Random Acts of Writing...

A Poet For the Ages, My Dad...

2011-12-17T12:30:00.000-08:00

My dad was a writer. He loved the written word and he loved books. In his 88 years, he wrote two novels, poems, stories and articles. Many of which were published. He even wrote and published a few cartoons for The New Yorker.

My sister, Robin, found this poem tucked in a box my dad had sent to her before he moved to Florida. I want to share it with you.

MOMENT IN THE NIGHT

In the moment of the moment of remembering

in the empty moon-bathed street.

And beneath the street-light's arc, the shadow

running long, then short, then long.

And behind the doors, the darkened windows

night shades drawn, the lovers.

Hushed and heavy hangs the bow, the night

bird's startled cry cut short, the rumble of

the late train's passing.

At the crossing the whistle echoes, and the river

bridge over the water far below, moving

slowly towards the sea.

Oh, remembered of the nights in the shadows by

the lakeside ... the closeness, the feeling,

the touch.

Softly crossed the flesh, the curve of the bough,

arm-limbs arched and fingers pointing to-

wards the sky.

For in the moment in the nightness and the

moonlight is the doorway to all things loved

and all things feared.

For in the moment, time stops, and quivers in

the shadows .... and is gone.

* * Wendell E. Smith

From "Driftwind: A Magazine of Verse"

December 1948

My dad wrote this poem when he was 25, before he met my mother. It wasn't long after, that he met my mom and began passing notes under her door, as she didn't have a phone at that time. She and her mom had just moved into an apartment next door to my dad and his brother in Morristown, NJ. She once told me that she fell head-over-heels for him on their first date. They had so much in common. They both loved to read and to write, and they were both teachers. They both were youthful and looked like they were in their teens when they married in their late 20's. I am so thankful that we have this poem, and other works that he wrote. I hope that as we clean out my dad's things, and pour through the dozens of boxes he left behind, we will find many more of his writings and musings. He was a true poet for the ages.

Sweet Similes...

2011-11-12T06:46:00.001-08:00

Similes are like tiny jewels in a summer night sky. They help create a poetic portrait of a character or paint a scenic landscape in a reader's mind. They help take your writing to the next level. I love similes and I love teaching my students to use them in their writing. During read aloud, the students give the thumbs-up sign when they hear one. It's like discovering a secret or finding a stone with rings, and the students always get excited when they catch one. Or when they write one. They rush up to me or wave their hands feverishly to share. "Listen to my simile!" It's the same when they find one while they're reading. "Look what I found, Ms. Murphy!" It's like they've found a hidden treasure. And they have.

One of my favorite things to teach my 5th graders is writing. I use Kimberly Newton Fusco's book, Tending to Grace, to teach about the use of language and, in particular, similes. I read it to them but they all have a copy so they can read along with me. When we hear how Cornelia, the main character, feels about her life, we stop and listen while I read a second time. Then we talk about how the author could have written how Cornelia feels lonely. But she doesn't, she writes, "I want to hide because my life, if it were a clothesline, would be the one with a sweater dangling by one sleeve, a blanket dragging in the mud, and a sock, unpaired and alone, tumbling to the road with the wind at its heel." What a lovely, haunting picture it paints of Cornelia's life.

One of the students' favorite similes discovered in Tending to Grace is the following: "The skin on her hand is thin, translucent, like china held up to the light." This compares Cornelia's mother's hand to china. Lenore is a fragile woman who leaves her daughter with her aunt because she is unable to take care for her herself. Another simile that describes Lenore is: "I want to tell her my whole life story in ten minutes, quicklike so the words tumble down fast and furious, like my mother's promises."

Give yourself, or your students, a path to more descriptive writing. Use similes. They are like tiny jewels in a summer night sky.

Hostels - they aren't just for youth anymore...

2011-09-05T17:28:00.000-07:00

I spent a few days at a beautiful, old hostel in Truro, MA, this summer. The view surrounding the hostel was breathtaking and the peace and serenity, inspiring. It was built in the 1930's and was originally a Coast Guard Station. It's a five minute walk to the ocean. Truro's beaches are part of the Cape Cod National Seashore, a 40-mile (43,500 acres) stretch of unspoiled sandy beaches on the Outer Cape. The National Seashore spans Eastham, Wellfleet, Truro, Provincetown and parts of Orleans and Chatham. The beach we discovered was a vast stretch of white sand with large spectacular dunes and few people. It was the perfect place to get away from it all and write.

