I love mice and rats

Another furry friend.

I had two rat pets once, Miranda and Ophelia. 

Ophelia was tamer. She rode on my shoulder when we visited my daughter's kindergarten class.

The teacher, the wonderful Mrs. Chappa, was not a fan.

Later I wrote up the scene in the second Ellie McDoodle book.

Finders, keepers?

I found this little toy fox in my studio.
I don't know how it got here.
It's less than an inch tall.

If one of the little kids who visits my studio regularly claims it on the next visit, I'll hand it over.
But I hope they forget about it for a little while because I love it.

Time to post some art

I never know where to post the little art pieces I draw and paint while trying to figure out bigger paintings and stories. Usually I post them on Facebook and forget about them.
But it seems to make sense to post them here.

I drew this giraffe as a sketch in my Story Ideas notebook. Then I redrew him as a black and white dry brush sketch. Then I decided to paint him and add to his story.
Here he is.

And this is a detail of his little baby, picking up good reading habits from Papa.

This is pen and ink and watercolor plus a smidgen of colored pencil.

I think this little guy needs a name. (Or is she a girl?)

This weird thing about time racing past

Chatting with a friend just now made me think: I am older than I expected to get. 
When I was a teen looking forward to the millennium change in 1999 I was disappointed that I'd be an old lady, barely able to enjoy it. The millennium change was 17 years ago. I enjoyed it JUST FINE. Ahem. 

What would my teen self think of me now? 
She wouldn't approve of my short hair or my body, but she'd like my studio and work. 
She'd want to be friends with my kids. 
She would think today's Charlie is a nice old guy, and the Charlie I fell in love with in 1980 was romantic. 
She'd like my dogs. 
She'd think it's weird that I eat vegetables for breakfast. 

She'd think it's cool but not groovy that I became friends with my siblings, 
that I have so many good friends in my life today, 
and that I'm this happy. 
All of this makes me plan what I'll be like in 2046. 
I'd better not disappoint me.

Have you entertained your 17 year old self lately? 
Or your 87 year old self?

This is a page from my sketch-journal when I was 17.

Spring Break 2014

Picture this:
a 15-passenger van
filled with
Charlie and me (the drivers),
Lisa (our daughter and person in charge of the food),
her four kids (ages 11, 5, 3, and 1),
Emmy (our high school daughter and person in charge of the menu),
and Dan (her boyfriend),
on a 21+ hour road trip from Michigan to Austin, Texas.
We stayed at my sister's house
(some of us in tents),
flew another daughter in from Seattle,
traveled around Texas,
kept a group journal about it all,
and came back home safely,
no injuries,
no fighting,
no regrets.
In fact, we want to do it again.
I'm thinking Florida (Disney!) after I sell a few books, and upper Michigan too.

While in Texas Charlie and I presented writer workshops at four schools in Round Rock, and we attended the Texas Library Association conference in San Antonio where we handed out these Texas READ posters:

It was a great working vacation -- but also intense fun.

Take your journal everywhere!

I take my sketchbook/journal everywhere with me.
To school visits.
To field trips.
To family vacations.
To any place where I think I'll have to stand in line for a while.
To my kid's (and grandkids') sports events and concerts and award ceremonies.
To weddings, births, funerals, parties.
Even to church.
I used to be squeamish about that. I'd get my priest to bless each new journal, figuring that was his tacit permission to sketch during Mass.
I'm not squeamish about it anymore. One of the priests brings his journal to Mass! And the children in our church's school are encouraged to bring theirs.
Often a kid in church will recognize me (from a school visit, or because I donate art to the religious education program). I try not to be conspicuous -- I don't want parents to think I'm a bad role model.
Writing and drawing during Mass helps me to remember the important things (and some trivial stuff too).

Gifts of art, gifts from the heart

I'm an artist and author. My books haven't cracked the NYTimes best sellers list yet. My husband worked retail for 25 years. We've lived well and we've lived tight. Right now we're in a modest income bracket. I'm also on deadline for the next Ellie McDoodle book.
That's typical this time of year.
And so, most years I make as many of my Christmas gifts as I can, at the last minute.
Most years my aspirations are much higher than my actual reach.
That's why it's been about a decade (or two) since I mailed out a Christmas card.
(I feel terrible about this.)
One of these years I'll have the perfect confluence of time and means. Watch out!
In the meantime, homemade gifts.
This was for my mom and her siblings, and any cousins who wanted them.

This is my dear Grandma Ruth and Grandpa George Codd, getting married:

 They loved to travel.

 This is the swimsuit fashion of the late 20s and early 30s, when I like to think they packed up and played at the beach of Saugatuck or Grand Haven:

 They took the entire family (their 10 kids and all their families) to Bob-Lo Island Amusement Park every year on Labor Day. Some of my best childhood memories are Grandma Ruth and Grandpa's parties.

Grandma Ruth was a golfer. 

I did not inherit that love. 

I've never tried golf and I'm terrible at miniature golf.

My grandson's favorite part of Grandparent University at

Michigan State University was the miniature golfing.

Grandpa and Grandma had a big Irish Catholic 

(part French and Swiss too) family.

That little one with the teddy bear is my mom.

I know Aunt Marj's arm is too long. This is just the

rough art scanned into Photoshop.

Are weddings predestined? 

Is it prearranged by the lovers before they are born?

Destiny or not, I am lucky to have been born into the Codd family.
My Grandpa Codd became my best friend in the years before he died; after he'd lost Grandma Ruth to dementia my cartoony notes to him became more important to him and also to me. I've started a blog elsewhere about them. I'll share it widely eventually.
I miss my grandparents.
My love for them makes me try harder to be a good grandma to my own grandkids.

