The Book Review Club - Waiting to Forget

Waiting to Forget
Sheila Kelly Welch
middle grade

Because of the age of the protagonist, I've tagged this as middle grade, as did the publisher, namelos; however, it seems wise and fair to point out that this is the story of a current day child-survivor of abuse and neglect. This isn't a light read. It's tough. It's a great book for talking through and exploring emotions, but I wouldn't send a child off to read this alone.

Basic plot: T.J.'s little sister, Angela, fell from the second story balcony into the entryway of their new adopted parent's home. While T.J. waits at the hospital to find out if his sister will be all right, he tells their story in flashback. It's a heartrending account of a mother who neglects her children, has a string of boyfriends, some nice and some less than nice, that ultimately lead her to abandoning her kids to follow her man, who has abused the children. The children then cycle through various foster homes until they're adopted. The transition to a new home is difficult, wrought with feelings of guilt and distrust and the fear of loving anyone again.

The story alternates between present tense for the here and now and past for the story leading up to the hospital. For a young reader, changing tense can be confusing. Yet another aspect of the story that makes it well-suited for group reading and discussion.

As I was reading this book, I asked myself many times "what's the point" of a story of this nature. I'll readily admit, I'm sometimes a bit slow in getting it when it comes to gritty fiction about scarring abuse for a young audience. I faced a similar paradox with the aspect of double dead parents in my own middle grade, Dragon Wishes. For me, the theme felt too heavy as a stand alone. Thus I added a second story to the first, a fantasy, that broke up the heaviness of the main, present day story, while intertwining with it to push plot forward. That was my personal choice because the topic, death of both parents, just felt too heavy all by itself for a young audience. In Waiting to Forget, there is no break from reality. The distant past is painful, the recent past is jumbled and painful, and the present is scary painful. Angela may die.

Is this a story worth telling? Absolutely. However, it's probably one that's best read and shared together for the story to have its true effect, i.e. helping children either to cope with abuse in their lives or to understand abuse and its effects on their peers.

For other great reads, hop on over to Barrie Summy's site. They're in full bloom!

Sacramento...or Bust!

Tomorrow I take Steinbeck's sage advice and "Head West, young man!" (okay, in this case, woman). Yes sir, I am leaving Oklahoma for the land of milk and honey...and librarians. I'll be speaking Saturday at the California School Librarians Conference with four other amazing writers - Susan Goldman Rubin, Linda Joy Singleton, Caryn Yacowitz, and Belle Yang.

Up-to-date and embracing all technology has to offer, we'll be talking about how to bring authors into schools on a shoestring budget. Skype visits, author interviews, podcasts, plays, graphic novels, hands on class demonstrations that bring books to life. We've gotten creative. Very creative. And we came up with some neat alternatives.

Which is pretty cool. For children's authors, there isn't much that can top kids reading our books. I mean, that's why we write. To share our stories. For me, visiting schools and talking to kids about my books, that's the Bees Knees. I hope, as the economy recovers, that schools will increasingly be able to afford once again to bring in real live authors to their students, but I'm glad we can offer some alternatives that get kids talking about writing.

Our panel is at 11 a.m. in the Sacrmento Convention Center, Rm 302/303, for anyone who happens to be attending. Afterwards, we'll be signing in the exhibitor hall, then it's kicking back and lunch!

I plan to head up to Apple Hill for the afternoon and try out some California apples.

Then it's back to the convention center in the evening for the Beatty dinner. I will be hosting a table, which means I get to talk books with librarians! Oh joy. Oh rapture. Oh endless bliss.

I love library conferences.

Out on Good Behavior

The ivory tower is granting me a one day pass to go out and see the real world. The things good behavior will get you!

GLEE!

I'm being let out to speak at Oklahoma's school librarian conference, EncycloMedia. I'm excited. Thrilled. And a little nervous. Okay... a lot nervous. I'll be out with real people. I have to talk. I have to talk intelligently, in complete sentences, with no editing, about my middle grade novel, Dragon Wishes. I have to sound like I do this regularly. But all I've done for weeks now is sit in the ivory tower with my imaginary friends - and a few dead writers - and write. My social skills have sort of fallen by the wayside. Ask my kids. My husband. My dog, even.

Fortunately, should my skills waver, I'll be in amazing company and so hopefully no one will notice. I'm speaking with Eileen Cook, What Would Emma Do, Cynthea Liu, Paris Pan Takes the Dare, Jenny Meyerhoff, Third Grade Baby, and Suzanne Morgan Williams, Bull Rider.

