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As you can see, I work quite quickly. Any given piece usually takes about 30 seconds. From "Lucy's Lovey" by Betsey Devany. From Henry Holt this September.

I just realized that I have not updated my posts from my professional Facebook Page, Christopher Denise Illustrator. So, for those of you that do not use Facebook, I will, over the next few days, post a few of the highlights.
This post from December 5th was to mark the completion of the art for my next picture book, Lucy's Lovey,written by Betsey Devany. This is probably the funniest manuscript I have ever had the pleasure of working on!

When I struggle with putting words

to the page,

I step outside,

breathe in fresh air,

then search

for tiny miracles.

In truth, distractions

of the extraordinary.

Yet, tiny miracles always bring me back

to the place I’m avoiding.

I, too, want to silently dive deep,

explore a daylily (or an untold story)

unnoticed,

except for the curious human

with her camera,

avoiding her writing.

But isn’t that where magic happens?

Where the best of stories

are born?

Even if fear both propels us forward

and holds us back?

And then I find myself in awe of tadpoles,

having ventured for too long

and too far from the house,

on this path of distraction.

Tadpoles, which have never much interested me,

but now do.

Which invites a flood of questions,

questions about my characters,

and this story I am compelled to write.

So I leave my critical self outside

so she can enjoy

what the world has to offer.

Perhaps, she will find solace

in the company of a frog.

Or take the time to wonder

at how beautiful

a gorilla’s feet are,

while I slip away unnoticed

before she follows me.

“Red moon,” he said,

his two-year-old hand reaching for mine

in the dark. 

As urgently as my granddaughter

grabbed my arm, earlier that day. 

For her, it was the return

of the hummingbirds.

She’d spotted a female

resting on a high branch,

a potential mate preening

his feathers nearby.

Our clothesline, his stage.

Then . . . a flash

of iridescent red,

high-pitched squeaks,

beating wings that

skirted our hair.

Breathlessness

as abandoned homework

                                            danced

                                                                                 on a breeze.

We chased it, laughing.

If not for children

reminding us to be present,

how many miracles of life

would be overlooked?

The insect in a daylily.

Shadows in the woods.

The beauty of a half-dead 

Japanese maple tree

clinging to life.

Its unfurling apple-peel like leaves

shimmering in the sun.

Do our heads always need to be down?

Our brains wired and ready

for instant response

to Facebook notifications,

e-mails, texts, twitter updates?

Look. Up.

Find beauty.

Give a child your full,

undivided attention.

And so we set aside homework

to wonder at hummingbirds.

Delayed bedtime

to gaze at a brilliant full moon,

shrouded in a milky

red-and-blue veil.

“Look, Grandma!” he said,

his small hand swallowed

in mine.

Clouds shifted; the moon disappeared.

But not the moment.

The moment of just

being.

He ran down the driveway.

“Moon is gone! GONE!”

I raced after him,

swept him into my arms,

guided his tiny arm toward the sky.

“Watch and wait,” I whispered.

Together, we silently anticipated–

not a ding or a chirp or a tweet—

but the reappearance

of an unreachable golden ball

nestled in the night sky.

A ball my grandson called “Red Moon.”

Yes, we need to be brave

in our writing,

but we must also seek the courage

to be present.

Today, I join the blog tour where writers answer questions about their process. I was invited by my friend and colleague, author Betsy Devany. Betsy's debut picture book is forthcoming from Christy Ottaviano Books at Henry Holt in 2016. Read Betsy's wonderful post on her writing process here.

What am I working on?
Right now, I'm revising two picture book manuscripts: one about an unconventional chicken, the other about a middle child who celebrates all the reasons why (contrary to popular opinion) middle is the best. I'm also in the first draft stages of a middle grade fantasy novel involving a boardwalk, magic and time-travel, as well as a contemporary piece about a young biracial girl. So, I'm all over the map as far as what I'm working on—and I like it that way.

From Baking Day At Grandma's (Philomel, 2014) Copyright, 2014 Christopher Denise

From Bella and Stella Come Home (Philomel, 2010) Copyright, 2010 Christopher Denise

Today I join the blog tour where writers and authors answer questions about their writing process. Author Rebecca Colby preceded me. Please check out her writing process here: www.rebeccacolbybooks.com/2014/04/writing-process-blog-tour/

What am I working on now?

My present focus is on eight-year-old E. B. Louise, who is determined to save her shredding and too-small elephant slippers given to her by her recently deceased Grandma Hubble. E. B. Louise is precocious and always getting into trouble, which makes her utterly delicious and intoxicating to be around. Especially when you add her bestie, Melvin Fitch, who returns from his summer vacation at Alien World greener than E. B. Louise’s lawn. I work with second graders on a weekly basis and absolutely adore their age group. Oh, that E. B. Louise and her antics! Revising this lower middle grade lets me spend my mornings laughing out loud before I return to my second young adult in free verse, which has a darker and more serious tone, with a plot that gives me chills.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Paying no attention to market trends, I write what I am called to write, what speaks to my heart. If a voice leads to less-explored topics like early-onset Alzheimer’s, stealing, and secrets that turn families upside down, I’m not afraid to go there. I’m also not afraid to push the limits if I wholeheartedly believe that a certain plot point or a particular dialogue exchange is honest to what truly happens in children’s lives.

Why do I write what I do?

As for picture books, I adore them, I always have. And I love the challenge of writing a heartfelt and funny story in under 700 words. In terms of novels, once a voice comes to me—whether in a whisper, a single line of dialogue, or sometimes a scene in which I see the unfamiliar character doing something and wonder why—I have to follow them. For the most part, I write character-driven contemporary fiction.

How does your writing process work?

Because I live a full life—I work at an old-fashioned toy store part-time, regularly watch my two grandkids, volunteer weekly in my granddaughter’s second-grade classroom, and I am an avid photographer—I’ve learned to set aside time in each day to write. As writers, we must do this. Nearly three years ago, right after my father died, I made a vow to become an early riser for the sake of my writing. And now, on most days, I welcome the sun from my writing room where I am head down, butt in chair, giving free rein to Sleepy Mind. This is when my creative juices flow best. Overall, I write up to four hours per day, some days more than that.

A first draft of a novel can take up to three months, while I write picture books fairly quickly. Though I play with the story’s concept and characters for weeks in my mind. I see pictures, like screen shots, and jot those down. The real writing follows after I’ve let the fresh manuscript simmer for a while and then hunker down for revision. Revising is, hands down, my favorite part of writing.

