “I promised I wouldn’t be gone so long and I let you down. I’m sorry,” he said.

       “You’ve been away for more days than I can count,” she said and allowed her fingers to trace swirls through the blond hair of his arms. She leaned into his touch, swayed against his palms, waiting for him to wrap her in his arms and lift her out of the chair as he had done last year.

       “I’m so glad you’re home again,” she said. “I’ll bet you’re exhausted.” The effort to remain cool made her mouth tremble, but he was forbidden fruit, and she could not cross the line without his invitation. He leaned his head against hers and moaned as if he were in pain.

       “Mostly I’m starving. What’s on the stove?” He rolled the suitcase aside and pushed her chair with him as he headed for the kitchen. “A man travels on his stomach.”

       “I thought you traveled on donuts and coffee. Isn’t that what cops do?”

       “This cop has learned his lesson. I’ve been good this year, yogurt, salads and fish. And now I want something that’s run around on four hooves before taking a bath in barbeque sauce!” He pulled open the oven door and drew in a long breath of satisfaction.

       “Hot diggity dog! I knew there was a reason Jack and I voted to add you to the family when Dad remarried,” he said. “Every guy needs a baby sister who can cook.”

Calling All Writers! Fun for January 2nd

2009-12-26T08:48:00.000-06:00

No Kiss Blogfest Jan 2, 2010!

This is a chance to polish or blow the lid off your skills in writing a near-miss, an accidental faux pas, a fantasy, a real life, a sorrowful, a thankful, a scene in which the characters almost kiss, need to kiss, want to kiss, are soooooooo close to kissing- BUT don't!

January 2nd is the POST DATE.

Information: http://www.frankiediane.blogspot.com/

Things You Should Do To Prepare For The Ultimate Non-Kissage Festivities!
1) Sometime between now and Jan 2, 2010 write a post about the No Kiss Blogfest to let everyone know you are participating and that they should too. Why? Because it's awesome!
2) Sign up for No Kiss Blogfest by filling in the Mr. Linky below. [on her blog page] Because Mr. Linky is awesome.

3)Tweet about No Kiss Blogfest, using the hash tag: #nokissblogfest because #hashtagsareawesome

4) After you've recovered from New Years Eve and are over the shock of not being able to write 2.0.0. for the year...but must now start all dates with 2.0.1. write a blog sharing your Almost Kiss, No Kiss Blogfest entry (either one from your WIP, one you just wrote, one from a book, movie or tv show)and post on January 2, 2010!!!

[Kate again] What a challenge! I totally missed the Kiss Festival at Writer Wannabe, another terrific blog, so I'm serious about having fun with this one!

Tweet, Facebook, blog....enter...and get your juices flowing!!

Christmas is a day for. . . poetry!

2009-12-25T08:18:00.002-06:00

Arkansas is wrapped in snow this merry Christmas morning. City sounds are faint, few, a long distance away. No footprints disturb the lawn, not even those of the white mama possum who searches for cat food in the night. Like fog on "little cat feet", the snow has taken us from the South to the Artic in a few dark hours.

The sun rises, glaring, curious as to what poet has written out of place to change the greens and rusts of autumn to winter. The roads will clear later, leaving snow ripe for rolling and stacking into snow families. Soon our neighborhood band of little boys will race through the slush, kick their balls, and swagger into loaded bushes to watch the white flocking fly into the air.

Now is the moment to write poetry, while neither warm air nor visitors distract.

Merry Christmas! May your household be full of surprises.

How to Write the Perfect Mystery

2009-12-23T09:07:00.004-06:00

I love the History Channel. Politics (or at least scheming for gain) are woven through historical facts to make clear a point, often fraught with mystery and controversy. Note, O ye writers, these are not the same and are the backbone of your plots.

Dionysius determined Jesus' birth in 753 of the old Roman Calendar, then rewrote the Julian Calendar to begin with the supposed date of Jesus's birth, December 25th, the Celebration of Mithra. How convenient that settling the celebration of the Christ child on the same date would accelerate the overthrow of the Mithra religion. Dionysius thus established the January 1st New Year.

But Dionysius forgot that the stories refer the reign of Herod around 4 BC. Another complication is that Herod and his advisers didn't know of the STAR of Bethlehem. Apparently only the Magi could 'see' them. He called the Magi to him and asked when he could view the Star. Perhaps it was not a comet or nova, but the conjunction of two planets to create temporarily a brighter "star." The visit of the Magi, no matter when or how many there were, no matter that Jesus may have been two years old, seems to have been a pilgrimage from Babylon (Iraq), a nation that once nearly destroyed the wandering tribes of Judea.