We're followed the next day by P.J. Hoover, The Navel of the World, Jessica Anderson, Border Crossing, Barrie Summy, I So Don't Do Spooky, Donna St. Cyr, The Cheese Syndicate, and Zu Vincent, The Lucky Place.

Beforehand, we're being interviewed for a televised program that the Metropolitan Library of Oklahoma broadcasts throughout the state. Please, please, please let my hair cooperate so that I look like someone who actually styles her hair every once in a while, rather than pulling it back in a haphazard ponytail because dead writers and fictitious characters don't care what your hair looks like. And after that, there is a luncheon with librarians. Gulp. Can I carry on a coherent conversation for a whole hour? Or will I get that far off, I-have-an-idea look and start scribbling on my napkin? Librarians will understand if I do, right?

Maybe after all of that real world experience, I'll be ready to lock myself away in the ivory tower again, but I have a feeling, it'll be the other way around. I used to be a pretty social person, some time in the distant past...I think. Either way, I think that seeing, talking and interacting in a spontaneous way with real live people who don't need me to edit their dialogue could be, what's the word?

Oh wait, I know...FUN!

You Might Be a Writer If...

Has your son or daughter ever followed you around the house repeating every single word, gesture, expression of yours? Or have you seen your children do it to each other with the secret desire of driving each other nuts, and, of course, succeeding?

Imitation is the best form of flattery, they say. But what about when it's involuntary?

You might be a writer if...you're a better parrot than your kids.

Most writers will admit pretty quickly that inspiration for their characters sometimes comes from quirky aspects of their own personalities, emotions they've been through, even kids they knew when they were growing up, or know now. We writers do pilfer on occasion, which I disclaimed on a while back. But what about when it boomerangs back on us and we start imitating our own characters?

When I'm revising heavy sections of a work (this happened with Dragon Wishes), I sometimes go through a low myself, carrying the emotional weight of my characters around with me after I turn off the computer. It's not so fun, perhaps necessary to make good writing into unforgettable writing (or at least decent writing), but not one of my more favorite forms of imitation.

It's not the only form, though. Oh, no. Not even close.

I'm working on a YA set in late 19th century New Zealand, and have been for the last 13 months. I've eaten, slept, drank, read, written and pretty much been in 19th century New Zealand for over a year. I even went to the modern day version for real in November 2008. I really did my research. Really went to live in the moment. It was well beyond 'imitation.' It bordered on total immersion. The imitation came later.

I started saying, "eh" at the end of my sentences. I have to say, it is a Canadian thing. Only, I'm not from Canadian, so I wasn't exactly sure why I was suddenly doing it. And I couldn't stop. My husband teased me about it. My daughers laughed. But it was my seven year old who got to the heart of the matter in perfect, no-nonsense kid fashion.

"I like how you talk like Charlie now," she said one afternoon after my umpteenth "eh" that day.

Charlie?

Who? What was she talking about?

Then it hit me. Charlie Mueller, the salty lighthouse keeper in my novel (Like any slightly obsessed writer, I've read my novel to my kids). Charlie's got this great "ye aren't the fastest ship in the harbor, are ye, laddie" kind of brogue accent. I really love writing his dialogue. I guess I love it so much, I started imitating it.

So what does all of this mean? Imitation is an occupational hazard?

I bet my kids would love to use that on me. "I have to imitate you, Mama. That's what kids do. It's an occupational hazard of being a kid."

How many moms would by that one? I know I wouldn't. Parroting really gets old after a while.

Uh-oh.

Does this mean my kids can threaten to send me to my room if I don't stop parroting Charlie right now?

I'm in trouble.

You Might Be a Writer If...

Ooh, after the week I've had with babysitter woes, I have really been looking forward to my Friday post where I get to let my hair down, sit back, and ponder the inane, quirky habits of that ecelectic species, writer.

This week's spotlight gelled for me in a dream last night. I haven't had the best luck with working things out in the subconscious before, but man, last night, the stars must have aligned because when I woke up, what I dreamt actually made sense.

You might be a writer if...you swoon for writers like they were rock stars.

I mean the Leif Garrett/David Cassidy kind of swooning, where your heart gets up to some crazy erratic pace and your head feels so hot, you think you might lift off the ground or explode. Yep, that's what great writing does for writers.

Sound melodramatic?

Okay, maybe just a little, but what writer hasn't had that moment when a turn of phrase in a piece stopped them dead in their tracks. Where they sat there, saying it out loud, letting the words roll and bump across their lips as they savored the flavor of great writing.

And then became insanely curious to learn about the person who wrote that. So much so you, say, maybe googled them? Checked out their wikipedia page? Looked for interviews. Driven by the haunting memory of that amazing combination of letters and sounds that became greater than the sum of its parts.

