I had hoped to have a new poem up today but I didn't quite finish it. So I went looking through my archive for something to share and came across some poems that were cut from my book Hugging the Rock. If you've read the book you may remember a pivotal time for Rachel, the main character, when she goes grocery shopping with her dad. In an early version of the book I had this poem of Rachel shopping with her mom to show the differences. But in the end it was too much of a flashback and didn't add anything new to the story.


GROCERY SHOPPING WITH MOM

At the grocery store
mom stops to talk to everyone.

She scoops up new babies
sings them lullabies
nuzzles their peach fuzz heads.

In the produce aisle she spouts advice
races off to give her coupons to the old man in the wheelchair
then slips a quarter into the rocket ship
for a skinny kid in a baseball cap.

She tosses boxes of cereal
into the cart
then dances away
chasing a guy blowing a harmonica.

I put four boxes back on the shelf
and trail after her.

In the pet food aisle
mom talks fast
her hands pointing everywhere
and nowhere
until the guy smiles
cups the harmonica
close to his mouth
and plays a sweet tune.

The guy tucks a bag of dog food
under one arm
and they both walk off
still talking.

My mom marches beside him
right through the checkout stand
and out the door
and never once looks back at me.

I wait over an hour
watching the ice cream melt
and drip onto the loaf of bread
and a jar of pickles
wondering what is
in me
that makes me
so invisible
to her.

--- Susan Taylor Brown
All Rights Reserved

The round-up is at Becky's Book Reviews today.

I am thankful for a great many things today - family, friends, health, ability to be home writing - but I wanted to speak specifically to a single recent experience.

Earlier this week I went on a retreat with a few writer friends and a few writer/artists strangers who are now friends. We gathered at the beach mostly with solitary intentions and yet, it seemed, the magic of where we were and the creative energy of those gathered had other ideas.

We came with no agenda, no speakers, nothing that absolutely had to be done.

Groups of two and three started to form. Individual work turned into freeform group writing fun. Books and art were shared. Gifts were acknowledged, praised. We were validated as professional creatives. Meals stretched for several hours as we lingered over coffee and tea. We sat by the fire and talked long into the night. We laughed (and some of us cried) and took a great many pictures.

Our backgrounds, our journeys to be writers, were of course very different.
Our passion however, was very much the same.

I am so grateful for the time spent with these fabulous and talented women. You have to understand that it isn't because someone took me aside and said a particular thing to me. It isn't because of anything we saw or ate or did. I think it might be because of what they didn't do.

They didn't say "do this." They didn't say "don't do that." They just listened. And accepted.

It rocked my world from the inside out.

Happy Thanksgiving to each of you. Thank you for all the times you read my blog. May your bellies and hearts be full of everything you need.

Time is running out for teens 13-18 to enter the $1000 book trailer contest! Please help spread the word to teens and teachers and librarians. The deadline for submissions is December 15th.

Please feel free to copy and paste from this post or if you want to link directly to the FreshBrain sign-up page, you can use this tiny url: http://tinyurl.com/rocktrailer

Create a video book trailer for the novel "Hugging the Rock" by Susan Taylor Brown.


Put together a cast and act it out, create an animation, or use photos with text set to music - it's up to you. Be creative. Have fun. Make people want to read the book.

More details can be found at the Freshbrain.org website: http://tinyurl.com/rocktrailer

SUMMARY OF RULES
- U.S resident only between 13 and 18 years of age (as of the close of the contest)
- 30 seconds to 2 minutes in length and in a standard video format (.wmv, .mov, .avi, .mp4)
- Your own creation, NO copyrighted material
- Include a brief description of the process you followed
- Deadline for entries is 12/15/09

JUDGING
Judging will be based on the following criteria. Please see the official rules for more details.
- Creativity (50%)
- Consistency with the book (25%)
- Fit and finish (25%)

AWARDS
- The winner will receive a $1000 scholarship!

Help the Mt. Diablo branch of California Writers Club raise money for their Young Writers Contest for middle grade students. If you shop at ANY Barnes and Noble Bookstore from Nov. 28 through Dec. 4th and present their voucher (http://tinyurl.com/yf3ypfx) they will receive 10 - 25% of the amount of your purchase to help fund their yearly writing contest for middle grade students.

For the first time this year, you can also use the ID on the voucher to shop online at the Barnes and Noble web site or any other B&N store in the nation.