Is this not a Best Seller? Mystery, misdirection, vanquished on the run, conquerors on their knees. What more could a good plot need? Of course, there were terrors as when Herod heard the Magi ask about the "King who is born this day" and after murdering his own sons, sent his army to murder all make babies of ages two and under. An angel warns Mary and Joseph and they escape at the 11th hour. Your mystery may or may not have a terror this dramatic, but terror helps.

I am reminded that over and over again in the Bible there are confrontations and escapes. Daniel survived the Lion's Den, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego walked among flames in the furnace, and the vision of Jesus appearing to Paul saved him from his life as a persecutor of Jews.

When we read and are consciously checking the language, the plot structure, the ebb and flow of energies and conflict, I suggest that we have ignored that which is most important: charisma of the main character and the dangers that befell both him/her and those other characters who are the supporting cast.

Think action, think conflict, think misleading peaceful moments before the roller coaster rises again. Perhaps the Bible, both Testaments, is a bit wordy and tends to include details that we would edit out in the Current Era, but the story is one that grips the heart, endangers the complacent, faces many characters with life and death threats, and in the end, takes from us the main character for whom all have worried, protected, and tried to advise. We would weep if we did not know the story already. And though it seems trite to say, there is the promise of a sequel. We are able to believe that the pivotal character will return, though the event of his death is described in great detail.

So that is how to write a mystery:
1. Find a character intelligent, pure of thought and heart, flawed with indecision and human foibles,
2. Set the unsuspecting hero on a quest for the benefit of others,
3. Throw him screaming into fiery furnaces, teetering from heights, dodging swords, racing from falling buildings, bumping into others who love and assist him, and generally fighting against all odds.
4. Make the breather moments short and the progress toward success or failure clear in each event.

And you'll have it.

Sometimes, the END is the reward of a great effort. END your story and know the joy. Then go back and rejoice all the way through that you have succeeded in your "great effort."

Happy New Year....there are eleven more writing days until the New Work Year takes over our lives again.

Watching the Old Year Slink Away

2009-12-21T08:48:00.002-06:00

2009 is about to slink away like fried chicken grease oozing into the newspaper in a trash can. If you've never made fried chicken at home, don't worry, it's only worth the effort if you have a seasoned cast iron skillet. And for the modern calorie conscious, it's madness to contemplate. The grease is brown, filled with small bits of crusty flour and seared strips of chicken that didn't make it off the skillet. This gruesome looking sludge smells like every good Sunday dinner or holiday feast you ever had. Sage, black pepper, the near-bacon crispiness -- all are there, hidden in the congealing corn oil and chicken fat.

Is it any wonder that gravy became as important as the meat? Not only was the smell the most seductive odor since night-blooming Jasmine, the fat and seasonings lingered on the tongue as reminder of a full belly in a cold climate when food between then and spring was sure to be dried jerky and boiled vegetables slowly shriveling in a cold room under the ground.

So since I am not frying chicken, but am planning a spicy rubbed turkey breast for the holiday, let me share something that the Hankerson-McCoy-Lacy families have kept on file, long after we stopped frying chicken. I take that back, Molly still fries and savors every bite.

Remember, even if you grill or bake, one thigh fried in a 6 inch skillet will afford you the opportunity to taste the Promised Land in small doses.

Seasoned flour for the chicken (washed and dried)
    1 C flour, dash of salt, goodly amount of black pepper
    dollop of sage - leaves or ground
    smidgeon of thyme
    dash of onion powder
    whiff of chili powder (really, a whiff!)
     put it all in a brown lunch bag and shake well

    1/2 C milk
    1/2 C water
    1 egg beaten smooth
    mixed well

    Chicken is to be rolled in the liquid and shaken in the bag, one piece at a time.
    Grease (Crisco in a perfect world since lard is not to be considered, corn oil, whatever)
         1/4 to 1/2 inch deep-must be hot enough that water skitters when dropped in, but NOT smoking!
     Fry with a venting cover to protect you from popping grease and to add some pressure inside the skillet. No venting cover/bacon frying cover? Got one of those pizza bakers with hole in them? Got an old base plate from a pressure cooker with holes in it? Got aluminum foil? Poke it with a large tyned fork.
    Turn the heat down to medium, gently turn the chicken in about 12-15 minutes. Cook about 10-15 minutes per side, depending on the size of your pieces and whether or not they have skins.
     Chicken should be golden brown, crispy and if you're worried, cut open a thigh to see if it's still pink.
     Remove the lid for the last 5 minutes.