Thank you so much for stopping by! Please visit my author friends who will share their writing process in the next week or so.

Debbie LaCroix is the author of “It’s Almost Time.” We met at Jane Yolen’s Picture Book Boot Camp in March. Debbie is a book addict. She loves to read, write and even sells children’s books for Usborne Books and More. She is a Mom to 2 boys, and loves jumping into her imagination. She is currently searching for an agent.

Anika Denise is the author of PIGS LOVE POTATOES and BELLA AND STELLA COME HOME, both of which were illustrated by her husband, Christopher Denise. Her forthcoming titles include BAKING DAY AT GRANDMA’S (Philomel, August, 2014/ also illustrated by Chris) and MONSTER TRUCKS! (Harper Children’s, 2016/ illustrated by Nate Wragg.) She lives with her husband and three daughters in Barrington, Rhode Island. Learn more about Anika’s books at her author website www.anikadenise.com, and blog http://thelittlecrookedcottage.blogspot.com.

by Betsy Devany

When Tara approached me to do a guest post, I was thrilled. And then I sat down and thought: Oh, dear. How best can I contribute as a pre-published author, who shares her writing room with a life-sized gorilla named Norman and a slew of beloved stuffies?

So I went back through my own PiBoldMo notes/ideas. While I’d followed prior years’ posts, I didn’t officially commit until 2011. I’d spent months revising a number of novels, and I missed working on picture books. Coming up with a new idea(s) every day was like treating myself to a mango/banana smoothie from Cold Stone. I told myself, at the time, that if I actually did that, maybe while enjoying a Love It smoothie, a picture book idea would come to me. I’d have a sparking new voice before I got back home, acting like I had not just gone to Cold Stone and indulged myself, once again.

So with a self-promise to more vigorously support Cold Stone, I took a leap of faith, and added my name to the 2011 PiBoldMo roster.

Every day, I read the guest post. I studied the advice, soaked in the inspiration, and highlighted what spoke to me. I kept a pen and paper nearby at all times. As ideas came, I stretched some further, adding bits of dialogue or notes about conflict. With other ideas, I described the image or images that led to the “light bulb,” all of which seemed to come when I was driving, walking, or paying with my grandkids, i.e. just being silly. Silly like having tea parties with Norman, my granddaughter and seventeen unicorns. Silly like wearing funny glasses and too-small gowns, riding on stick horses while speaking in a British accent. Silly like doing puppet shows in which you act out picture books gone wild. With all of this, I embraced the child within—with my grandkids along for the fun, of course. I do not hold private tea parties for the gorilla, the unicorns, and myself. (Well, okay, I may have done this once.)

Two words of advice: Have fun.

Open your heart and forget what your neighbors might think when they see you dashing through your yard riding a stick pony and shouting, “Yee-haw! Grandma’s gonna wrestle you wild thing!” Ignore their looks when you’re tossing balls to a giant stuffed gorilla. And if your dress-up outfit suggests you’ve forgotten that you’re now a responsible adult, smile and wave. They might even join you! Enjoying-your-life moments take us to the magical place where ideas shift like cotton-candy clouds, all for the taking. Reach out and grab one!

Or . . . you can dice potatoes, because the act of dicing potatoes can also land you in the Magical and Marketable World of Ideas.

On day twenty-four of PiBoldMo 2011, I was doing exactly that, trying to look like I knew the official ins-and-outs of all things potato. It was Thanksgiving, and my daughters, whose adept cooking skills strongly suggest I did not give birth to them, stood there watching me.

“No, Mom. Smaller chunks,” said my youngest.

“Use the other knife, and hold it this way,” said the eldest. “Are you sure you’re our mother?”

“Yes,” I said. Chop, chop, chop.

“I’m shocked that we didn’t starve as children,” said one sister to the other.

“At least I can write,” I said when the “light bulb” went off. “Lucy!” I shouted.

“Who’s Lucy?” asked the youngest. “It’ll be midnight before we’re sitting at the table eating turkey.”

“Lucy . . . she has dolls, all these dolls, and . . .” I swapped the knife for a pen. “One is really smelly and . . .”

My youngest gave her sister an uneasy look. “You’re the paramedic. I think Mom needs medical attention.”

“I think those potatoes need attention,” my eldest said, right after she forever-fired me from cooking the annual Thanksgiving dinner. In truth, we took a family vote. And when my eldest said, “Raise your hand if you think we should fire Mom from cooking Thanksgiving dinner from here on out.” My arm slapped the ceiling first.

The vote was unanimous.

“Thank you, PiBoldMo!” I said, fleeing the kitchen in pursuit of this new smelly idea.

While SMELLY BABY seemed to rise from a pot of unevenly diced potatoes, it wasn’t that simple. Ideas latch on to us, long before the switch goes on. And the more you write, the more the ideas come. Which is why my father, who was a published author, always said, “Write every day, but also live and enjoy your life. The ideas will come, when you’re not so busy chasing them.”

SMELLY BABY grew in my subconscious, its seed planted from working in an old-fashioned toy store, where electronic toys don’t exist. Lucy quietly evolved after talking to hundreds of children I’ve met at the store, children who’ve shared stories of their dollies and smelly stuffies. I love these stories—every single one of them. So listen. Listen to what kids say. Sincere interest (and delight) in what children have to say has left me with a tub full of notes and bits of dialogue, all scribbled on tiny slips of paper. It’s my Idea Treasure Chest. “You have to think of your writing as an IRA, and make daily deposits,” my father also loved to tell me. If all those slips of paper had monetary value, I would be a millionaire, though what makes my life rich is writing for children.

By November’s end my 2011 calendar was filled with stars—one for every idea I came up with. It was so much fun, I gave no thought to which ideas might blossom into a marketable story.

And then one did.

Smelly Baby’s story bubbled and boiled. It was a joy to work on. Playing with the words. Roaring at the images the words evoked. Living with these characters that became (and remain) real to me. This little spark of a PiBoldMo idea grew and grew until it gathered enough strength and heart to capture the attention of not only Christy Ottaviano at Christy Ottaviano Books/Henry Holt, but also the renowned illustrator, Christopher Denise, who calls it “laugh out loud funny.” Publication is set for Spring 2016.

In 2011, I also won an original painting by James Burks (the illustrator of Tara’s book THE MONSTORE). Little (PiBoldMo) Monkey hangs on my wall, and reminds me to play every day. Reminds me to mount a red tricycle, even if my legs are too long. It reminds me to trust in myself, and that if I lift my bare feet off the pedals, I won’t fall off.