Years ago, hostels were filled with college students looking for a cheap way to see the world. Hostels are still an inexpensive and unique way to travel, but now it's not just for young people. This was my second trip to a hostel in two years and I am struck by how many retired folk and families vacation at hostels. It's a fun way to meet other travelers from all over the world from all sorts of vocations. I've met a family from England, a nonfiction writer, teachers, retired professors, young lovers, a German grandmother and on and on. In my experience, these people are quiet and respectful, intelligent and inquisitive, and open for adventure.

If you're expecting a luxury hotel, you won't find it here. But if you don't mind sharing a room or sleeping on a bunkbed. If you don't mind eating in a communal kitchen, or having a delightful breakfast (much better than most continentals you find at a hotel), then staying in a hostel might be something you want to explore. Think of it as part of the adventure of traveling. You'll meet lots of interesting people, find lots of nooks and crannies to explore, as most people love to share the places they have found, and it's cheap.

There are hostels all over the country from Maine to California. Try it, you might like it. For more information, go to http://www.hiusa.org/.

(The gorgeous photos were taken by my hostel cohort, Betsy Taylor Dever.)

Philadelphia Freedom...

2011-08-13T07:42:00.000-07:00

I just returned from a trip to Philadelphia to learn more about our history during the Revolutionary War. The trip was part of a History Grant for 5th-12th grade history teachers to help bring history alive in the classroom. What a trip it was! We toured The National Constitution Center, where we toured the Real George Washington exhibition and got to view his dentures made out of bone. We went on an archeological dig at The Independence Park Institute and gained hands-on experience with replica artifacts from a recent dig. We saw The Liberty Bell and where George Washington's house (as President) was located. We even saw part of the actual foundation. Very impressive.

The last day of our trip was devoted to Valley Forge, the place where the Revolutionary War took a turn for the Patriots. It is now a National Park where visitors can enjoy thousands of acres of beautiful rolling hills, reconstructed huts from the soldier encampment, General Washington's stone, resurrected and furnished head-quarters, and an educational facility filled with artifacts and books.

As part of this program, the teachers are creating educational units. I am creating a unit on slavery during this time period. I am fascinated by the fact that slavery in southern plantations is mentioned in our history books but slavery in the north is barely, if at all, written about. This past summer, I read Chains and Forge by Laurie Halse Anderson. These historical fiction books depict the lives of Isabel and Curzon, a slave girl and boy in the northern states during the Revolutionary War. The books, rich with sensory details, paints a compelling picture of this time period and the struggles of the slaves with such compassion and emotion that it's easy to want to jump in the pages and fight for their freedom.

I am using Chains as the starting point for my unit. I want my students to feel as the slaves did and how I do after reading these books. This is an example of how books can spark passion to learn and gain more knowledge, and this is exactly why I am involved in this project. To ignite and to explore and to learn how history is important to all of us. To bring history to life to my students.

Like Water Over Stones...

2011-07-18T08:47:00.000-07:00

Summer is here and I'm working on my novel. Okay, summer is here and I should be working on my novel. No wait, summer is here and I'm slowly working on my novel. I'm trying to mesh two versions together and I'm finding I'm actually writing a whole new version. The new one sounds fresher and in Melody's tone of voice (pun intended) and just plain feels right.

It's a very tricky business, this writing of novels. Sometimes it flows like water over stones, and sometimes it's sticky like beach sand on salty toes. There are many writing strategies and techniques but whatever works for one may not work for all. I've read dozens of books on writing, taken numerous writing workshops, and heard many keynote speeches on writing, but the most important thing to remember is you need to write. People talk about writing, including me, but one must hone their craft, and keep on working at it until it works, until the work-in-progress is the best it can be. Sometimes it's hard to know when it's done, when the rewrite is polished to a brilliant shine. Read it out loud. How does it sound? Does it sound real? Does it flow like water over stones?

Here is another excerpt from my work-in-progress:

My legs are like cream cheese and jam on soft crackers and I need to sit before I fall. So I do, right next to my tree. And the boy stops and kneels down where he is, on a patch of dry leaves. It’s almost September now with a hint of fall coming and suddenly I am chilly with little bumps racing up and down my arms. I hug myself and consider what to say to this boy who is kneeling near me, fixing his hat every two seconds and looking all concerned; this boy who just dropped out of nowhere, or at least out of my beech tree, waiting for me to say something.