Opinionated me: Why I'm attending the conference

I just got back from a writer retreat with my critique group. Four days away from family in a city far away. Four days of potentially uninterrupted writing time.

It was a hassle getting ready and coordinating schedules for my family, and of course it doesn't cost the same to live in a Bed & Breakfast as to live at home.
And there's the issue of sharing a room -- Do I snore? Do I snore loudly? Do I snore so loudly as to make me an unpleasant roommate?
And would you tell me if the answer was yes?
I'm always nervous that I'll forget something important at home (last year it was suddenly cold outside. I forgot a sweatshirt).
Plus, with my head in my books, and all my angsty issues that seem to rear their ugly heads in the days before any big event, how much good company can I possibly be?

And -- I was waiting to hear back at any minute from my agent about a novel and an Ellie McDoodle proposal I'd sent her.
The editor was 2 weeks late with novel feedback -- never a good sign.

Two days before the retreat I wasn't even sure what I was going to write about at the retreat. With two projects up in the air, not knowing which was a priority (if either), and a third very vague idea of three sisters and some dark stuff, I didn't know how I was going to make my time at the retreat worth the cost of attending.

Weird thing, it worked out, as things usually do. My husband called the first night with agent news: They're using the Ellie 4 proposal to fulfill a contract's second half-- no more sleepless nights.
I wrote a good first chapter to the novel. (This is I think the 7th try).
I have a future.

So why go to the fall SCBWI-Michigan conference in October? I can't sell Ellie McDoodles to the editors there. I don't need a new agent. What's the point, then?

It's this: The mix of inspiration and information you get from being immersed in the craft with other writers stays with you for months afterward and it often regenerates into motivation.
For me, it *always* does.
I have never left a conference thinking I knew all there was to be known.
Never left without seeing and hearing something new.
Sometimes when I leave the conference I'm in disrepair, broken down, dismayed that I wasn't "discovered."
And then I realize, it's up to me to make the discovery.
I can follow up on tips heard at the conference. I can check out the URLs and the books and software and concepts mentioned.

The conference doesn't exist to pair me up with an editor and marry me off to an agent.
The conference exists to expand my brain -- and it does that every single time. Even if I already knew the speakers, memorized their presentations and had read every book they edited, I still could get something out of the questions my fellow writers and illustrators asked.

There's a dynamic component in the conference that you won't get from reading articles online.

As long as I am able, I will attend writer conferences and retreats -- even if it's expensive, even if it's inconvenient, even if I feel dark and scared and uncreative.
For inspiring and moving me off center, writer events are batting a thousand. I have no reason to think this upcoming Michigan SCBWI Fall Conference won't do the same.
And -- bonus!!! -- I get to see dear friends at the same time.
How much better can life get?

Saving Ebersole

Ebersole is a nature preserve owned by Lansing (Michigan) School District. All four of my kids (and my husband and I, as chaperones) enjoyed camping there and communing with nature in extended outdoor science lessons led by smart teachers.
It's a great resource -- a reason to remain in a school district that sometimes feels too big to care about our kids, and a perk from living in Lansing that families in other districts envy. (At most of my author events I show my sketchbook from Ebersole. It's also on my website. Some people are in awe)

And now the Lansing School Board is planning to sell Ebersole.
It's not far from Lake Michigan. This prime, beautiful land will probably become condos.
A petition has been started with the goals of raising awareness and saving Ebersole. I signed it and commented.

Here's my comment:
"The Lansing schools and I are playing a game of chicken. They're cutting programs and resources I consider important, and I'm defiantly standing my ground, refusing to move my last kid out of Gardner into a nice school in the suburbs (where many of our good friends flocked over the years).

"I watch Lansing Schools decimate their best programs and pink slip wonderful teachers (how could they let Darren Webb go? He would have brought more kids INTO Lansing schools!) and I wonder who will keep their kids in Lansing -- and what will be left for those who stay.

"As a parent whose 4 children adored Ebersole, as a chaperone and resident artist for a couple Ebersole camping trips, and as an author who featured Ebersole lessons in my Ellie McDoodle books so that kids outside of Lansing could benefit from nature contact, I ask that the School Board reconsider: Don't sell this resource which benefits our children so greatly.

"If Lansing Schools must cut something, cut the buses that pick up students less than a mile* from the middle school; there are too many mostly-empty buses and too many kids riding instead of walking.
Or -- better -- brainstorm with us on ways to save or raise money. The school board hasn't even tapped its largest resource, caring families. Bake sales, garage sales, book sales, car washes -- surely we can raise a lot of money if we work together.

"Don't cut Ebersole, one of our brilliant gems that opens minds and connects our children with science and nature. Read Last Child in the Woods, about nature deficit disorder -- and be glad our kids don't suffer from that because they have Ebersole... for now."
-------------
*Some will argue that only kids further away than one mile are picked up. This is technically true. But if Gardner unlocked the northwest gate and cut down the blocking poles at the southwest end, students wouldn't be forced to walk around to the front of the school. This would cut a half mile off my kid's route.
And -- here's a radical thought: What if we encouraged kids to ride bikes to school?

The petition is here. If you're a Lansing Schools parent, teacher, student, former student or former parent, please pass the word, and please sign the petition. Maybe this is one bad decision that we can prevent.