     NOW, the GRAVY!
     Allow the mess to cool just a bit while you put the chicken into the oven to stay warm. Use a piece of bread to soak up a little oil, grease if you have dogs. Otherwise, spoon it off. While the skillet is warm, scrap the singeing bits off the pan so that the stirring can be smooth.
     If you've fried chicken for one or two, there's not much goop there, so add about 1 heaping tablespoon of flour and a dash of salt and pepper and sage directly to the warm grease. Stir until it smooths together. (roux) Heat it a little until small bubbles are starting.
    Pour in milk (1 C for two folks, more depending on your amount of sludge in the beginning) Basically 1 C of milk per spoon of flour. Stir while you're pouring. Heat until the mixture boils gently. It won't really "make gravy" without getting to the near-boil state. If it's too thin, let it cook a bit. If it's too thick, add milk and keep stirring. If you must add more flour, dissolve it in cold water in a cup and drizzle it slowly while stirring. I also use WondraFlour and that doesn't clump like regular flour, but not everybody has it on hand. It is okay to taste the gravy and season again. Unlike a corn starch gravy, flour based gravy thickens while it cools.

         That's it. Southern Comfort. Serve with anything on the side you feel the need for and LOVE.

         And after it's over and no one can speak for the sated pleasure of it all, sit right down and write a short story about the anticiaption, the memories of dinners past, loved ones near and far, and if none of these inspire, draw doodles on the paper (see, I meant write) until one speaks to you, and suddenly, the day is recorded for all time in faces and music and smells and tastes and words that share your life with the world. All the ups and downs of 2009 be memories in your heart, on your paper, in the forests of doodles, on your tongue as you sing in the New Year.

May a few forbidden pleasures surprise you from time to time.
Happy New Year 2010.

Kate

My Heart Knows What the Wild Goose Knows

2009-12-13T08:05:00.003-06:00

The Canadian Branta is the common wild goose to America. Their honks are a beacon of changing seasons as they journey over Arkansas, and I love to listen. Here's a simple sonnet and reference to a haunting folk song by Terry Gilkyson (1916-1999) that my mother sang for years. "Flip-flop, hurry up, take to the sky. Wish I had wings so I could fly........Wild goose, brother goose. Which is best? A wandering fool or a heart at rest?" My mother was a wanderer.

My Heart Knows…..

Sing your rough song, o wayfaring Branta
Which at grey dawn and dusk, pulls at my heart.
Far rhythmic discordant tune of patois
Pulls me up from my chair; seeking, I dart.

A patch of clear sky, wings glimpsed; stroke, move on.
In darkness of night or slick icy sleet
No iron compass guides the living chevron
From Canada's stone to wide meadow sweet.

The doors of this house, my shackles, fling wide.
I follow your trail, freedom seductive.
I sing of your courage, faith mystified.
Too swiftly you fly, I stumble, submissive.

Oh come again, wild grey feathers and song,
I shall plant new wheat and deepen the pond.

(2006)
The links are Frankie Laine singing the song....though folk singers
sang it slower. And the bio for Gilkyson.
http://popup.lala.com/popup/1873778965066435142
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terry_Gilkyson

Slender Currents

2009-10-22T07:13:00.002-05:00

At School, we've finished the first Quarter of 9th Grade. We've spent two days hearing counselors drone on about credits and dire consequences and then returned to our classrooms with our prisoners to tackle a new unit. After being brought completely low in spirit and expectations, the inmates sat numbed and dumbed while we tapped and jigged through another chapter opening. Isn't it amazing how districts rely on a teacher's ability to re-create the wonder of learning, the magic of science, the puzzles of math, and the poetry of language, no matter what the message of the day has been from everyone else?

And somehow, for some kids, in some classrooms, with some topics, leading to some success, we do what we're paid to do - we rekindle, we reinvent, we find the key to unlock the resistance. And some students survive. Not all, but some.

Now, in the same vein, Nathan Bradford has asked a fundamental question about writers and the people who love them and read their submissions. Should we encourage everyone to write and assure them there's a success story for them out there somewhere? Here's my jaded reply this fine October morning.