Another snippet...

2011-05-15T06:43:00.000-07:00

I'm revising my story. Okay, I'm working on a completely new version with a completely new voice. I try and work on it a little everyday. Some days more than others. But I'm excited each day to see what will happen next. I love the new Melody. She is interacting more and bringing on a whole new perspective to the story. Here's another snippet:

I search up the beach to find our striped umbrella and see Mom and Dad sitting side by side with books in their hands. Mom’s hand is resting on Dad’s arm as she squints toward us, smiling. I wave. She nods and waves back.

They look so content, is what I’m thinking, when Mom’s face instantly looks like Suzanne’s with panic written on her forehead and her mouth open wide, ready to scream. I whip around to see why. Max is rolling under the water, spinning like a top, struggling to stand. Racing over to snatch him, I hear Mom and Dad’s frantic shouts as they rush down the sand toward us. “Max!”

I pull at his arm and bring him up, choking and sputtering. He lifts his matted head and I cradle it in my lap. “Oh, Max, I’m so sorry.” Mom and Dad charge over and Dad takes him and carries him to the blanket. I lay my chin on Mom’s arm as she puts her other arm around my shoulder. “It’s okay, Melody. These things happen. That big 'ole wave just swept him under in a second. How could you have known?”

I’m sniffling and feeling so tired like it was me under there, not Max. “I was right there but I didn’t see it. I’m sorry, Mommy.”

Mom looks me straight in the eye. “But you were there to pull him out. You reacted as quickly as you could. That's all you can do, honey." That makes me feel a whole lot better.

When we get to the blanket and there’s Max wrapped in a towel sitting all snug on Dad’s lap, looking out of breath but smiling with his chubby thumb in his mouth, which he knows he’s too big for now, and looking so safe and sweet, I can’t imagine life without him.

Voices

2011-04-30T05:22:00.000-07:00

A month ago, I attended my yearly writing retreat at Whispering Pines in W. Greenwich, RI. It's a weekend filled with presentations on children's writing, illustrating, and marketing from some of the industry's most influential editors, agents, authors, and illustrators. It's a time to network, meet up with old friends, make new ones, and have some plain old fun. This year was no different. As a matter of fact, I'd say it was one of the best ever.

I had a one-on-one critique with Ammi-Joan Paquette, an agent with the Erin Murphy Literary Agency, about my YA novel, Melody's Song. I sent in 25 pages of my manuscript for one of the mentors to read and critique, and I was fortunate to have Joan as my mentor. She was thoughtful, honest, and gave me some positive feedback. One of her suggestions, making my main character, Melody, 13 rather than 14 because she sounded innocent rather than edgy, was a good idea. Interestingly, when I began reworking the story, a new voice emerged, one I hadn't heard before. It was a slightly younger Melody and her words poured out onto the page.

Sometimes when life feels too good to be true and everything is lined up in a row like baby ducks following their mama, you can’t help but think that something’s about to go wrong. That’s exactly how I was feeling last summer. And, bang, did I turn out to be right.

The first time my theory started to take a shape was on a Monday, a beach day. Mondays in the summer are the only days we get to go to the beach together. The only day Mom closes the antique shop for the morning so we can hang together. Summer is her busy season and on the Cape you make the best of it when you can.

Mom’s packing a picnic lunch with egg salad sandwiches, juice boxes and grapes. She places them carefully in an old wicker basket from the shop, the one with handles, puts the checkered napkins on top and closes the two wooden flaps. “Let’s go! We’re leaving,” she shouts, twirling around, nearly bumping me. “Here, Mel, you take this. Tell Mia we’re ready and I’ll get Max and Dad.” I smile at Mom, happy to take orders now that she’s finally ready.

“Mia!” I shout, sprinting up the stairs, “The bus is leaving!”

What's next?

2011-03-21T06:48:00.000-07:00

With all the uncertainties of late, I finally contacted the Fulbright Teacher Exchange team and told them of my plight. It was something I was dreading but knew was inevitable. They were very supportive and told me the best thing to do was withdraw my application and reapply next year. I'll just have to update my application. They certainly understand the climate of what's happening to schools and teachers around the country. My hope is that things will be better next year. Time will tell.

So for now, I continue to teach my 5th graders. I work on my new novel and wait for warm weather and dream of the ocean. I wonder what's next for me. I have a feeling something's just around the corner and I can't wait to find out what it is.