Family stuff

Exactly 21 years ago doctors were telling me I was not in labor, go back to sleep and wait for induction in the morning.
The baby was two weeks overdue and I was anxious to hold her.
But they were wrong. I was in labor, and the baby came so fast she caught everyone by surprise, especially her daddy who was running down the hospital corridor toward our delivery room when he heard a baby cry... his newborn daughter.
Katie has been surprising us ever since.
When she was three, she was that kid who'd take all her clothes off and dance on the picnic table at camp.
She chewed out Santa Claus, telling him he was too fat.
She helped unpack Christmas ornaments, held up a cherub ornament and called it a "kid butterfly with no clothes on."
I captured all these moments in cartoon cards I sent to my ailing grandpa. He died when Katie was four, and the family gave me the big box of cartoons I'd been sending him since Katie was a tiny infant. There it was, all of it: Katie's hilarious early childhood in cartoons.
I thought this meant I had a future in comic strips, but after two particularly heart-rending rejections I gave up and tried kids' books instead. That worked out better.
Maybe someday those letters to Grandpa will be a book.
I'd also like to do a book just on Katie. Here's one idea that hasn't panned out yet:


There will be more; Katie's a very colorful character.
For fans of Ellie McDoodle, Risa is absolutely Katie (right down to one of the surprises in book three, coming out in August, where Risa sneaks an evil pet into the house).
Happy Birthday, Katie!

March is Reading Month!

This is a busy time of year for many authors. In the Great Lakes area, it's Reading Month.
Here's my author visit schedule:

March 5 Fri Lone Pine Elementary in West Bloomfield
March 1-4 Charlie jury duty (whew. Called in every day but he didn't get a trial)
March 10 Wed E E Knight Elementary in Ovid Elsie
March 11 Thu Hillside Elementary in Harrison (Clare County)
March 15 Mon Central Academy in Ann Arbor
March 17 Wed Vowles Elementary in Mt. Pleasant
March 18 Thu Elmhhurst Elementary in Lansing
March 20-22 Michigan Reading Association Conference at Cobo Hall in Detroit
March 24 Wed Horizon Elementary in Holt
March 27 Sat 4 to 6 pm Michigan Author Day at Barnes & Noble in Grandville
March 30 Tu Family Lit Night at Holly Academy in Holly
April 1 Thu Bartlett School in South Lyon
April 6 Tue 2pm Ann Arbor library - Pittsfield branch
April 11 Sun fly to Texas
April 12-13 MonTues The Woodlands school visit
April 14-16 Texas Library Association conference in San Antonio
April 25-28 International Reading Association Conference in Chicago
April 29-May 2 Thu-Sun Agent's writer retreat in Chicago
May 11-12 Tue-Wed Battle Creek schools

We're halfway through March already, and so far my author visits are going well. The kids are enthusiastic and attentive, the teachers and staff are helpful and friendly, and the school walls are decorated with fabulous student art.

I'm juggling a few other things, too: I'm working on a novel about a girl who likes to read and am playing with a picturebook about a mischievous cat. (Mostly it's the novel. I promise, Erin. <- agent who asks, at the end of every email, "So how's that novel?")
The novel is going pretty well. It's a little scary because the process is very different from writing the Ellie McDoodle books. I'll be seeing Erin next month, so I don't really have a choice: I have to have a lot done before then. Yikes.

Besides being an author, I'm also busy being a mom. My daughter's middle school volleyball team has its last game on Thursday. Charlie and I have managed to go to most of the games. It's been fun cheering for the team and learning the girls' names and embarrassing our kid (by cheering for the team and learning the girls' names... sometimes I think just the fact that I exist embarrasses her).
We're off to see The Lightning Thief movie pretty soon because I managed to squeeze into this busy month the task of reading the first book in Rick Riordan's series. It's our daughter's favorite book, and I feel generally compelled to read whatever impresses her.
Very good book, worth giving up a little sleep. (Maybe I can learn a few things from Riordan)

And now, I'm off to catch a favorite tv show and then to bed. Gotta get up early; it's a long drive to Mt. Pleasant in the morning. :)

Happy Valentine's Day!

My husband found this for me today.
It's the rough draft of a Mother's Day poem written by my son, Joey, when he'd just turned 11.
I will leave the punctuation, spelling and capitalization as in its charming original.
--------------
marvolous is she
M - mom qualities that she has a lot of
O - other stuff she's good at
^ outstanding mom that she is
T - taught me how to live
teacher of me
H - ha ha is her laugh
happiness she brings to me
E - ever forgiving, she is
eternally grateful am I
R - Ruth is her name
reluctant she is not

M - moron, she is not
mother of my lifetime
O - ouchies she makes better
our love will never end
M - merturnity clothes she wears
my great mother she is

I love you

--------------Joe is a songwriter today.
I bet he's writing songs and sweet poems for his wife, now.

We don't know, sometimes, the seeds we sow, in the daily work we take on.
We can't tell if they're pretty weeds or heirloom roses until time has passed.

Sometimes our good ideas take root and blossom into beauty that changes others at the same time it helps us.
Sometimes our ideas are seeds that fall on rocky ground -- they can't take root without help from others.

Books are like that.
They spring from a germ of an idea, but they need nourishment to grow into a full book.
So many hands take part in bringing up a book, and it's not just the obvious, the author, the long-suffering partner/spouse of the author, the critique group, the editor, agent, designers, copy editors, publicist, salespeople, librarians, teachers, booksellers, various specialists, the reviewers, the discerning readers...

Books need communities in order to grow.

Authors need friends, connections with humanity that sprout ideas and inklings and what-if's.
Writing can be a lonesome career, but no writer writes alone.
Out of life springs new life.
Out of all of us spring new books, new music, new poetry, new ideas, new ways of looking at what has continued for many thousands of years.
We are the collective creators of art, inspired by each other and by everything around us.
Even if you don't feel creative today, you are inspiring someone else. That's the beauty of our inter-connectedness.

Happy Valentines Day!
May you find little surprises today and throughout the year that make you feel good, that make you feel loved, that make you feel creative.

How I work

Yesterday I dismantled my makeshift desk next to the Christmas tree in the living room: I'm done with the art for the third Ellie McDoodle book. Well, mostly done; there'll be a few revisions/requests.