Perhaps the fundamental question is not whether we should encourage everyone to write, but whether or not we can raise children who are willing to take a risk-to try and fail more than once, but keep on trying-and at some point, move on to another experience--new and challenging in a unique way--without grief or regret. In an era of No Danger sports equipment, No Danger play ground equipment, No Danger science classrooms and labs, No Danger grading systems---no wonder RISK is a 4-letter word.

I suppose if we can lie and tell every child he/she's a college bound scholar and that all the service jobs can sent to China, we can tell every storyteller that she's wonderful and inspiring and will be published someday, someday, someday, in a universe far, far away.

Once more, my friends, into the fray!
We few, we happy few, we band of writers,

We poor souls, unpublished and doubted

We storytellers of indeterminate skills

We risk-takers with eternally cheery hearts,

Once more, God's speed, God's blessings be upon us!

“Good luck comes in slender currents, misfortune in a rolling tides”

We need all the help we can get.

What is it, Fang?

2009-10-03T19:31:00.002-05:00

What is it, Fang? What black cloaked wickedness has crept into my consciousness? Have I morphed from a simple-minded science teacher to a blithering idiot? It's been awhile since I watched Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone...and it's opposite the brilliant Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl...and I'm flipping back and forth to savor both. Harry, Ron and Hermione are SO very young, so tiny. Barbra is huge, filling the screen with voice and eyes. When she's off screen, I want to wait without breathing until she returns. But there's the stranger who just happens to have a dragon egg in his pocket. And zap! I'm humming the music to put Fluffy straight to sleep. Then zing! She's in the basement of the theatre, wrapped in leopard skin suit and cap. The stage is dark, the red velvet seats empty and she sits on the piano and fingers, "People, people who need people." Oh, I remember about 1962 in Austin, playing a part in the bridge playing neighbors singing, "If a girl isn't pretty, like a Miss Atlantic City." That's it. I know the songs; I've danced to them all, swished long skirts and sang about being a Ziegfeld Star and marrying Omar Sharif.

      So you'd think Fanny Bryce would keep me locked in....but the key flies are twittering and Harry's on the broom and the secret chamber is just through that next door! And it's the most wonderful scene in the movie--the Chess Game. Where Ron is the hero and the villians are playing for keeps.
       You're a stronger heart than I if you could turn it off!
        Even for the Roller Skate routine where Fanny destroys her first chorus dance line!
        Hope the batteries hold out in the remote control!

Tooting Jo Lightfoot's Horn

2009-09-20T10:04:00.004-05:00

Good better-than-yesterday-than-a-week-ago morning! Chris is rallying and coherent and will fight off the fever surges for a few more days, but is expected to go home by end of week. Chris 98.6 Gall Bladder 0

Today--in light of this most welcome of news from DC, I want to cheer for the poems of Jo Lightfoot, everyday poet.

You can find her lovely works on her blog at http://everyday-poet.blogspot.com/

Here are a few to tickle your senses!

Even in September                                                         Autumn grasses
crows complain.                                                             bristle their tails.

Fallen leaves                                                                   Today's wonder
curl up to sleep.                                                               is weatherful.

For each leaf:
different history
different shape
different dance.

My, how I love this last one. Are we not all falling leaves from the day we are born? Are we not all shaped by genetics and life, bent and warped, smoothed and hollowed, cradled and fed--as seasons and emotions take us through our different dances? Perhaps, this is why a handful of us turn to writing. As we write, the twists and puzzles are unraveled. The dreams are given muscle. Songs wafting around in the little grey cells are set to whistle or hum. Tears are used for watercolors. Kisses are blown into the air so we can carress them as we trail our fingers along the back of a couch, up the tall smooth frame of a doorway, over the curve of the carvings on an ancient, battered Voss Brothers piano. Visions given voice.

We are the characters of which we write; we are the stories, first, last, and forever.

September Morn

2009-09-06T07:25:00.012-05:00

Today is the 30th birthday of Rosie Lacy, my adopted daughter, the one who made us "a real family" as Chris said at twelve, the one who made Adrian "her slave" at the age of seven. She is off in the wilds of southern Louisiana camping in rain and thunder, and I hope, waking to a calm September morn.

Those who are of a "certain age" remember our mothers teasing as we came from a hot bath, "Oh, you look like September Morn!" For ages it made no sense, and later as we learned she was referring to a risque and popular painting, which we had never seen, it made us laugh. To us, being wet and pink and naked from the bath was a normal state of being--how could anyone think it was risque? We just repeated her "ooolala" and danced down the hall with our towels fluttering like the cape of a matador.