Whenever I come back from being away from home, (whether it's hours or days doesn't matter) Cassie has to give me the one over with her nose, gathering up all the scents from where I've been. Usually it's a quick sniff because I haven't been gone too long. And of course anything that comes in the house with me needs to be sniffed out as well. Sometimes I'll take an old toy with me and put it in my purse so she can sniff it out and be reunited with an old friend.

She'll be doing her sniffing routine and suddenly smell something that she knows, without a doubt, belongs to her. There's such joy for her those moments. She races to her rug with little yips of excitment and then waits, tail wagging like crazy, for me to give her the toy. Once she has it, whatever it is, she runs off to the library to toss it in the air a few times then pounce on it, pinning it to the ground with her paws.

I have something that belongs to her and she wants it back. She doesn't wonder if it is hers. She KNOWS. And once she has that toy back she gives it all of her attention, lavishes it with loving enthusiasm and then, once that reconnection is confirmed, she gives a loud sigh of contentment, dropping her head to the floor to rest upon the toy.

I just got home from a few days away at an informal writing retreat with a group of woman that have had a tremendous impact on my life. Some of that impact was apparent right away. Other pieces will make themselves known over time. And that's as it should be. Not all gold is mined from veins close to the surface. Sometimes you have to put in the effort to dig it out.

When I came home I had a plush toy waiting to be "reunited" with Cassie. I tucked in the pocket of my sweatshirt before I got out of the car. My husband let Cassie out front to meet me and she did her normal Cassie inspection, sniffing me up and down and all around. Then suddenly, she found the toy in my pocket. When I told her she could have it she gently tugged it free and then carried it back toward the house, her tail held high with pride, as if she had just scored a great kill in the forest.

And I guess she had.

By the time I got into the house she was contentedly resting in the library, one paw over the stuffed toy, the other tucked under her chin. She raised her head as I came in the room and then, in that way that big dogs do, she smiled her thanks to me.

Over the years, pieces of me have gone missing. Confidence has faded around the edges of my dreams. Chunks of self-esteem have been lost on the road to survival. My sense of self has been buried under a mountain of "would-ofs," "could-ofs," and "should-ofs."

I want these pieces of myself back.

But I can't expect to pull them out of my pocket unless I promise that I will accept these pieces of me, (however battered they might be,) with joy, that I will lavish them with love and kindness, that I will believe again, in my right to claim what's mine.

I want to smooth the jagged edges and polish them until they shine. That's where the real joy comes from - taking something not so pretty and believing in it enough that suddenly, it transforms right before your eyes, into a thing of beauty.

In addition to her basic commands Cassie knows a few tricks like shake, crawl, take a nap, tell me a secret, wave goodbye and peek-a-boo. The fact that she can do these things doesn't make me a brilliant trainer. It just makes me a good waiter.

Teaching a dog a trick requires a lot of patience. One you figure out what you want to teach the dog to do you have to break it down into steps and then link it together. And then you use up a lot of treats and a lot of time waiting for the light bulb to click on. Even with smart dogs like Cassie it takes time to get consistent results.

When teaching her something new I start off filled with proud mama enthusiasm about how wonderful it is going to be to show off the trick to my firends and how smart Cassie is so of course she'll pick it up really quickly. And then the training starts. Suddenly I'm thinking, "She's never going to get this. She's never going to make the connection between the words take a nap and the fact that I want her to sit, then lay down, then lay on her side, then put her down and close her eyes until I tell her she can wake up. Not going to happen."

But because many of my decisions in life are fueled by enthusiasm, I go ahead and try. I lure her with treats. I give command words. More treats. More waiting. A lot of near misses. And then...then I start to see the light bulbs going on. The first time I give the command "take a nap" and she goes through all the motions correctly I get all excited and scream YES! so loudly that she pops up and starts jumping on me. So I slow down again. And eventually she gets it. When she does it correctly she gets a treat. We race into my husband's office and she performs again. And again. And now it's a regular part of her routine.

I recently finished an eight week workshop that I used to jumpstart some stalled places in Flyboy. Once a week I turned in ten pages of my WIP to be workshopped by the editor, Jill Sanatpolo, who was leading the class, as well as fourteen other classmates. Once a week I read fourteen other stories. Once a week I got tons of feedback on my book. Now that the class is over I'm faced with trying to assimilate all that feedback. These were smart writers and smart critiquers and a smart editor so I have of questions they've asked me about the story, suggestions for improvements and brainstorms that I had asked for around certain plot issues.