I know. I'm swooning again.

I didn't used to swoon so for writers, not before I became one. I always read a lot, tons, but honestly, I wasn't all that into remembering author names. It was all about book titles, or even more simply, the story itself.

Now that I am a writer, now that I'm constantly working to improve my craft, I've become a closetcase fan of other writers. Then again, it may only be me who thinks my curiosity and interest is secret. I've seen my friends give me that funny look when I start going on and on and on about how I'd love to have Markus Zusak and his family over for a grill party. Kids would be playing on the swing set (I have no idea if he has kids. I do.) Spouses would get along great. And we'd talk about whatever. Not necessarily books, but life. I mean, who wouldn't want to kibbutz a little with the person who wrote:

As it turned out, Ilsa Hermann not only gave Liesel Meminger a book that day. She also gave her a reason to spend time in the basement - her favorite place, first with Papa, then Max. She gave her a reason to write her own words, to see that words had also brought her to life.
"Don't punish yourself," she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness too. That was writing.

Do you have a lighter lit and are waving it in the air like me? I mean, gees, that's just one line. The whole rest of the book is just as strong.

Zusak is just one example on my ever growing list of authors I'd love to meet and talk with. I don't mean interview talk. I mean Paris, early 20th century, Picasso taking on Modigliani talk. I mean, Hemingway vs. Fitzgerald. You know, arguing and debating, chewing and reforming and rewriting what makes good art in a seedy bar with a good French wine. They argued. They debated. They drank. They lived. They created. They changed the world.

God, what a time that must have been. An unending concert of ideas matching pitch and being reworked into something new and brilliant.

I'm swooning just thinking about it.

*****On a very little side note to rising fame and writer fortune, my book, Dragon Wishes, was an Honorable Mention in the San Francisco Book Festival this week. I feel like a rocker who's finally playing decent venues. Hopefully, one day, it'll be the Met.

You Might Be a Writer If...

What does it mean to finish a book? Finite. Das Ende. Basta. Finish.

I've been thinking about that a lot. I just finished a major round of revisions on my WIP, and tomorrow, I finish my 30s. Endings have been up front and personal this week. I've decided, after much contemplation and sleepless nights pulling out my hair as I sweat over revisions - only to realize how much grey has snuck in at the end of my 30s - what "to finish" means depeneds very much on perspective.

Take high school for instance, finishing a book then had soooooooooo many diverse and colorful meanings. If it was Dickens, it meant finally putting myself out of my own misery and buying the Cliff Notes. Anna Karenina - longer than any stint in Purgatory should ever be - it meant realizing I was still reading and would never get the paper I had to write done before the end of the semester if I kept reading, thus coming to a screeching halt about 250 pages from the end, and - if you're reading this Ms. Yadon, I apologize but I was desperate - renting the movie. For Jane Austen, however, finishing meant reading everything the original queen of chic lit novel ever wrote from front to back, twice.

Ah, but for an author?

You might be a writer if, you don't finish books, you abandon them.

I'd love to take credit for coming up with that witty expression of a deeper truth, but it's been around longer than me, way longer. And I don't want to start plagiarizing now. That's a whole different blog. So, it is with a low nod and bow that I give credit to the great Oscar Wilde. It was he who said: "No book is ever finished. It is simply abandoned."

I did not get that as a reader. I finished books, in some way. I either read them to the end, which I did in 99% of all cases. There really are only a handful I've never read cover-to-cover. Two are mentioned above. The other one was Umberto Eco's The Island of the Day Before. There, I've outed myself as a book nerd. And through all of them, read or only partly read, I never got the impression I was abandoning anything.

Then I became a writer and Wilde's witticism took on a whole new meaning. My characters come to life for me. They follow me around. They talk to me in the car. I dream about the places I'm writing about. As I said last week, I have imaginary friends. As the creator of them all, it's hard to let them go when the story is over. Thank God for revisions!

I can stay in a story almost forever if for no other reason than revisions.

It wasn't until I completed Dragon Wishes, though, that I understood the whole abandonment issue Wilde was getting at. My books are like my children. I brought them to life, I fostered them, I made them into who they are. How can I ever let them go? With Dragon Wishes, though, I learned that there comes a point at which I am revising not to make better but just to revise, to stay in the story. That's when I know the time has come. The cord must be severed. The book let loose. Abandoned to its own fate.

The ameliorative? Plunging into another story, a new adventure.

It's the same with this decade. I'm saying goodbye to today. My 30s were good, but they've told their story. My 40s, however, they're a blank slate, a new adventure, luring me: "listen: there's a hell of a good universe next door: let's go."

