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Our Guest Critiquer for January is Author Dianne Ochiltree. She is the author of nine published children’s books and does freelance editorial work.

Some readers—especially members of NJ-SCBWI—may already know today’s guest. Dianne has been a faculty member for chapter conferences several times, presenting writing workshops on a variety of topics related to children’s publishing as well as providing one-on-one critiques. Her books have appeared on several recommended reading lists nationwide, including the Bank Street College Children’s Book Committee ‘year’s best’, and the Dollywood Foundation’s national childhood literacy program, ‘imagination library’.

Dianne Ochiltree has a new book coming out this fall titled, MOLLY, BY GOLLY! It is being published by Calkins Creek, an imprint of Boyds Mills Press. It is a re-telling of the legend of Molly Williams, America’s first female firefighter, and is illustrated by Kathleen Kemly and was edited by Carolyn Yoder.

Blue Apple Books aquired a counting picture book for the very young, written by Dianne titled, GOODNIGHT, FIREFLY, illustrated by Betsy Snyder. The release date has not been set.

You can visit Dianne at: www.Ochiltreebooks.com

We only have two first Pages this month.  Again, I received more, but all the rest did not use the picture prompts.  Here is the first one.

UNTITLED by Su Lael

Under my wool sweater, beads of sweat trickled as I drove my short legs to match my father’s stride, fitting my booted feet in his vast footprints, making the crystals of snow squeak.  My breath condensed in frozen pellets on my scarf, wrapped tightly around my nose and mouth.  As dark shadows stretched out their fingers, the woods exhaled cool and deep air which stung my eyes and numbed my fingers.  I beat my gloved fingers against my thighs and curled them back in my sleeves.  The tramp and squeak of booted feet treading the snow was the only sound.  The rector and the altar guild crossed the street and bent their steps into the deeper snow under the trees and off the path, where the shadows deepened.  I had never been allowed out to cut the evergreen boughs in the woods during advent.

The baby and my mother remained at home in the light and safety of the kitchen.  Now, no doubt, my mother was sifting flour into her favorite glass bowl as the butter slowly melted on the stove.  My little brother slid the chunk of butter around, spearing the diminishing block with a fork, around and around again.  But I strode on in the cold and the dark.  The procession drew ahead of me.  I paused, pressing my cold fingers against my neck as I drew first one and then the other hand from my frozen gloves.  As the lights receded, I felt as though I were in a cave watching the miner’s light bob and shrink as the darkness, an active force, pressed round me.  I roughly forced my reddened hands back in my gloves, and, half running lurched after my father.   The men had halted in the grove of fir trees.  The rector intoned the familiar words of the prayers.  I pressed against my father’s side, finding comfort in his sturdy bulk.  I gazed up through branches to the night sky above.  The vast bowl opened up, the stars wheeling in their slow march across the sky.  My father’s arm circled my shoulder pulling me close.  When I tilted my head up, I could see the cloud of his breath.  “Well done my little one” he whispered.

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