For a month I've had a mini-studio set up in the middle of the family action, because while writing is more of a solitary venture, art requires the energy of people around me. Plus I need short, intermittent bursts of breaks from it to keep it fresh, whereas with writing, breaks can sound the death knell of creativity.

Upon my mother in law's death a couple weeks ago we inherited, among other treasures, two tv tables. I've wanted a pair of tv tables for a long time (I knew they'd be perfect for temporary desks), and these came at a useful time.
Before them, I stacked things on an ottoman; not very stable, no leg room.

So this was my portable art studio:
- one tv table with my editor's handwritten notes on the penciled art pages, plus a Mason jar of water and a bag (pink wintergreen lozenges) or roll (Mentos) of mints, plus an assortment of bad carbs and good raw veggies.
- second tv table with my lightbox balanced on top. On that, graph paper, pencil, two pens, razor blade for mistakes, and the penciled rough to be inked.
The light box isn't the nice one I used in college or at my job at MSU. It's an 18" x 24" cardboard strawberry box from a supermarket with a hinged plexiglass lid which is still encased in the blue plastic I bought it in years ago. The blue cuts the light and reduces glare. Better would be a portable box with frosted glass. Someday...
Inside the box is a portable flourescent light fixture with an on/off switch.
- round plant table with a box of files on it: About 2,000 papers which include drafts 1, 2, and 3 of this book, both writing and art, editor comments, a thin sheath of loose paper for inking (too thick a packet is discouraging), a couple encouraging notes from my agent and editor, and a folder of "Must adds". I hope I remembered to add all the musts. . .

Every day at about 1pm I set up my workspace next to the Christmas tree, across from the tv, turned on the tv and all the lights in the living room and plugged in the tree lights and the light box.
I settled in for about 15 hours of work, taking only very short breaks, working until 4 - 6am, quitting when hallucinations started. I'd watch whatever not-too-mindless thing was on tv (on our new Christmas present, DirectTV): Dog Whisperer, Mythbusters, anything on Science, Nat. Geo. or Discovery Channel, sometimes a movie (my favorite was The Miracle of Morgan's Creek, about a lady carrying sextuplets; wartime America's response to the Dionne quints in 1944). I learned about survival techniques used in disasters (have confidence, take immediate action, believe your time is limited, practice evacuation routes in advance), how to make a car skip across a pond like a stone (redistribute the weight, pump up the acceleration to 100 mpg), what's the dirtiest thing in your house (kitchen sponge), secrets of Pompeii (I don't know why, but this story has gripped me since I was a small child), and I scrawled down the websites and prices of at least a dozen infomercial products that looked like a good deal to my addled brain. I watched Clean House on the Style channel, wished I could do that to my house, but disliked the sometimes-bullying tactics.

I worked methodically, sometimes stopping for commercials and sometimes working through them and stopping for the main attraction, usually mixing both. I tried to ignore the page number of the art I was working on because knowing I still had 75 pages ahead of me would be paralyzingly disheartening.
I ignored the phone and email. Opened Christmas cards, read them, grunted appreciation, and got back to work.
Went to Christmas parties only because I had to. Ate no meals in the dining room. Barely showered.
Paid attention to my kids or spouse or grandkids only when necessary.
I quit working in the wee hours of the morning, turned off all the lights, put my work in a safe place, scrubbed my face and teeth and collapsed into bed, then woke up 6-7 hours later and started again.

Some days I was very productive. Some days it felt like I worked and worked and worked and accomplished almost nothing. That's typical for a book.

When it was all over early Saturday morning I spent a few hours copying all the art, then took a nap, then ran it all over to UPS.
It will arrive in NYC on Monday morning.
Next I'll make the text revisions requested by my editor, and unfortunately that's a more solitary task. I don't have a good computer to work with in the living room yet. When all the text changes are done there will be a few art revisions to make, and then my editor will send ARCs (galleys) for copyedits. That will take a couple weeks -- it'll probably be the end of January. I think? Then I jump into the next book, a novel, with a synopsis and 3 chapters due ASAP.
I'm filled with such self-doubt right now, despite meeting this huge deadline. I worry they won't love the novel. But maybe they will. It's about a girl who has trouble balancing things in her life. Sounds familiar, eh?
As they say, write what you know.

Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah!

Wishing you a great holiday:
This is my sketch on Christmas morning for the back of our card.We're off to a party at my cousin's. Then a party tomorrow at my sister-in-law's. Then a party the next day at my brother's. Then I think we're celebrating Thanksgiving at my house on Wednesday (because we never celebrated it with our little family -- too busy running to all the relatives' houses). In between all that, I have book deadlines. I should bring the work to the parties. Hmm...

Happy New Year!

Drawing on life for a tribute

I was going to do a card to hand out at the funeral, with Mom Barshaw's picture on it. Then I decided not to. Then one of my nephews asked if I would, so that night I drove 90 miles home, set pencil to paper not knowing what would come out of it, and drew.
Then I slept fitfully and got up for the long drive back to Detroit for the funeral early in the morning.
It was almost magic, how the image came out of the pencil without much anguish, in the middle of the night. This doesn't happen often; generally funeral cards are a difficult labor of love. Maybe I'm getting better at this.
Here's my mother in law:

As it was coming out of my pencil, I first noticed the eye on the left looks just like some of her daughter's eyes. This astounded me.
And there's my husband's chin, and another daughter's eyebrows.

It always surprises me when I see someone I know in my drawings.

It's also odd to meet someone on the street who looks like one of my recent drawings. I want to rush up to them and shake their hand and ask a lot of personal questions because I feel like I know them well.

