Reflections

Distractions of Life

/ still a dreamer / 6 Comments

Gypsy Rose in my last home - in the 1742 dining roomOne of the most frustrating things about returning from a writing conference is that it doesn’t seem to take long before the life we knew before we left seeps – or charges – back in. Two days at the Annual NJ SCBWI Conference were exciting, absorbing and brimming with promise for my future as a writer and illustrator. This had been preceded by hours and days of prep – creating a new illustration for my submitted MS, tighter editing, printing out first pages, readying a speed pitch and so on.

I came home exhausted but totally psyched. Unfortunately I was also hit the next day with a blistering sinus/migraine, but still I forged on and edited that story in the evening, cutting out another 90 words. The next day I wrote thank you’ s to the wonderful agent and editors who had critiqued my work and I began sketching for my dummy.  The following day, still in a heat wave of nearly 100 degrees and shifting barometric pressure, I got hit by another crippling sinus/migraine headache. And of course, on Monday, I’d had the usual demanding pile of work, which pays my bills, on my desk to tackle.

Point is, even for a two day conference, the afterglow doesn’t last long before the distractions of life force their way back onto our laps demanding to be fed. How not to lose that momentum? I made a new commitment. I already journal every day and miss with rare exception. However, my new commitment to my future as a children’s book writer and illustrator is to spend a minimum of 10 minutes a day doing something to further my children’s book career.

On weekends, I may spend hours working on a manuscript or sketches, and sometimes in the evening as well when I’m able. However, even on those days when I have almost no energy left, I will do something, even if only for 10 minutes. I don’t want the insights and recommendations of the agent I met and the editors I sat with to fall through the cracks. To keep them alive, I need to touch their encouragement every day, even if only briefly, until I make the next block of time. A few sketches, jotting down ideas, a bit more editing of a manuscript … whatever.

The distractions of life are never going away – that IS life. But only we, as writers and illustrators, can put them off our laps and tell them to amuse themselves for a little while – we have something very important to tend to – our futures.

Winter Fog

/ still a dreamer / 1 Comment

 Fog on the Tracks

The sky brightens slowly, reluctant to let go of the dark clouds that blew rain all night from west to east. Nearly white with subtle shades of ghostly grey, it relinquishes its hold, allowing some sun, but strictly as backlighting. The ground warms, soft steam rises from the earth and a gentle, low-lying mist seeps through the yards and streets. A white cloud fills the Delaware like so much chilly winter breath. And at the end of the tracks, the fog waits, measuring the time to pull in to town.

Requiem for A Featherweight

/ still a dreamer / 4 Comments

StripesShe was a tiny little thing, and I’d really grown so very fond of her. Sadly, Stripes is no more and I sure do miss her.

People always find me when they have a problem with an animal, and so it was a few nights ago that my neighbor across the street had knocked on my door. She said she’d just come home and saw a cat in the road hit by a car … it looked like my next door neighbor’s. I grabbed my coat and ran out to find Stripes lying there, bleeding, still warm, the life knocked out of her limp body.

Stripes did indeed belong to the folks next door, and had two young girls that loved her.  Stripes and Pumpkin, half siblings, are/were primarily outdoor cats with shelter in their garage at night, all up to date with shots, neutered, etc. Her life with me was somewhat tangential, I guess you could say, but I loved her nonetheless. I saw her daily, fed her a “snack/meal” almost every day, and sat outside with her whenever I could.

With big green eyes and so very sweet and affectionate, Stripes was a little heartbreaker, and I say little – she couldn’t have been more than 5 pounds. I’d sit out on my porch to journal with my feet up on another chair so she could fall asleep on my legs. After eating, Pumpkin was off to whatever he had next on his schedule, but Stripes would have cuddled as long as the cuddles were coming. She patiently allowed me to remove the burrs from her fur acquired from her gallivanting all over the neighborhood, where she was a disturbingly good huntress. It’s no coincidence, I think, that there was a dead mouse about 2 feet from where her body lay in the road.

I miss those hopeful green eyes looking up at me through my back door screen … for a bite to eat or perhaps some snuggling … she loved any and all attention. Mine are my indoor cats; Stripes and Pumpkin had become my part-time, outdoor cats. It doesn’t matter that she wasn’t “mine.” She found a comfortable spot in my heart, and that’s where Stripes sleeps tonight.

Sweet dreams, little one.

Birthday Sunset

/ still a dreamer / 2 Comments

Sunset

Today as I began journaling I wrote the date and saw that it was November 28th — my Nana’s birthday.  My Nana passed away in 1972 at the ripe old age of 96.  She was born in London and came “across the pond” in her mid 20’s at the turn of the century. She was already a widow, and came to the United States by herself to start a new life.  How brave she must have been to leave all she knew and come to a new country alone.

Nana was always a big reader, and I remember that she read to me plenty when I was young, always in the green chair in the corner of the living room. I sat on her lap and she read me stories or my books about dogs, horses, birds, or elves and fairies.

I haven’t thought of her in awhile – she’s been gone now 35 years. She was quiet and refined in her British way, with a rather wealthy upbringing as I was told. Her lovely accent rubbed off on me, but I was forced to abandon it as I was ridiculed in grammar school as `talking funny’ by other kids. 

Nana couldn’t cook worth a lick. All I ever saw her cook was a pepper omelette or make a bologna sandwich. When my grandfather was alive and they were together, he did all the cooking. Thinking of her, remembering her, brought a smile to my face. I looked out the window and noticed how the trees are finally almost bare of leaves. From my office window I can see the Delaware again. I’m reading a great novel – Nana would have liked it, I think.

This evening I watched a gorgeous sunset and ran outside with my digital camera to capture it. I think she would have liked that, too. Happy Birthday, Nana.

See more photos on my web site.