I spent yesterday looking at all the feedback and feeling overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of it all. First I merged everything into one giant file. Bad idea. All those comments in the margins made me feel even worse. Finally I decided to just break it down, week by week again. I created a new master file and took just one person's feedback, merged it and then went step by step through every comment. Then I took a second person's feedback and did the same thing. I know there are people who could read all the feedback, make a few notes, and then boom, move forward, but I don't work that way. I have to see it all, touch it all. I have to comb through the sentences again and again and again until finally the light bulbs start to click on and I can feel myself begin to "get" it. By the time I got to the third person's feedback I was starting to feel that little tingle that tells me something is connecting. The comment from one person and the question from another person trigged a different idea for me. I jotted down a few sentences. Then another. Then another. When I looked up again I'd written a few new paragraphs.

This is my process. A lot of trying. A lot of waiting. Waiting for light bulbs to turn on and shine a light on the path I need to take.

Cassie goes almost everywhere with us but depending on which car we take it's like traveling with two different dogs. In my car, a Honda coupe, she sits directly behind me on the back seat. She's happy as can be, looking out the back window or just laying down to wait for us to get wherever it is we need to go. But when the three of us go out, like on our 45 minute drives to Santa Cruz, we usually take my husband's car, a Toyota Four-Runner. We have a doggy gate in the back and Cassie races to the car and jumps in, always anxious to go along, until the car starts and we move down the road.

Then she turns into a barking machine, non-stop from San Jose to Los Gatos to Santa Cruz. Constant barking. Loud barking. Frantic barking.

It's been over a year that she's lived with us and nothing seemed to make a difference. Recently, after a long trip filled with barking in the Toyota I took her on a short trip in the Honda and noticed again how I didn't have any problems with her. I suggested to my husband that we take out the doggy gate and put down the seats so she could come up closer to where we were.

Filled with hope, we invited Cassie to go for a ride. She jumped in the backseat and then walked all the way up to the front and sat down. We started the car and headed down the road.

Silence. Total silence.

This past week we've done several more short trips, around the block a few miles downtown, and each one is just the same. A quiet dog happily going along for a ride. It's not a permanent solution but I think now that we know what the problem was, we'll be able to work on acclimating her to riding in the back. Heck, the view's better back there anyway with more windows. But for now, it's all about getting up close and personal on our family outings.

Some stories are like that, staying in the background, barking at you, begging for attention. They're never satisfied until you bring them up front with you, as close as they can get. But sometimes we're afraid to bring the stories too close. Afraid of what the story might show the world about us or perhaps afraid of the story might show us something we don't want to see.

I never expect that kind of writing to come easily to me. I scream at the computer and throw a few barking fits of my own. I've finally learned that I can't do that kind of deep, emotionally honest writing in one sitting. But I can do it in short bursts, like a trip around the block.

The best stories, the ones that stick in our hearts and minds, are the ones that reflect life as it is, not as we wish it were. The ones that bring us up close and personal.

If you've read my blog for any length of time you've probably learned a few things about me.

1. I love writing poetry and books for kids, my dog, my native plant garden, Santa Cruz, and chocolate.

2. A little over a year ago I was laid off from my day job and have spent the last year adjusting and enjoying being a full-time writer.

3. I'm filled with all kinds of doubts and insecurities about who I am, what kind of a writer I'm supposed to be, and if I am ever good enough whatever task is waiting right in front of me. (In other words, I worry a lot about things I should quit worrying about.)

But probably the single thing that tells you the most about me is that I have never known my father. His name, yes, but that's all. I've never met him or anyone in his family. The only pictures I've ever seen were of him as a gawky young man in a white suit at their wedding. He was gone before I was born.

As I kid I used to bug my mom all the time for information about him but she never really said much. No one in the family talked about him and when they did, they never painted the prettiest picture. But here's the thing, I didn't want them to tell me whether the picture was any good or not. I wanted to see for myself. Still families do what they can to protect what they feel needs protecting and by the time I was in the 4th grade and someone asked me if I was Tommy Webb's daughter I said no, without hesitation. I had been trained well.

When you have a hole like that in your life it's like a scab you can't let heal. And people who don't have the same kind of hole often find it difficult to understand why just can't leave it all alone and move on. I can't explain the why. I can only claim the hole. It's grown smaller over the years but it's still there.

Last week I wrote about the distance we need between real life and our stories before we can write about them. In the past I've written about feeling safe enough to write the truth of your story. I believe we should always strive to write with emotional honesty, even when (or especially when) that seems like an impossible task.

That's where Flyboy comes in. Every question I've ever had about my father, about my worth as a person, about how I felt something missing when there was no reason to feel that way because my life was just fine the way it was....all of that has been pouring into Flyboy for, well, over 25 years now.