Good September Morn 2009--I sit on the back porch, pink from a steamy shower, watching a gentle rain and a new kitten leaping from floor to couch to piano back and forth across my living room, and sipping a hot cup of double strong Chai tea. Whoops! Something in my past two years must have taken root, that should be a cup of hot, double strong Chai tea. I may be waxing eloquent under the eaves and waning yet another day toward oblivion, but the writing muse insists on consciousness.

Consciously, I know your September morn may not be my morning at all. . . and we all need to remember the dark side of the moon, and of mankind, on a beautiful morning in the Ozarks.

The Day is a Poem
September 19, 1939 by Robinson Jeffers

This morning Hitler spoke in Danzig, we hear his voice.
A man of genius: that is, of amazing
Ability, courage, devotion, cored on a sick child's soul,
Heard clearly through the dog wrath, a sick child
Wailing in Danzig; invoking destruction and wailing at it.
Here, the day was extremely hot, about noon
A south wind like a blast from hell's mouth spilled a slight rain
On the parched land, and at five a light earthquake
Danced the house, no harm done. Tonight I have been amusing myself
Watching the blood-red moon droop slowly
Into the black sea through bursts of lightning and distant thunder.
Well: the day is a poem, but too much
Like one of Jeffers', crusted with blood and barbaric omens,
Painful to excess, inhuman as a hawk's cry.

September Morn 1939. So long ago, 71 years, and still we shiver.

Peace on Earth, Happy Birthday Rosie, September 6, 2009.

Kate

Waiting for the Dawn

2009-08-26T20:05:00.005-05:00

Has anyone else ever considered the odd fact that James Michener's Center for Writers is at home in J. Frank Dobie's lovely little white cottage along Waller Creek in downtown Austin, Texas? Could two writers have been more strikingly different in both their choices of subject and their styles? Is this a display of honoring two, or of merely preserving one? Only UT knows, I suppose.

I think, as I fight the guilt of not writing my daily dozen pages, of the enormous number of contradictions I have encountered since I picked up my fingers and sent them across the keyboard.

I can write from the heart, but it's only one point of view and shallow. I can tell a totally fictitious story with no basis in fact at all, and it reads like a personal diary.

The characters of my dreams do indeed, bring me stories that are better than my own. On the other hand, I commit to my own and set aside such ethereal plot lines--perhaps, in case I cannot find the way from side to side without more help from the other world? Indeed, what do I know of voodoo in Chicago? Or teenaged killers in Fort Worth?

And yet, I cannot write FANTASY - all my stories are rooted in the earth herself. How can this be when all I read from ages 12-30 were fantasy and science fiction and the trials of journeymen searching with dragon and wizard, fighting troops and monsters, stretching the bonds of human law and the strength of human religion?

Is there any wonder I am so easily distracted?

What turns you on as a writer, or an artist, or a photographer, or a ??? Do you, like me, wander around in fog and streams of light that doesn't fall from a simple sun until a deadline traps you?
My very curiosity is both a bane and a salve.

A First Impression

2009-08-21T07:20:00.003-05:00

Once in awhile I am struck by a guilty conscience. I am having so much fun learning to be a WRITER that it seems illegal. And I haven't even had a nibble for publishing yet. Perhaps that's the secret, that the HEAVEN of writing stories is in the details of the stories themselves. Will publishing be a greater thrill? Maybe it doesn't really matter. I yam what I yam and that's all what I yam. (Popeye)

The trigger to this self-appreciation was the advent of my 30 year with 9th graders. I played the Toreador's March from Carmen as the classes wandered in with glassy eyes Wednesday. They couldn't have named it in a million years, but it got their attention. I won Wednesday.

Thursday they knew my name, and there was Willie and Lobo playing water music - gypsy boogaloo - Spanish guitar and viola. Again, I could see them giving themselves a mental shake.
I think it was a draw.

Today they will write and identify the thinking skills that make us scientists as we communicate.
And then we will design and identify how we are scientists in art.
And Monday we will PUBLISH, present our newspaper article reviews for all the world to see, lalalal. They'll fill a whole wall of illustrated manuscripts and be able to babble about analysis, collaboration, design, revision, rank ordering, and explanation.

Seriously, just like writing with my two groups of pen and ink artists, I believe this surely must be the most perfect example of a WIN-WIN situation.

Heaven.