Can you see the steep hill? See all of us on our tricycles, waiting for Tara to lower the flag? Little Monkey can. He’s waiting to shout, “1-2-3, Go! Go write daily. Reach for those ideas on your way down.” Having bare feet works the best, as does shouting ‘Whee!’ as you catch a new idea.

It’s almost November 1st, so get out your tricycle, your stars, your pen and your paper.

You’re in for a fun ride.

I’ll be waving at you as we coast down the PiBoldMo hill together.

Betsy Devany wrote her first picture book, The Cat Who Ate Green Peas, at the age of nine. While she wishes the self-illustrated manuscript were still in her possession, she is certain that elements of it have found their way into her writing today. Today, she writes picture books, chapter books, middle grade and young adult novels. Her picture book featuring Norman the gorilla won the 2011 Barbara Karlin Grant Runner-up. Betsy has been honored nine times since 2007 in the prestigious writing competition, New Voices in Children’s Literature: Tassy Walden Award. She is honored to work with the lovely Emily van Beek at Folio Literary.

Almost eight years to the month of joining SCBWI, Betsy received her first book contract. Smelly Baby, illustrated by Christopher Denise, is forthcoming from Christy Ottaviano Books/Henry Holt with publication set for Spring 2016.

To learn more about Betsy (or Norman), visit her at BetsyDevany.com, follow her on Twitter, or read about Norman’s retirement and how his replacement was found.

YAY! In case you missed all the screaming from Betsy Devany and all her friends, Betsy signed a contract for her first picture book, SMELLY BABY to Christy Ottaviano of Christy Ottaviano Books at Henry Holt.

Betsy’s debut book will be illustrated by Christopher Denise.

Everybody thinks Smelly Baby is gross, but she is beloved by Lucy. No one understands how amazing Smelly Baby is – or so Lucy thinks until Smelly Baby is … Publication is scheduled for spring 2016; Emily van Beek at Folio Literary Management did the deal on behalf of both Devany and Denise.

CONGRATULAIONS! BETSY, CHRISTOPHER, EMILY, and CHRISTY!

Robin Newman is celebrating, too.

She has two picture books coming out in 2014 with Creston Books.

Hildie Bitterpickles Needs Her Sleep,
illustrated by Chris Ewald (Spring 2015)
                     
         and

The Case of the Missing Carrot Cake, A Wilcox & Griswold Mystery,
illustrated by Deborah Zemke (Fall 2015)

CONGRATULATIONS, ROBIN and agent LIZA FLEISSIG!

WINNER: Rosi Hollinbeck is the winner of IT’S A FIREFLY NIGHT written by Dianne Ochiltree and illustrated by Betsy Snyder.

Congratulations!

Please send me your address, so I can pass it on to Dianne. I know you will love the book.

Now for my idea to send CHERRY MONEY BABY traveling:

I bought a copy Of John Cusick’s new book and will send it out to someone who leaves a comment saying they will read the book within a month or less and then pass it on to another person who can read it less than a month. I would like everyone who receives the book to email me with a little blurb of what they thought of the book and take a picture of yourself with Cherry holding the book and telling us about your location. It would be fun if you could mail it to someone in another state, etc. If everyone took a month that would take her off to twelve locations, but if it goes to some fast readers she could really see the world. I will post each month about Cherry’s travels. I will put up a blurb about you, too, so if you have signed a contract or have a published book, it would help show you off, too.

If you end up with the book and don’t know who to send it to, I will be glad to give you a name and address. So join in the fun and leave a comment letting me know you are willing to read and send on. You could even say the winner could send to you.

Talk tomorrow,

Kathy

Ever since my recent Unavoidable/Terrifying Deer Encounter, driving the grandkids in the car has taken on new meaning. Technically, I am using my husband’s Nissan truck since my accordion of a car is parked in an auto body repair lot. Strips of its frame lay in a pile on the gravel. We will not be reunited for weeks.

I was ten miles from home after a glorious writing weekend spent on Squam Lake when a relative of Bambi’s shot out of the woods and directly into the path of my Honda CRV. Its doe had just safely crossed the busy highway, thanks to a number of cars and trucks swerving to avoid hitting it.

A split-second later, all you can do is cry. You can’t change what happened, though you wish you could.  And then the memory of your sister, at the age of five, flashes before you. We’d been at a movie theatre watching Bambi when she got out of her seat and walked down the aisle, pointing her finger at the large screen. “Your mother is dead,” she said, as if Bambi didn’t realize.

I love animals, which is why I wanted to rescue the doe, express my sorrow for being at the wrong place at the wrong time, and then find some nice person to adopt it. And when I explained this to the state trooper, he nicely asked me to remain seated, and then reiterated how lucky I was. The scene was ripe for a multi-car accident, and if my hood had not folded, the mother deer would have flown through my windshield.

I am alive.

I am grateful.

But I still think about the deer. I think about the doe. So I’ve convinced myself that the baby is safe in some field, chasing after butterflies, and does not require years of therapy. My seven-year-old granddaughter told me that the buck found the doe, and is now taking care of it. “Grandma, the baby is fine. You just have to stop hitting deer with your car.”

“One deer, Ava.” I hold up a finger. “I hit one deer, which I couldn’t avoid.”

And this is why our car routine has changed.

Today, I buckle my twenty-month-old grandson in his car seat.  Ava pulls her chest strap tight. “Okay, it’s really tight. I’ll be safe.”

Landon takes his train in and out of his cup holder. “Choo-choo-choo-choo.”

Five minutes later we are on the highway, and Landon is trying to get Ava’s attention. “Dah, dah, dah . . .”

“Ava, why aren’t you answering Landon?”

“Because I don’t understand what he’s saying, and I’m too busy to talk to him,” she says. “I have more important work.”

I glance toward the back. Ava is watching the scenery flash past her.

“What work?” I ask.

“I am The Deer Watcher.”

“Truuuck!” shouts Landon, pointing at a moving van. “Truuuck!”

Everything is a truck. Cars are trucks, buses are trucks, and bicycles are trucks.  Except our cat. Our cat, according to Landon, is a “Doggie.”

“DEER!” Ava screams.

I lift my foot off the gas pedal, position above the brake. I scan the road; my heart is in my throat.

“Grandma, DEER!” she yells again.

“TRUCCKKK!” shouts Landon.

“WHERE!” I say.

“Way up there, on the hill.”