Characters and plot, I've got them. But to take that emotional plunge into the ice water of my past...I just couldn't make myself do it. I give myself a lot of sleep suggestions about my books, hoping my subconscious will take me where I need to go.

Four years ago I had a dream about my father. In my dream I went to answer the front door and there was a man there, kind of old, his short beard was gray but he had some black hair on his head. He wore a suit that had seen better days. He handed me a box, a white box, like one you might get clothes in or a little bigger. It was tied with string, not a ribbon. I asked him what was in the box. He shook his head. I asked him again to please tell me what was in the box. Nothing. I don't know why I didn't just open it myself but I didn't. Then he walked away. I asked him to wait. He kept walking. Then I asked him who he was. He turned around and said, "I am your father." And then I woke up without opening the box.

Last week for some random reason I decided to check for my father on Classmates.com. I knew where he had gone to high school so I kept hoping that he might show up there. It was a far-fetched hope since people in his generation aren't as into the Internet as I am. Once I had gone there and found nothing I went through my normal little routine, putting in his name, the town he went to school in and the state where he was born. I'd never gotten anything back with that combo before but it was a familiar search I had done many, many times.

This time was different. This time an obituary popped up. I read it and burst into tears then almost as quickly I chastised myself for crying over someone who had never wanted me.

I've pieced together a story from my mom over the years. My father Tommy Webb was born in Arkansas and went to high school in Vallejo, California. His family eventually moved to Concord, to Bonifacio Street, into the little duplex across the street from where my mom lived. He worked at a service station in Walnut Creek, back when they had guys who pumped the gas for you. My grandmother's name was Tina. She was pregnant with my uncle Robert at the same time my mom was pregnant with me. I had an aunt Kitty who was two years older than I am. There was another aunt Janette. That's about it. Except for the not so pretty stories that I'll keep to myself because, as my mom told me today. He could have changed. Turned his life around. People do it all the time.

My father died in Missouri. In January. This year.

In January I was still recovering from being laid off, trying to piece my new life together, trying to figure out how to create a life that nourished my creative soul. I was whole but with rough edges that still needed smoothing. I think if I had found him then it would have been too much. Much too much. Sometimes distance is a good thing. Even if it means we never get the chance to say goodbye.

His obituary mentions my aunts and my uncle. Where they live. It also says he has two sons and a daughter. My half-siblings. And lots of grandchildren. Aunts and Uncles. Bothers and Sisters. Nieces and Nephews. Family or not. It all depends on your point of view. The kind of picture you want to paint.

The obituary does not, of course, mention me.

I keep thinking about that dream I had. How odd to think that my father, who never paid a dime of child support, might give me a gift I've always wanted. Answers to questions that have haunted me for years.

The Internet makes things easy sometimes. Really it took no more than a few hours of searching to locate most of the family. They're not active online. No websites or blogs or Facebook profiles. But mailing addresses. Phone numbers. I have some of them now.

It's a chance. A chance to see at least part of the picture for myself.

Friday Five

1. Tara Lazar had a great idea for the month of November - help picture book authors come up with one new idea per day. She's invited some friends to come help with PiBoldMo with guest blogs. Today it's my turn. Pop on over and take a peek at where I get some of my ideas.

2. Becky Levine has a thoughtful post on her first attempt to write a picture book. I think it's worth you stopping by.

3. Sherwood Smith (aka sartoris ) has a great post on Writers and Creativity.Her posts are the sort I always have to read several times because they make me think.

4. Have you been following the fun of the Exquisite Corpse Adventure? You might be surprised to see which top tier kidlit authors are a part of this online writing project.

5. Over at thru_the_booth you can read about Author Debby Dahl Edwardson and her approach to writing with sensory details. Debby's new book, Blessing's Bead, an artic tale that will take your breath away, will be released by Farrar, Straus and Giroux next week. Spend some time over at the TollBooth. They've been talking about sensory details all week.

There have been some things going on in my life lately. Some things that have me thinking those deep, dark thoughts that keep you up at night. I found this old post from a few years ago that touches on it somewhat and I thought I'd share it again, (with some editing) because it explains a lot of where my mind is at of late . . . though it helps if you can read between the lines.

* * *
Hemingway said, and I can't remember the exact quote so I'll try to paraphrase it, he said that he couldn't write about Paris when he lived there. He had to leave Paris before he could put the words on the page that would describe his experiences. While living there it was too much, too intense, too something and it skewed his vision. He needed distance and the passage of time before he could tell his story.

