Treasures Along the Shore

It’s no secret that my happy place is the beach, preferably one in front of an ocean. Having grown up in south Jersey, many of my fondest memories are of those spent “down the shore.”

Now, it’s where I go to reconnect with my soul. To take a breath. To heal.

It’s where each one of my senses comes alive: the scent of the sea air; the sound of a laughing gull; the sight of the sun sparkling on the curl of each wave; the feel of the velvety sand under my feet.

The taste of freedom.

And whenever I go, I look for treasures along the shore.

This past week, my husband and I carved out a tiny pocket of time for a much-needed escape to the beach. Since the Dragons wanted to stay with Larry while he built a sandcastle (his method of relaxing),

I set out on a treasure hunt.

Sadly, it was hard to see any treasure for the trash that lay before me, entangled in the seaweed that had washed up. My heart hurt as I knelt down to pick up piece after piece.

Plastic ties.

 

 

 

Straws.

 

 

 

A wedding balloon that was still swollen with air. (Note: to those who “do”, please “don’t” let your Mylar balloons fly off!)

But then I saw her.

A lone woman. I watched as she bent to scoop something up, then toss it into the water. Over and over. Curious, I approached her. “What are you doing?” I asked.

She uncupped her hand to show me one of the tiny, baby jellyfish that had washed up onto the shore. “They’re going to die if we don’t help them.”

The little jellies didn’t even have their stingers yet. Looking around, I realized how many there were, helpless and scattered along the shore.

So I bent and gently picked one up too, then tossed it back into the frothy waves. (Note: I read afterwards that jelly babies can still sting and/or cause itchy rashes – so exercise caution if you see any of these!)

I was immediately reminded of the parable about the boy who walks along the beach after a storm, picking up the starfish that have washed up on the shore and tossing them back into the ocean. An old man watching says, “There are thousands of starfish and only one of you. How can you make a difference?” And the boy cradles a delicate creature in his hand and says, “I’m making a difference for this one.”

And I knew at that moment, I’d found the treasure I’d been looking for. Because this woman’s kindness was not only making a difference in the lives of those jellies.

She’d made a difference in mine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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All Who Are Terrible at Picking Favorites Say “I”

This month on YA Outside the Lines, we were asked to share our favorite (yes, singular) character that we’ve created.

Admittedly, I’m terrible with picking favorites. I cringe when I’m asked to name my favorite book. My favorite song. Even my favorite color changes on an almost daily basis!

What made this even more difficult was that the characters that live in our books are our babies. We nourish them with our hopes. Our dreams. Our blood, sweat and tears. The gestation period can often be much longer than nine months, sometimes years, before we can dress them up and allow them to take their first steps into the world.

And now they wanted me to pick a favorite?

How could I choose between a lovable, mischievous little boy and his larger-than-life Dragon pal (When A Dragon Moves In?) How could I ignore his big sister or his little brother (When A Dragon Moves In Again, I Love My Dragon?)

What about Nelson (of Good News Nelson), who realizes that sometimes it’s not enough to just deliver the news; sometimes you need to do something to change it, and make the world a better, kinder place? And Mrs. Welsh, who runs the animal shelter? And his cranky old neighbor, Mrs. Snodberry, who ignites the passion in Nelson to find homes for all of those abandoned kitties?

What about all of the other characters in my stories that have yet to be published? Like my sweet elephants and my ballet dancers and Admiral Palmetto, the oversized cockroach who serves to protect young hearts that have been broken?

Simply put, I couldn’t.

What I did say is that characters, like children, all need different types of love at different times. I have one story that’s endured over 100 revisions. My main character, Carmen, is a tiny spider with huge dreams of performing in an opera. None of her peers or family members understand why she can’t be satisfied to weave webs. But she doesn’t allow anything to deter her…not their scoffs, not their warnings, not even her lack of vocal cords.

Maybe it’s because publishing itself is wrought with rejection. Maybe it’s because my husband and I taught our own kids to ignore the “no”-it-alls and pursue their passions. Or maybe it’s because I most relate to my sweet Carmen right now as I continue on my own path to securing agent representation.

But this unstoppable arachnid continues to occupy a corner deep within my heart, and I will continue to revise, re-envision and resubmit her story until she finds her place out in the world.

Because that’s what we do for our kids. And our characters.

Outs & Abouts

June and July have been a whirlwind of activity for me and the Dragons, hopping between blogs and book events, awaiting the arrival of our newest little member of the “family”, I Love My Dragon, a board book for the youngest dragon enthusiasts.

You see, sometimes for reasons beyond our control, book releases are delayed. While our little baby was expected May 1, his birthday was pushed to June 1, then to August 1. But he was certainly worth waiting for!

I know I may be a little biased, but seriously, how cute is THIS? Howard McWilliam outdid himself (again!) as did my editor Shari Dash Greenspan at Flashlight Press. And it’s available for pre-order from your favorite bookseller!