“Those deer are in no danger of being hit by me.”

“How do you know?” Ava asks. “There are babies up there.”

I put my foot on the gas. We get off the highway and drive to Panera Bread. (Before my eldest daughter calls me out, I will admit that, on occasion, I might suggest that the grandkids beg me to take them to Panera, while I am a Panera Smoothie Addict.)

I order macaroni and cheese for Landon, chicken noodle soup for Ava, and a mango smoothie for me.

Landon drives his train through the macaroni while Ava and I discuss how The Deer Watcher doesn’t want to be The Screamer Who Gives Grandma An Anxiety Attack.

Here is what we come up with:

AVA’S SAVE A DEER PLAN

1. Ava is in charge of watching for deer.
2. Ava points deer out to Grandma when they are standing by the edge of the highway, not up on a hill, so far away that Grandma needs glasses to see the deer.
3. Avoid highways when we can take a scenic route instead.
4. Don’t scream “DEER” in the car as a joke. Grandma says that is not funny.

But in a way it is.  Humor is what gets us through the tough times.

What a wonderful, wonderful life.

This past week I’ve had lessons in letting go.

I said goodbye to our beloved sheltie.

I said goodbye to one of our cats.

I let my YA novel leave my hands to allow it to become what the world needs it to be.

I let go.

I let go out of love.

Stories whisper to us when to step away, that we have done our job to the best of our ability.

Pets trust us to do what is humane when the time comes, to keep them from entering the place where suffering defines their existence.

It doesn’t make loss any easier.

And when you’ve spent hours revising and revising your work while being a pet caregiver, the related behaviors remain. Long after the heart accepts the loss.

I still automatically rise at 5 to check on the dog. I dismantle the alarm, then unlock the door to let him out.

Except he’s not here.

It’s all gone: His bowls, chew toys, squeaking squirrel. His dog beds, food, medicines. Shampoo, leashes. Pill organizers. His bark, the pitter-patter of his feet. The sound of him plopping beside me. His sigh.

His beautiful, beautiful face.

But not his collar, and his green alien boy, he loved so much.

Our one cat that remains hides beneath the kitchen table, curled in a chair pushed flush to the table. What must be going through her head?

Then I remember. We would not know loss if we never loved. And to love and be loved is a gift.

And so I feed the cat, and then settle on our porch to wait for the sun.

I notice my grandson’s blue hippo in our yard, which he sits on when there is nothing better to do than sit on one’s hippo and wonder at the world.

The cement step is cold against my thighs. A hummingbird whizzes over my head.

A hint of pink peers through our trees.

Another day begins.

I hear her spring to the floor, her red tag clink against her collar, and I know she is ready.

I am, too.

She meows through the screen, and I come inside. Walk down the hallway to my writing room.

I open the door.

I sit.

I open the YA document out of habit. I close it, and pat the place next to me.

Terrapin jumps up, nudges my hand.

I write.

I write out of love.

I write about a dog.

Dear Mr. Squirrel,

Dear Mr. Squirrel and your girlfriend,

Dear Mr. Squirrel, your girlfriend, and your overly-curious offspring,

Dear Mr. Squirrel’s Entire Immediate Family, Extended Family, and Furry Friends,

I am a writer. I like to write early every morning. I like quiet at this time. No TV blaring. No lawn mowers rumbling and roaring. No uppity, clanking, rocking washing machines. No fighting cats. No barking dog. No ringing phone. No cell phone alerts that I have a new text or a new email or a Facebook notification. No wild creature disturbances.

Which brings me to you, Mr. Squirrel, and your ever-growing community, which is also responsible for the recent destruction of my husband’s shed. Yes, we noticed the plastic siding torn from the sides of the building, the same plastic being used in your massive nests in our trees. You and your furry friends are also the reason we must restock bird seed on a daily basis. I will need to sell a book solely to support your current lifestyle in our yard.

Now I understand that you are hungry, and that you and your buddies view our property as a promising source of ongoing food. I understand that it is your nature to embrace perseverance. I admire this quality. Writers need to embrace a path of perseverance. Except when that path is riddled with noise and squirrel-influenced interruptions.

Yes, our aged dog barks more frequently due to his recent loss of hearing. But you egg him on with your clever squirrel acrobatics: dangling from the tops of our squirrel-proof bird feeders. Leaping through the air from my husband’s woodpile, only to now plunge to the ground since he’s set it further away from the feeder after seeing my photographs.

Do you give up? No, of course not! Why should you? You’re a squirrel, and now your entire community is copying you. I might as well supply you with colorful costumes, a trampoline, and a tightrope. I can invite the media or shoot a video for YouTube, and then continually check my stats. Not happening. Though our granddaughter is nothing less than thrilled by this prospect and has designed tickets she wants me to print out so she can sell them to our neighbors.

I don’t have time to host a circus of squirrels in my backyard.

I’d rather write.

So for the past few weeks, I’ve kept the door to my writing room shut, put up a BIRD FEEDING ZONE sign outside, and tried to convince myself that Old Dog was not barking incessantly.

Until today.

Today, I heard a banging on my front door. It sounded like a person knocking. So I stopped mid-paragraph in an important revision, and headed down the hall, into the living room. There was an edge of anticipation. I am expecting a number of books. Books I am anxious to read.

I opened the front door and looked straight ahead.

No delivery person.

I looked down.

No package left on the ground.

No anxiously awaited books.

Only two squirrels, one of which I presume was you, Mr. Squirrel.

And when I refused to invite you inside, not just because the dog was going nuts upon seeing your face pressed against the glass, you sat down. You stared at me, you and your friend or brother or sister or spouse or offspring. And then, as if you blew on a little whistle to call in your troops, squirrels imploded onto our front deck, grabbing our white railing. I watched you spring to the edge of our picture window, and then swing into our window bird feeder with your not-so-little friend.

Two squirrels cannot squeeze together in the feeder. It is not a circus clown car.

And I did not appreciate watching my expensive bird feeder split in half as you two Numskulls forced your way free and crashed the feeder to the ground.

Lastly, it seems as if you have an identity crisis. You have taken to lounging in our porch chair for lengthy squirrel siestas, after which you drink from the hummingbird feeder. Which makes Old Dog bark until he passes out.

You are not a hummingbird, Mr. Squirrel.

Please relocate immediately.