Between a Rock and the Next Chapter

2009-08-12T18:58:00.003-05:00

What a thrill it is using Twitter and Facebook to peak into the lives of people around me, my family and critique groups. Today I am waiting to hear the announcement of Roz's new little Zane, have shared the excitement of Dave's finishing the first draft of his third novel, and I am thrilled that every single other person has submitted readings for the Kidstuff Saturday morning meeting-- but me.

Summer was too calm, too sweet, too cool, and too short. Somehow the garage is cleaner, the carpet is scrubbed, and the hall is painted a fine medium khaki. But the stories are sitting on the dining room table getting no more than a few minutes a day......and damn few pages built of those minutes.

I am hereby taking the best advice I could find in the last two minutes: "Begin at the beginning," the King said, and go on until you come to the ending, and stop." Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland.

I have set Suzzanne's story in motion--now to go back and tell the beginning as I am commanded.

If you are also starting over, starting again, or starting in a new doorway, write me and we'll share hugs and pats on the back. That's what Facebook is good for!

My Brain is Full

2009-08-02T17:42:00.005-05:00

I apologize for borrowing from Far Side cartoons with my lead line, but when the can not get past the JDC door into the real world without spilling either blood or ink struck this month, I had no choice. I began to read and reread: Gordon Korman, Juvie Three, and Chris Crutcher everything all over again, and Elaine Marie Alphin, selected scenes, and Thick by Colin Neenan...and a bagload of adult mysteries.

Finally I turned to the wonderful stories of Fiona the Photosensitive Flamingo, and Henry, the child who plays with food, to Tala and her trees, and Rossi and her lost diamond witchstone, flanked by Kari and the voodoo she do so well, Adis and the rooftops of Maddingbrew, and Agony Illyria and her illusion-wielding sidekicks.
Here is my inspiration: Mandy Silberstein, Kristin Gray, Karen Akins, Wild Silas Johnson, Tim Whirled Peas Koch and Justin "Mr. Minkle" Blatherbrain.
No writer is an island and when I am stranded, these fine characters pull me back to the mainland.
Thank you all.

North of the Border, down Mexico Way, la la la la

2009-07-06T07:55:00.003-05:00

The first thing a writer has to do is be able to take the heat. Down in McAllen, it's hot enough to fry a brain -- any place, let alone on the sidewalks. So now that the family is on the road and the dogs have all been properly medicated and walked in the opposite direction of the distracting boxer in the yard next door, I have all the time I want to produce my planned 50 pages in 15 days. Not a bad goal, 3 pages a day plus a few extra now and then.
But have you ever noticed that when you're southern born and bred, the AC in an empty house puts you to sleep mentally? It's cool, it's a little dark in the house, the dogs are sprawled out on the tile floors and snoring....I have to get out of this place!! I'm packing the laptop and running for the car.

6 of one.....

2009-06-27T10:21:00.004-05:00

Oh the irony! The humbling recognition that writing a story is the same task as cleaning the garage. The garage that is filled with a Moose Beer plaque and favorites gismos left by Chris, with Great Books of the Western World, with 1000 alphabetized Science Fiction paperbacks nobody will buy, with four coffee tables from Rosie's apartments, three bedframes, two student desks, and one beautiful wooden marimba that only Adrian can play, all sprinkled with the debris of my mother's ins and outs and dying dreams.

Writing a story, no matter how long demands that we (a) begin and (b) finish.

I haven't finished dividing the inhabitants of my garage into trash and treasures, really finished, for the last 21 years. We moved in with no one but three 8th graders to carry for us over a Thanksgiving that rained without ceasing. Everything was damp, so most boxes and trash bags of last minutes items were left in the garage while we scuttled in with mattresses that went onto the floors, with dishes cramped into whichever cabinet was open, and clothes that went right into closets. Then we closed the big double door and didn't open it until summer. So in 1986, I cleaned the garage, created a shady place for a little girl to play, a safe haven for a daschund and a couple of cats. When winter came and icy rains slithered in from the north, we closed the big door again. Everytime it opened after that, something new was added, older residents were slid this way and that, stacked and restacked. Garage sale after garage sale only skimmed the immediate surface. In 2002 I closed the big door for the last time.