I think I'll take the plunge.

You Might be an Writer If...

I've been thinking about friends lately. My big 40th birthday bash is this Saturday, a whole 7 days premature. It was a tough choice, celebrating early, going over to the dark side of 40 before my time. But, when it came right down to it, I didn't hem and haw very long over choosing to do it. I'm starting the celebrating early because I want to have my friends at the gala event, and in Oklahoma, March 13th is the start of Spring Break. Loads of friends will be out of town for my real birthday, March 14. So, I'm crossing over a week early.

Making that decision, as paltry as it really is, got me to thinking about what friends are. While for this event I definitely want the human, flesh and blood version, I think writers actually have a pretty broad definition of "friend." Friends don't actually have to be real people for a writer. Not exactly. They can be, well, imaginary. Some of my best companions have been characters in books. Which brings me to the topic of this week's quirky writer post:

You might be a writer if...you have far more imaginary friends now than you ever did as a child.

As a child, I was very aware of the fact that other kids around me had imaginary friends. I, of course, wanted one too. I waited diligently for one to show up. Maybe I wasn't the sharpest pencil in the drawer, but what can I say, I was four. I thought that that was what happened. These imaginary people just showed up.

You can imagine my disappointment when none ever did. I wasn't one to give up easily, though. In a fit of desperation, I took things into my own hands and made up an imaginary friend in that I'm-dressing-up-and-becoming-a-different-person kind of way. I just couldn't do the "I-can't-see-her" imaginary friend. I had to see her. Hear her. So I created Starcy. Starcy was a star performer with a name supiciously similar to mine who dressed glamoursly in a hula grass skirt and lei (the most glamorous clothing I had). My mom thought Starcy was great. She wanted to see her a lot, which meant I dressed up a lot, danced the hula, and talked about being a glamorous star. I enjoyed the novelty of Starcy for a while, but, in the end, she just wasn't real enough for me. I gave her up. And that was that with imaginary friends.

When I became a children's author, I more than made up for my meager helping of imaginary friends as a four year old. I now have tons. TONS. Each book means at least ten new ones. They follow me around. They talk to me. They visit me in my sleep. They don't go away when a book is done either. They crowd in on new projects. I don't know how many times Maddie, from my middle grade novel, Draogn Wishes, has shown up while I've been working on Pelorus Jack. Secretly - of course, oh-not-so-very-secretly now - I ask them for advice when working on the plot. I call conferences of my characters. It's true. I've gone over the edge when it comes to imaginary friends. Without them, I don't think I'd ever finish a single book.

Still, as much as I love my imaginary friends, it's the real flesh and blood ones that make living worthwhile. They are the ones I have a glass of wine with when the going gets tough. They lend an ear when I need to vent about my family. They bring me chocolate! Truth be told, it's my real friends who have taught me how to have imaginary ones. Without them, I wouldn't be the writer I am today. In the words of the wise Emily Dickinson, "My friends are my estate."

You Might be an Writer If...

I have often heard it said that the mark of a true artist is his/her level of suffering. I scoffed. Artists...suffering for their work?...Come on. They paint. Or write. Or draw. Act. But suffer? Isn't that being a little melodramatic?

Oh, ye of little faith.

You might be a writer if...the act of writing causes you pain. Physical or mental. Probably both.

This is a rather recent revelation of mine. It's all come about due to my present work-in-progress, Pelorus Jack. It's a longer piece, just over 400 manuscript pages. It makes my dissertation - at 250 pages - feel like a novella.

I suppose working on a larger project is likely to bring out the worst characteristics in any human being regardless of job description. But pain?

Oh, yes, pain.

I'd like to blame it on the imminent approach of 40, only two weeks away, but I don't think it's an age thing. I think it's an art thing.

I'd noticed lately that I'd begun referring to my days spent revising as a marathon. That's what it feels like. Granted, I don't leave my desk but for the occasional bathroom break or to ferret around for some sort of food to sustain me, but I feel as weathered by the end of the day as if I'd run a good 26 miles. I wouldn't call this pain. It's more discomfort, mental exhaustion.

Pain, however, came last week. Real, physical pain. When I played violin - which I did semi-professionally for a number of years - I managed to give my tendinitis in my upper right shoulder. It's all that bowing. Well, I hadn't experienced that pain since I stopped teaching and playing about 9 years ago. Yet, last week, it was back. Cause? Sitting at my desk for umpteen hours, straight back, arms outstretched, typing like my life depends on it. This has got to be some sort of new record. I've actually managed to injure myself without leaving the comforts of my desk.