Signed,

A children’s writer seeking peace and quiet

This fun illustration was sent in by Wendy Wahman. She is the author/illustrator of DON’T LICK THE DOG, A CAT LIKE THAT and illustrator of SNOWBOY 1,2,3. Here is her Website: http://www.wendywahman.com

Kat Yeh’s THE FRIEND SHIP, about a lonely hedgehog who sets off on a voyage to find the wonderful ship where everyone is a friend, only to make an unexpected discovery as she invites more and more lonely animals to join her on their increasingly crowded boat, to Rotem Moscovich at Disney-Hyperion, for publication in Summer 2015, by Sarah Davies at the Greenhouse Literary Agency (World).

Tassy Walden Award: Tassy Walden Awards competition encourages and nurtures the creation of exceptional quality books for children by unpublished Connecticut writers and illustrators in each of five categories: Picture Book (text only), Illustrated Picture Book (art and text), Children’s Book Illustrator Portfolio, Middle Grade Novel, and Young Adult/Teen Novel. Sponsored by Barnes & Noble the Tassy Walden: New Voices in Children’s Literature is a prestigious competition, judged by editors and agents in the field.

New Voices in Children’s Literature 2013 honorees were announced Tuesday night. BETSY DEVANY was a double-honoree this year. She was a middle-grade finalist for FILBERT AND THE GOOBERS,  and won honorable mention for FINDING BEAUTY. This was Betsy’s ninth Tassy.

If you attended the NJSCBWI Conference a few weeks ago, you heard Lauren Oliver (“Delirium series”) read an excerpt from her new YA novel PANIC. HarperCollins imprint Harper Teen will publish the book in spring 2014. Well, I thought you would like to know that Universal Pictures landed the film rights to PANIC in a bidding war. The seven-figure deal closed on Monday night, according to an individual familiar with the negotiations.

Michelle Nagler will join Random House Children’s Books on July 15 as associate publishing director for the Random House/Golden Books group, reporting to Mallory Loehr. Nagler is currently editorial director at Bloomsbury Children’s. Editorial director for Stepping Stones Jennifer Arena; executive editor Shana Corey, and associate editor and Chelsea Eberly will report to Nagler going forward.

Lynda Zuber Sassi will rejoin Chronicle Books as associate director, mass markets. Previously she was director of wholesale at DwellStudio; she was last at Chronicle in 2010. In addition, Erynn Im-Sato has been named associate manager, mass markets.

Lindsey Schwoeri has joined Penguin Books as editor. Previously she was an editor at the Random House Publishing Group.

Christina Quintero has joined Little, Brown Books for Young Readers as art director for licensing. Previously she was associate art director at Grosset & Dunlap/Price Stern Sloan.

Rysa Walker won the overall Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award for her YA book Timebound. Walker will receive a $50,000 advance and publishing contract with Amazon Publishing.

The ebook of The Activist’s Daughter, about college life in the South during the civil righs turmoil of the 1960s is available for FREE from Amazon Kindle for 5 days only - June 20 – 24.  Don’t miss out! http://www.amazon.com/The-Activists-Daughter-ebook/dp/B00D45LGU6%3FSubscriptionId%3D0DK6RX2SNSBPXDSWSNR2%26tag%3Dwwwellynbache-20%26linkCode%3Dxm2%26camp%3D2025%26creative%3D165953%26creativeASIN%3DB00D45LGU6

Here’s your chance to win advance reader’s copies of FOUR of Greenwillow’s Fall 2013 books! They’ll be giving away one prize pack of all four ARCs. Here’s the link: http://greenwillowblog.com/?p=5606

Talk tomorrow,

Kathy

I decided to repost this from two years ago because it involves the love of a father for a son. This experience from the toy store reminds me that gifts do not always come wrapped in pretty paper with spiral ribbon. They sometimes come in the shape of stories. This story was a gift I received, and one I will treasure as long as I live. Happy Father’s Day!

A WHALE FOR STEVEN

                                                    by Betsy Devany

 Closing time has come and gone at Olde Mistick Village, the sidewalks are filled with more ducks than people shopping. The neighboring stores are dark, their doors locked, and their employees on their way home. It is time for me to call it a night.

       The marionettes swing in the breeze; the pink flamingo seems to wink at me. I gather the puppets outside to carry them into the store. Behind me there is quacking. The three ducks who rule our front yard are on alert. The white leader honks at a lone male that slipped under the fence and entered their territory. The leader’s two sidekicks join in the chase, nipping at the uninvited younger mallard. The white duck pecks at the intruder’s neck; his wings flap with agitation.  I move towards the gang of birds, clapping my hands until they separate.

       “Do you break up fights every day?”An older man walks in my direction, followed by a younger man. With the same chiseled chins, the two are clearly father and son.

       “This is the first fight I’ve seen today.”

       “You still open? We won’t be long, I promise.”

       “Uh . . . sure, yes, come on in.” I smile.

       “We need to hurry, Steven. This woman wants to close.”

       Steven, who looks to be in his late thirties, dashes into the store. “Whales, where are your whales?” His attention shifts rapidly from shelf to shelf. “I need a whale.” He looks up. He looks down. Lions are pulled from their shelves. Tigers. Bears. Cats. Dogs. None of the stuffed animals are right. Hoping to locate the whale he remembered having as a child, Steven continues to push toys aside. He mutters, “Big. Brown. Brown with beans . . . Big. Brown. Brown with beans . . .”

       “He’ll never find it, not the way his was, with the fabric worn around the tips of the eyes and the end of the tail from his constantly caressing it.” His father adds. “And the head was flat from Steven leaning into it, night after night, when he was a child.”

       Steven, who has traveled over an hour to get here, is missing more than just a stuffed whale from his childhood.

       We do not sell brown whales in the toy store, nor do we sell giant whales. The largest we have is a 24-inch white beluga whale. I hand Steven the beluga.  He brings it close to his nose, leans his cheek against it, and slides his face back and forth brushing the fabric. “Do you have a bigger whale . . . brown whale . . . filled with beans?”

       “No, we don’t, I’m sorry.” While I search for anything close to what he describes, Steven paces . . . and paces . . . and then he notices the three-foot lobster displayed on a high shelf above his head. He stands on his tiptoes and reaches for the stuffed sea creature. “This will do,” he says.

       “No, Steven, we’ve done this before.  You’re not thinking clearly.” The father takes the lobster away and leaves the beluga whale in his son’s arms. He sighs—a long sigh. His hair is grey and thin. He removes his glasses and wipes them clean. He sighs again, and then says to his son, “We’ve made these trips over and over again, from New York to Massachusetts, and to anywhere else that might hold the promise of a brown whale. Steven . . .  Steven, look at me, son.”