Today I need to write.........today I am cleaning the garage instead. It consumes me, the decision to select the protagonists who will remain and the antagonists who will be defeated, thrown away, or sold. I can only pray at the end there is a car-sized path when the story is revealed.

perhaps, growing old

2009-06-25T20:51:00.003-05:00

Today Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson both passed away. Surely other writers, actors, composers, singers, illustrators, musicians.......artists of all genres, of all talents, have also been lost, whether or not I know of them. My mother, quiet and cheerful, lived to 92. I'm not at all sure what that will take in the way of clean living, dynamic planning, or healthy behaviors.
What makes one person seek longer survival and the next person succumb? I've always heard that mean agressive women outlive the meek. Hmmm. I am becoming more determined to finish what I start, this second novel for example--I find that telling the story is not satisfying me. I want to explore Suzzanne's being, how she came to be that girl with so much anger and so little street sense. Well, I'm writing and certainly this will keep me healthy for another year or two!

Writer's Rule: The more layers you weave, the healthier the story.

Writing Camp

2009-06-19T07:31:00.002-05:00

Just spent two wonderful days with ESOL kids in the Springdale Writing Camp. Short stories about sports and family and career dreams. Poetry about the Marshall Islands and hungers and loneliness. Brave words, common themes, no fear. What a terrific group of students are coming to my junior high next year. I can hardly wait!

Writing - a little like marriage!

2009-06-13T07:22:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was a real eye-opener. I suppose we all think we have a "new" story. But last night I read Elaine Marie Alphin's Counterfeit Son and found another boy battling a predator. Thank goodness for cheery critique groups. They reminded me that we share something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue--in marriage, in business, among friends, and in the world of storytelling!

Now, on to Resurrection where Suzzanne is suspected of murdering a highschool rival. More as she appears on the small screen, one page at a time.

whoops!!

2009-06-12T07:38:00.003-05:00

Kristin Gray, besides being an expert of Fiona the Flamingo, is a first-class web trawler. She's found a new book with the same title! Haven, Beverly Patt. Just being released.

http://www.classof2k9.com/ You'll find it mentioned, but they haven't filled in the jacket cover yet. I've read her bio and she has more energy than a chihuahua. Congratulations to her!!

*%*#*@*^*** That's my little grey cells thinking of a new Title!

I'm open to suggestions!

WRITE 'TIL YOU'RE HUNGRY Buzz

2009-06-11T18:31:00.003-05:00

The WRITE TIL YOU'RE HUNGRY Day went very very well. We met at Panera's at 10:00, fortified w/ beverage of choice, shared writing news and family news for 30 minutes flat (just came back from Hawk Pub. conf and another writer just back from 10 yr anniv trip to London and Paris)and then we set up laptops and went to work. Stopped at 1:00 for lunch, joined by a new writer wanting to join the group, said goodbye to her at 2:00 and wrote until 3:30. Whew! Worth every minute. 6 good pages for me, 2 Fiona the Flamingo PB stories for one and mucho action pages involving a wicked witch, a troll, and a warlock teenager for our third writer.
KIDSTUFF is a wonderful writing group! Thanks Mandy, Kristin.....welcome to Karen.

Getting Published

2009-06-10T08:38:00.002-05:00

I love stumbling over concurrent advice. The authors and editors at Hawk Publishing all had the advice I posted last time. Today I found this at Insomniac Press:

Get published somewhere else. We love new authors, but some sort of track record helps a lot. If you've finished a brilliant novel and have never been published anywhere else, keep your shirt on and start sending short stories or excerpts to literary magazines; most of them accept unpublished authors, and we'll look a lot more closely at authors who have been in print before. (If you have a truly stunning non-fiction proposal, however, you might be able to bypass this step.)

So I compiled a long list of publications that pay for articles, stories, essays, opinions, reviews, etc. Sign up as a follower and I'll send you a copy if you're interested. Remember being published is better than not!

Have a great day!

Hawk Publishing Conf

2009-06-09T07:11:00.003-05:00

Some gems from the Hawk Publishing conference.
*Publishing is better than not publishing.
*You can't believe how long it's taken some major authors to land a contract.
*There are no guarantees in the book market. One contract does not guarantee another.
*Marketing is more successful if you get in the car and drive.
*Sales are higher if you know your bookstore sales staff - in every town you ever visited.
*Critique or reading groups trump trying to reinvent the quill pen.

Excellent weekend. Bill Bernhardt: master mind, host, motivational speaker
Speakers from Science Fiction to Scriptwriting, from legal drama to historical fiction, agent to authors to legal advice.

School's Out, Let the writing begin!