I'm not alone, though. And I derive comfort from that. Renoir, who painted well into his 80s or 90s, developed arthritis so badly, he could barely hold a brush anymore. Okay, I'm not Renoir, not even close, but does the fact that I've managed to injure myself via my art mean I'm getting close??

As for the mental anguish writing causes, my last piece, Dragon Wishes pushed that pain to its critical point. The story is emotionally about losing someone beloved, working through the pain, and learning how to open up and love again and be loved. When my character hits rock bottom and has to either open herself up or fall into the blackness of despair, I was right there with her falling through that raw pain. I began to have a sort of emotional Pavlovian response when I got even close to editing or revising that section of the piece. I got depressed. Moody. My kids took off for the neighbors. My husband bought chocolate. It wasn't pretty. It broke my heart and mended it a million times over, but it was what had to be done. I suffered.

In all honesty, it's no wonder so many artists - writers, painters, actors - "experiment" with medication. I'm not headed down that road - unless you count copius amoutns of chocolate - but my mind and body have definitely suffered for my art.

Does that make me good....yet???

Perfect Ten

My oldest daughter got to meet one of the girls I idolized growing up, Nadia Comaneci. She was the first gymnast ever to be awarded a perfect 10 at the Olympics. She even has a gymnastics move named after her, the Comaneci salto (on the uneven bars). And all this by the time she was fourteen. By the time I was fourteen my greatest claim to fame was selling 414 boxes of girl scout cookies. Sigh.

However I was a great backyard gymnast. My friends and I would get togther in our backyards and practice handstands, cartwheels, splits, and back flips. Who could hold a hand stand the longest? Who dared to try a flip? The grass was soft, but not that soft. Who was flexible enough to pull off the splits?

In looking back, I think our backyard gym came about in no small part to Comaneci. I was eight at the time of her historical 1976 Montreal Olympics. The buzz her record 6 perfect tens caused around the world even made it into my, non-gymnastics one. I wanted to be like her. I'm not sure that it was the gymnastics so much. It was more her proud smile, sure walk, and never give up attitude. She was the liberated girl for me. The girl I wanted to become. The girl who was living behind the iron curtain and still succeeded. That's willpower.

As a writer, I try to create female characters that are strong, independent and able to take on the world. I think somewhere in there is the Nadia Comaneci of my childhood days. The girl who defied all to be the best she could be. She had so many battles to fight - poor country, Communiusm, living under one of the most brutal dictators in modern European history - and stilll persevered to excel at her craft. I have a lot of respect for her.

So it was pretty cool to actually meet her briefly on Sunday at the Nadia Comaneci Invitational in Oklahoma City. She handed out all of the awards, which is a lot, a ton really. Awards are given out to each age group per level. My daughter is in level 4 and it takes a solid half hour to hand out awards. Nadia did it. And she stuck around for a signing.

Signing? Panic set in. We hadn't brought anything to sign. My daughter desperately wanted Nadia's signature. I saw her touch her forehead, as if that might just have to do. I had searing visions of all the arguments over bathing that would follow. There had to be something else. There was that copy of Dragon Wishes I always carry around. I pulled it out, and I swear, I saw the beam of light break out of the heavens and shine down on it. We were saved.

The book is now sacred at our house. My daughter hasn't put it up on a pedestal quite yet, but I've seen her eyeing a shelf in her room. She did ask me to sign it - thank God. I haven't been completely usurped as childhood hero. Not quite.

But I couldn't think of a better role model if I am.

Good Intentions Gone Amok

I was soooooooo happy just two short months ago when my middle grade novel, Dragon Wishes, launched. I'd worked so hard, but here it was, out there! Nothing stood in the way of literary success anymore. More book could be read.

Fast forward to February 10, 2009, when the Consumer Product Safety Act goes into effect.

It had blipped across my radar in November when it was passed, but then, I was in the middle of a launch. I knew it was in response to the very real issue of lead in children's toys that we'd seen in the U.S. in the last year. But I didn't think any more of it.

All I thought at the time was, how unlike Congress. Quick action. I thought it might be a good thing, neglecting Thomas Jefferson's remark (I went to UVA, so you kind of breathe in all of the things Thomas Jefferson ever said, thought, did, or even thought about saying or doing) about why Congressional action should take time. He said something to the effect that like one uses a saucer to pour one's tea into to cool, so two houses of government gave feelings and emotions time to cool and good legislation to develop.

There wasn't much cooling on this piece of legislation, and we're now, just a few short weeks away from its going into effect, beginning to feel the backlash of the Act.

The Act is retroactive. And by retroactive, I mean forever retroactive. It affects EVERYTHING that is or has been produced for children 12 and under. And by everything, I mean, toys, games, and books.