       Steven’s hold on the beluga whale loosens. I catch it before it hits the ground. “We have catalogs. Perhaps I can find a large enough whale for you,” I say and hand him back the beluga.

       The ends of the father’s mouth turn up, forced out of kind appreciation.  “That’s nice of you, but we’ve been looking for a very long time. I never know what he wants.”

       I head to the back stock room, grab six catalogs, and carry them to the front desk. Steven follows me, his arms clutching the beluga.

       “How big of a whale do you want?”  I ask.

       “Very big.” Steven focuses on his shoes while clinging to the toy. We go back and forth.  I flip through pages. He peers at pictures. “No, not right,” he tells me over, and over, and over again.

       His father stands next to him. “Steven, look at me.  Look at me, please.”  Finally, Steven lifts his eyes. “We aren’t going to find a whale. Not like your whale.”

       “I want a whale,” says Steven. “I want a big, brown whale with beans.”

       “Steven, we need to leave. This kind lady wants to go home.”

       “My whale, we came to get my whale,” Steven reminds his father.

       The father turns away from the counter and gently tugs at his son’s arm. Steven digs his heels in. Thirty minutes have passed since they first walked into the store.

       “Tell me about your whale,” I say.

       “He doesn’t know what he wants. I’ve been looking and looking—they just don’t make toys like they used to.” His father tugs again.

       “Steven, what did you love most about your whale?”

       Steven turns, looks at me, and walks back to the oak counter. He runs his hands along the wood.  “I liked the way the beans inside felt.”

       “They don’t make animals with those beans anymore. Too many safety concerns,” I say.

       Steven swirls his fingers around the shape of a large knot in the oak.

       His father sighs. “Thank you for trying, but he’ll never understand.”

       I arrange the pens next to the register; straighten the shopping bags. I glance in Steven’s direction. “Besides the beans, what else did you love about your whale?”

       “Soft, it was soft . . . I could sleep on it.”

       We have a two-foot penguin, but it is not soft.  We have large stuffed dogs, but they are not whales. We have a three-foot lion, but the color is tan, like a pale honey.

      Then I remember Gus. “I have a bear, a large bear,” I tell him. “And it’s brown.”

       Steven studies the floor. “I want a whale. I need to bring a whale home tonight.”

       The three of us stand in silence. I check the time. The owners must be wondering why I haven’t called with the day’s sales.

       “Let me show you the bear,” I say.

       “It’s hopeless. We’ve kept you long enough,” the father says.

       “I’ll be right back.” From the stuffed animal room, I carry the three-foot floppy bear to the front desk. Gus has lived in the store for quite some time now. Before I close up at night, he gets an extra pat.

       “He’s very soft,” I tell Steven. 

       “It’s not a whale.”

       Now, I am the one studying my shoes. “I won’t be able to find you a large whale tonight.  Just hold the bear, see what you think.  He’s brown and soft. You can lean into him.”  I hand Steven the bear.  

       He pushes his nose against Gus.  He plops Gus against the counter and leans into him. “He is soft. I like him.”

       “Yes, I like this bear myself—very much.”

       The father pulls at the price tag. “The bear is $130. You didn’t bring enough money.”

       Silence returns.  I shift the catalogs together and form a single stack, place them on the floor.

       The father stares at the door.  Steven’s face is buried into Gus’s fur. 

       I want to buy him the bear, show him he can love Gus as much as the whale.  I want to watch him walk down the sidewalk with the bear in his arms, even though it’s always hard when I let go of a stuffed animal I’ve grown attached to, but Steven did not bring enough money.

      Then, holding the bear tightly in one arm, Steven reaches into his pants pocket.  He removes a black leather wallet, worn with holes visible at every corner. It is a wonder the wallet doesn’t explode all over our wooden floor. A penny pokes through one end, but does not fall out. His wallet is thick with papers, some yellowed, some coated in a worn plastic. There is almost five inches thick of paper memories.

       His father settles into a stance; feet spread apart, firmly planted on the wooden floor—a familiar routine, I imagine. His hands out of his pockets, he turns his palms upward, as if waiting at a communion rail.

       Steven pops the wallet open and forms the shape into what appears to be a triangular leather cup. “I want the bear,” he says. 

       “Let’s count,” says his father.

       Steven places two twenties on our wooden counter, then another crumpled twenty.

       “How much is that,” asks his father.

       “Sixty,” says Steven with confidence.

       I separate the bills. “Eighty, you have eighty dollars here.”

       Steven pulls out a five and a ten—ninety-five. When he stretches the leather further, the penny falls to the floor, where it remains. Next, come the one-dollar bills, all carefully folded into triangles, the points as worn as the wallet.

       “One. Two.  Three,” he counts.

       There is something magical about the wallet, which is not diminishing in size.  Instead of pulling rabbits from a magician’s hat, he conjures up one-dollar bills out of faded leather. How does the wallet hold all of the tightly folded shapes?  I expect him to run out of money, yet Steven continues to hand another and another dollar bill to his father, never looking up or breaking his rhythm. Not once.

       His father unfolds and flattens each bill, using a quarter to work out the creases.

       The stack of money on the counter grows higher.

       I wait and watch.  “Why do you fold the dollar bills into triangles?” 

       Holding one bill in his hand, Steven lifts it to the corner of his right eye. “When I’m sad . . . this makes me feel better.”  He taps the edge of the triangular shape against his skin. Three times. He passes the bill to his father.

       “May I ask what Steven has?”

       The father talks and talks and talks, like a dam overflowing. Like a man who hasn’t been noticed in years.

       I cannot tell you what the father was wearing that day, but I can tell you his words—his story. I can describe the medicine bottle he has carried in his pocket from the seventies, day after day, year after year. The label so worn that it barely reveals the name of the pharmacy. Except for the lingering chalky stink of medicine, the bottle remains empty. The father rolls the medicine bottle between his palms as he tells me that the colored dye in the medicine, administered when Steven was a baby, caused a cerebral allergic reaction. Steven has two markers of autism, and some mental retardation. Years later, they learned that the damage was irreparable—long after Steven’s mother left, taking his brother and sister with him. Steven was six years old at the time. The mother changed her last name, never contacting Steven and his father.

       The father talks and talks while Steven continues to pull one-dollar bills from his wallet. He earns $100 per month, emptying trash containers at a pharmaceutical company.

       “You really love that wallet,” I say.