But hey, when you think about it, what could be more appropriate than to be “expecting” when presenting at the Lancaster Baby Shower Expo in Manheim, PA?

And what a fun time it was! We shared Dragon stories:

And met the coolest people!

(These two totally stole my heart!)

The following Saturday, June 8, we “flew off” to The Chesapeake Children’s Book Festival at the Talbot County Free Library in Easton, MD, where I not only had the chance to connect with some of my favorite author buddies at a lovely dinner the evening before…

(Left to Right: Moi, Suzanne Bloom, Debbie Dadey, Wendy Greenley, Robin Newman and Colleen Rowan Kosinski.)

I had the honor of hanging with all of these fantabulous authors and illustrators the next day!

The library staff and volunteers couldn’t have been more friendly and accommodating, and the attendees couldn’t have been sweeter!

Not to mention, we had our own “Protectors of the Books”:

(Left to right: Timothy Young, Robin Newman, Protectors of the Books x 2), Debbie Dadey, Moi, Cathy Breisacher, Jonathan Roth. Leaning in: Julie Gonzalez)

Thanks, love & hugs to fellow KidLit Author Club member Timothy Young and all of the organizers for their hard work – this event was extraordinary!

Speaking of extraordinary events, I was thrilled to return to BookFest PA (a part of the Central PA Festival of the Arts) on July 13! This is one of my favorite festivals, not only because of the people who orchestrate and attend it, but because it benefits my own beloved Schlow Library in State College, PA.

This year, although the board book was still unavailable for sale, attendees were able to preview it – and the response was overwhelmingly (and unsurprisingly) cuteness overload!

(Left to right: Denise Kaminsky, Cathy Breisacher, Moi, Gayle C. Krause)

Of course, thankfully our other Dragons received a lot of love – you know how sibling rivalry can be! 😉

(Attendees always love trying to read the Hebrew edition!)

And of course, Larry loves showing everyone how the Dragon is made:

Admittedly, while we’re sad that our summer festivals are winding down, it does give us a chance to head “down the shore” and get down to some serious “sandcastling” of our own.

Hope you’re having a splendiferous summer. May your every sandcastle is a perfect one!

Do You Wanna Know A Secret?

I once had a conversation with a therapist about dreams. He said that every component of one’s dream reveals something about oneself.

For me, the same can be applied to writing. Each character contains a piece of me. Yes, I layer and twist and sculpt each one to be unique and suited to his/her “role”, but at the core, a tiny fragment of me remains.

A few years ago, a friend offered to beta read a novel I was working on. I jumped at the chance. After all, I valued her opinion. I knew she was tough, but fair. She’d be supportive, but honest.

Like most writers, I became a tumbleweed of nerves when I handed it over. Would she like it? Was the plot exciting? Was it on point? Were my characters believable?

You see, we’re told from the start to write from the heart, as bravely as we possibly can. That the readers deserve our true honest selves.

You know that Ernest Hemingway quote, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed”? I may not take it literally, but I do take it seriously.

After a couple of months, my friend sent her thoughts. She liked my story. Some parts, she loved. Other parts, she offered constructive criticism that ultimately made it better. However, there was one section that she didn’t “get.” “No teen would ever react to the situation that way,” she said.

Only there was a teen who did.

Me.

My dad always used to say I wear my heart on my sleeve, so I guess I was surprised my friend didn’t recognize the “me” in that scenario.

I realized then that even though she didn’t, someone would. Someone who needed to.

Someone who, like me, has a secret.

The Right Book at the Right Time

Recently, I was asked to name a book (or books) that affected my life in some way. Which leads to the question…hasn’t every book?

But I don’t think that was the assignment.

Therefore, in the spirit of the “rule of 3”, I chose the following books that have impacted my life in a huge way:

1. One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish (Dr. Seuss) – pure joy!

This classic picture book was the first book I ever read by myself. I still remember stretching out on my parents’ bed and giggling with joy about how amazing it was – how amazing I was – to be able to read. The world had suddenly opened up in ways I’d never imagined. Oh! The places I’d go…

2. Don’t Take Teddy (Babbis Friis-Baastad) – the power of empathy and connection.

In this powerful book, young Mikkel tries to run away with his older brother Teddy (who is mentally challenged) after Teddy accidentally hurts another child while playing, and the townsfolk threaten to place him in an asylum. I checked this out of the school library in third grade and it not only broke my heart, it inspired me. It empowered and shaped me. It ignited empathy and reinforced the power of love and kindness.

3. When Bad Things Happen to Good People (Rabbi Harold S. Kushner) – comfort and reassurance.

Although I wasn’t raised with traditional religious education, I’ve always been a spiritual person. I can’t remember a time that I didn’t talk to God each night before I fell asleep. Yes, sometimes I asked for things. But mostly, I told Her about my day. I always made sure to thank God for everything I had and end with, “I love you.” I wanted to be the person I thought God wanted me to be.