Books? Hold on. Are they dangerous? Is my book dangerous?

According to arecent article in Publisher's Weekly, not exactly: "Chip Gibson, president and publisher of Random House Children’s Books, goes further. 'This is a potential calamity like nothing I’ve ever seen. The implications are quite literally unimaginable,' he said, noting that children’s books could be removed from schools, libraries and stores; nonprofit groups like First Book would lose donations; and retailers, printers, and publishers could ultimately go out of business. 'Books are safe. This is like testing milk for lead. It has to be stopped.'”

Gulp.

Basically, everything produced for kids has to be tested, including books. Publishers are scrambling. The liablity is enormous. Think of all the books already out there in Barnes & Noble, Borders, Amazon. They all, theoretically, have to be tested. Every print run. Or returned, whether they are safe or not. Huge losses.

It gets worse. If you knit a pair of booties and sell it to a boutique, they now have to be tested. If you want to sell old car seats to consignment shops, they have to be tested. All of the pastimes that people have used to supplement meager earnings, are now subject to testing.

And by tested, we're talking thousands of dollars. Testing a picture book runs about $3,000.

Huge costs, rises in umemployment, closing businesses aside, here's what really unnerves me. Does this mean they are going to have to take all of the books out of my kids' school library to avoid issues of liability?

What's going on here?

I know Congress meant well, but gees, isn't this going a bit far? Do they know they've gone too far?

I for one am getting out the old American tool used in times of great trial - my voice. I'll be contacting my local state representative to voice my opposition to the law as it stands. We need something for sure, but not something that will put so many good businesses out of business, threatens so many books out there, and ultimately damage our already shaky economy more than it will ever protect our kids.

Pike's Peak Monday

Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It's been (gulp) two weeks since my last blog post.

Well, if I'm really confessing, it's even worse. It's been two weeks since I did a lick of writing. (Double gulp)

I could say it was the holiday madness, the baking, the cooking, the wrapping, the sending. And it was, partly, but it was more a choice this year. Forty is just over the February hill. So, throwing my OCD caution to the wind, I decided to try and chill out a little with my family this holiday season. You know, live life on the edge. Enjoy the holidays.

It was a good first effort, I think, but it was still crazy. My youngest's seventh birthday was Monday, December 22. Which meant, while my husband was in Germany visiting his parents, I singel-handedly organized a roller skating/sleepover birthday party on Friday, December 19. Then had a signing on December 20. Thank God for concealer. I wasn't looking scary, I don't think. I still sold a few books, but people did stare at me kinda oddly.

Didn't get a chance to sleep after that either. I rolled right into frantic, last minute baking for Christmas. There was the actual second child's birthday day celebration on Monday, more cooking on Tuesday and Wednesday, Christmas Thursday (and I'm one of those adults who cannot sleep Christmas Eve. I know there's no such thing as Santa, sort of).

Complete and utter exhaustion came on Friday. Did I mention that's my mom's birthday?

We tried to get to her house, honest, but my oldest interrupted our "spontaneous" dinner outing with a violent GI bug that brought took us straight home, no detours, no birthday cake, no presents, just a cool wash cloth and another sleepless night. Saturday, I had a signing. More concealer. More hidden yawns.

Sunday was the biggest day of all, really. It was my grandparents 65th wedding anniversary. Everyone flew in, all five of my dad's siblings with families. There's the family to the right. Not bad. They're a rowdy bunch. You've gotta love them. Take a look at my grandpa there on the far left. I wanna look that good at 87.

The party was a shingdig to end all shindigs, and spilled into the better half of the beginning of the next week, right up to New Year's Eve. Which sailed by with friends, then more sleepovers for the kids, friends over, cooking, and then, finally, Friday night - blessed reprieve. My parents took the girls for a sleepover.

I went out for dinner . I got to sleep in. No signings, no gymnastics meets, no cooking, no parties, no holidays, no packing, no unpacking, no putting away. Just relaxation. It felt like the universe aligned for one brief but glorious day.

And then Sunday came with all the chore of putting away the holiday. Ugh.

Now it's Monday, and I'm back at my desk. The mountain on it is so tall, I swear there's what definitely what looks like snow accumulating on its higher peaks above my head. Are we due for an early Spring this year, I hope?

But as I tackle the slope before me, I have to say, it was worth it. Amidst all of the craziness, I got time to cuddle with my kids, play with them, go to the movies with them, talk to them. I had time to reconnect, sleep in.



And I feel...what is the word...I haven't said it in so long...
Relaxed.
Yeah, that's it. Relaxed.