       Steven nods, eyes still downcast, his larger lip protruding over his top lip—almost swollen looking.

       “When did Steven lose his whale?  Do you have a picture?”  I ask the two men, one talking and talking, the other pulling triangles of money from a worn leather wallet.

       His father quickly shakes his head.  “No, not with us; it upsets him.”

       “It makes me sad,” adds Steven.  He taps the corner of his right eye with another folded dollar bill.

       “How long ago did he lose this whale,” I ask.

       “Six, he was six years old,” his father says.

       I lose count of the money on the counter; imagine Steven as a six-year-old boy snuggled against his mother, the whale by his side until the two of them banished at the same time. Is his search for a whale or a mother who abandoned him?

       “You only have $128. Are you sure this is what you want?” the father asks.

       Steven hugs the bear to his chest. Gus’s feet dangle at his knees. “I want the bear. It’s a soft bear.”

       “You don’t have enough money,” his father tells him.

       Steven opens his wallet. He peers into it, pulls out the yellowed papers. 

       The magic is gone.

       “I . . . I can—give you 10% off.”

       “You don’t have to do that,” the father says.

       “Yes, I do.” I smile and ring up the sale, recount the money and hand him $4 change. I make a mental note to pay the difference after they leave. Steven immediately folds the dollar bills into triangles before tucking them into his wallet.

       “I hope the bear makes him happy.” The father strokes Gus’s arms. “I never see any emotion from him anymore, he’s on so much medicine; it numbs his emotions, his personality. At least he doesn’t scream and cry like he used to. But he never laughs or smiles, either.”

       “I’m hungry,” Steven says.

       “What do you feel like eating?” I ask.

       “Steak!” 

       I give the father directions to a nearby restaurant and recommend they walk through the village so they can stop at the pond to admire the newly hatched baby ducks. 

       “I have to put my bear in the car first, so he’s safe,” says Steven. 

       The two men step outside the store. I bend over to unlatch the door in preparation for closing, and as I do, Steven turns to me and smiles, revealing slightly yellowed teeth.

       “You have a beautiful smile,” I say.

       The ends of Steven’s mouth turn up even more. Now his father grins. “I haven’t seen him smile is such a long time. It is worth more than the cost of the bear, more than the time in the car and the price of gas.”

       “I hope your search is over. How long has he been hunting for the whale?” I ask.

       “Thirty years, just Steven and me, we’ve been looking for thirty years.”

       Steven’s smile is broad. He is thirty-six years old and no longer fixated on his shoes.

       “Thank you for listening,” the father says. “Thank you for allowing me to go on and on.”

       “That’s what I am here for. Have a nice night.”

       If  I could, I would have found them a large brown whale filled with beans. But all I found was a bear named Gus, and for once, it seemed to be enough.

Growing up in the Devany family, I was beholden to my mother’s Look Beyond Yourself Birthday Tradition, which stemmed from her philosophy to always think about other people. On their one special day in the year, the birthday child had to buy (or make) gifts for their siblings. In my case, there were three. Grabbing anything off a shelf was not allowed, she wanted us to think about what each person would really enjoy. It was a lot of pressure, and some years we tried to outdo one another.

My second birthday without my father was yesterday. Last year’s was tough. I had no desire to celebrate. I let the phone ring without answering. I spent hours alone by a reservoir, watching birds. My gifts sat on the table unopened. Not until I saw two great egrets, one landing high in a tree while the younger one fished, did I realize the problem. I’d been waiting for something. When the elder flew off, as if confident that the younger bird would be okay on its own, I knew.

I’d been waiting for my dad to call and wish me a happy birthday.

Yesterday, I rose early to write. I wrote for four hours, my way of connecting with my father on the day I long for him the most. Then I thought about my mother’s birthday tradition. I looked beyond myself and discovered what makes a birthday joyous are simple, unexpected moments. When you find yourself cheering for others on your special day, and moments like these:

The hummingbirds returned.

A momma bird laid her final egg in a nest atop our porch fan. My seven-year-old granddaughter made a sign, warning everyone to Not Turn on the Fan because babies are sleeping.

Ava and I wandered your yard, searching for hidden beauty. Both of us with cameras. She discovered tulips, which I don’t recall planting.

An overwhelming number of people wished me a happy birthday, which meant so much to me. Truly, I can’t thank you enough.

My eldest daughter scored a 97 in her nursing exam.

My youngest daughter was invited to teach at the prestigious Gathering 2013 for Paul Mitchell as an educator.

We saved a bumblebee that was trapped in our window.

Ava’s excitement over spotting birds in our yard—cardinals, yellow finch, hawks.

Gorgeous sunrise at the start of the day.

To be captured by a child’s wonder. “Grandma! Look how blue that flower is!”

The day ended with a wonderful Italian dinner out with my family. I returned home with my husband to find colored pencils strewn across our living room table, and a picture, Ava had made. Perhaps she knew what I’d wished for earlier that day when she picked up a dandelion. My greatest treasures are handmade by small hands with the purest of love.

“Grandma, do you know this is a wishing flower?” she had whispered, as if she held magic in her hands.

“It is?”

“Yes,” she said, holding it to my lips. “Make a birthday wish.”

Sometimes, wishes do come true.

More months than I would have hoped for have passed since my last blog post. It’s not as if I haven’t been writing. I have. For hours on end. At this time in my life, the work I do on my novels bears more importance because ultimately, I want to leave something behind on this earth. Something beautiful. Whether it be through published works, photographs, or inspiring the children I encounter on a daily basis, that is where my main focus remains. Still, I enjoy blogging, so I am jumping back in with hopes that I can resume a more regular routine. Thank you for bearing with me.

I recently returned from a three-day stay at The Writing Barn in Austin, Texas. This inspiring place of sanctity is run by author Bethany Hegedus, who couldn’t be more kind, welcoming, or talented. The Writing Barn is just as welcoming with its endless shelves of books, calming figurines, and the artwork of E. B. Lewis, all of which greets you when you walk through the front door. Before you even unpack your bags, you know you won’t want to leave. You want to breathe everything in, read the array of fabulous novels, books on writing, all there for visitors to enjoy. You want to sit outside and watch hawks soar above the grounds, traipse past cactus plants in search of a bunny you spot on the drive in. And the baby deer romping through the thicket, you want to enjoy their presence.

You unpack your bag and get to work, because that is why you are here. To learn. To grow. To absorb the energy that exists in this beautiful place. To look deep into your current WIP and be truthful about what needs to change. Because in order to grow, one must change, even in the way we approach our writing.