Some stories, while not easy, can still be written while you are in the midst of living them. When my kids were little I wrote about events within weeks or months of them happening. It was fun, like putting things in their baby scrapbooks. I recorded their awkward moments, their growth, and many of our special family memories. I told stories about our family and I got paid for it. Now I can go back and reread those old articles and it's like picking up an old teddy bear and paging through a scrapbook of their childhood.

But other stories, perhaps those that touch the most painful parts of us, lay fallow for many years before the words begin to venture forth. I believe our emotions go into self-preservation mode and give us time to heal before we're strong enough to attempt share a piece of ourselves through the telling of a story. My first picture book, Can I Pray With My Eyes Open? rested deep beneath the surface for over 25 years before it burst forth, near fully formed in one sitting. I can tie that story to an exact moment in time, when I was 10 years old, and I know that the book was an answer to a question asked long ago. Another picture book, Oliver's Must-do List , seems, at first, to be a simple story about a mother and a child have a playday together but I can tell you now that it was born of guilt - immense guilt that my children were grown and I couldn't go back and spend more time with them. Hugging the Rock is a novel about fathers and daughters, but more than that, it is about making peace with things you cannot change. I never knew my father and I wondered about him for many years. I can't remember when I finally stopped searching but when I did, I realized that my own story was inching closer to the surface, closer to being ready to be heard.

Hugging the Rock is also about picking up the pieces after a divorce. Though many friends advised me to, I couldn't write about my own divorce in the years immediately after it happened. The pain was too immense, the emotions too raw. But time was a helpful balm. Eventually my emotions bubbled to the surface telling me when it was time to write the story. In the process of the writing there were still some deep and painful moments but because I had waited, I was strong enough to go to the dark places and still come out alive. Enough time had passed that I could accept the blame for what was mine and let go of the blame for anything else. I could see the details through the tears.

There are other childhood events I want to write about someday but they're still simmering and I'm still healing. Those stories will have to wait a bit longer. It's been almost a dozen years but I know I am not yet ready to write about my time in New Orleans. I don't know how long it will take before I am brave enough to face those demons head on. Not all my writing is tied to a piece of my past but I am making an effort to mine the treasures I have within because I do believe that's where the juiciest stories wait to be told.

As many of you know, I'm working on Flyboy's story right now. This project began over 25 years ago when my then-husband and I spent weekends out on the tarmac, our necks straining as we watched the sky at the air shows the way film buffs watch the movies.

What part of my life is like Flyboy's? Where's the connection? What makes it so hard to write? I don't fly planes. I'm not adopted. My dad wasn't famous. But I know what it's like for the main character to obsess about planes the way I obsess about writing. I know what it's like to wonder where you came from and how that might affect where you're going. I know what it's like to feel lonely even in the midst of a family.

When you've been working on a book for over 25 years, like I have with this one, the story becomes so wrapped up in your own life that sometimes it's hard to remember what happened to me and what happened to Flyboy. Was it Flyboy or was it me that found the box that held so many secrets? Was it Flyboy or was it me that met someone who knew their father and answered questions held silent for so long? Was it Flyboy or was it me that finally realized the true meaning of family?

I hope it is both. I hope I can tell that kind of a story, one that feels like it happened to you.

I hope that helping Flyboy find his answers will help me decide what to do with some questions of my own.
 

Sunday night we went to dinner with friends. We don't go out much and most of the places we go, we take Cassie with us. But this time that wasn't possible. We knew we'd be gone about three hours so the big question that came up was, is she ready to be left alone in the house?

She's never been a destructive dog. Never counter surfs. Never gets into the garbage. Except for a fondness for my favorite pens and plastic water bottles, we've been pretty lucky. But she's a needy, nervous dog who came to us with severe separation anxiety. I used to spray myself with DAP every time my husband left the house just so she would whine at a lower decible.

She's almost two years old and there's no reason she shouldn't be able to stay alone in the house. Dogs all over the world do it every day while their owners are off to work. But still, I worried. We practiced leaving her for short bursts of time, an hour here, a half hour there. Sunday night we got ready to go and Cassie went through her typical frenzied routine. As soon as she saw me with the brush for my hair she started barking and prancing around the house. She worked up so so much excitement at the thought of going out that I expected her to make herself sick.

I moved the bully sticks into the laundry room and shoved the leftover Halloween candy inside the microwave. Garbage was emptied. Pens put out of reach. I unwrapped a brand new bone and put it on the floor in the library. Normally that's enough to take all of her attention but that night, she just didn't care. She ran over and sniffed it once and then raced back to the front door. We kept postponing the leaving, giving her a treat if she went to her rug and stayed quiet. Petting her and then finally, rushing out the door before we could change our mind and stay home.