So maybe climbing to the summit of neglected work won't be so bad. Maybe. I've got an oxygen mask this time, all of those memories.

And please check out these amazing reviews of Dragon Wishes:

J Aday and I talk all about Book Signings and Dragon Wishes

Brandy McDonnell the Oklahoma Daily did a great review too! Thanks Brandy.

Shout Out to Readers

I was all set to blog this morning about another 5 hour "tree watch" I sweated through yesterday. Don't worry, for those who love the occasional whacked out Christmas tree story, it's coming. But today, it's a shout out to readers.

I didn't know I was going to write this blog until I opened my email this morning. There was a letter waiting for me from a father who had bought my new middle grade novel for his son. He said: "I am writing to let you know my son has not put 'Dragon Wishes' down since we purchased it. He is fascinated with the characters and the story. I have not seen him this excited about a book that was not 'Star Wars'. "

For all readers out there who ever wondered whether authors read your letters and whether those letters make a difference, as an author, I can say without a moment's hesitation, they do! And how they do!

This letter put the sun in an entirely stressful day today. I'm in edits on the last 30 pages of my young adult novel, so tired, I feel like I really am in labor and delivery all over again. And then I got this letter. The best part of the whole thing is that a child is reading my work, and is inspired by it. I mean, comparing it to Star Wars? Is there any greater honor? Just between you and me, I used to lay awake at night trying to move rocks with my mind. I used to put one in my bed next to my hand. Sometimes I'd lift it up, sort of to give it a head start with the whole levitating thing. I never did move that rock - other than with my hand - but I lost a lot of sleep trying. That's the effect that Star Wars had on me.

And now my writing might actually be having this effect on a reader? I can hardly believe it.

So thanks, Dad, for letting me know. Thanks to every reader who's ever sent me a picture, letter, email, the works, especially kids. I hang up pictures in my office. They inspire me. I read all of the letters, and some, I keep in a special file. They are amazing. I can't say it often enough.

Here's one of my favorites, copied verbatim from the No. 2 pencil handwritten letter I received:

Dear Mriss Nyikos "I'm really happy you were here. I liked the books Squirt the Squid, Shelby the lemoin shark and Dizzy. Squirt is very cute and funny. Shelby is.....well, I forgot, but dizzy is a heck of a story. I think the book Dizzy is the beast. Im working on a book about Salmon. I hope you come back soon. Your friend Tommy P.S. Lemon sharks kill us in freenzezs

Thanks kids. Thanks parents. Thanks readers! I appreciate your words. Here's a heartfelt shout out to you!

Turkey Trauma

What do you do with all that leftover turkey?

This question has plagued me since I was a kid and we ate turkey sandwiches, turkey casserole, turkey stuffing, and turkey turkey turkey until I really started to look at my back to see if I was sprouting wings (or worse, a bright red waddle).

Now, years later, as the turkey preparer, I have sympathy for my mom. There's a ton of leftover turkey and only so much to do with it - or feed to the dog.

In the hopes of creating yet a new, but classic, way of dealing with the leftover turkey trauma at our house, I busted out the soup pot. This was after we'd had leftover turkey au naturale, turkey sandwiches, and the threat of turkey meatballs. This was stifled by a staunch turkey rebellion on the part of my entire family.

So, soup pot it was. Time to hide the dreaded ingredient, turkey. Here's what I came up with in my experiments with the bubbling cauldron - turkey soup. So it wasn't a reinvention of cooking per se, but it didn't turn out all that badly. I used 8 cups of water, 4 boullion cubes, leftover celery, carrots, onion AND parsely (so this is really a 2 for 1 - how to use up those leftover veggies as well), 12 oz. wide egg noodles, tons of turkey cut up into cubes, and three mined garlic cloves. First, I boiled the water and the boullion cubes, then added the noodles. While that was coooking, I sauteed the veggies together in a separate pot with the garlic. Once everything was good and bubbling, I dumped it all together - adding the turkey surreptitiously when no one was looking - and let simmer for an hour, with a little salt and pepper to taste.

My kids were skeptical. They'd had turkey for a week straight by this point, but turkey soup garnered the coveted "Best Food Ever" kid rating. There were happy kids everywhere, and one happy mom, who, with a guilty sigh, packed the leftovers in their lunch for school the next day.

That did it for us and leftovers, but if you've still got some, The Asian Grandmothers Cookbook has got a fantastic list of what to do with them. Really delicious things there. Give it a look.

Dragon Wishes news: I was interviewed by Tasha S for my newest middle grade novel, Dragon Wishes. Please take a look. It turned out really well, which means I didn't embarrass myself...I don't think.