Taking these cards to the funeral, I felt self-conscious and awkward, as usual. I always worry that the rest of the family will hate the art, or that they'll think I'm uppity for printing copies, or greedy for getting self-promotion during a sad time. In this case I didn't hear any bad comments, but the funeral director put the cards in a place where I doubt many noticed them. Someone took home a stack of these. Maybe they'll go in thank-you notes. Maybe they'll be lost to the ages. It doesn't really matter; I did my part, giving what I could give. I drew Mom. The original sketch will go to the nephew who asked me to draw.

And I'm back to working on my book.

My editor has gone home for the holidays. They're closed all next week. They wanted the final art done before Christmas; earlier this morning I was thinking, if I can manage 30 drawings a day plus revising text, I can still get it out by Christmas. Thinking in the wee hours of the morning, it wasn't quite a dream. More like a nightmare.

How to get through loss

Of course, death comes to us all (even Kirkus, the venerable book review company). Until it does, we're charged with the task of living. I have learned that death gets easier to handle with each new loved person lost. I've learned a few other things too:

When a loved one dies and someone asks what they can do, give them a small task.

Feeling helpless in the face of a loved one's misery is one of the more awful human emotions.
My daughter-in-law asked what she could do, begged. My first inclination: "Nothing, honey, we're fine." But I remembered prior deaths, how important it was to me to feel useful. And so I gave her something to do: bring a pizza. She wanted a list. Less than an hour later she was at the front door with pizza, crazy bread, orange juice and milk, a sympathetic smile and a warm hug. (she's wonderful)

When someone dies, know that you will have visitors.

I'm glad I thought to clear the dining room table, always a mishmash of newspapers, crafts and homework. We had an impromptu party with most of my kids, reminiscing about their Grandma Katie. It felt good.

Surround yourself with loved ones and talk.

It will be unforgettable. In a week where a lot of things will happen that are also unforgettable, but unpleasant, this will shine as something good.

Do something strenuous.

Something safe that makes your heart pump and reminds you that you are still alive. At midnight, Katie, Emily and I walked a couple miles in the snow with our big, at-first-uncooperative puppies. It was ridiculously cold, one leash broke. We stayed out until my legs ached -- it was better than a Wii Fit run. And the peace of a neighborhood at midnight in winter, the silent Christmas lights in windows, felt like prayer.

Get the word out.

Deaths don't only affect close friends and family; no man is an island. Grief shared is greatly diminished. It's why we have funerals. I have been deeply touched reading memorials to people I never met, tributes I stumbled upon, on the web. Reading how beloved people chose to live always inspires me to do better, myself. If someone important to you dies, tell me. I want to know.

Don't make decisions if you don't have to.

Today I stopped at Walgreens for immunity boosters. I noticed they sell contact lens solution. I've gone through extra amounts in the last day. It became a difficult decision, the cheaper store brand or the name brand? Is there a difference beyond price? One's for sensitive eyes. Are my eyes sensitive? Will the name brand last longer? Because I don't use the stuff that much, normally. Single bottle or money-saving double? Give the second bottle away?
It was almost overwhelming, trying to decide. My eyes teared up.
Thank goodness something broke the loop in my brain and I grabbed a bottle (I won't tell which; I won't start second guessing the decision).
Conventional wisdom says, don't buy or sell a house, don't do anything drastic in the wake of an important death. I'd add: Don't make *any* decisions if you don't have to. Change what you must, otherwise stick to routine; there's a reason it works for you.

Be kind to yourself.

Walking around the store I saw things I wanted to buy for Mom Barshaw. She wasn't one to accept gifts, by the way, and went to great lengths to give them back. It was a challenge to give her something she liked and would keep (and I so love a challenge). I saw a magazine on angels, and another on faith, perfect for my mom and for her too, for Christmas. Then I remembered she is dead. Instant grief. I bought the second set, not for Mom Barshaw, but for me.
I'm glad I didn't see a Snugglie there. I'd have likely bought it as well. She was cold, the past few months. I get cold sometimes.
See where this is going?
I looked in the reader glasses mirror, and I didn't see me. I saw my mother-in-law. Tired, older than my age, eschewing the candy aisle. If there had been a small child in the store I'd have fussed over it.

In that moment I understood why Mom often called to let us know about special offers or holiday shows on tv: It made her feel useful. She gathered information and coupons and disseminated them among her children, always considering who would benefit most. Suddenly I saw myself doing the same thing.
I came home and squashed a bug with my bare hand. Mom Barshaw did that all the time; I thought I never would.
It's depressing being 80 years old 30 years early, but I accept it, knowing it's temporary.

Forgive yourself.

There are always things I wish I'd done sooner. I'm the Queen of Regrets, dating back to my father dying when I was 12 with love unspoken. I don't make that mistake anymore, but I sometimes let other regrets haunt me. There's limited time, limited order in life, don't waste emotion on guilt that isn't really earned.

Know that grief comes in waves.

At unexpected times the reality will overcome you and it might bring you to your knees. You might doubt your sanity. Keep doing what you're supposed to do. The wave will subside.

Death isn't something to "get over," it's more like a permanent fixture in the living room of your life. It's a lamp you won't be rid of. It's always there, sometimes almost beautiful, other times hideous, always unwanted, but it's something you work around, something you deal with but always know is there. Over time as more people die it's another table, a sofa, a painting you never wanted to accept from a giver who won't be refused. You can close off that room so the stuff won't crowd out your life and kill you, or you can learn to arrange it, live with it, make it work. I choose to make it work.

Throw yourself into a creative project.

Speaking of work, back to it. This book won't write itself.
I'm making the last revisions to the text (am on page 108) and inking final art (am on page 92). I'm glad Ellie McDoodle isn't a long book; 170 pages seems do-able. My pace is slowed but not stopped.
Tonight I'll draw a portrait of Mom.