Dashing Dreams...

2011-02-20T11:20:00.000-08:00

2011 has been a roller coaster of a ride and it's only February. I found out at the beginning of this month that I've been accepted to participate in the Fulbright Teacher Exchange Program. As you can imagine, I was thrilled to hear the news. It's been my dream since college to go back to England and see the country and learn more about their educational system. With the Fulbright, I'd be teaching 5th grade for a semester next year, while another teacher would be teaching my classroom here. We'd even exchange houses. With the roof collapse at my school, I was worried. How could I accept the Fulbright if I don't even know the fate of my school? But it looks like they are rebuilding the school and that the students should be reporting back by next September.

But then, another blow. Twelve teachers at my school received pink slips. The budget is being cut and state funding could be cut by 20%. At the next School Committee meeting a week later, seven teachers got their notices rescinded but five did not. I am on the list of five who did not. It's all about money and seniority. Even though I've been teaching for 12 years, I am the fourth from the bottom of our seniority list. It feels like I've been rolling around under a huge wave and can't find my way up. I'm devastated! I'm not sure what to do or where to turn. One thing I've decided to do is appeal. It may not help my situation, but I know it can't hurt. I am willing to do just about anything to get my job back. I love my job! I love my students!

And what about the Fulbright? My dream of going to England and exchanging positions with another teacher are dashing. But maybe, just maybe, this door closing means another one will open. Maybe something even better will come through. I don't know the answers, and only time will tell. But one thing is for sure, I need to be patient. And patience can be hard to find.

Wild Winter Woes

2011-02-02T09:04:00.000-08:00

A week ago, I was in my classroom giving my 5th graders time to work on their persuasive essays. They had three choices to write about: 1.) why students need or don't need homework, 2.) why students need more than 15 minutes of recess, 3.) why it might be a good idea to have a four-day school week. I told them they would have more time to work on them, but to get their thoughts down and begin a rough draft. I hoped that the choices would be pertinent to them and that they could persuade someone to make a change.

The following day, my school world, and everything in it, collapsed along with the roof of my little country school. The day after giving my students this writing prompt, we had about 15 inches of snow and, no surprise, another snow day. While I was taking this reprieve from school to work on report cards, I got a call from a fellow teacher that the roof in the library had caved in. I thought that perhaps a little water was leaking from the ceiling and that it would be a nuisance, nothing to worry about. My teacher friend called back within 10 minutes and asked if I wanted to take a ride over to see the damage. Why not? I thought. It would be a nice break from report cards. When we got to school, it was immediately apparent that this was much more than a nuisance. This was a disaster!

In the past week, I've been to the school twice to take as much as I can in a short period of time. The first time, it was about five minutes. The second time, about 10 minutes. An engineer had to escort each teacher into their classroom for safety precautions. Needless to say, it was a nerve wracking experience. Did I take what I need? Am I taking everything the students will need?

When I begin a new phase at the Middle School tomorrow (the 4th and 5th graders have been moved to the regional Middle School) my first priority will be to hug my students and help them feel safe. This is what I need right now so I'm sure it's what they need, as well. We will write about our feelings about what has happened and how this has changed us. Perhaps in the days ahead, we will come up with a new writing prompt, one that will be more pertinent to what the students are going through right now. Or, perhaps, I will keep the ones we have as they might just be the things the students are thinking about, or want to think about. Perhaps we don't want to think about what has happened for too long, perhaps we want to get back to our safe routine. A new routine it will be, but as the word defines it, a routine will be just what we need.

The story is finished. Now what?

2010-12-29T17:35:00.000-08:00

I finished revising my story, a young adult novel. Again. I added another layer and am feeling pretty good about it. Now what? Should I query the agent I met at the writer's retreat last spring? She read the first 25 pages and gave me a positive critique and suggestions for improvement to help deepen the story. Should I hold off and wait for the retreat coming up in March? Should I query publishers or should I query agents? So many questions. What's the right way to go?

One of my writer friends, who also happens to be an editor, recently posted a blog on her site that was very interesting and got me questioning. She wrote that editors are inundated with requests and querys this time of year and that if writers want to be noticed, and not be just one in a pile of slush, they should hold off. I am eager to get my story out there but should I take her advice? Should I wait a month or so? Or should I take the plunge and send it out now?

Feeling thankful...