I don’t know when I started to notice things at my house were different than at my friends’. I have faint memories of wondering why my mom refilled bottles of “grownup drink” with water. Why she had a cabinet full of pills. And why she didn’t socialize like the other mothers did. But for a child, a dysfunctional home is her normal.

Then, one night when I was 15, my mom walked into her bedroom, put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger.

I don’t think I ever prayed so hard as I did that night, begging God to let my mom live.

And she did.

I wish I could say that my prayers were answered in a happy ending way. Sadly, I cannot.

The mental illness and consequent substance abuse that overwhelmed her only tightened its grip. The bullet had ripped through both ocular nerves. Blinded, she became even more depressed. Angry. And violent.

Relatives and friends turned away.

Still, I tried my best to be “good.” To talk to God. To pray. To be thankful. Hopeful.

But sometimes I couldn’t help myself. I begged God to help us. To “fix” my mom. I didn’t understand why She didn’t. I’d accompanied some of my friends to their houses of worship. I’d heard over and over that God was in control of everything. That She made things happen. And that She could fix anything She deemed worthy.

If She wanted to.

Perhaps that was what hurt most of all. Didn’t She want to? Weren’t we worthy? The more I prayed and asked for help without results, the further I slipped down that dark hole.

I wish I had read When Bad Things Happen to Good People earlier, because it changed my perspective, and my world.

It’s hard to condense the book into a few sentences, but I’ll try. And here’s the thing: we all have our own spiritual and personal relationships with our Maker. You may read it and find it has a different meaning for you.

Basically, Rabbi Kushner compares God to a parent. He says that God loves us, Her children, unconditionally, and tries Her best to teach us, but then must step back as we venture out into the world. She allows us to make our own decisions, even if we make the wrong ones. Like every loving parent, She applauds our successes and grieves our losses. She doesn’t make bad things happen. What loving parent would? She also won’t – or perhaps can’t – stop them from occurring. Think about the Butterfly Effect that might cause!

We’re meant to learn from our mistakes, as shattering as they may be. But God is there for us, always, offering her love, comfort and support when we’re in pain.

To be clear, I do think prayer works. I still talk to God. Every night. In praying, we reach out to each other. We reconnect with our “family.” And together, we can move mountains. We can heal.

Interestingly enough, I finished the book the day the Challenger exploded. It snowed as I watched the news and wept. Only this snow looked different. It sparkled. Like fresh tears. And I knew. God hadn’t made this tragedy occur. Like a grieving parent, God cried with me.

I realized then that God had cried with me all those years ago too. I’d lost a mom. She’d lost a child.

Thinking back, perhaps God is the one who guided me to find these books when I needed them. Perhaps God, in addition to serving as a loving parent, is also a librarian.

Which would make those who work in bookstores, schools and libraries angels, right? Yep. Sounds about right to me.

Real to Reel

“But…it was all so perfect in my head.”

Years ago, I was honored to perform in a community theater production of the play Quilters. This line, which I continually embrace and identify with, was delivered by our brilliant director several times over the rehearsal period.

She had a vision. And on those long, challenging nights, we were not living up to it. But she didn’t give up on her idea. Nor did she give up on us. And Quilters was ultimately a success.

When I read, the story unfolds in my mind in larger-than-life, cinematic glory. The same thing occurs when I write.

And it’s all so perfect in my head!

The challenge when writing, however, is to find the words, the right words, the “perfect” words, to ensure my readers are able to envision it too. When I write my picture books, I have the luxury of an illustrator to help lift my vision to heights I’d never even imagined.

But when I write my novels, it’s all me. My words alone must set the scene, introduce the characters and awaken all five senses. My words alone must ignite the readers’ imaginations. My words alone must invite them to immerse themselves in the story heart and soul.

Do I dream of my stories becoming actual movies one day? Absolutely. But before we bust out the popcorn, first, I have to get it right outside of my head. On paper.

On Crossing a Line

There have always been heated discussions regarding children’s books (especially young adult novels) as to whether there’s a “line”…and if authors should cross it.

Here’s the thing. I don’t believe there’s “a” line.

I believe there are countless lines. Infinite lines. As many lines as there are people and possibilities.

And just as many opinions on what determines “the” line.

What constitutes a line marked with barbed wire for one, may present an enticing invitation to another.

What signifies a terrifying nightmare for one, may expose another person’s day-to-day challenge.

What ignites fear and confusion in one, may reveal another person’s salvation.

What’s more, crossing a line can indicate an intersection. A place for us to meet.

For readers facing adversity, introducing others who share similar challenges emphasizes they’re not alone. Consequently, it enables those who have not personally crossed a particular line to “experience” situations in a safe way. It fosters understanding. Empathy. Connection.

Of course, not every book needs to, or should, cross a line. Action must never be gratuitous, but rather, should portray the characters in an honest manner, advance the plot and be true to the story’s heart. It must deliver on its promise.

Because sometimes, crossing that line in a book is exactly what someone needs.