Mom Barshaw

Hospice has been called in for my mother-in-law, Mom Barshaw (her name for herself; we called her "Mom").
So here I am, stuck 90 miles away, on deadline for this book, and trying to keep my head in the book, when my heart is in Detroit.
Mom's in good hands. Her kids are gathering. My husband Charlie is headed there now. He was there yesterday and all weekend; he was there when the decline got worse. He's been at her side often this past few months.

This started in August. The kids had a birthday party for her (she was turning 80) and she didn't want the day to herself so she made Eddie, her youngest, and me share it. He's 40, I'm 50.
It was the typical party at Rosemary's, wonderful, with great food because most of the Barshaws are excellent cooks -- we're talking chef quality.

Mom didn't look healthy at the party. It was alarming enough that the kids took her to the hospital on the way home. Since then she's had a couple surgeries and procedures, some wicked meds interactions -- deplorable care by some of her "doctors" but good care from nurses and therapists -- and her kids have given vigilant 24-hour care.

Mom Barshaw had 9 kids. One, Mike, died when Charlie was 18; they were best buddies starting to take opposite paths. There's a novel in that, I keep saying, but it isn't mine to write. Charlie's a writer and after a long dormant stage he's writing again; maybe he'll tackle that story.

Recently Charlie was given his dad's wallet. Inside is a clipping, a newspaper article about a writing competition Charlie won as a kid. His dad carried it for years -- you can imagine how touching that is.
Mom has been cleaning out boxes and living spaces for a couple years, giving us such things as old photos and books. We have the sweetly-inscribed book she gave to Dad about the time when they married.

And she gave us the story Charlie wrote at age 13. It's very, very good! I knew when I married him he was the best writer I'd read; this is proof he had early talent.

Mom and I butted heads on a few things. Sometimes I did funny things just to exasperate her, like cutting a piece out of my birthday cake before dinner -- and cutting it from the center of the cake. (I was 35, young and silly)
But we didn't leave love unsaid. She closed every phone call with "God love you, God bless you." I saw her in person a few times over the past couple months, while picking up or dropping off Charlie (we only have one car) and I said it aloud, "God love you, God bless you, Mom," and she looked pleased.

Mom has always had rock-solid faith. She believes in prayer's deep power and potential; we called each other when we needed prayers. I liked to think I was the devoted biblical Ruth.
I knew her death was coming. I've been warning Charlie and my kids so it wasn't an awful surprise. Funny how you can plan for something and it still surprises you. With every person I lost, I felt they left too soon.

I was close to Charlie's dad. Mom gets to join him now, and her son Mike, and her parents who died when Mom was very young (orphaned, Mom raised her two sisters, sacrificing her own dreams for theirs; there's a book in that, too). She has had a tough life, but I believe Mom will be very happy soon.

Mom is a good, honest, strong, hard working, determined woman. She loves me despite my many shortcomings.
So how do I get this book done when all I can think about is Mom?
Pray for focus, I guess. Go easy on myself. I've lost enough dear people to know that this won't be easy. But Mom believes hard work is prayer; I will work hard.
So, back to work now...

I have 85 pages of final art done. The second half is due ASAP -- hoping to have it done this week. It's a stretch, even in ideal circumstances. I'm good under deadline, though.

Where the Wild Things Are

I finally saw Where the Wild Things Are, the film. I thought it was outstanding. I want to buy it. (I don't buy many).
This will sound heretical, but I was not an early fan of Maurice Sendak's seminal children's book, Where the Wild Things Are.
I bought it, of course, because I was a conscientious young mom who tried to buy the great books. In the Scholastic Book Club flyers that came home from school with my kids I always searched out the Caldecott and Newbery winners. I remember telling my Aunt Marj that I bought those because those were the best books and I wanted to expose my kids to the best.
She said they're not always the best books.
This was distressing to hear. As a crazy-busy parent I wanted an easy, no-think method to as many things in life as possible, and here she was, poking a hole in my carefully-derived plan to expose my kids to only the best in literature and children's art.
Gradually I started to think for myself, and question the award winners, and buy on principle rather than on stickers.
Where the Wild Things Are is one of those books I bought because everyone was talking about it, and it looked fun.
I read it, and wasn't impressed. Maybe the kid in the book reminded me too much of my wild brothers.
Maybe I was afraid of the anger.
Maybe I just didn't "get" the point of the book.
I didn't dislike it; I read it to my family, and it wasn't their favorite, so it went back on the shelf.

I dragged it out of the bookshelf archives to create theme decorations for the baby shower of my brother's first child, no doubt a future Wild Thing.
The decorations were adorable.
I still have them -- I saved some of the monster pictures, and the little boy in the wolf costume (which I added heart buttons to, maybe to soften his anger?).
I hung the monsters on my studio walls and one on the window. They've been there for years. (Well, my niece is now 14) (and she isn't wild)
One of my friends bought me a Where The Wild Things Are t-shirt (sold at Target a while back) for my birthday, one year. I try not to wear it to writer events because I don't want someone reading my chest ("So that's where the wild things are, eh?") and making me blush.

Watching the movie reminded me that the book is scary (Sendak agrees) and that the monsters are not lovable and soft (my decorations are smiling monsters. Fangs, claws, but no indication they'd ever actually use them).