I was fortunate to have a dear writer friend with me. Both Nanci Turner Steveson and I had important revisions to tackle. We had read each other’s manuscripts. We took vows to be honest, painfully honest about what didn’t work, while emphasizing the qualities that stood out. While compliments are nice, I’d prefer to know where I’ve fallen short in my writing. I thrive on revision, really. It makes me feel alive, it brings out the best in me. I always tell my agent to hold nothing back in terms of questions or asking me to delve deeper. The more intense a revision, the happier I am. The most valuable critique groups, or critique partners, are those that aren’t afraid to be honest. How else do you get better?

My stay at The Writing Barn did wonders for my soul. It could have been the colorful lanterns that swing in the trees, the sound of Nanci tapping on her laptop with her headphones on, or the moments of clarity that would happen after taking a photography break outside. There is a sense of peace here, and writing juju. While not quite tangible, you feel the wisdom left behind by previous writers, many of them published authors. In the porch beyond the kitchen, the wooden beams hold the signatures of published illustrators/writers. Every now and then I’d look above me, knowing that I, too, would sign a beam one day.

We have to believe in our writing, even when we close ourselves around our work, protecting it. Do not be afraid to do this. Think of your work as precious, like a baby fawn not ready to be on its own. For the most part, all else is beyond your control. The only thing that matters is that you do the work. Day in and day out, to the best of my ability. My father always told me to protect the energy surrounding a story, to keep it safe, until it was strong enough to send out into the world.

So that’s what I’ve been doing since I returned from The Writing Barn. Revising, revising, revising. Writing, writing, writing. Aside from that, I am living life, always thankful for the people I hold closest to my heart, thankful for the wonderful books I read each night before falling asleep, and thankful that places like The Writing Barn exist.

My deepest gratitude to Bethany Hegedus, who believed in creating this barn of wonder and inspiration and much beauty. Thank you for sharing your joy of writing with others.

For more on information on booking an individual writing retreat or attending one of their classes, go to: http://www.thewritingbarn.com.

Every year Connecticut writers can enter the Tassy Writing Competition put on by The Shoreline Arts Alliance. The award is to help encourage and nurture the creation of exceptional quality books for children.

This year Betsy Devany was a finalist for her story titled, Ibbie-Rae Paves the Way.  She has been one of the winners for the last three years making her the first-ever triple-crown finalist in the Tassy Contest. No one has ever been a finalist in all three categories: picture book, middle grade novel, and young adult novel.

Congratulations Betsy!
www.shorelinearts.org/tassywalden.cfm

Amalia Hoffman’s book,  The Klezmer Bunch was selected by the talented director, composer and writer, Elizabeth Swados to be part of her children’s production entitled, Jewish Books Cooking.

Ms.Swados is best known for her Broadway smash hit, Runaways. Her innovative creations thrilled audiences for over thirty years. She won three Obie awards and five Tony nominations. www.elizabethswados.com

All performances are free to the public thanks to a generous grant from The Covenant Foundation. http://www.covenantfn.org/

Congratulations Amalia!

http://www.jccmanhattan.org/performancespage=catcontent&pID=2605&progID=25915

You may be interested in attending. Here are the performance dates, times, and locations:

The JCC in Manhattan

334 Amsterdam Avenue
New York, NY 10023
www.jccmanhattan.org
646-505-4444
Grand opening May 20^th @ 11:00 am and 1:00 pm
RESERVE ONLINE

Center for Jewish History

Center for Jewish History
15 W. 16th Street
New York, NY 10011
www.cjh.org
June 3^rd @ 11:30 am
RESERVE ONLINE

Kings Bay Y

3495 Nostrand Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11229
www.kingsbayy.org
June 6^th @ 5pm

Bryant Park

THE CAROUSEL, 40^th
Street Between Fifth and Sixth Avenues.
www.bryantpark.org
June 17th @ 1:00 pm

Lorraine Dey has written and Illustrated a picture book, “The Rain Forest Party” to be released in May 2012 by publisher, Raven Tree Press.

Congratulations Lorraine!

Talk tomorrow,

Kathy

This year’s NE-SCBWI Conference (my sixth) was different for me. As the On-the-Spot Critique Coordinator, I was one of numerous volunteers responsible for making a successful conference. In my position, I felt deeply obligated to the attendees, wanting to facilitate proper connections to editors/agents, and I’d promised these same professionals that I’d do my best to secure them additional critiques. In truth, I was scared. Since becoming the On-the-Spot Critique Coordinator less than a month ago, I have secretly fretted, while my daily early-morning writing time turned into early-morning e-mail communication, chart-making, and teaching myself how to make a spreadsheet. (I am also a committee co-chair for the upcoming New Jersey SCBWI Conference.) My manuscripts lay untouched; my muse went on strike.

Preparing for the conference reminded me of my earlier years in the business of writing for children, when I was unsure and questioned my abilities. Self-doubt hinders your growth as an artist. So I stopped thinking about What Might Not Happen (that the on-the-spot critiques would be a failure) and I began to believe that I could, indeed, pull this off. But to do this, I had to call on my Inspired Frame-of-Mind, which is strong, determined, and follows the muse with much delight, like a kitten chasing an unraveling ball of red yarn. I write what my characters tell me, and on some level, believe they are the ones shaping their stories, not me. I continue to struggle with writing for my blog, for that voice comes from a different place, where self-criticism has rented a tiny room and ignores my weekly eviction notice.

So in my Inspired Frame-of-Mind, I faced the task of being a successful conference coordinator: I worked diligently and focused on being positive, while doing everything possible to sell these critiques. The bar to succeed is set high due to the tireless efforts of our region’s longtime coordinators, who have given so much of their time over the years: Marilyn Salerno, Joyce Shor Johnson, Kathryn Hulick, Melissa Hed. Valarie Giogas. Laura Pauling. Melissa Stewart. Casey Girard. Betty Brown. Sally Riley. Jean Woodbury. Linda Brennan. Jennifer Carson. Joannie Duris. Anna Boll. Jennifer O’Keefe. Greg Fishbone. Francine Puckly. Margo Lemieux. And Shirley Pearson, who I hope can one day step out from behind the registration table to pursue her own dreams. I apologize in advance for not listing every name, though my gratitude is intended for all. Thank you! The NE-SCBWI Conference reflects your efforts, selfless dedication, and enthusiasm for our wonderful community. A community filled