2009-05-31T08:32:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow is the very very last day of school! All the excuses are erased. All the lists of "what must be done first" are crumpled and tossed. I challenge those with the "Manana" Syndrome to HANG UP, SIT DOWN, and WRITE. Make no promises, pledge no pledges, start in the middle if necessary--but load up your favorite white noise (music, etc) in the player and WRITE.

Break a leg!!

You do know that's for good luck, don't you?

M-Day!!

2009-05-23T07:43:00.002-05:00

M for Mailing!! After the smart folks in my crit groups have checked over the periods and dashes, I'm sending my 3 chapters to Jen Rofe, Andrea Brown Literary Agency. WooHoo!
Then I'm seriously cleaning the pantry and painting over the ultimate beige left there by the previous owner. I'm am so not an ultimate beige person!

Happy Memorial and Mailing Weekend!

Fireworks!! Racing pulse!! Deep breathing!!

2009-05-18T07:02:00.005-05:00

My fellow writers -- Justin Minkel, Dave Johnson, Mandy Silberstein, Kristin Grey, Rachael Solh and Linda Norman -- and I have just returned from the SCBWI Conference in Conway AR!
What a BLAST! You must meet and hear the wisdom of Martha Mahalick (Greenwillow) and Jen Rofe (Andrea Brown Literary Agency) if ever you have the chance. Direct, down to earth, serious, passionate and best of all for us who are fledgling writers, infectious!!

And I must give equal time to Anastasia Suen, who is indeed a moonbeam of delight. If you're a picture book writer, find her online and take her class. It's going to be something you can really use.

I came home, purchased Cynthea Liu's Writing for Children and Teens book, and spent most of Sunday preparing my three chapters for Jen Rofe. My first request for more!

Happyhappyhappy - for all five of us who were asked for more.

There is nothing so joyous as a challenge!

Kate

2009-03-27T20:04:00.003-05:00

A new blog, another commitment, another long-armed reach through the ethernet. Here's a snippet of my baby, my first. Enjoy.

HAVEN

By
Kathryn Lacy

Escape

Out of the darkness, jagged electrified spears slammed into a dogwood tree. Flames in the night filled the hollow with a burnt char. The boy woke, frightened by an enormous crash of thunder that shook the car where he slept. Rain and wind blocked his view through the windows. The Man must have left him here.
He was hungry. Cold and hungry. He needed to pee. He lay down under the quilt again, afraid to move. There were rules for leaving the car, and he knew better than to break the rules. On the back of the driver’s seat, a shadow flickered. A red light blinked through the rain, on and off, on and off. What was it? He leaned over the back seat and spied a sign. S-k-i-l-l-e-t.
Skillet. Chicken. If he hurried, he could be back before the Man was finished eating. He pulled up the hood of his jacket, scrunched up the blankets and pillow, slipped out of the car, and ran along the building to the back. Garbage cans. He was a good scavenger.
Halfway into a tall aluminum can, grabbing bits of bread, chicken, and finger scoops of mashed potatoes and gravy, he stopped to shake the rain out of his hair. The Man would be proud of him for feeding himself, as long as he came back to the car quickly and didn’t whine about being wet. He knew how to be quiet. He knew the rules.
“Grrrrrrrrrruff!” A monster jumped up, hairy paws on the edge of the garbage can, teeth bared. The boy leaped back out of the can and cowered against the ground. Covered his head with his arms. Played dead. It worked before. After awhile, dogs always left him alone. Rain trickled into his jacket, along the exposed skin on his back, down behind his ears. Cold. He shivered and waited. A hot raspy tongue licked his left hand. He jerked it into the sleeve. The tongue licked his right hand smeared with gravy. When he tilted his head up, the tongue slapped against the mess on one cheek. No monster. A big shaggy, hungry dog who liked potatoes and gravy.
Reaching deep into the garbage again, the boy grabbed chicken and steak bones, a hunk of what looked like chocolate cake, and a plastic cup to scoop more potatoes, gravy, and a biscuit. He followed the dog to a wooden shelter and spread the feast out to share. When the rain slowed to a light strumming against the metal roof of the dog house, they were best friends and sound asleep.
***
The Man slung himself into the car, revved the engine to warm his feet, and pulled into the night. He had a long way to go before morning. Good thing the kid was still out cold. After a few miles, he opened the take-out box. You snooze, you lose. Smacking his lips, he ate the chicken and fries. Couldn’t let food go to waste, and a kid who didn’t wake up and ask for it, didn’t deserve it. Let him sleep.