I waited on the porch, expecting to hear some frantic barking. Nothing. I glanced at the front window, waiting for her to fling herself against the glass. Nothing.

We went off to have an enjoyable evening of adult conversation without the tangle of a leash underfoot (or patio seating) and I didn't start to worry again until we were on the way home. I told myself as long as she hadn't trashed one of our antique pieces of furniture it would be okay.

Normally when she hears one of our cars in the driveway she gets excited and dances around on her rug near the door. But not this night. We stood on the porch and peered in the sidelight window. I saw her, on the floor in the library, next to her bone. She slowly stretched and walked over to her rug and sat down. When we came inside she wagged her tail a few times and then went back to her bone. She hadn't chewed it at all while we were gone but now that we were home I guess she decided it was okay to let herself enjoy it.

There was no barking. No frantic jumping. No racing around the house because we came back.

Many times I'll have a writing project that I want to do but I put off doing because I'm afraid I won't do it well. I procrastinate, ask my husband a million questions, email friends, and play a zillion games of Lexulous on Facebook. Eventually the time comes when I can't put it off any longer and I dive in. And when I finally knuckle down and do the work it isn't suddenly easy but I do eventually remember that hey, I've been at this writing thing a while and I've worked up some skills. And I remember how much I love this crazy business I'm in. I always forget all that when I'm about to start something new or difficult or different.

What are you not doing because you don't think you're ready?

I bet you're more ready than you think.

I know I am.

Okay, I haven't blogged in over a week. Even missed my dogs and writing Wednesday. So I thought I would at least just pop over for a quick Friday Five.

#1 Today is the last day to vote for which books will land in a box of Cheerios. They will pick 5 from this list and I have two friends I would love you to vote for: Toni Buzzeo and No T Rex in the Library and Liz Scalon for All the http://promo.simonandschuster.com/cheerios-poll/poll.php You have to page through the poll to see all the books listed.

#2 The reason I haven't been blogging is because I am bogged down but bogged down in life goodness. I am taking a class via Media Bistro online with the wonderful editor Jill Santapolo. My classmates are sharp, savvy, excellent writers and everyone is turning in 10 pages a week.

#3 The reason I am bogged down is because I have to WRITE 10 new pages a week. I'm working on Flyboy. The feedback from Jill and my smart and talented classmates is pushing me farther into the story than I've ever been which is good, even if is turning me upside down and inside out.

#4  And after I write those 10 new pages a week I need to critque my classmates new 10 pages and there are 15 of us in the class. Uhm, yes, that means I should be reading and critiquing 140 pages a week. I am behind.

#5  As a result of all this  I am trying to write an outline for Flyboy. I ahve never written an outline for a novel in my life. I am sure it is a good thing because it is showing me how messed up my middle is. On top of THAT, this book is turning into a mystery and I am having a really hard time planting clues and misdirections. REALLY HARD TIME.

Bonus #6

I have now reached the point where I am really confused as to what my book is about anymore. Sigh.

Happy Friday, everyone.

Lately I've noticed a change in Cassie.

She doesn't coming running up the stairs as soon as she hears the bedroom door open. She's too busy keeping guard at the bottom of the stair while chomping on a bone or making a chorus of animal noises with all the squeaky toys. She stays awake longer in the evenings, playing with her egg babies, chasing them all over the house. She doesn't sleep in her crate as much as she used to, preferring instead to sprawl in front of one of the patio windows and keep an eye on the outside activities. She asks for attention when she wants it, nuzzling a nose under my hand at the computer and of course following anyone into the kitchen in the hopes that food will fall from the sky. She doesn't just run outside to take care of business and race back into the house. She takes her time and meanders around the yard, checking out the fence line, resting on the patio while she surveys her kingdom.

What's changed?

She's a much more confident dog now than she was a year ago. It's like she's shaken off a lot of the old ghosts that were hanging around in her head and realized  that where she was, here and now, was where she was supposed to be. And that thought made her happy. A dog that is happy doing what she is meant to do, being a part of the family.

What did we do to bring about this change?

We loved her. We loved her even when she was making us crazy. We loved her through and in spite of all the expensive medical proceedures and the expensive medicine she'll be on for life. We loved her when she chewed on a few things she wasn't supposed to and when she barked nonstop in the car, no matter where we went. We. Loved. Her. Free from whatever her life had been before we rescued her she has blossomed into what she was supposed to be.