I wouldn't take a four-year-old to the movie. Well, not one of my four-year-olds (see aforementioned easy life desire).
I might take my almost-seven grandson; I think he could relate to hyperactive Max.
As an artist, I loved the film. It was inventive and a feast for the eyes.
As a kids' book writer/illustrator, I loved the film. It built the characters in ways the book was too short to do. It set up an expectation and exceeded it. It repeated worthy motifs and demonstrated wise foreshadowing.
As a parent, I was glad the kid at my side is 12. She fully "got" the story, the intention, the inventiveness, and -- bonus -- no nightmares for me to deal with later.
I loved the film.
Kudos to all involved: the screenwriters, the soundtrack developers (also outstanding), the costume and makeup people, the person who cast the kid (because he's believable, and I dislike films that star terrible kid actors). Kudos to all who took a risk on this film.

Happy Halloween!

I was at Libba Bray's blog (here) for the name of her book that got optioned for a movie (a dream probably every author harbors), because Charlie was talking about The Lovely Bones movie, and it made me think, I don't write on my blog much. I don't know who reads it. I don't know if it's fun to read when there's something there. I do know it's not fun to read when there's nothing there, and lately there's been a lot of nothing. I don't even publicize my upcoming author appearances. So that's changing...

Halloween usually sneaks up on me, but this year I was ready.
It helped that it fell on a Saturday. We had events all week, leading up to it, including Emily's haunted house in middle school (o0O0o.o0O0o, scary!).
It also helped that, despite massive quantities of vitamins and echinacea, I had a slight sore throat yesterday, and as a result had lowered expectations for my involvement in the holiday (read: I sat on the couch munching popcorn while watching tv, no guilt) (please don't tell me how corn translates to sugar in the bloodstream, and sugar is friend to infection and won't help me get healthy. I know this)

On Friday morning, no sore throat yet, I helped transport my grandson plus 24 fancy cupcakes and a gallon of orange juice to his 2nd grade classroom.
Charlie (husband & substitute teacher) and Emily (7th grader) took the car to the middle school. Oldest daughter had a meeting in the morning which left me to get her kid off to school. Enter my son, who was willing to leave his bride and warm bed to drive us to school. I think it also may have been raining.

At school I:
- balanced like a tightrope walker through crowded halls, delivered the gigantic box of cupcakes and juice and then ran out of the classroom before they could make me teach a game or bag cupcakes.
- decided to look in on a few of my teacher pals and found one who'd gotten stuck in traffic behind a jack-knifed semi for a half hour and missed her chance to set up for the classroom party before the kids arrived. I helped tape the Evil Twister game into place, and helped set up food. Another parent jumped in to help tape (evil tape) and I started thinking about a Halloween book in my head. If it comes to fruition you'll know this was the origin.
- took a prime position in the hallway and then raced over to the gym for two views of the costume parade. Wow, what great fun. My favorite costume: Captain Underpants. Obviously homemade (which I love) and this kid did not look happy to be in his undies, which sparked instant sympathy. How many times have I picked a costume in the quiet safety of my home, then regretted it the instant I stepped out in public? Too many times. Kudos to that kid for taking a risk. It's so much easier and so much less creative to buy a scary mask and dress all in black. (which, I've done that, too)
My friend Frank was dressed in a tablecloth dress and funny wig. He's always entertaining -- a book waiting to be written. Great parade.
- talked with some of the other parents about the middle school band concert the other night. We're in crisis over there. We had an outstanding, best-ever, top of the line, absolute greatest band teacher you could ever hope to meet, for two years, and due to budget cuts he was pink-slipped in June. He has found a new job in another state. (cue: wailing and gnashing of teeth) In his place they forced a young orchestra teacher who minored in music and doesn't know band.
It's outrageous, unfair, disheartening. At the concert the band played like they'd lost two years of instruction. They went from competitive to grade school in one season. I blame the school board and am voting to replace the non-responsive among them, hoping for a big change.
- chatted with my pals in the principal's office, hugs to the librarian Marty and the school secretary Cindy and the custodian, trouble-maker Mary, and a few of the teachers, some whom my kids were lucky to have and others whom I befriended over the years.
- noticed the morning was only half-over, and reluctantly headed to my grandson's classroom to experience the mayhem. I picked his teacher's brain (ew! there's a visual) a while about Ron Clark and outstanding teachers, and then offered to draw the class. Teachers at this school always seem to have a pen, paper and clipboard on hand in case a visiting illustrator happens by and offers to draw the class.
It was only mildly stressful: No compunction to draw every single kid, as there has been some years. I just drew various kids at the various centers of activity, a few games, crafts, cookie decoration.
Tip learned years ago from the kindergarten teacher: If you don't put too much detail into the art, several kids claim one drawing is them, and every kid feels represented. :)
Unfortunately I finished quickly which left time to bag the cupcakes, a messy job to the extreme. Those cupcakes were adorable in the box (picture this with a lot more frosting in colorful layers, as tall as an ice cream cone), but by the time they were squished into sandwich bags for the trip home they were sloppy and goopy. Some kids actually refused one pink-and-brown gloppy mess-in-a-bag until I scooped out some of the icing with a paper towel and made the insides of the bag a little prettier.
This is the kind of job I'd have loved as a kid: I'd have joyfully licked my hands in between each cupcake-into-the-bag maneuver, and had to go wash them two dozen times. For an adult, a far less enchanting task. And, racing against the clock, because NO WAY was I hauling that enormous box back home without a car, adorable leftovers notwithstanding.

We took the woods route home from school, instead of the boring sidewalk. Not everybody gets to walk in the woods on Halloween. It's a special spooky science lesson on foot.
Picture us: Me dressed in Halloweeny clothes and big cat eye glasses, my grandson dressed as a pterodactyl riding a horse (yes, you read right, and it was hilarious), picking our way carefully through the burrs ("The origin of Velcro!" I say to him each time) and spider webs (new appreciation for those ever since the golden orb spider tapestry debuted), and peeking between the trees to see how far off course we were, targeting my house behind the woods.