2010-11-26T12:25:00.000-08:00

It's the day after Thanksgiving and I'm in a very relaxed, easy-going kind of mood. Yesterday was frantic with preparing a feast for my family, including my parents and brother, Dell, and his wife, Liz. My daughter, Kyla, was busy as well, making two pumpkin pies, one a cheesecake and one with a crumbly nut topping, green beans with almonds, a sweet potato pie, and an apple sausage dressing. We cooked up a storm and had fun watching it all come together. It was a special Thanksgiving as we haven't had my parents here in five years, since they moved down to Florida. It's been nice having them back in New England and it was a special treat having them join us for Thanksgiving.

As I looked around the dining room table yesterday, I couldn't help but be thankful. Thankful for my parents who are now close by, thankful for my three children who aren't children anymore, but fun-loving, creative adults. Thankful for Dell and Liz, who graciously drove from Lowell, MA to Orleans to pick up my parents and bring them to my house in R.I., and who always have interesting topics of conversation to share, from books to movies to the latest Etsy craze. And last but not least, I'm thankful for Don for putting up with me and giving us a second chance at something new.

I feel blessed. And it's times like these when we can relax and reflect on what is truely important and meaningful in our lives. For in another day or two, it's back to work and the start of the most wonderful time of the year, if not the most hectic. So for now, relax, have some more pie, and enjoy the rest of the long holiday weekend.

Falling into winter...

2010-10-10T06:21:00.000-07:00

Fall is definitely here in southern New England. The temperature was 40 degrees when I tumbled out of bed this morning. Brrrrrr...I love fall with the changing of the leaves to shades of gold and red, biting into crisp, tart apples, and the smell of wood stoves burning. What I don't love is the anticipation of frigid temperatures and icy walkways that come with winter. What I love, though, is the first snowfall; walking through the fresh powder, tilting my head to feel the light patter of snowflakes in my face; watching Hannah, race down the driveway, her snout digging through the snow, making tunnels.

Am I crazy? I am a dichotomy of loves. I love snow when I'm home to enjoy it or when I'm cross-country skiing. I hate snow when I'm about to leave for work or about to leave work for home and snowflakes swirl across the windshield, blocking my view. I'm sure I'm not alone in this love/hate relationship with winter. But as winter looms in the distance, I can't help but wonder if my friends and family who live in warmer climates have the right idea.

Beads on a string...

2010-08-15T08:53:00.000-07:00

I love language, the way words taste on my tongue. The way words can be strung together like beads on a string. This is a beautiful way to think about writing stories and, I must admit, this is how my mom described it to me once. She talked about her love for language and how with thousands of words to choose from, it's how you string them together that makes a sentence, a paragraph, a story. It's how words come together in a wonderful way. My writing mentor, Anita Riggio, described it in the same fashion. Or did she say pearls on a necklace? I love this thought and I love the image it portrays.

When I teach poetry, I call it bumping words together. Colliding words together in a new or unusual pattern. For example, honey rouge, strawberry bark, apple moon, ocean tangerine, lavender parsnips.

Now you try it...

A Cape Cod state of mind...

2010-08-08T11:08:00.001-07:00

I just got back from a week on the Cape with my college friends. We've been renting a house in Eastham since our kids were little, for about 15 years or so. There have been different configurations of people, adults and children, each year, depending on jobs, finances, conflicts, etc. At our peak, I think there were 11 kids with 5 moms. In ONE house! Can you imagine? The house belonged to a childhood friend's brother who rented it out in the summer. It was a huge place, with an assortment of bedrooms (it would have to, right?), a large kitchen, a patio out back, and a massive beech tree in the front. One of my most vivid memories is taking pictures of the kids draped in the branches of this gorgeous tree.

Now fast forward to 2010. Four friends without kids, at least most of the week (some of the kids came out for the weekend), in a quaint two-bedroom cottage, within walking distance to the bay. Quite different from years' past and quite relaxing. We always talked about what it would be like when the kids were grown and now it's here. We trudge down the dozens of steps over the dunes at Marconi Beach in Wellfleet, chairs and umbrellas in tow, in search of the perfect spot to catch some rays and tell beach stories. We meander through the shops in Martha's Vineyard after taking a wind-blown ride on the ferry. We find "our" deck overlooking Provincetown Harbor and sip summertime favorite cocktails while taking pictures of the fabulous view. Some of us ride the waves in the frigid ocean on boogie boards at low tide. It's a week that we look forward to all year.