At the end of this month it will be one year since I was laid off from my day job. My non-writing job. My job that was so left-brained that for days, weeks, months even, I forgot I had ever been a writer.

I've spent the past year saying yes to just about any writing job that came my way and I've been lucky that there have been a lot of them. On top of all the freelancing I've taken some writing classes and kept up with my part time work doing web editing for the Children's Literature Network. 

In other words, I've been immersed in the world I love. The world of words.

My neighbor came over the other night to visit Cassie. Before she left she looked at me and smiled and said, "You look different. Whatever you're doing, you look really good."

She had told me that a couple of times lately and each time I thanked her but I excused it away saying I had done my hair, put on make-up, some excuse. But this time I went back inside and told my husband what she had said. Then I asked him, this man who has lived with me for almost a dozen years, if I looked different to him.

He smiled at me in that way that someone who knows something you don't know does. And then he said, "You look happy. You're not used to it, but you look happy. And happy looks good on you."

My initial thought was to push his words away too, like I did with my neighbor. To deny the truth of them. But then I heard the squeak squeak squeak of the egg baby as Cassie chased it around the house. She brought it over and dropped it at my feet, this dog who just a year ago had no idea how to play, and looked up me with her half-open, tongue hanging out happy mouth. And of course when I bent down to pick it up she pounced on it and took off playing on her own, playing like the confident and happy puppy she is now, now that she is able to live the life she is meant to live.

I smiled back at my wonderful husband, the man who has given me this gift of being able to write full time, and said you're right. I AM happy. I intend to get used to it."

Lucky Cassie. Lucky me.

I've just learned that another dear friend has her book in the poll to possibly be THE book that goes in the box of Cheerios next year. The book is No T-Rex in the Library by Toni Buzzo and she is asking for people to go vote! Please remember you can vote every day between now and October 30th. When you reach the vote page you can page through BEFORE voting, so make sure you find the book you want to cast your vote for.

No T-Rex in the Library but YES to it in a box of Cheerios. It could happen. If you vote here.

Tricia had a great poetry stretch this week - love letters to the world. You can read all the results people posted over here. I was inspired by thinking of some of the pets I had had, dogs and horses, and this is what I came up with. Laura Salas has the Poetry Friday round-up this week.


Four-legged Love

Gyppy wasn't mine
but I loved that dog
because Poppa did
loved that tail-less rump
that wiggled an alarm each night at five
when Poppa came home from work.
loved the way
he buried pancakes with fish heads
loved the way
he saved them for rainy days
when they had rotted just enough
to be doggie-delicious.

Lisa was mine
but I smothered her
with a child's first love
so she loved my mother best
refused my bed
for my mother's pillow
refused my treats my touch my love
waiting at the window
for my mother
or Poppa or the mailman
anyone but me to appear.

Lady wasn't mine
but I loved that horse
her sleek black mane
her dainty hooves
the way she tugged a carrot from my pocket
the closest to a horse of my own
I thought I would ever get
until the day she threw me partway off her back
enough to catch my foot in her stirrup
dragging me for near a mile before
tossing me free to roll
down the hill in the rain
my eyes filled with mud
until I thought I was blind
crying in the ambulance
crying for that horse
who was too much horse for me.

Sparky was mine
but I never loved that horse
enough
never wanted that ugly Roman-nosed horse
never wanted him as much as I wanted
the idea of a horse that was mine, all mine
and he was
until the day we collided with the car
on Clayton road
until the day
they put 127 stitches in his back
until the day
he moved on
to belong to someone else
who had time enough to wait
for him to heal.

I made Boo mine
when I saw his matted fur
from months of neglect
tied out on a short chain
away from anyone who loved him
and when he let me comb him out
licking my fingers in thanks
I took him home to a safe place
with me
with love enough to overcome anything
I thought
but Boo was the only dog
who ever scared me
when he stole that turkey carcass from the sink
refused to back away
from my little boy, my son, inching closer
to pet Boo's face
and Boo growling
as I turned the corner
and me screaming
as I swooped down
to grab my little boy, my son
before Boo
could grab him first.

Ceasar wasn't mine
but I loved that German Shepherd
loved the way
he caught steel-belted tires mid-air
without ever letting them touch the ground
loved the way he caught a tennis ball
again and again and again
until I couldn't bear to touch the soggy, slobbery mess
one more time but I always did
because I loved that dog.
He guarded babies
who sat on the edge of his tire
with his nose not quite touching them
waiting patiently for someone to pick up the baby
so he could pick up his tire
for another game of catch.