We discovered a big, long, ant-ish beetle.
We discussed the big drain -- a creek used to run there.
We noticed in the back part of our neighbor's yard, about 30 feet from where the creek used to be in the woods, we could clearly see the outline of a 25-foot wide ghostly building in the grass. It's been gone for 50 years. Maybe much longer. Weird how clearly we could see it. I told him about my husband's friend who, while visiting a while back, spotted the square footings of a house there, probably a log cabin from a hundred years ago. At the time I couldn't see it at all, but now I can.

Friday afternoon my daughter came early to pick up her kids and life quieted down quickly. Ahh, respite.

Friday night we drove to a local hangout for our friend's impromptu retirement impromptu party, where we got to talk with great friends and met a few more new friends who made us laugh hard. I took a homemade sketchbook to draw the event but -- and this is a first -- got so engrossed in the conversation and laughs that I forgot to draw.
I get so comfortable in my cave. So anti-people, so hibernatory. I'm fine that way. I enjoy it. And then someone forces me to get out of my brain and my studio and socialize and meet people, and I enjoy that very much also. It's a weird dichotomy which I try not to analyze.

On Saturday Emily made mummy hotdogs and bat biscuits. They were both cute and yummy. And since both mummies and hot dogs have a lot of preservatives in them, they were historically accurate. Nice.

Four of us went to see the latest Harry Potter movie (book 6, Half-Blood Prince, which I'd read but forgotten WHO the 1/2-blood guy was, so that was a nice re-surprise). Unfortunately we sat behind a young mom and three kids ages 7, 3 and 3. Way too young for that movie, way too disruptive. (Note to self: Examine surrounding seats before matinees) That was annoying, but the movie was OUTSTANDING. If you haven't seen it, go.
Charlie and I discussed the character development and various things we loved about the movie, for an hour, last night.

It's a longgg movie. We got home just in time to carve some pumpkins (one Ellie McDoodle, one Ben-Ben, and one little guy throwing up) quickly, scrounge for candles and get them set up before the first Trick-or-Treaters came.
Because of daylight savings time being pushed back a few weeks, it was still light outside. Trick-or-Treating in daylight is like wearing a seatbelt on a tricycle.
Charlie took Emily (pirate) out on the rounds. I stayed home handing out Kit Kats and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. Usually Charlie takes Em out for the first half, then brings her home and either takes over handing out candy or, if the candy's gone, goes with us.
This time her big sister Katie who's home from college took her out for the second half and my sore throat and round-the-clock infusion of vitamins and anti-cold remedies kept me inside. Stove-popped popcorn, a few episodes of The Office, both British original and the US version, evaluated Katie's outfit (Goldi-Goth and the 3 Bears) for her friend's party, and then we went to bed early because we had to get up early Sunday: Emily was invited to go to Cedar Point amusement park with her cool cousins. It's a bit of a drive. She was picked up at 7:30am.
Today's the last day of the season. It should be cold, windy, and a lot of fun.

While she's gone the rest of us will have Family Night (which is a daytime event, lately, but not as offensive as daytime Trick-or-Treating).
After the kids leave maybe I'll get a bit more done on the third Ellie McDoodle book. And I'm thinking I could definitely do a Halloween book out of all the crazy chaos that defines my house...
But for now, maybe it's time for a nap (I'm beating this cold!).

----

My next author event: Thursday Nov 19 at 7pm Barnes & Noble East Lansing on Grand River: Book fair for St. Martha's. Come chat, buy a book, support a good school!

It's been three months! Where ARE you?!

No worries, I am right here. :)

Here's an update for the kids who've been writing me, asking why there's nothing new on the blog.

I've been busy. I have two new picturebook ideas, one new novel idea (which it sounds like my editor loves, so far), and I'm working on the third Ellie McDoodle book (still).

I have only one puppy now, but a second lives here with daughter Katie who will move to college in spring, and a third puppy visits often, with my son, and three others come by every couple of weeks. The seventh puppy came to stay with us for a few days last month. The eighth puppy we haven't seen since the day he left us back in July.

Here's the cool thing about the puppies that visit: They remember me! They run up to me and cover me with kisses and I always tell them they're doing a good job growing up big and strong and amazingly cute.

They really are big now. Well, most of them. Two are very short: Clarence and Iggy (formerly Feisty Helena). Iggy is short and skinny. She lives with my friend Diane. Clarence is our puppy and my husband says he looks like "a clawfoot bathtub with a head." This cracks me up. Clarence has very short legs and a long body (we don't think he's part dachshund, but we don't know for sure...) and a very long whippy-waggy tail, and a wide stocky head. He's funny looking and I adore him.

I'm thinking of putting him into the next Ellie book.

My first dog is in the second Ellie book, the fuzzy little guy on page 7. He was usually a happy dog, so I had to imagine sadness for that picture. I miss him; he died of old age this past summer.
I'm glad we had puppies after that. It was a welcome distraction.

I'll post more about my summer soon -- it was long and adventurous.

Speaking of adventure, I'm headed up to Michigan's Upper Peninsula very soon. It's beautiful up there. Lots and lots of hills, forests, waterfalls... breathtaking natural beauty. Copper and iron mines, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, Lake Superior (a.k.a. Gitchigumi), the Soo Locks, Whitefish Bay (have you heard the Gordon Lightfoot song about the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald? It's a haunting tribute to a crew of sailors on a ship that sank when I was a teen).

I'm not sure how much we'll see up there, because I'll also be busy with 4 school presentations, a library appearance and a conference.
Marquette, here we come! (Katie's staying home to watch the puppies but we're bringing Emily along)

One more thing I've been busy with: Art. This is my granddaughter, Isabel, taking her first steps and learning to run about 15 minutes later.


Yikes! Hide the fragile stuff!