Cape Cod - a beachy, casual, adventurous state of mind.

My Lovely Writer Friend

2010-07-20T15:50:00.000-07:00

Dark clouds hovered as rain splashed on thirsty summer leaves. The beginning of a novel? No, the setting for a lovely brunch at my writer friend, Kim Fusco's house recently. Several other writer friends and I had a delicious potluck while catching up on our latest writing projects and the kids' newest adventures. Kim even read the first page of her second novel, The Wonder of Charlie Anne, which debuts on August 10. As Kim describes it, a story of triumph over adversity. It's a middle grade novel set in the 1930's in a rural New England town during the depression. I had the pleasure of reading it last summer when Kim was in the last revision stage and needed advice on the teaching of reading to a child who has difficulty in that area. Something I know lots about. It's a beautifully written book with characters that sing to each of us. If you haven't already, you must check out Kim's first book, Tending To Grace, which was hailed as "stunning."

Summertime and the reading is easy...

2010-06-12T06:34:00.000-07:00

Now that it's almost summer, it's time to pick out some good beach reads. I have several already piled up on the hand-painted cupboard by my bed. Summer is the best time to read for pure enjoyment. To get into a great book and be able to read for hours is wonderfully satisfying. I hope to instill this love of reading in my students. Some of them step into my classroom loving books, while others struggle to decode words and have difficulty comprehending what they've read. Some would rather play video games and watch TV. It's my job, as a teacher, to help make reading come to life for these kids. When I can achieve this, then I feel like I'm making a difference in their lives.

A very special student who I've had the pleasure of working with this year, is finally beginning to enjoy books. We discovered together that he likes to read about history, about events that happened in the past. I think he became fascinated by the fact that these people lived before us. "Before me?" he would ask. "Before you?" I would nod and say, "Yes, before us." We would do the math together and discover how many years ago these events took place. And he was intrigued by the fact that these events really happened, they weren't just made up stories. This was quite a revelation to his parents and me, and quite exciting for him. He finally asked to keep reading. And his parents finally began to read to him and to realize the benefits of just reading for the pleasure of it, not only to read to decode words and to become more fluent but to take pleasure in the act of reading. How wonderful for them. How satisfying for me.

My own three children are readers and this, as you can imagine, is a thrill for me. Maybe I didn't do everything right, but I gave them a love for reading. Being readers ourselves can be one of the best gifts we can give to children. It may take time for some, but eventually they come around. Like I wrote about in an earlier post, I didn't read often for pleasure as a child. I read because I had to. I read for tests and book reports and to write papers. My parents read by lamp light every evening, and my siblings read a lot, as well. Eventually, I, too, became a lover of books and reading. A natural progression.

By the way, what are your summer reading picks? I just started "The Murderer's Daughters" by Randy Susan Myers. A book recommended by my brother, Dell, as he knows the author. He has taken writing courses with Ms. Myers at the Grub Street Writers' Center in Cambridge, MA. It's quite compelling so far. As a matter of fact, it's calling me right now...

Packing Up...

2010-04-17T08:08:00.000-07:00

I'm in Florida with my brother and sister-in-law helping my parents pack up their belongings. My parents are moving back to Cape Cod. My sister is staying in Florida but moving to the next town over. My parents are both in their 80's and miss their kids, grandchildren and friends, and want to move back to the place they love best. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. My parents have loved the Cape since as far back as I can remember. When my sisters and I were very young and living in Lansdale, Pennsylvania, my parents decided to check out a place they had been doing some research on. They were looking for the perfect place for my father to write "the great American novel." So, in the middle of winter, they drove to the small man made island of Cape Cod where they stayed in an old haunted Inn called The Orleans Inn. It was here they fell in love with the raw beauty of the Cape with its acres of scrub pine, grassy dunes and endless sandbars. Quiet in winter, bustling with tourists in the summer, the Cape is like nowhere else in the world. It's a haven for writers, artists, and antique dealers, and anyone who loves being close to the water. It was here that we moved.