Baron was supposed to be mine
but he was his own dog
belonging to no one
and to everyone
except for me.
Neighborhood kids knocked on the door
asking if Baron could come out to play
and I would watch from inside
watch that beautiful dog
go from child to child
with his ball in his mouth
and his tail slicing the air
his body arching with each jump
filled with joy
and I wished
oh how I wished
I could play too.

Dakota was mine
and oh I loved that horse
loved his looks
loved his speed
loved that nice long quarter-horse pedigree
too bad I couldn't
stay on his back long enough
to make him love me in return.

Sheikh was mine
the horse of my heart that found me
late in his life
late in my life
and let me live out those little girl dreams
of a horse who followed me everywhere
and loved me as much as I loved him
and went I went away
he loved my little girl, my daughter
and made her dreams come true too.

There have been other
four-legged lovers
other dogs
a cat
some birds
a rat
I miss them all
even those who couldn't
love me back
except, of course,
for Boo.

© 2009 Susan Taylor Brown, all rights reserved

A pair of contests going on right now. One for humor writers. Liz Pentacoff has all the details here: Hallmark Humor Contest – Deadline Oct. 18  and cynthialord is giving people the chance to win an ARC of her new novel or a hardcopy of her new picture book.

Also, one of my FAVORITE picture books of the year, All the World, by liz_scanlon could possibly be one of the books lucky kids find in their box of Cheerios but you have to VOTE to make it happen. Spoonful of Stories -- Vote for All the World!

Please hop on over and wish laurasalas a happy birthday! It's 15 Words or Less day on her blog too!

Last Saturday we took Cassie with us to go visit my kids and my grandson. We met at a local park with a huge pond filled with a great many ducks. Big ducks. Loud ducks. Brave ducks that walked right up to greet us and asked for handouts.

I thought I would have my hands full keeping Cassie from running after the ducks while we ate and played with the kids. I envisioned losing my voice after shouting "Leave it" at least a hundred times. But as usual, Cassie surprised me. No matter how close the ducks came or how much noise they made quacking or splashing or waddling right by her nose, she simply ignored them. I mean the leash never even tightened once. This is the same dog who jumps to attention when she sees horses or chickens on television and puts her nose up on the screen.

There were eleven of us, all told, and Cassie was much more interested in keeping her pack of eleven together. She didn't have time to worry about ducks. When three people veered off from the pack in search of a soccer ball she went on full alert, unable to relax until they had returned. When two others moved away from the main group to play hide-and-go-seek she moved to face in their direction, again, not letting down her guard until they returned to the group.

Eleven people. Nine of whom she had never met before and yet she pulled them into her pack. She followed a long-bred instinct to shepherd us together. She ignored the ducks and took care of the people. Without ever being told what to do, she did the right thing.

Instincts are hard to ignore.

I'm working on Flyboy. Again. Still. There's a scene that's been there in every version of the story for the last twenty plus years. A scene that starts the chain of events that drive the rest of the book. The characters in the scene have changed and the location of the scene has changed but the essence of the scene has always remained the same.

Until now, when someone I respect suggested that maybe I needed to do it differently. I've struggled for four days wondering whether my rejection of the idea is just the result of being familiar with the scene for twenty years and not wanting to give it up or whether some deep-seated in-bred instinct is telling me to leave it alone, it is doing what I need it to do.

I still don't know the answer but for now, I'm leaving it alone.

For now I'm going to trust myself to do the right thing.

Well I am home but insanely busy in the best possible ways.

1. Working on a couple more work-for-hire projects that need doing and then finishing.

2. Diving deeper and deeper into Flyboy.

3. Taking an online class at MediaBistro.com with the fabulous editor Jill Santopolo which is helping me a lot with #2.

4. Trying to figure out more ways to get the word out to educators about the FreshBrain Book Trailer Scholarship contest.

5. Starting to ponder ideas on how to promote my Alamo book coming out next year.

6. Trying to implement a new computer file structure on Puck, aka, the radioactive computer.

7. Putting together a shopping list for native plants that I hope to buy in the next week or two.

8.  Coming up with a plan on where to put those plants once I buy them.

9. Working on the next online class - introduction to Social Media for Authors.

10. Falling farther and farther behind on blog reading, Facebook stuff and Twitter updates.

I realize not everyone reads my stuff over on Facebook so I thought I would post a couple of my favorite pictures from the weekend. I got to spend some time with my adorable grandson and my son and my daughter.

They grow too darn fast.