Half a Globe Away - Penultimate Day 7

After the stellar, cake-stealing, can’t-get-better-than-this Saturday I had, I couldn’t believe that Sunday would still hold surprises in store for me. But this was New Zealand. I should have known surprises waited around every corner. Pleasant surprises.

Sunday was my last day in French Pass, and I was more than melancholic. I’d come to love this rugged section of the southern island, its steep “hills”, teeming waters, bright bush, and gentle pace. I didn’t want to leave.

There was one glorious surprise left for me – the lighthouse. The French Pass lighthouse has had a long and colorful history. Today, it is a national landmark which isn’t privately owned, but lived in. I met the present occupants - Grace and Lawrence - at the French Pass Road book launch on Wednesday in Okiwi Bay. They are none other than Americans who’d moved to the Pass three years before via Australia. Stories abound in New Zealand. Everyone’s got one, even the people restoring the lighthouse.

Grace very, well, graciously offered to give me a tour, and let me down to the lighthouse. It’s off limits to the general public today thanks to the incredibly steep 101 stairs leading down the “hill” that the lighthouse sits snuggled against. Fortunately, I had the French Pass “connections”.

Oliver, Ulla and I took off after breakfast for the lighthouse. Grace had just made pancakes and their light aroma hung in the cool air around the house. It had gotten pretty run down during the prolonged tenure of the last actual lighthouse keeper, but Grace and Lawrence had begun the long and delicate process of stripping the building, restoring the foundation and breathing new life into the historic one-storey structure. It’s now painted light blue and white and reminded more than anything of a neat fisherman’s house somewhere in Scandinavia. Gorgeous and warm with broad windows looking out over the extreme drop off just in front of the house and across to the green bush of D’Urville Island. After a tour of the house, Grace unlocked the gate to the stairs and Oliver, Ulla and I began the steep descent.

There is no better view of the Pass. The lighthouse and the lighthouse beacon sit directly on the edge and in the middle of French Pass. The waters sweep by the white lighthouse, the Tasman Sea and Pacific Ocean raging against each other in an ageless nautical tug-of-war. But the waters were so calm when we got there. There was no foam or roar. For days now when I'd gone running in the morning, I'd heard the roar of the French Pass from the road hundreds of feet above it. Today it was so seemingly calm. How bad could it really be? I wondered, and was tempted to dip a foot into the eddying currents and find out how fast they really are.

Until a boat approached, and I watched how the current swept it through as if it were no bigger than a toy, listing to one side in its strong pull.

There was, of course, adventure – and lunch – waiting for us in the rocky coast surrounding the small lighthouse. Next thing I knew, Oliver was pulling up the famed green-lipped mussels I’d tried not four days ago in Havelock. He’d found lunch.

Only in New Zealand.

Honestly, how could I actually want to leave this place?

But the mussels - now safely secured in a makeshift bag that Oliver had created from his shirt - were far too tempting to leave hang about all day waiting for me. So, we took a few pictures. I breathed in as much of the Pass as I could, trying to register its might and prowess with all of my senses before beginning the steep ascent back to the white and blue home a hundred feet directly overhead.

While lunch was far from a somber affair, my heart was heavy. These generous people - Bill, Ngawai, Oliver and Ulla - had become like family to me, and I really didn’t want to leave. Yet research called. I had one last stop on this trip, Nelson.

Oliver and Ulla live in Nelson, which couldn’t have been more perfect. Nelson was the big sheep and wool market for French Pass farmers during the 1800s. I had to see it. It actually plays a role in my novel.

I wasn’t disappointed. Nelson has one of the few naturally occurring harbors. A boulder bank cuts off a long stretch of the coast from the Tasman Sea, creating a safe haven for ships. It was a cloudy day when we visited, but I got a few goods pictures, trying to imagine what it was like for cutters that traveled from French Pass loaded down with bulky wools bales or livestock to sell them at market. How that all must have looked.

Dinner was another fantastic meal of fresh fish, fresh bread and all things delicious. I curled up into bed - the rain now finally unleashing its wetness upon the low lying "hills" around Nelson - knowing I only had one day left in New Zealand. What would it hold in store?

In other incredible news, my book was reviewed by author/reviewer, Brianna Grant. What an amazing review. I am so honored, and thrilled that the story left such a positive impression on her: "Nyikos has a powerful gift for storytelling that comes to life in Dragon Wishes. She magically weaves together two stories to create one unified reading experience: the present-time story of a girl and her little sister coming to terms with their parents' tragic death, and an ancient story handed down through the generations about a girl who calls on the power of dragons to save her village. The transition between the two stories is seamless." To read the full review, click here