When I was 14 and about to enter high school, my father moved the whole family to New Jersey, where he opened up a book store. That lasted about 10 months. We were all homesick for the Cape and moved back. Luckily for us, my parents hadn't sold our house but instead had rented it out to friends. We stayed in the extra rooms in the barn for the summer. Then, about five years later, my parents moved to Ithaca, NY where they opened up an antique and book shop. Surprise. Surprise. My dad went to Cornell University and loved the college town. I was at Elmira College at the time so it was nice to have my family so close. They stayed in Ithaca about two years before, you guessed it, moving back to 'ole Cape Cod. They rented a house in S. Orleans while in the process of building a passive solar house in Brewster. My parents lived in that house for about 15 years and then went on to rent several condos. Four and a half years ago, my sister, Cindy, decided she wanted to move to Florida and take my parents with her. She convinced them to go with her and they liked it. I mean, like my dad says, what's not to like? It's warm and close to the beach. Well, it didn't take long for them to start thinking about the Cape and missing its beauty and everyone there. So, here we are, getting them ready to move back to the place they call home. And I am very happy about that.

Labels for Unfocused Writers...

2010-02-15T06:39:00.000-08:00

I must be ADD, ADHD, have severe attentional issues, hard time focusing, etc. I can say this because I work with kids with these labels and though I hate labels and labeling these kids, they might just be the right labels for us adults who can't focus. Adult writers, in particular. When it's time to get down and write, I can be so unfocused, it's ridiculous. I start to do laundry, clean the cabinets, bake some muffins, talk to my friends on Facebook, walk into the next room looking for something I can never remember. You name it, I find it and do it. And, like many writers, I have a day job that takes up much of my time. So, when I can find time to sit in front of the computer, I should be focused on my story. Or my blog. Why do I have such a hard time?

I can think about my characters and what might happen next in the story, never really knowing, of course, until I sit down to write. But as soon as I put my butt in the chair, as my mentor, Anita Riggio, used to say, my mind wanders to every place but where it should be, my work at hand. I know I'm not alone in this so perhaps we should label this phenomenon. Let's see...MW for Mind Wanderer, UIC- Unfocused In Chair, JURTC- Jumping Up Ready To Clean, BFL-Bounding For Laundry, WTCH- Walking To Clear Head, MML- Mood Music Listener, MHM-Mental Health Meanderer, CC-Closet Cleaner, PP-Patchwork Painter, and last but not least, AFB- Addicted to Facebook. I'd love to hear yours, if you're focused enough to name it.

Perspectives...

2010-01-16T08:54:00.000-08:00

Putting things in perspective and reflecting on what is important is common this time of year, but with the news of the tragic earthquake in Haiti, it takes on even more significance. I feel grateful for what I have and try to live my life by squeezing in everything I possibly can. I know that love and family are essential pieces to a happy life and have been given a second chance to make it work. For this, I feel blessed. I view my friends as emotional sounding boards and my true life lines. Without friends, who would we have to share secrets with or to act fiercely crazy with?

There are perspectives to think about in writing, as well. Who is telling your story? Which character can best relay the story you want to tell? Several years ago, I read a book with a very unique perspective, The Lovely Bones. It was told through the point of view of a young girl, Suzie, who had been brutally murdered by her neighbor as she looked down upon her friends and family from above. She told the story of her family's unraveling with grace and beauty. It's one of my favorite books. It would have been a completely different story had it been told from the dad or sister's perspective. When I watched the movie based on this story, on the big screen, I wasn't sure what to expect. I mean how do you show a girl in the after world watching life unfold below her? Not an easy task. But somehow it worked.

Another book with a fascinating perspective is The Book Thief. This story is told from the point of view of Death in Germany during WW ll. As morbid as this premise may sound, it's a poignant story. The language...poetic. The characters...genuine. It follows the life of a young girl, Liesel, whose little brother has died and whose mother has given her up to a foster family. She discovers books and begins stealing them whenever the opportunity presents itself. This is truly a book about the power of words; how words can feed a soul.

What is your perspective? Have you read any books lately with a unique point of view?

Writing like snowflakes...

2010-01-09T07:55:00.000-08:00

It's fascinating how stories are written, or conceived, or imagined, or created. For each writer, there is a unique process. It seems no two writers write the same. We are as diverse as snowflakes, in this regard. Some use outlines. Some wait for inspiration to strike, tapping into the wire. Some let the story unfold in front of them, allowing the characters to lead them onward. I think I'm the latter...I love to see where the characters will go, what they will say, how they react to each other in the situation of the moment. I love when a story takes a turn and I have no idea where it's going. Well, I shouldn't say that. I have a vague idea of where it's going and how it will end but the meanderings in the middle can be random and adventurous. I love when a character says something that surprises me. It's like my fingers are flowing over the keys like a river and I have no control over the current. It carries me far away from the shore. To me, it's the best thing about writing; the surprises that happen when I'm not looking. Like soft snowflakes drifting from the clouds at the onset of a storm, landing on the frozen ground like jewels.

While working on my latest story, this happened. And it wasn't what the character said or did, exactly, it was something she didn't do. I was writing away when suddenly my main character, Tess, decided she wasn't going to eat her dinner. Instead she pushed it around her plate. Now this may not sound significant but it made me pause and wonder. Why wasn't she eating? She had made a wonderful salad with greens and tofu but, no matter, she wasn't eating and this was quite telling to me. This was her way of feeling in control of her somewhat, out of control, situation. And I didn't plan it. I didn't foresee it coming. No, not at all. Tess, had made up her mind at the dinner table that she was going to find a way to feel empowered. I have no idea how this will affect Tess and her story, but I'm eager to find out.

I'd love to hear about your meandering snowflakes...

Becoming a reader...

2010-01-02T17:55:00.000-08:00

I wasn't a big reader as a child. No, that was my older sister, not me. I was too busy climbing trees, making forts in the woods, playing pick-up baseball games at the field down the road. I couldn't sit still long enough to read a book. I hate admitting that, but it's true. My sister, Robin, read enough books for both of us. She could be found curled up in the corner of the couch reading at any given moment. I didn't really understand her love for books or maybe I envied her or perhaps I wanted to be her opposite. Who really understands the dynamics of siblings? From my experience with my own three children, it seems they seek the attention of their parents and are willing to do just about anything to their brothers and sisters to get it.

My love for books came much later, when my first child was born. I bundled up Justin and strolled him to the small town library in Whitinsville, MA, for our weekly book fix. I had discovered the children's book room and, with Justin in tow, devoured most of them. Quickly it was apparent that this was what I wanted to do. I wanted to write for children. Starting with some very bad made-up stories, I began to write off and on as my kids were growing up. It wasn't until I met my mentor, Anita Riggio, at a writer's retreat and took her workshop, that I began to write the story I was meant to write. More about that in a later blog.

Now, I read mostly young adult books with a sprinkling of adult books mixed in. At the moment, I'm reading "The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian" by Sherman Alexie. It's an honestly brutal, yet hilariously funny, coming-of-age story of a Native American teen trying to rise above his sad circumstances on an Indian reservation. Arnold Spirit Jr. is an intelligent misfit born with physical problems, who wants more out of life than what the reservation can offer him. Clearly, Sherman Alexie is painting a picture of the struggles American Indians face in this country, and does it with a very poignant and original story. If you are looking for a book that is hard to put down and will keep you giggling, then this one is not to miss.

On my bedside table, I have about four books waiting to be read. Have you read any good books lately?

Beginnings...

2010-01-01T07:46:00.000-08:00

This is my first blog and my first random post so I suppose I should begin at the beginning. I am a writer. There, I said it. Not so scary as I thought it would be. I come from a family of writers. My mom was a nursery school teacher before she had kids (my two sisters, my brother and me) and once she did, she began to write childcare articles for mothering/housewife type magazines. My dad started out writing ideas for cartoonists for The New Yorker Magazine. That's what he was doing when my parents met. They lived in neighboring towns in New Jersey and met in their twenties. Later he worked as a copy editor once my mom and dad got married, after six months as forest rangers in California atop a mountain for their honeymoon. Eventually he was a high school English teacher at a private school for girls on the Cape and, finally, an antiquarian book dealer. All the while, though, my parents were writing. Dad wrote mostly articles for notable papers such as The New York Times and The Boston Globe and, in later years, short humor pieces. Mom worked on short column pieces for newspapers and magazines and, in later years, romance novels.

I grew up surrounded by books, magazines, maps, pamplets, and antiques of all sorts with price tags on them. For, you see, when we moved to Orleans, MA, on Cape Cod, when I was a little girl, my mom started an antique shop with a woman she met on the beach who had similiar interests, which turned out to be very old collectibles. We moved into an old sea captain's house near Rock Harbor and thus began our life on Cape Cod, giving us many adventures to write about.

My siblings are writers, as well, though we all write in different genres. I write young adult novels. My sister, Cindy, writes romance novels. My brother, Dell, writes contemporary adult novels. And my sister, Robin, is a poet but is beginning to write for young adults.

Now you have a little snapshot into my life and how it all began. My beginnings...